brett

Back at the ranch.

After a quick detour to a liquor store, it’s a humiliating return that I cover for by being hostile: “Here,” I say, shoving a beer and a bag of chips at Jared, “and don’t say a fucking word about the mudballs.”

He looks at the bottle. “If this were some cheap shit, I’d be tempted,” he replies. “But since you knew not to insult me, you have bought my silence.”

Apparently, about ten seconds’ worth.

“Dumbass,” he says.

I could have used a mudball, too.

• • •

Life is unfair. That’s just a fact. My sister reminds me of this Thursday, after barging into my apartment and treating the place like a hazardous waste site, which it isn’t—not yet. I mean, it could still get worse. After I list all the bad stuff that has happened to me recently, Layla and the state of my team, she says, “Life’s unfair,” and I consider it a point proven and a job well done. God bless her, shitty people skills and all.

She starts in on me then. She doesn’t bring up Layla, but I get all manner of finger-wagging about checking out, my losing team, how I’m probably not giving my players the commitment they deserve, and about adopting the diet of a twelve-year-old trapped overnight in a 7-Eleven. She has other concerns, too.

I’m tough enough to listen to about half of it, not bothering to give any defense, then I basically kick her out of the apartment. What does she know? She doesn’t know anything about my job; she’s only going by the recent losses, the burrito wrappers, and the empty Mountain Dew and Miller bottles. And the smell. There is admittedly a mild odor about the place, but I’ve called the landlord.

I’m kind of surprised things have gotten as bad as they have. I’m usually excellent at putting on a front. Out in public, I can always appear to be my commanding self. At least I could until some point during this week. I was coming home at night and just getting into bed to stare at the ceiling, true, but up until that moment I was on the field screaming until my throat bled about lapses on special teams, mental mistakes, lazy footwork, you name it. But at some point Wednesday, or maybe Tuesday, I must have been feeling particularly empty, must have gotten a little too close to choking up over a mistake—maybe my voice even cracked when I said, “Crawford, if Williams makes one more catch today, I’m going to staple you to him!”

Anyway, he looked at me carefully and said, “Sorry, Coach. I’ll try harder.”

Deron Crawford never says “Sorry” or “I’ll try harder.” And I said, “Thank you.” I never say “Thank you.” I didn’t say another word for about a half hour. Then I went home.

Frankly, the novelty of the bachelor pad wears off pretty quickly when you’re not doing anything to really enjoy being a bachelor. Being pissed off, sad, and miserable gets you so far. There are only so many times you can eat day-old (okay, I don’t know exactly how old) pizza, only so many sports highlight reels you can watch, only so many days you can not shave, go without bathing, basically live in filth, before the mere sight of yourself is repulsive.

For that reason, today I’ve woken up. I mean, I’ve been awake technically, but truly I’ve been sleepwalking. I’ve done okay with the team for the most part, but when you’re only eighty or ninety percent there, and the job requires about double that level of involvement—triple when you have a team of mostly newbies like mine—you’re shortchanging them. I missed the last coaches’ meeting, claiming the flu, but the truth was I was sitting home with the shades drawn, drinking Miller High Life. Trish pointed out that I’ve been listening to a little too much weepy chick music lately, and she’s right.

I have a job. I have a life. And now, although I’ve actually been conscious and wide-eyed since about four a.m., wallowing in self-pity—which really should be self-hate, because I brought this on myself—I can respect the notion that sometimes the world needs you more than you need it.

It’s with this fact in mind that I pick myself up and actually take a shower, which is a good thing, because as I walk to the UCCC administration building at about ten a.m. on Friday morning, I bump into Heather. And when she starts flirting with me again—we’ve been jokingly flirty since the night at Norms, at least I think she’s been joking—suddenly something comes to me: Spending time with another woman is no longer cheating. Which is kind of interesting. Especially since in addition to the ten thousand other “traditions” that Layla introduced to our family, we have the corn-maze fiasco coming up, and I’ve been dreading it.

I’m torn, because I don’t want to see Layla and yet I don’t want to abandon the family right now—especially not when she’s looking like the good kid to my bad one. Maybe if I bring a date, not only will it make the night more enjoyable, it will show Layla that she’s being ridiculous. That it’s time for her to move on as well.

“What are your thoughts on corn?” I ask Heather.

“Corn?” she repeats with a funny smile—probably due to my out-of-left-field question. “I love corn. I like it on the cob, off the cob, buttered, with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt, white, yellow, creamed, popped…. I love corn.”

“That is a much more enthusiastic answer than I expected,” I admit.

“What can I say? I’m a fan. Of corn.”

“That is very good news,” I reply, and she cocks an eyebrow. “Because my family does this corn-maze thing, and it’s happening this weekend, and I thought maybe you’d like to join us.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Kind of,” I admit. “Yes.”

“A first date?”

“Yes?”

“With your family?”

“Er, weird?” I ask, realizing her point.

“Yes,” she says.

“Well, the corn maze is Sunday,” I point out. “We could have a first date tonight, so the corn extravaganza wouldn’t be it. Hell, we could even have a second date tomorrow. But that would make the corn maze our third date, and …”

I stop talking, but it’s too late.

“And technically, that’s the date where I’m supposed to put out.”

“No,” I say incredulously. “Well, yes. Technically, I believe the rule is three—five if she’s hot.”

“Charming,” she replies.

I go for broke: “So as long as you wouldn’t mind having sex for the first time in front of my family, in a corn maze …”

“No, I wouldn’t mind that at all,” she says. “Tell you what. I will take you up on a date between now and then. Tonight or Saturday, you decide. Worse comes to worst, we can always go out for burgers after your game tomorrow.” She winks. “I will subsequently decide if there will be a second date. We can take it from there.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

“There’s one other thing I like about corn,” she says. “Those little things that you stick on the ends of a cob. Bonus if they look like miniature corn.”

“I could like you,” I say. Then, “That was out loud, wasn’t it?”

She nods and smiles.

Well, mystery has definitely never been my strong suit.