Page 2 of Playing for Keeps

My brother’s phone beeps and he checks it and says there are already clips on Twitter and YouTube. I shrug it off. Or try to until later when the crowd at our house dwindles and I finally sit down to eat in the kitchen in front of the local six o’clock news with Dad. The clip of me swearing and Mom lunging shows on the screen, but it’s what the announcer says that makes me jump from my chair.

“Top NFL draft pick Tate Fontanna refuses to answer accusations that he played a part in his uncle’s drunk driving accident . . .”

That night I go to bed early, lie in bed in my childhood bedroom with a bottle of JD for company. My phone is turned off, so when Marcus knocks on my door and says from the other side that I have a call on the house phone, I’m only surprised that anyone bothered to answer it.

“Tell them to fuck off.” I’m not real particular about my vocabulary today, allowing my misery to run free.

“You might not want to say that to your new coach,” Marcus says.

Shit. I bolt out of bed, spilling some whiskey along the way, instant regret at overindulging making me instantly half sober, hopefully enough to take the call because I can’t exactly afford not to. Pulling open the door, my heart thudding, I say, “Did he say why he was calling?”

“Duh? To pay his regrets, you idiot.”

I push past him and head for the kitchen because the other idiot didn’t bother bringing the phone with him. When I get there, my dad is on the phone and he says, “Here he is now,” and hands me the receiver. There’s a pinch between his brows, his mouth a stalwart slash in his face.

“Coach,” I say, not sure what else I should say, unsure what he’s seen in the media. I know coverage of the fiasco at today’s funeral made it to ESPN after photos went viral. The bastards cashed in quick and hard.

“Tate, I called to let you know I’m sorry about your uncle, sorry I couldn’t be there or send a representative from the team to the service today—”

“No problem.” My heart beats like crazy so I take a deep breath.

“I saw the news coverage and I’m heartsick. I can tell you our PR office is handling things from our end, condemning the assholes who had the nerve to intrude on your day.” He pauses and clears his throat. Everything in me goes still.

“We’re also handling the questions raised about your uncle’s death and your involvement. So I need to ask you—”

I stop listening, or stop hearing, because a wave of guilt overwhelms me. When I realize he’s waiting for a response, I say, “I should have stopped him, Coach.” Pausing to prevent emotion from cracking through my voice, gathering the strength in me because it’s time I do, time for self-pity to end and resolve to take over. “I knew he had a few drinks and I shouldn’t have let him get in that car.” I don’t say the rest of what I’m thinking, that I’m going to work hard every day to make up for it, to play my heart and soul out for my uncle Frank, because he was so proud of me, because I made it to the NFL because of him. Every game I play, every win, every award and championship will be for him. And I vow to work relentlessly to follow all the advice he ever gave me. Because he was right and he should be here with me.

Coach says a few more things, assurances about the media, aspersions about their trustworthiness, before we finally hang up. Once I’m off the phone, mortification sets in. I face my family. They have questions in their eyes but when I don’t say anything, my dad finally talks.

He tells me the reporters were from out of town, stringers. I’m told they were freelancers making their money from sensational headlines, the more horrific the better, the more controversial, the better, no matter if they know the whole story, no matter if they hurl suggestive or unfounded accusations and no matter who they hurt in the process. Stomping on toes or hearts or souls isn’t an issue for them. Fucking media.

* * *

It’searly but I smell the coffee so I go downstairs to find Mom to check on her. She’s just lost her brother and I feel bad that, because of me, the media ruined the burial, turned the peaceful ceremony into a circus and far from the quiet healing goodbye it should have been. She’s not in the kitchen. I hear shouting and I rush to the front door to find her standing outside on the walk, screaming and crying.

There’s a mob of media, no less than a dozen men and women with microphones and cameras camped out on the sidewalk, shouting back and filming. Fucking A. Slamming the door open I rush to my mother and wrap my arms around her, ignoring the even louder questions shouted at me, all about my uncle's drinking and where I was, if I’d been drinking and whether or not I felt guilty. The voice inside my head shouts hell yes, but I ignore the voice, the media. My arms shaking with rage, I lift my mother and she collapses against me, sobbing uncontrollably as I carry her back inside.

Kicking the door closed behind us so hard the frame rattles, I’ve never felt the kind of rage run in my veins before. Until now. I’m lucky there’s no gun in the house or I might use it. Taking deep breaths and holding Mom tight, I carry her to the couch. Sitting with her in my arms, I try to soothe her, struggle to get under control, to stop the vibrating anger. After a time, I have no idea how long, Mom’s sobs are quiet and she’s worn out. With a shaky hand, I fish the phone from my pocket and call the police to get rid of the media mob.

I’ve never felt so enraged or exposed or helpless before in my life. Or so guilty. Mom’s broken and I’m scared because I’ve never seen her this way and I need her to be okay. Need to deal with this cluster-fuck. Shield her and the rest of my family from the barrage.

Because it’s all my fault. The media only attacked because I’m a top-five NFL draft pick. No other reason. They’re destroying my uncle’s memory, tearing him down like his whole life was meaningless. But the media mob doesn’t care, not when they smell blood, a good scandal in the water to snatch up like sharks. That’s how I see them now, all reporters, because not one of them showed mercy yesterday, not one of them held back. Not one of them had respect for the dead or the living who grieved.

As soon as I lost control at the cemetery yesterday, they doubled down, pouncing expertly and relentlessly, like kicking a man when he’s down is their specialty. I hate the shameless pricks.

But this is the real world, not some ideal fantasy where common decency reigns, the world where I’d lived most of my life in my small midwestern town. I’m not in Kansas anymore, at least not metaphorically.

The media is part of my future in the NFL—and seriously, there wasn’t even a millisecond when I thought of forfeiting my dream of playing pro ball. It was Frank’s dream too—his dream for me. He worked me relentlessly, encouraged me tirelessly, and I swear he was happier than I was when my name was called in the draft. So I would need to deal with the world of sports media. I would need to be civil whether I liked or respected them or not.

There might be one small corner the size of a postage stamp in me that still realizes they might not all be pricks, that one or two reporters might be respectable, decent human beings. But right now it’s buried over in the black-as-fuck impression they made at my uncle’s grave, then covered up with the shroud of today’s fresh insult.

The fuckers will never get to me again. I will smile and I will speak and look them in the eye, but I will only see them as ruthless bastards, even when they’re behaving. Because I know what they’re capable of. They are the enemy and this is war. I will get to know and understand them to defeat them and never forget who they are, never forget that in spite of whatever honorable intentions they think they have, they are out to get a story even if it destroys me or my loved ones. Lesson learned.