But now it’s time for me to go…
Perfect for the occasion, if I do say so myself, though I’m probably the only one in the noisy place who knows the words, much less listens to them.
I catch the eye of my grandmother, EmmaJean, whom even I callEJ, all five feet and not-very-much-else of her, maybe half an inch, if that.
The little white-haired woman had raised my father afterhisfather had up and died one afternoon, dead of a heart attack after getting off his old seed planter one last time. Then raised me after my father was gone and my mother died a couple of years later. I was just twelve when my father was taken from me and fourteen when I lost my mother, as much to heartbreak as to cancer.
I never could have made it here without EJ. She gives me a broad, knowing wink, both of us aware that itistime for me to go, that I’m about to leave Carolina in a way my father had never left here, or her.
How did the school song go?
I’m a Tar Heel born, I’m a Tar Heel bred, and when I die I’m a Tar Heel dead.
Like my father was, shot by some coward on State Road 31, the killer never caught and never brought to justice.
I blow EJ a little kiss, knowing that even a small gesture like that will be caught by one of the videographers my agent, Laurance Most, has hired for the occasion. I don’t give it a second thought, or care. The moment is between my grandma and me.
At the small bandstand against a side wall, I hear someone tapping the microphone. It’s Gideon (Giddyup) Garland, who’s nominated himself master of ceremonies.
Gideon is the best wide receiver I ever had—always sure-handed catching passes, even when I was throwing them harder than any college quarterback had thrown a football.
At a practice for the Senior Bowl—the postseason all-star game showcasing the best NFL draft prospects—Josh Allen, on his way to the Buffalo Bills, had once thrown a ball sixty-six miles per hour.I’d thrown sixty-nine in a few games, almost always to Gideon, who’d accused me of trying to put a hole in him and rip his hands off at the same time.
But Gideon Garland had held on.
Now he’s saying, “Tonight we say our final goodbyes to the great Silas Tucker.”
He waves me up to stand beside him on the stage. Occasions like this call for speeches, though I’d insisted that tonight be a celebration and not a roast.
“On behalf of my pal Silas,” Gideon says, “I’d officially like to thank y’all for making this night necessary.”
That gets him a laugh. But then he’s always been a cutup, from our first day as roommates freshman year at Hinton James Residence Hall.
“And we’re off,” I say, loud enough for the people in front of us to hear.
“We’re going to do it a little different right now, 109,” he says, turning to me.
“How so?”
“Because tonight I’m gonna be the one throwing it and you’re gonna be the one catching it.”
Gets him another laugh.
It’s then that I look to the back of the crowd, like I’m seeing the whole field one more time, and notice people moving out of the way, some of them being shoved, because the Southern Mafia is suddenly in the house.
TWO
I CAN SEE Gideon’s eyes light on them about the same time mine do, but he does his best to ignore them. He’s got a microphone and an audience and nothing is going to spoil that for him, because he clearly sees this as a special night for him, too.
“Listen,” Gideon says, “before we really begin the festivities, Mr. Laurance Most, agent to the stars and our host this evening, would like to say a few words.”
“And do what, kiss a little more ass?” Roof Crockett yells out.
Roof and Lynyrd Crockett are the sons of the Southern Mafia, run with an iron fist—and a closed one—by their father, Briar.
Roof is five years older than me, Lynyrd four. Both had played football at Cross Rivers until their grades, or lack of them, had finally rendered them both ineligible. That and smarting off to teachers and terrorizing other students, like those were other varsity sports.
He laughs. His brother laughs. No one else. Gideon acts as if he hasn’t heard as he turns the mic over to Laurance Most.
