“Look, I’m not saying—” His father moved away, fading out under the clatter.
He thought for a while about a dog. The image of Lady as a puppy returned to him. “Lady the second,” he said, standing and turning in to his bedroom. “I’ll probably kill her, too.”
The Lirianos came over. He avoided Mickey and went outside and sat next to Louis, who was sitting alone at the redwood table as though it were summer.
“Button your jacket, Louis,” he suggested.
“Thanks.” He buttoned his jacket. His voice always seemed to have an odd extra bit of volume.
“That was a great game last week,” Biddy said.
“Thanks.”
“Now all you gotta do is beat Milford.”
“Uh-huh.”
A leaf fell directly between them, resting on curved points on the table. “How come you’re out here?”
Louis shrugged. “I’m tired. Came from practice.” He pulled up some grass and twiddled it between his fingers. Biddy felt sadder than ever.
“You know,” Louis said, startling him, “we hate Prep.” There was a silence, and Biddy waited for him to continue. “They do terrible things. Last year in pileups they were pulling the hairs out of my legs.”
Biddy sat forward. “The hairs out of your legs?”
He nodded sadly. “You couldn’t see who was doing it, and everyone on top would hold you down.” There was an odd, rumbling sound from the airport. “It used to hurt,” he added.
“I believe it,” Biddy said.
“Darien was mean, too. They used to come in three buses. It was like an army, Coach said.”
“How were they mean?”
He shook his head vaguely. The tree branches above him moved in the wind, clacking like dice in a cup.
“How have you been, Louis?” he asked after a while.
“I’m okay. I hurt my hand in the game.” He looked at his hand.
“No, I mean have you been happy and stuff?”
“Yeah. I been happy.” He sounded flat.
“You sound blah.”
He nodded, undisturbed. “People say that.”
Biddy leaned forward. “Louis, do you ever see yourself doing other things? Playing in other games? Like pro football?”
“Oh, I’m not good enough for pro football.”
“No, I mean imagine — like pretend you’re in a game. Or dream?”
“Sometimes I have dreams.”
Biddy slumped back.
“Is that what you mean?”
“No, not really.” A private plane droned by, banking around to its approach pattern. “What’s your favorite team?”
“Football?” Louis said. “Browns.”
“Okay, do you ever, like imagine you’re playing with the Browns?”
Louis looked at him strangely. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know,” Biddy said, discouraged. “I thought you might.”
“You should button your jacket,” Louis said, scolding.
Biddy nodded, feeling the cold. “I know,” he said. “Thanks.”
Laura wasn’t in school the next day. He sat under the tree anyway, by himself. Sister Theresa walked over and sat next to him.
“Going to play today?” she asked.
“No.”
Across the yard, the ball was kicked back and forth.
“I’m noticing a real change in attitude with you, Biddy,” she said. “What do you think?” She looked at him. “Feel any different?” She returned her attention to the game, her profile sharp and striking. “Like what happened yesterday. That surprised me. I wouldn’t’ve expected it of you. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, but even so. Is anything bothering you you’d like to talk about?”
“No,” he said.
“You could talk to Father if you’d be more comfortable.”
“No.”
“What about your grades?”
He gazed at the grass.
“They’re not what anyone expects of you. You’re just getting by this year. And letting a lot of people down. A lot of it is carelessness. As you know.”
He rubbed a hand on his shoe.
“Is the work too hard? It’s not too hard for Janet. It’s not too hard for Sarah Alice. Laura was just dropped into a strange situation and she’s doing fine. Do you think you’re going to get honors every year for slapdash work?” She waited. “What are your parents going to say after this report card?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t know. You should know. Should I arrange a meeting with them? Do we need a meeting with them?”
“No.”
“Straighten up, Biddy. You’re a bright boy and you stay out of trouble. You’ve got a good future ahead if you work at it.” She stood, checking the back of her habit for grass. “I’m still assuming you’ll represent Our Lady of Peace in the spelling bee. With Sarah Alice and Janet.”
He nodded.
“It’s an honor, by the way,” she called back over her shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re going in now.” She gestured at the line of boys and girls in plaid and gray, fidgeting and jostling one another under the cool overcast sky.
He took the pitch and sprinted wide, turning, twisting, darting, ripping away from people, making grunting, desperate noises in the exertion. He was upended finally and fumbled, landing on his shoulder. Someone tore his sleeve off.
Bridgeport had returned for a rematch, and Biddy and the rest of Lordship were now back on defense.
The fast kid was back, as well. He was wearing a shirt that said HELLO on the front. When he’d arrived Teddy had asked “What does that mean?” And he’d turned around to reveal a GOODBYE on the back.
“Give it to me wide,” the fast kid said audibly in the huddle. “These kids suck.”
They threw themselves at him when he took the pitch; threw themselves, arms and legs splayed out, hoping to hurt him, hoping to stop him, hoping at least to force him out of bounds. In the confusion and tangle of bodies they did.
“Asshole,” he said, to no one in particular.
The next time, he drove into them and kept going; the time after, he went around.
Teddy stood up, brown grass hanging from his ear. “We’re gonna stop that kid and that play if it takes all night,” he said.
Biddy sat panting on the ground, legs out, nearly heaving. He’d been kicked in the chest.
Blair knelt over him. C’mon, man, he said. Let’s go.
He looked up in wonder at the black face under the brilliant purple helmet. The lights around the stadium were utterly dazzling and he was blinded if he took his eyes from him.
You can’t sit here, Blair said. There’s a football game goin’ on.
And Biddy slowly got off the artificial surface, checking himself, straightening his face mask, shifting a pad. His hands were taped. He had purple wristbands. Brilliant purple and yellow stripes ran down the outsides of his thighs. His ears filled with people roaring his name, and the names of his teammates.
Let’s go, Blair said, hustling back to his position, and the snap caught him unprepared as Stallworth came after him, and he fought him off and caught a glimpse of Franco Harris surging toward him, and he shucked Stallworth to see Harris’s onrushing helmet lowering, his eyes closing and his face screwing up in anticipation of the impact, and Biddy drove into him and hung on, the fast kid jarring backward and twisting to get free, Teddy leaping on as the kid spun and fell.
“Your nose is bleeding,” the kid said as he lined up and then went into his stance as Franco Harris, roaring forward toward Biddy like a black-and-yellow refrigerator coming down a flight of stairs, and Biddy cut and ducked in toward his knees, lowering a shoulder, and was knocked out of the way. He chased and dived, leaped and grabbed, sprinted and dug in, and sprawled, and when it was over he was left in the dried grass in the middle of the bluffs, holding his arm, staring into the gloom, grass in his hair, dried blood on his face, one sleeve missing, and both the fast kid and Franco Harris gone.