Cream of the Crop
Page 59
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Oscar nodded his thanks, poured on the syrup, and then started eating. The conversation was over.
After the quietest breakfast ever, he looked at his watch and swore. “I’m late for practice, want to tag along?”
“Sure,” I said. I knew he had kids’ football today, I just hadn’t known if I’d be invited along. He paid quickly, and we headed out into the sunshine for a short walk over to where the kids were starting to gather. As we walked he stayed quiet, but he held my hand. That meant something.
Once there, he deposited me with some of the players’ moms on the bleachers, threw me a woolen blanket he’d grabbed from the truck, kissed me quickly on the forehead, then headed out to his team. I watched as he greeted his players with real joy, the first I’d seen since we’d started talking about something that he clearly didn’t enjoy discussing.
I watched him tease his players, slapping a few on top of their helmets, chasing a few others, truly in his element. Ignoring the stares I was getting from some of the moms who doubtless enjoyed the view of Oscar each week while their sons played, I pulled out my phone and did the modern-day-dating equivalent of asking around.
I Googled Oscar Mendoza.
And in three seconds I had access to everything about him. He grew up in Wisconsin on a dairy farm, the son of a former professional football player and a high school English teacher. Oscar’s entire life seemed to have revolved around football, and he’d been poised to be the next big thing ever since he started playing. Originally coached by his father, he then played for a highly competitive secondary school, eventually being selected for All County, All Region, All State, and, his senior year, selected as a High School All American. Sought after by all the major football schools in the nation. Played three years as inside linebacker for USC. Picked third in the second round of the NFL draft by the Dallas Cowboys.
Taken out of his seventh professional game when he was injured. Spent the next year rehabilitating his knee after surgery for those injuries. His contract was dropped when he failed to regain the speed he’d once had, and his football career was over at twenty-three.
Oh, Oscar.
I stopped reading and watched him coach his team the rest of that morning, not wanting to know the rest of his story until he was ready to tell me. When practice was over, I walked out to him on the improvised field in the middle of the town square, a million miles away from where I’m sure he intended to end up but seemingly happy. He looked up from his clipboard with a genuine smile, also seeming happy that I was here, with him, in his world. As soon as I could, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him. Just once, soft and sweet. And when he kissed me back, he lifted me against him, his arms so tight around my waist, the autumn sun dancing around us, and I felt very happy to be here with him.
When we got back to the truck, he threw his gear inside and looked at me expectantly. “Feel up for a walk?”
“Sure,” I said, letting him slide his long arm around my shoulder and tuck me into his side. We headed down Main Street, turning right on Elm, and walked with what seemed no real direction, no real hurry. Just walking. We went right again on Maple, right on Oak, then finally right once more on Main, having walked all around the town square. He started talking when we made the next turn onto Elm.
“Football was everything in my family—you should know that first.”
I exhaled, relieved that he was trusting me enough to tell me his story, and pleased that he wanted to. I tightened my hold on his waist, my hand resting along his hip under his jacket, warm and cozy.
“Football. Got it.” I nodded and looked up at him. The sunlight was encircling his head a bit like a halo.
“My father played football—never was a star, mind you, but played in the NFL for almost five years. Third string for Indiana, then half a season in Detroit, and he played out his last season close to his family home in Green Bay. When his contract wasn’t renewed, he moved us all to the farm and worked with his father at the dairy they owned.”
A family of dairymen; interesting.
“But football was still part of his life, all of our lives. I played, my brothers played, he coached, and if we weren’t out working the cows or milking them in the barn, we were on the field.”
“Sounds like fun,” I replied when he seemed to stall in his story.
He nodded with a faraway look. “It was. As we got older, it wasn’t as much fun. I loved football, loved the game, the sport, the community, all of it. But if you were good, and I was, it could take over everything else. That’s what happened for me and my brothers. Everything became about training, everything became about the game that weekend, what plays we could have run better, what block could have been harder, what tackle should have been a sack. We literally ate and slept and breathed football. When the season ended, we kept on drilling at home, year-round.”
He paused somewhere in the middle of Oak Street, scrubbing at his face. “He wanted us to have that edge, to be better than anyone else. It started to not be so fun anymore.”
“Did you ever want to quit?” I asked, and he shook his head immediately.
“Not an option—quitting is never an option. Eventually, it became just such a part of everything that it seemed normal. We were a football family, and that’s what we all did. Even my mom—she ran the boosters, organized bake sales when we needed new uniforms, all that.”
“Family business,” I mused, and he squeezed my shoulder.
“That’s exactly right. My older brother, he ended up getting a partial scholarship to a regional school there in Wisconsin. He played for four years, and that was it. But me, I started getting scouted when I was a sophomore in high school. I was really good, and my family knew if it was going to happen, it was going to happen for me.”
