American Football

Chapter 12 - off the wagon we go

It’s as if John’s writing has brought me back closer to the days when Alice was still here. It’s beautiful in a way, yet here I sit with a pack of Camels and a glass in my hand.

I can almost feel it hitting my blood stream. Those first few sips of that burning bourbon. Off the wagon we go.

I thought I’d just go for a drive, but in the back of my mind I knew my destination. Down into Berryville, Old Town, over on Crow Street. That old ABC store and then across to what used to be the Red Apple gas station for the pack of Camels.

I thought my mind would fight me more than it did. There was a kind of relief about the whole thing, a returning home you could say.

But I’m back, sitting there with Alice at the bar. It feels good.

I shake the glass in my hand, the brown bourbon sloshing, the ice cubes jingle and jangle.

The sun is setting over that valley skyline in the distance, the stars on their way.

I was expecting the dreaded guilt to sink in as I took those long swallows from my glass, but it’s less a guilty feeling and more of a sadness for John. But I’ll sit here with him, with this sadness, knowing that the liquid in my glass is the poison which took him, but also understanding it was something much more, something much deeper which ultimately forced that poison down his throat.

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Will Matthews probably loved football as much as I did. We made friends back in Elementary school and would play together all the way up into High School.

Will was smaller in stature, but had a mean right foot on him. Saving one of his shots definitely stung the palms.

It was at one of those weekend tournaments in the Fall. Will invited me to travel with him and his parents. It’s funny how my memory seems to work. Certain saves stick out in my mind, they seem to linger and most are attached to other memories, memories outside the football pitch. They almost stand as markers in my mind, preserving my boyhood in a way.

Will’s parents had a small RV that they hitched onto their large white truck. At that tournament I remember two things. Of course, I can’t forget the penalty kick save. I remember standing there in that strange orange glow of that Fall afternoon. Gray clouds hovered on the horizon, yet the sun still showed through. I stood tall on the goal line, and stared dead eyed towards the ball on the penalty spot. Then the referee’s whistle, the shuffle of the striker’s feet. It was something of anticipation, something of timing, and the ability to throw my large frame through the air. I can see myself horizontal, hovering above the ground for those split seconds, full arm outstretched, and then the smack of the ball against my glove.

But the other memory that seems stitched onto this one is of me and Will, looking out the back door of the RV into that same orange glow of that fall afternoon. The RV had a little table and kitchen, and for whatever reason, I can’t seem to think of that save without thinking about Will and that RV. Can’t remember any words spoken, just two friends, eating hot dogs and baked beans, staring out at that sky.