Unraveled

Blame

I'd found that there's one place in the fall where more praying was done than in a church or hospital. It was a place where people held their breath as they watched a teenage boy run down a field with a ball or as a ball went spiraling through the air. I'd watched a preacher throw his clipboard down on the ground in frustration, or toss his hat as he cursed a shit call by a ref. Then, he'd spend Saturday planning his sermon and be the holiest person in the church on Sunday.

I'd grown up going to football games on Friday nights. I'd grown up watching film as he wrote his sermons. I'd sat in the front pew of the church three times a week hungover and high. I'd frozen my ass off at a game and escaped after the buzzer to warm up with a cheerleader.

My father would always be sitting at the kitchen table, no matter what time it was, when I walked in the front door. He'd pick me up when I was too drunk or high to make it home on my own. He'd cleaned up my puke or helped me onto the couch when I'd had one too many. He never said a word except in church when I was the subtle subject of his sermon. Subtle, but everyone knew who it was about.

I stood off to the side of the stands on the second week of Friday night football, knowing from the way his jaw was set that the game was not going as well as he wanted it to even though they were up by two touchdowns.

I made an effort to go to the games only because he never chastised me for my weekend activities. I kept my grades up the best I could and as long as I pulled a C average, he was happy. It was the best arrangement for us since my mom left a year ago. I stayed away from anything hardcore and he stayed away from the lecturing.

It didn't stop him from praying for me, though, I was sure.

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets as the wind picked up. It was early September, but the nights were already starting to get cold. The clock was starting to count down the final seconds of the game. My dad had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. They would win, but it hadn't been the best game they'd played.

I turned and headed to the field house. I unlocked the door to my dad's office and sat down on the worn couch he'd had since I was a kid. Even though the fieldhouse was new, he'd insisted that it had good juju or some shit. It had to stay.

My dad walked in and shut the door. I watched as he took off his hat and put it onto the desk before he sunk down onto his chair. My dad was not a yeller off the field. He'd found that silence often spoke more words than he could ever.

That and running hills at five in the morning often made his message pretty clear.

"You taking off again tonight?" he asked with a sigh.

I nodded. "Yeah. Supposed to be a rager, but I doubt it will be."

"You be careful," he said, looking over at me now. "Call if you can't drive."

"Will do."

"I got a call from your history teacher today," he said as he picked up a pen and bounced it on the table. "He said you're failing because you haven't turned any work in." I cast my eyes to the ceiling. "So, I started talking to some of your other teachers. Found out that you are failing or on the verge of failing every class."

"I'll get them back up."

"The deal was, Shawn, that I didn't ride you about what you did in your spare time as long as you kept your grades up."

"I know," I said with a sigh, looking at him. "I'll study this weekend."

"When?"