Page 23 of The Session

“Whether I get anything isn’t under his control. You know how it is with his ex-wife and their arrangement,” Mark said.

“I know how it is with you making excuses for people. And this is going to sound harsh, but . . . if he really thought of you as a son, he would treat you like a son. The way he treated you is how you reward a good employee—somebody you like, but not somebody you feel like you owe anything to,” she pointed out.

Mark stared into the distance at the flashing yellow traffic light. Her words hit hard, probably because there was more truth in them than he could let himself admit.

Holly reached out, took his hand, and held it tightly between both of hers.

“I love you, which makes this really hard to say, Mark. But despite my dad being a complete asshole, there’s an element of truth there. And I sometimes wonder what a more ambitious version of you would be like, and I’m afraid I’ll never see that. Long term, I don’t know if either of us would be happy in that situation.”

Mark kept facing forward and tried not to notice the tears welling in the corners of Holly’s eyes.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice choked.

“Nothing right now. I just worry about our future.”

“If I knew how to be a better version of myself, I would in a heartbeat.”

“It’s not about being a better version of you, Mark. You’re perfect. It’s just . . .” Holly’s voice trailed off.

Mark knew the rest, but he didn’t say it. Perfect or not, he wasn’t the version of himself she needed him to be. And maybe he wasn’t what he needed either.

Shift Change

Mark sat silently in Coach Stevenson’s room as the coach told him old stories. On this visit, he had been unusually alert and aware. Stevenson explained that his doctors had switched him to a new medication, which was giving him longer moments of lucidity.

“The problem was, I didn’t like the NFL at that point. You have to understand, in the ’70s, it was a completely different game, a completely different league. These guys weren’t paid well, and some of them, to afford the drugs they needed to stay on the field, would show up at rock concerts and deal backstage. That’s the thing they don’t tell you on ESPN 30 for 30—how many of the names that are in the Hall of Fame were actually drug dealers.”

“When did you decide you wanted to be a coach?” Mark asked.

“Decide? I never decided; it just sort of happened,” Stevenson told him. “When I played, I thought I was going to become a movie star. Of course, I never bothered to enroll in acting classes or even take a trip out to Hollywood. It was more of a wish. We’ll just put it that way. Nah, it just sort of happened. My senior year of college, I didn’t want to go pro. I saw what the NFL was like, and I loved the game and figured the next best thing to be close to it was either on the field or in the booth. And the field is a lot closer. At that point, there weren’t a lot of offers for me to go into the booth, so that’s why I did it. It wasn’t about coaching. It was about football. It’s about being around people, finding out what makes them who they are, seeing them become better. That was a hard part with the NFL then. You just watched guys tear themselves apart.”

Mark laughed. “You, a movie star. I could see that.”

“Kid, you’re not the only one. Wendy”—Stevenson paused as he mentioned his deceased wife’s name—“I told her that once. Oh, she would never let me hear the end of it. She’d see a movie trailer for a Clint Eastwood film or Harrison Ford, and she’d turn to me and ask, ‘You could have done a better job?’

“She’d never ask me that if it was a Burt Reynolds movie where he played ball, because clearly the answer was yes.”

Mark enjoyed seeing this side of Stevenson. This was the man he had known for years, not the diminishing version he had seen lately. Although Stevenson had cautioned him that the medication was only a temporary fix and that it gave him headaches, Mark suspected he had taken it because he knew their last visit hadn’t been one of their better ones.

“What would you have done if you weren’t a coach?” Mark asked.

“You mean besides being married to Sigourney Weaver and having five Academy Awards?” Stevenson replied. “I don’t know—maybe a police captain.”

“A police captain?” Mark echoed.

“Yeah, maybe. Although I know as much about that as I do about acting or walking on the moon. But I used to like those police shows where the captain would give the morning briefing to all the cops and tell them to be safe out there. It reminded me of a locker room. You know, your job is to help them make the right decisions, come home safely. Of course, it’s probably a lot different than the TV version in my head, but I don’t know. I always liked looking out for people. Whether or not they should listen to me, that’s a different matter,” he admitted.

“You ever have doubts about that?” Mark asked.

“All the time,” Stevenson replied. “But the way I figure it is, I’m not the dumbest guy telling them what to do. Probably not the smartest guy either. Maybe somewhere in the middle. But if I’m there, that puts one of the dumber ones out of commission and maybe slightly improves the chances for the guys I’m supporting. At least that’s the way I look at it.”

“I think you would have made a great police captain,” Mark said.

“Who knows? Maybe that’ll be my next job,” Stevenson joked. “These are some pretty philosophical questions coming from you, Marky. Something on your mind?”

“I’m just wondering if coaching is really for me,” he admitted.

“Do you like it?” Stevenson asked.