After the quietest breakfast ever, he looked at his watch and swore. “I’m late for practice, want to tag along?”
“Sure,” I said. I knew he had kids’ football today, I just hadn’t known if I’d be invited along. He paid quickly, and we headed out into the sunshine for a short walk over to where the kids were starting to gather. As we walked he stayed quiet, but he held my hand. That meant something.
Once there, he deposited me with some of the players’ moms on the bleachers, threw me a woolen blanket he’d grabbed from the truck, kissed me quickly on the forehead, then headed out to his team. I watched as he greeted his players with real joy, the first I’d seen since we’d started talking about something that he clearly didn’t enjoy discussing.
I watched him tease his players, slapping a few on top of their helmets, chasing a few others, truly in his element. Ignoring the stares I was getting from some of the moms who doubtless enjoyed the view of Oscar each week while their sons played, I pulled out my phone and did the modern-day-dating equivalent of asking around.
I Googled Oscar Mendoza.
And in three seconds I had access to everything about him. He grew up in Wisconsin on a dairy farm, the son of a former professional football player and a high school English teacher. Oscar’s entire life seemed to have revolved around football, and he’d been poised to be the next big thing ever since he started playing. Originally coached by his father, he then played for a highly competitive secondary school, eventually being selected for All County, All Region, All State, and, his senior year, selected as a High School All American. Sought after by all the major football schools in the nation. Played three years as inside linebacker for USC. Picked third in the second round of the NFL draft by the Dallas Cowboys.
Taken out of his seventh professional game when he was injured. Spent the next year rehabilitating his knee after surgery for those injuries. His contract was dropped when he failed to regain the speed he’d once had, and his football career was over at twenty-three.
Oh, Oscar.
I stopped reading and watched him coach his team the rest of that morning, not wanting to know the rest of his story until he was ready to tell me. When practice was over, I walked out to him on the improvised field in the middle of the town square, a million miles away from where I’m sure he intended to end up but seemingly happy. He looked up from his clipboard with a genuine smile, also seeming happy that I was here, with him, in his world. As soon as I could, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him. Just once, soft and sweet. And when he kissed me back, he lifted me against him, his arms so tight around my waist, the autumn sun dancing around us, and I felt very happy to be here with him.
When we got back to the truck, he threw his gear inside and looked at me expectantly. “Feel up for a walk?”
“Sure,” I said, letting him slide his long arm around my shoulder and tuck me into his side. We headed down Main Street, turning right on Elm, and walked with what seemed no real direction, no real hurry. Just walking. We went right again on Maple, right on Oak, then finally right once more on Main, having walked all around the town square. He started talking when we made the next turn onto Elm.
“Football was everything in my family—you should know that first.”
I exhaled, relieved that he was trusting me enough to tell me his story, and pleased that he wanted to. I tightened my hold on his waist, my hand resting along his hip under his jacket, warm and cozy.
“Football. Got it.” I nodded and looked up at him. The sunlight was encircling his head a bit like a halo.
“My father played football—never was a star, mind you, but played in the NFL for almost five years. Third string for Indiana, then half a season in Detroit, and he played out his last season close to his family home in Green Bay. When his contract wasn’t renewed, he moved us all to the farm and worked with his father at the dairy they owned.”
A family of dairymen; interesting.
“But football was still part of his life, all of our lives. I played, my brothers played, he coached, and if we weren’t out working the cows or milking them in the barn, we were on the field.”
“Sounds like fun,” I replied when he seemed to stall in his story.
He nodded with a faraway look. “It was. As we got older, it wasn’t as much fun. I loved football, loved the game, the sport, the community, all of it. But if you were good, and I was, it could take over everything else. That’s what happened for me and my brothers. Everything became about training, everything became about the game that weekend, what plays we could have run better, what block could have been harder, what tackle should have been a sack. We literally ate and slept and breathed football. When the season ended, we kept on drilling at home, year-round.”
He paused somewhere in the middle of Oak Street, scrubbing at his face. “He wanted us to have that edge, to be better than anyone else. It started to not be so fun anymore.”
“Did you ever want to quit?” I asked, and he shook his head immediately.
“Not an option—quitting is never an option. Eventually, it became just such a part of everything that it seemed normal. We were a football family, and that’s what we all did. Even my mom—she ran the boosters, organized bake sales when we needed new uniforms, all that.”
“Family business,” I mused, and he squeezed my shoulder.
“That’s exactly right. My older brother, he ended up getting a partial scholarship to a regional school there in Wisconsin. He played for four years, and that was it. But me, I started getting scouted when I was a sophomore in high school. I was really good, and my family knew if it was going to happen, it was going to happen for me.”
