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That wasn’t the kind of thing I’d normally say or even think, but I was allll up in my romantic movie feels with some childhood guilt and wicked horniness mixed in, and those were the results, I guess. Surprised him as much as it did me, I could feel the jolt through his shoulders and then the way he loosened up, leaning into me a little more, and yeah, he deserved some attention too.
“Ready?” I asked him, and he nodded.
“Yeah, I guess.”
I jogged a few yards away and mimed it out for him again. “When you let go, keep your arm straight. Like, point it at me. Follow through, but forward, not down. Does that make sense?”
He stared at the ball in his hand, copying me, bending his arm forward and pulling it back, and I nodded, was more nervous and excited than I had any right to be, and I wondered if this was how he felt tutoring me. He seemed to have more nerves now than he ever did when we were doing chem, though.
“Okay, go ahead,” I told him, hoping I sounded encouraging instead of pushy. “You got this.”
He hesitated, but then pulled his arm back, popping out of the stance I put him in, but I didn’t mention it, just let him get comfortable on his own if that was possible. I thought he’d pull a Walker and dance around an hour, but he just went right on through, sending a wobbly spiral sailing way, way over my head and out toward the track.
“Fuck,” I heard him say as I took off after it, and I laughed, finally scooping it up and trotting back. “Sorry.”
“Nah, dude, that was all on me, I know your arm strength, I just wasn’t expecting that followthru. That was badass.”
He looked skeptical. “I don’t know the rules, but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to throw ittoyou.”
I shrugged. “Accuracy just takes a few tries. But sometimes you’re supposed to throw it ahead. It’s just all about timing. You’re good at timing.” I mimed throwing it back, trying to make it look extra slow and gentle so I didn’t freak him out like I was trying to throw it at him. God, I really was an asshole. No wonder he didn’t play sports I’d probably traumatized him. “This time when you catch it, bend over a little, try to kind of make your body… into a little cave for it. Hold it against your chest and protect it so it doesn’t bounce out,” I told him, demonstrating. “Everybody wants to showboat catch, but holding onto it’s what matters.”
“So, don’t catch with my hands?”
“Yeah, no, do, but…” I stared down at the ball, trying to figure out how to explain something I’d never thought about explaining. In my hands, it just happened, putting it into words was a lot harder, like trying to explain those plays that first day in Coach T’s office. “It depends on how you’re catching it. If you’re standing or running or… You kind of catch it with your whole body. Like, what would you do if I threw a pillow at you? You’d just…” I kind of swung my arms in, hugging myself. “Like all one motion, catch and then pull it in.”
He nodded, and I could see his brain whirring, trying to pick through my mess of instructions. The balls on me to say I was a good coach.
“I’m gonna throw it right at your chest, I think you’ll understand when you grab it. I promise I have good aim, I won’t hit you in the face,” I told him.
“Okay,” he finally said.
“Ready?”
He nodded again and when he actually looked ready, I slowrolled a spiral right at his chest and he caught it pretty well, leaning and tucking just like I’d shown him.
“Yeah, that’s good,” I nodded. “Just like that. Now throw it back.”
Without too much time to think about it, he smooth-handed the catch into a throw and tossed it way more accurate. Still wobbly, but close enough for me to reach out and catch.
“Yeah, that’s it!” I shouted, surprised, and he gave me an awkward grin like someone who never got compliments. Probably how I looked when he told me I was smart.
Suddenly I felt a heavy rush of fucking nausea, thinking about how I’d tortured him for being shit at sports just because nobody ever taught him how to do anything. He’d been just like me, and I hadn’t even seen it.
He could have been throwing down field a mile if anybody had ever spent an afternoon with him. His size and arm, he’d probably have Walker’s job right now. But I didn’t say that because who liked to hear what you might have been if anyone had given you a minute of their time. So I just gave him mine.
For awhile, we just tossed back and forth, leather thunks and side steps and quiet except me rooting him on or giving him tips, and it was pretty wild how quick he picked it up for someone who wasn’t into sports. It’d been awhile since I just played catch with somebody. I used to do it to wind down after practice sometimes, but no one really stuck around after these days but me, and it felt good to just shake the rust off something I forgot I liked to do.
“Who taught you how to play football?” Caleb asked me, dropping one because moving and catching wasn’t his best maneuver yet.
“There used to be a lot of kids in my neighborhood. Older kids, but they let me hang around. Now it’s just all drug dealers and people who let their newspapers pile up. But this guy Mario, he was QB for the Sharks back then, he lived on my street. He’d let me play when they picked up in the park because he knew I wasn’t scared to go after big guys. He had a tire in his yard too, he let me use it when he wasn’t practicing.”
“A tire for what? Like boot camp stuff?”
I watched him balance the ball in his hand, twisting it back and forth and lining his fingers up just right, taking it so fucking seriously and for a second I thought I was having a heart attack. Turned out it was just fucking feelings, I think, because after a minute it spread out into a warm, melty glow across my insides. God, he tried hard, even when he had no clue. And that was so loser-y, but also so nice.
“No, like… to throw through,” I explained, catching the pass that hit me almost square in the chest and grinning. “Nice. You know, like target practice. For accuracy.”
“Oh. Right. You don’t actually throw the ball though, right? During games, I mean?”
