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Even worse, it sucked when my favorite red cleats didn’t fit anymore. Mom could only find my size in blue.
Yuck! No one wants blue cleats.
Call it a catastrophe.
But when you’re seven years old, moving to a new town is the worst kind of change.
“It won’t be so bad,” mom said from the front seat as she put the car in park.
Just give it time. She’ll see.
The car stopped, and mom opened her car door. “There you go. It’s already looking up.” She twisted around in her seat to give me one of those smiles she gets when I scrape my knee. “Our new neighbors are out playing football. I bet the little girl is about your age.” She pointed to the yard next door.
I followed her finger out the window. For such a little girl, she held onto that football like her life depended on it. The same way I did when I was on the field. When she passed it to her dad, my jaw dropped open. The pass sailed through the air with the perfect spin.
Woah.
It was the type of pass I loved to catch. Not many kids on my team knew how to throw that good, though. And since the coaches only ever passed to their own sons, I didn’t really have much of a chance to practice receiving such a great throw.
“Are you just going to sit there and stare? Go ask if you can play.”
Before I could peel my eyes away from the window long enough to shake my head no, Mom was already carrying the first box inside.
Dang it.
Slowly, as if they could actually hear me coming, I carefully pulled off my seatbelt and opened the door. One foot after the other, I climbed out of the car.
Be a man. A couple different coaches told me that a time or two.
I glanced from Mom’s car to the driveway next to ours. They had a shiny red truck that caught my attention. Their house was made of dark colored bricks. The lawn was thick and green–the perfect place to practice.
“Hey neighbor.” The man waved.
I must have stared a beat too long. Maybe he was talking to mom. I glanced behind me, only to find the space empty.
“I’m Charles Foster. most people just call me Coach.” He took a step toward me.
Mom taught me to shake hands when I’m meeting new people. He was still too far away, though, so I just waved.
“This is my daughter, Meghan Grace.” He pointed to the girl.
Some boys talk about girls being pretty. Whatever that meant... I just liked the football in her hands. The way she stretched her fingers along the lace made my heart beat faster.
“Do you like football, son?” No one ever called me son before, except for Mama. Not coaches. Not teachers. It kind of felt special. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I never really was when it came to football.
“Yes, sir. I love it,” I said, taking a step away from the car.
“Well, Meghan throws the best pass out of anyone in the south,” he said. When he looked down at Meghan, he reminded me of my former coaches after a winning game.
Proud.
“Mind if I play?”
“Why would anyone want to play with you?” She shoved the football behind her back. Suddenly, her father vanished from my view.
It was only her and me.
“You don’t belong with me, or anywhere else. I’m better off without you.”
