Before The Sunrise

burn

Before my dad changed, before my mother died, he took me to a Ravens game. It was a later game, one of the primetime ones on Sunday night. I was supposed to have school the next day, but my dad didn't seem to care. It's one of the fondest memories I have, even though I was only seven at the time and at this point, I don't remember much of the game at all, not even the score. I remember that the Ravens won. I remember my father holding me off the ground for almost the entire game, because I was so short I could barely see over the railing. And as he carried out of the stadium, I fell asleep on his shoulder, my skinny arms around his neck. I loved him blindly, thinking his love for me was unconditional.

Every time I remember that night, I can't help but experience a welling of that childish, innocent love of a seven-year-old. Of course, in just a few years, that innocence would be horribly shattered beyond repair, but for my father, it tends to creep out at the most useless times.

In spite of the joy the memory brings me, I have tried unsuccessfully for years to banish it. My biggest mistake was buying my father a small, weather-resistant Ravens flag, which he hung on a small stand in the bushes next to our front door.

As I key my way into the townhouse, I catch the flag out of the corner of my eye and it triggers the memory, bringing a weak smile to my face, only for the smile to fall when I walk in the front door, torn from my face by the same man who put it there.

"You're home late," he comments, peering at my face curiously.

I ignore him, pushing past him to get to the stairs. My face burns hot with fear and shame, even though he's barely said anything yet.

"What, you're just going to storm out like a drama queen? After tonight's performance? Don't you think you owe me an explanation for this?"

Already halfway up the stairs, I grumble, "I don't want to do this tonight, Dad."

I hear him coming, but I have never been able to outpace him when he truly wants to catch me. It doesn't make sense; I'm fast, and he's old and not exactly in football shape anymore. I guess he just has an effect on me.

He grabs me by my shirt collar, yanking me into his hold. I weakly struggle against it, but after all the twice-a-day workouts, it's like I'm twelve years old again. He flips me around, dangling me over the railing at the top of the stairs. I'm strong, but if he weren't holding me, I'd be cracking my head open on the hardwoods right now.

"I gave you this career," my father hisses into my ear, pushing me an inch farther. I squeak, gravity dragging the blood to my brain. "You'd barely know how to hold a football if it weren't for me. I started your career. I could end it"—my right foot is no longer in contact with the floor—"whenever I want."

My stomach flips, and suddenly I'm crumpled on the stairs, luckily on the safe side of the railing, with my head spinning and my entire right side throbbing. Before I can register that my father has thrown me to the ground, he's grabbing me by the arm and dragging me to my feet, my brain confused at all the changes of posture.

My butt lands on the chair in his icy home office, which aside from being an office with various football memorabilia on the wall does not resemble Bradford's office in the slightest. Even the photos of me my father has on his desk creep me out. My friends say I was a cute kid, but every time I see this picture of 10-year-old me, about a year after I lost my mom, in my flag football uniform, my dad/coach kneeling beside me, I sense this eerie, dead-inside vibe from both of the subjects of the photo. It's disconcerting.

My father finally lets go of my arm, imprints of his fingertips throbbing on my skin. "Do you understand how much you embarrassed me tonight?" he spits. "What a fucking joke. Do you even want this?"