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Rather than the blind rage that possessed me the last time we were on this field, I’m exhilarated. It’s not a feigned air of indifference, the way I’ve played games in the past. It’s genuine. I’m enjoying myself.
Based on the grim set of Liam Stevens’ mouth, he can’t say the same. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. He’s got an almost militaristic persona on the field, and Glenmont follows every command with perfect precision.
I’m not surprised when they cap off a series of meticulously plotted plays with the game’s first touchdown. They’re meticulous, but they’re also predictable.
Loud cheers resound around the field as I stride out with our offensive unit. Not for me, they’re residual applause for Glenmont. I even catch Liam Stevens with a slight grin. The sight doesn’t bother me.
Out of everyone in Glenmont, I get why he hates me. Especially now.
I’m also confident they won’t be ahead for long. I mutter the play I want to run to Chris as we take our positions on the field. We break our starting stance, and Glenmont’s doing its damnedest to get to me. I only have seconds. My eyes find Chris, right where I told him to be.
This split second is why I love playing football. Why I love being the quarterback. I started out as a receiver, and I was a good one. But once my coaches realized I could throw, I was shifted to quarterback. I’ve retained the uncanny ability to know exactly where the ball should go, though. Where I would need it if I were the one about to run. My finger finds the sweet spot between the laces, and I let the weathered leather fly. It spirals through the air in a deadly arc. Deadly, because it lands in Chris’s waiting arms, and travels in them to the end zone.
Hello, momentum.
Our kicker makes the extra point, and we’re tied. The blue side of the bleachers is jubilant, and I don’t look at Glenmont’s side. I haven’t since the game began.
Glenmont can’t manage to generate anything offensively, despite their best efforts. They slow us down, but they can’t halt us completely. We score two more touchdowns before the final whistle blows.
It’s eerie, how one side sits silent while the other erupts. I’m mobbed. My jersey is yanked, my facemask is grabbed, my helmet is clanked against every one of my teammates’.
They’re acting like we just won the state championship, and I know for many of them, this is an even sweeter victory. It’s a testament to the power of Alleghany’s rivalry against Glenmont. With the exception of me and a couple other guys, all my teammates grew up coming to Alleghany High games. They spent their middle school years watching Coach Stevens’ team trounce ours. Hearing about how Liam Stevens was coming and Glenmont would be unstoppable. We just ensured that never happened.
We halt our celebrations for the time-tested tradition of shaking hands and repeating the mantra of “good game.” It’s a ritual I respect, but right now it feels a little bit like forcing the same poles of two magnets together. The hatred emanating off Glenmont’s team feels tangible, choking the air between us as the two lines start to move.
Suddenly, I realize the hand I’m shaking is Liam Stevens’.
“Good game,” I repeat to him. He says the same, but keeps gripping my hand, holding me in place. He opens his mouth like there’s something else he wants to say, but he thinks better of it.
He closes his mouth and lets go of my hand. I grab the next Glenmont player’s hand. Which happens to belong to Matt Crawford.
“Good game,” I say again. He mutters it back to me, looking like he’d rather tell me something much less complimentary.
As soon as the last two players shake hands, the cheerleaders come off the track to join our celebration, and several of them give me hugs, including Natalie, making me hope Maeve isn’t watching. Then, parents start to appear as well. I’m in the midst of a second detailed discussion of my first touchdown pass with a teammate’s father when I spot a familiar figure making her way toward me.
Mr. Baylor departs with one final pat on the back, just as my mother stops in front of me.
“Mom,” I state. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in the city? With Dad?”
“I turned around and left as soon as we arrived. I should have changed my plans as soon as your game was moved. It’s just—I felt like I needed to—”
“I know, Mom. I know why you go with him,” I say, so she doesn’t have to.
“I know you do, Wes. And I hate that you do. I hate that your relationship with your father has become what it has. I stayed with him for a lot of reasons, but the primary one has always been to keep our family intact. But it hasn’t felt that way for a while.”
“That’s not your fault, Mom. It’s his.”
“He’s embarrassed, Wes. He knows you judge him for it.” I open my mouth, but she continues. “I’m not defending him. He deserves judgement for some of the choices he’s made.”
“He hasn’t done much to fix things.”
“Your father wants to be someone you look to for advice and support, Wes. He knows he’s not, so it’s easier for him to not be present for these moments than to be here and for you to ignore him.” I start to talk, but my mother holds up her hand. “I’m just sharing with you what he told me. But you’re right. That’s why I told him earlier if things don’t change, I’m done. The way things are right now, they’re not healthy for any of us. I should have done it a long time ago, but I was worried. Worried the affairs would come out. Worried about you. Worried your father might just leave. And I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Mom,” I assure her. “It’s a shitty situation.”
For once, she doesn’t correct my foul language. Instead, she lets out a teary laugh and pulls me in for a tight hug. I squeeze her back.
“I’m so proud of you, Weston,” she tells me. “You’re a better person than either your father or me, and I couldn’t be more grateful you’re my son.”
