MVP

“YES. YES. OH MY GOSH.”

The father leaps three inches into the air. His eyes well and he hugs his wife.

“Oh he’s so amazing,” he says.

The kids line up to shake hands and say “good game.”

Jeremy walks toward the father. He weeble-wobbles because the helmet he carries weighs down one side.

“Get the heck over here,” the father says to Jeremy.

He grabs him by the arm.

“What the heck were you doin’ all second half, making me look like a jerk? Go get in the car. And slap your cleats together so there’s no dirt.”

As the wife, the sister, and Jeremy walk to the car, the father lingers.

There’s a mob of smiling men and boys.  The father stares, squinting and smiling, until the mob breaks and he sees Todd. Number nine.

“My gosh.”

The father heads to the car.

“Is there ice cream?” asks Jeremy.

The father gets up from the dinner table, goes to the kitchen, scoops a bowl of ice cream, returns to the table and eats it.

“Are you gonna take an epsom salt bath tonight for your ankle?” The wife asks Jeremy.

“Yeah, I think it’s—“

“—I’ve never seen Todd make a run like that before. Gosh. He’s really somethin’ huh?” says the father. “Did you see what he did?”

He pulls Jeremy’s plate toward the middle of the table. He uses his ice cream spoon to move Jeremy’s peas and carrots around to recreate the play.

“Right? That was really somethin’, wasn’t it?” he asks the wife.

“Yes it was. He’s so talented, although, I don’t like that girl he’s hanging around with.”

The father waves his hand.

“Oh, Todd doesn’t care about her; it’s football season! And he’s got only one thing on his mind.”

The father slaps the table. It makes everyone’s plates and silverware jump.

 “It’s football season. There’s no time for girls.”

“May I be excused?” asks the sister.

“Huh?” says the father.

“May I be excused?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Jeremy brings a bowl of ice cream into the living room and the father brings a beer. The father clicks on the TV and sets down the remote. It’s ESPN.

The father wakes in the middle of the night in his briefs and Dallas Cowboys socks and heads into his home gym/office/guest room.

He sits on the bench press bench in front of his desk.

He types “facebook” into Google on his laptop. He clicks the first link.

He types “Todd Durnham” into the “Find Friends” box.

Four photos pop up. The father puts on his reading glasses and hovers his curser over the photos. None of the photos look familiar.

“Gosh darn it,” he says out loud, and shuts his laptop. The Apple light on top of his laptop illuminates the center of the Dallas Cowboys sticker on top of it.

“Pop fly!”

The father shoots the ball into the air. Jeremy catches it but almost falls over in the process.

“Is it all right if I have Kyle and Andrew over to spend the night tonight?”

He tosses the ball back to the father.

“Run for a hook.”

Jeremy runs for a hook. The father throws and he catches.

“Kyle and Andrew? You spend a lot of time with those boys, huh?”

“Yeah, they’re my best friends.”

“You want to bring another friend over? Someone new? How about someone from the team?”

“Okay, yeah, like Anthony?”

“Anthony? Oh, I don’t know. What about Todd?”

“I never really hang out with him.”

“So, invite him to sleep over then you can hang out all night.”

“That would be kinda random and weird.”

“No it wouldn’t. That’s how you make friends.”

“I don’t even have his number.”

“Ask your mother. She probably has his landline in a directory or something.”

The father pegs a straight shot right at Jeremy’s gut. He catches it and says, “Agh.”

The father walks toward Jeremy.

“Speaking of your mother. She says you’re thinking of playing lacrosse in the spring?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“You don’t think that will interfere with spring training?”

“I mean, yeah.”

“So, you tell me, how is this gonna work?”

“I don’t do spring training. Not everyone does.”

“Who, like Anthony? And what is lacrosse anyway, you don’t wanna do that, that’s what those Highland Hills kids do, you don’t wanna be like those f—fancy pants kids, come on, Jeremy.”

The father takes the football and looks over his shoulders.

“You know why Todd is as good as he is? He does spring training. He’s got football on the mind 24/7. Okay Jeremy? 24/7. That’s what it takes.”

The father drops the football, turns around, tucks his shirt in, and heads to the garage where he grabs a beer from the fridge and pulls out the lawnmower.

The father stops at the John John’s Pizza table where the coaches and their sons sit, his hands full of pizza and soda.

“Congrats on the W boys. Played real good.”

The sons, mouth full of pizza, nod.

“Well, they wanted a pizza party and they earned it,” says one of the coaches. One of the other coaches laughs.

The father smiles, a little confused. He eyes an empty seat at their table.

One of the coaches points across the venue toward the table where Jeremy, the wife, and the sister sit.

“Jeremy played good today. Made some nice hits. Right?” the other sons nod.

The father shrugs. “Yeah, well… let’s keep it up!” He ruffles one of the son’s hair.

He sits down at the table with Jeremy, the wife, and the sister.

The father talks about new plays the coaches should try.

Jeremy gets up to go sit with Kyle and Andrew.

The wife and the sister talk about a book about elves who go to high school.

The father watches the other fathers and sons at the other tables.

Through the clutter of a crowded booth, the father sees Todd scooch out, grab his athletic bag, and exit. The father chases after him.

“Todd. You were amazing today.”

“Oh. Thanks. You’re Jeremy’s dad, right?”

“Uh… yeah, well, yeah, but, where are you going?”

It’s darker and crisper outside than earlier.

“My mom is picking me up.”

“She didn’t go to the game?”

“No. She had to work.”

“And your dad?”

“He couldn’t visit this weekend.”

“Oh. Do you want me to give you a ride?”

“No, thanks, my mom is on her way to pick me up.”

“I can give you a ride. Has she already left?”

“It’s fine. Thanks, though.”

A pause hangs in the air.

“Please?”

“Um, she should be here any second.”

The father watches Todd walk further into the parking lot.

“It’s gettin’ kinda cold out,” he says to himself.