Page 44 of Given Our History

“The correct answer is 1517,” the host announces, and we grin at each other across the table, victorious. Teddy orders a couple of shots of whisky when a server passes by our table, and despite the fact that I haven’t done a shot since undergrad, I accept it, clinking glasses with him before stamping it on the table and tossing it back. A comfortable, toasty feeling settles over me. I’m starting to feel like it’s okay to be here, enjoying this. It’s Friday, and aside from grading a few discussion posts on Sunday night, I don’t have anything looming over me.

We sail through the rest of the history questions with relative ease, but so do a number of other teams. It’s neck and neck right now, anyone’s game. And then the host announces the theme for the next round of questions.

Sports trivia.

When I was growing up, on the rare occasions my dad was actually at home before his injury, he would sometimes force me to sit on the couch and watch the Orioles game with him. Baseball was America’s Pastime, he said, and to not enjoy it would be very un-American. His intentions were good, but it backfired during my teen years, when sitting on the couch with my dad was the last way I wanted to spend my weekend. The end result was that I pledged to never watch another game, baseball or otherwise. And I’ve done a pretty good job of sticking by that. I’ve never been to one of Irving’s football matches. I refuse to watch the World Cup or Wimbledon. The only sport I get any real enjoyment out of watching is those mock jousts they put on at the Renaissance Faire, and that’s not really a sport—it’s more like choreographed entertainment.

Which has all been fine and good, until now. Now, my competitive streak is cursing me for not paying attention. Teddy said he’ll handle the sports questions, but I’m not sure he’s much of a sports person, either—or at least he didn’t used to be, but maybe that’s changed. Maybe Mindy dragged him to hockey games and bought him monogrammed jerseys and shared hot dogs with him at PNC Park.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her. It’s not her fault we drifted apart, and I know that she’s well out of his life now, but it’s always felt a little like salt in an open wound. I’ll never forget that afternoon in the sandwich shop, three whole years after we’d fallen out of touch. He couldn’t even look at me.

The host reads off a question about basketball, something about hoops and points that sails right over my head, but Teddy writes down an answer—which turns out to be wrong. Next comes a question about which city hosted the 1936 Summer Olympics.

“Oh, I know this one,” I say.

“I’m pretty sure a lot of people know this one,” he reminds me with a gentle smile, and the tallies confirm it. As of right now, we’re tied with The Cunning Linguists. There’s a chance we might actually win this.

“How many times have the Philadelphia Eagles appeared in the Super Bowl?”

Teddy leans back in his chair, folding his arms—which I can’t help but study, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to the elbow, toned forearm muscle and a dusting of dark hair visible—and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Two,” he says, when he comes back down to earth. “I’m thinking two.”

“How certain are you?” I ask, echoing his earlier question.

He teeters his head back and forth. “Fairly certain. My dad was always an Eagles fan.”

Not particularly reassuring, but I don’t have a leg to stand on, so we go with two.

The answer is four.

“All right, last question of the night, for double points,” the host announces. I turn away from Teddy and straighten in my seat, prepared to give the question my full and undivided attention. If we can just answer this question, we might overtake The Cunning Linguists. “How many horses are on each team in a polo match?”

And with that, my heart plummets. I have no idea. At least baseball and football are the sort of games blue-collar families go to, the sort my dad tuned into every Sunday, but polo is a world away. I glance at Teddy, but he shakes his head faintly. He doesn’t know either. Why does it feel like neither of us ever seem to have the answers? We’ve done fine at this quiz night, sure, because we’ve always been book smart, good at the facts, the research, the technical stuff.

But it’s never been enough.

“You have thirty seconds,” the host calls out.

“We have to write something down,” Teddy says. “Maybe … I don’t know … ten?”

I shake my head. “Ten sounds like too many.” Don’t ask me why it sounds like too many, considering I’ve never seen a polo match in my life, but it just does. Like there aren’t enough stuck-up rich folks to maintain those numbers.

“Eight seems reasonable,” he suggests instead, holding my gaze.

Nothing about what I’m feeling right now is reasonable. I press my lips together, wishing he would just take the plunge. Commit to a probably wrong answer. But neither of us wants to be the one to do it.

“Ten seconds.”

He exhales. “Should we go with eight and call it a day?”

“It’s too many,” I say again.

“Five,” the host begins counting down.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Teddy demands.

“Four,” the host says.

“Four, just put four,” I say in a panic.