The World Played Chess (24)

Beau had been named a team captain, and Elizabeth and I decided to make the season memorable. Elizabeth became a team mom and helped put together the team dinners on game day as well as the special night for senior players. I decided to organize tailgate parties for the parents before the home games to promote camaraderie. With the games on Friday night, I could escape the clutches of the law, at least for a few hours, and I was determined to be at each of Beau’s games.

I bought a portable grill to do the tailgates up right, and I barbecued chicken, hot dogs, and hamburgers, and other parents brought side dishes to share. The tailgates were a chance to get to know the parents of Beau’s teammates, especially the underclassmen moving up to varsity. Some we knew from prior seasons and some, like Chris, we had known since grammar school. The Carpenters lived just a few blocks from us in Burlingame, and we had carpooled before the boys could drive. Chris was a big kid who became an even bigger young man. At six foot four and 290 pounds, he was a beast on the football field but a gentle soul off it. He played both ways at offensive and defensive tackle, and not surprisingly his play was generating letters of interest from nearly every Pac-12 school as well as Notre Dame, Oklahoma, and Michigan.

Chris and Beau’s relationship was symbiotic, as were their positions on the football field. Beau played fullback and usually ran directly behind Chris, who opened holes like a bulldozer. On defense, Beau played middle linebacker and Chris, a defensive tackle, tied up offensive linemen, which allowed Beau to split the gaps and make tackles and sacks behind the line of scrimmage. Beau had heart and strength and stellar statistics, but not size. Six feet tall, he struggled just to reach two hundred pounds. As happy as I was for all the interest Chris had generated, I felt bad for my son.

Beau’s junior year, Serra won the Northern California championship but lost the state championship to a Southern California school. Serra had brought back a lot of starters on offense and defense, but their archrival, Bellarmine Prep, brought back even more, including an all-American running back who had already committed to Alabama. The two teams were undefeated heading into a showdown on Serra’s home field.

Elizabeth and I gathered with the Carpenters and other parents in the parking lot two hours before game time to prepare the tailgate. Mary Beth, who attended Mercy, an all-girls school in Burlingame, didn’t stick around long, finding friends and disappearing.

“Chris heard from Stanford,” Art Carpenter said to me as we set up tables and unloaded food from the back of his Suburban and my Subaru.

“Yeah?” I said.

“They’re interested,” Art said. “But they’re waiting for his SAT scores before they offer him a scholarship.” Like my parents, the Carpenters needed a scholarship for Chris to attend Stanford. Art owned an appliance store in Burlingame and Josephine taught at a public elementary school. With four kids, money was tight.

“That’s terrific,” I said, but I again thought of Beau. Though he had better grades than Chris, he would not have nearly the same options; football would not get him a scholarship. It wasn’t fair, but neither was the real world.

“Do you realize what a Stanford education could do for Chris?” Art continued.

I did.

Art pulled out a pack of hot dogs and handed them to me. “He could do whatever he wanted. I’m more nervous now than I’ve ever been.”

“Why?”

“Because Chris is one bad tackle or bad play away from an injury. I hate to say this, but I’m hoping he just gets through this season healthy and gets in.”

I almost said, You can’t think that way, but I’d been reading William’s journal and it had spurred my memory of the conversations William and I had shared during those summer months. William had told me the only difference between him and all those young men who died in Vietnam was bad luck. They took one step in the wrong place, stuck their head up at the wrong time, got on the wrong chopper, or slept in the wrong bunker.

“Chris is a big kid,” I said, putting the hot dogs beside a row of hamburgers. “He can take care of himself.”

“I hope you’re right,” Art said.

As game time approached, an electricity filled the parking lot and the stands. We cleaned up the tables, put away the food, and made our way to the bleachers in time to see both teams exit the locker rooms and storm onto the field. Serra had put money and resources into their field, but it was far from a stadium. It was a high school football field with bleachers. As we stood in the parents’ section, I looked around and noticed a lot of young men I didn’t recognize.

“Scouts,” Art said, catching my gaze. “Chris got phone calls they’d be here.”

Maybe they’d see Beau, I contemplated, then immediately tried to dismiss the thought. Still . . .

Serra got off to a fast start. Beau ran well behind Chris, and on a third down, Beau plunged into the end zone from the one-yard line, followed by a successful extra point to put Serra up 7–0. The game plan was to have Beau, as linebacker, spy on Phillips, the running back, and follow him all over the field. Beau had several tackles behind the line of scrimmage and held Phillips more or less in check on offense, but Phillips also played defensive safety, and just before halftime he picked off an errant throw and ran it to the end zone. Bellarmine made the extra point to tie the score 7–7.

I’d like to tell you that it was just a game, that the score, the outcome, didn’t matter. You’d think I would have understood that better than anyone—reading the journal of a young man who for a year struggled daily to stay alive and watched so many of his friends die—but it’s hard to be objective when it’s your son on the field and you know what the game means to him. I wanted Beau to have the chance to celebrate on the field.