Rambles | A Short Story Collection

The 12th Man

It always starts the same: one man in a bar slurring, "I think they could go all the way. Win it all."

Another knocks his knuckles on the counter, swearing, and the rest shake their heads. The neon crackles behind the bar, another admonishment.

The first slides an empty glass back to the bartender. It tips and cracks, but the man pays no mind. "I mean it." He leans in towards the group, eyes rheumy and wild. "This is the year."

And they curse him again because to voice it is to ruin it. But even they can't quite keep away from the electricity of the thing, buzzing and sharpening around them. They aren't the only ones succumbing.

There is a feeling hanging in the air, slipping into the state. The fever-dream of hope, slinking through the streets like plague.

The infection spreads.

Miles from the bar, a woman leans into a cracked-leather chair and winces. Her sister beams at her as buzzing fills the room, and a tattoo artist furrows his brow.

He glances between the sisters, needle dipping into fresh ink. "Matching, yeah?"

They throw him a pair of identical grins.

When they're done, a smattering of Nordic runes glints up from their biceps, declaring their team allegiance. This year, they think.

The fever spikes.

Radio stations broadcast past miracles. Commuters tear up listening in their cars. City lights blaze gold and violet, skylines draped royal.

But this is not just a city. This the twelfth man.

The twelfth man cannot traded. They cannot be injured or bruised or broken. Their contract does not expire. No, they weather all.

Here, they weather much.

The missed field goals (and the missed field goals), the hollow miracles, the opponents' jeers. Even still, they whisper, "This year."

This year, hope glitters like snowdrifts, swirling and storming around them.

On this given Sunday, the twelfth man gathers in family rooms, in bars, around radios and screens. As they sweep in from the cold, they embrace and clap shoulders and say quietly, "This year."

And they pile onto couches, onto barstools, around dinner tables. Braced against each other, shoulder to shoulder, eyes shining. And they laugh and cheer and rib and hope until the game begins.

The fever breaks.

With each drive, play, pass, their eyes go dull, and their chests cave. A groan rolls from one to the next to the next. It's a brotherhood, this pain.

Today, they mark another tally.

Another interception, fumble, flag. White knuckles, closed eyes, disbelief etched as the clock ticks to nothing.

For a breath, the twelfth man hangs their head.

The slice of regret: again. They choked again. They always do.

But under that, a whisper gathers like rising wind. It slips between ribs, into cracks of ice, through frosty hearts. Quiet enough that it can only just be heard. Again the twelfth man breathes,

"Next year."