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He scoffs at her. “Whatever. Just get the ball to Killer Killian.” It’s dismissive but still an order, one that makes my hackles rise.
“Every player will get a chance to play,” she reassures him and returns to my side. The boys riding the bench look at her with concern, and I’m looking at her with barely-restrained fury. I’m not mad at her, but it’s ridiculous that we’re having to deal with this at a fucking pee-wee game. These boys are still scared of monsters under their beds and believe in Santa Claus. We’re not talking NFL contracts here. And even if we were, Kyle Bloomdale’s yelled ‘advice’ from the bleachers wouldn’t help matters.
Allyson’s smile is meant to reassure the boys, but as soon as their attention is back on the play, she talks quietly out of the side of her mouth. “I think he’s drunk.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I can see the tension in the faint lines around her eyes.
“Are you serious?” I ask softly. I’m shocked, but maybe I shouldn’t be. I’m putting some puzzle pieces together that this might be why Killian lives with his sweet grandparents and not his shit stain of a father. Twice I’ve seen him, and twice, he’s been under the influence. “It’s eleven AM. Guess we know where he was during the third quarter.”
I shake my head, glancing over my shoulder and gritting my teeth to keep from calling the bastard out.
Kyle looks back, his eyes hard as he mouths his son’s name and points Killian’s way. Like I need a fucking reminder.
We’ve only got a few minutes left in the fourth, but they seem to take forever. The rest of the parents seem to unanimously decide that the best way to deal with Kyle is to drown him out, and they cheer loudly and encouragingly for every single action on the field. I do the same, making sure that the boys only hear positive feedback about their gameplay.
But I can still hear that nasally voice cutting through the air, the current of his ugliness undermining the experience we’re trying to give these kids. When the scorekeeper blows her whistle, signaling the end of the game, we lose by six. So close but yet so far.
We do the line-up of high-fives between the teams and shake the other coach’s hand. Lastly, the referee comes over. “Coach Meyers?” The boy can’t be more than sixteen, but he refereed the game fairly, cleanly. Allyson turns to offer him a handshake too, but he hands her a piece of paper. “I’m sorry to have to do this, Coach, but I’m required to review the league’s rules with you as a complaint was lodged.”
He goes on to say that a parent from the Bulldogs complained about one of our spectators not following the positive-only rule. I’m not surprised, and the boys do deserve that type of support. I just wish there’d been a way for me to get fucking Kyle off the sideline from the start of the game. But my way of handling it would’ve resulted in someone calling the cops.
I inhale deeply, blinking slowly as I listen to the kid. I’m trying my damnedest to not be intimidating, curling my shoulders in and hunching down to listen. He’s just doing his job and is honestly doing it very well. He’s a damn fine referee who made some tough calls today.
When he’s done with his spiel, I offer a hand. “Good job, man. Reffing is a hard gig and you did great today. You a player yourself?” I scan his body, used to sizing up opponents. “Wide receiver?”
“Yes, sir.” He nods, still shaking my hand. “Max Womack. It’s an honor to meet you, Brutal. I mean, Mr. Tannen.” I laugh at how the kid went from all self-assured confidence to bumbling over his own tongue. “Uh, if it’s not too much trouble, would you sign a ball for me? Well, actually, it’s for my coach at school. Maybe you know him? Coach Wilson?”
“Coach Wilson is still at the high school?” I ask in shock. “What’s he, like seventy now?” I take the ball and marker he hands me.
“Oh, if you don’t mind, can you sign it Brutal Tannen? You’re kind of a legend, an inspiration to us guys, I guess.” I chuckle. I’m nothing special, just a guy who used to be good at being an immovable force. My talent? Being a wall, I think wryly.
I hand the ball back, and he blows on the drying ink, saying between breaths, “It’s not the same Coach Wilson. It’s his son. Father-son legacy thing, you know?”
“Wow. I didn’t know that. Pretty cool, though. Maybe I’ll come by a game and watch you play, catch up with Coach.”
The kid looks like I offered him a winning lottery ticket.
The quick exchange ends abruptly when Kyle interrupts the conversation, pulling on my bicep to turn me around. “What the fuck, Brutal? Killian barely got any ball time. That’s why we fucking lost.” He points back at the bench where the boys have stopped eating their post-game snack of Mama Louise’s zucchini bread and are instead watching with dropped jaws as Kyle curses loudly.
