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Coach Alberts leads me and my parents through a side door I hadn’t noticed, into the team locker room. Once again, it’s nicer than Alleghany’s excessive facilities—almost ostentatious.
Every surface shines, and each locker is made of a dark brown, almost black wood, with a gold nameplate above each one inscribed with a player’s jersey number and last name. Past the lockers, I see a laundry room, kitchen, and an array of training and physical therapy equipment. A giant mural is painted on the wall displaying the university’s mascot, with the wordsNo Excuses, No Egotismprominently painted over it.
“I like the tagline,” I say, nodding to it.
“One of my former players came up with it. Bit ironic, since he had an ego roughly the same size as his home state of Nebraska. The team voted to have it painted when he won us a national championship a few years ago.”
I grin as I study the elaborately drawn letters.
“Come on, I’ll show you folks the rest of the facility.”
I follow Coach Alberts deeper into the locker room, with my parents close behind. The plush surroundings continue until we finally reach the end of the long hall. He leads us out another doorway, down a hallway, and we’re back outside the stadium in the same spot we started.
“Well, there you have it. If you’d like to grab lunch on campus, you should have received meal tickets for the dining hall from the Admissions Office,” Coach Alberts tells us.
My father replies before I have a chance to. “We did, but I wanted to show Weston around Lincoln’s downtown and eat there as well. I haven’t had one of Joe’s burgers in years.”
My mother and I both look at him in shock.
“They are the best,” Coach Alberts agrees. “You’re in for a treat, Cole.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I respond.
“All right, then. We’ll be in touch with your coach and you directly, Cole,” he tells me. “I’m not authorized to tell you anything official, but between us, I think there’s an excellent chance you’ll be invited to suit up in Lincoln green next fall.”
“Thank you, Coach Alberts,” I reply. “I appreciate it, and you taking the time to show us around today.”
“My pleasure, Cole. Every player who receives an official offer has an opportunity to come back to campus and practice with the team. I hope to see you then.”
Coach Alberts shakes my hand, and my parents’, and then heads back inside the looming stadium.
“That went well,” my father remarks as we head in the direction of the parking lot where we left our rental car.
“I thought so, too,” my mother contributes. “Seems like you’ll definitely have Lincoln as an option, Weston.”
“Option?” my father scoffs.
“It’s his decision, Richard,” my mother replies. Her response is unexpected. I thought she would back my father up on this.
To my surprise, my father nods. Not surprising? “He’d be a fool not to, though. And I know I didn’t raise a fool.”
We reach the sedan rented from the airport and head back toward the small downtown area we drove through on our way to campus. My father parks the car in front of a small bookstore.
“Come on,” he urges my mother and me as he exits the car.
We both climb out and follow my father along the cement sidewalk. It’s a cute town, probably twice the size of Alleghany, but still retaining the charm and individualism absent from most cities. The storefronts are all displaying handmade decorations of turkeys and fall leaves in anticipation of the upcoming holiday. Pedestrians milling around us stop to say hello to each other.
As we walk along, my father slings his arm around my shoulders while he points out the coffee shops, bars, and restaurants he used to frequent during his college days. It’s strange. There’s no one around to see us—no one that we know, at least. And yet my father is acting like the present, loving figure I recall from my early childhood. The one who would sneak me extra s’mores around the campfire after my mother had cut me off. The dad who would spend hours attempting to catch the throws that would often reach the grass long before him, back when my forearm was shorter than the football I was tossing.
It’s a foreign feeling, the heavy weight over my shoulders. Not only because I’m taller than my father for the first time since he’s done this. I thought I hated my father. That any chance at a functioning, normal relationship died with his fidelity. It’s both reassuring and alarming to realize that might not be the case.
Knowing my father, it won’t take long for him to set fire to this olive branch, though. So I don’t shrug his arm off. I let it rest there.
I pretend like I’m a normal guy, with normal problems and normal parents.
I pretend the Alleghany rivalry with Glenmont doesn’t exist and my father didn’t destroy our family.
We reach the end of the downtown area, and my father turns to the right. Set back from the street is a small building with neon lights proclaiming it to beJoe’s Burgers, and my father heads toward the front door.
