Fantasy League (14 page)

Now her voice was so low Charlie could barely hear it. Not that he wanted to in that moment.

“I'm sorry,” Anna said, “for being your friend.”

And walked out of his room, down the stairs, Charlie hearing her on the phone, asking her mother to come pick her up now.

Then he heard the front door close.

When he heard the car about ten minutes later, he went to his window, watched her get into the backseat.

She turned and looked up at him, as if she knew he was watching.

He didn't feel like Brain then. He just felt like a dope.

MR. WARREN CALLED DURING DINNER the next night and asked if Charlie wanted to come to practice the next day. Charlie thanked him but said, no, he had some studying to do.

He wasn't lying, Charlie hated lying and liars, he did have a test on Thursday, but he could have done a total grind after school and got his studying in then.

“No problem,” Mr. Warren said. “Glad to see my friend Charlie studying something besides Xs and Os. But I'll see you Thursday night for the game, right?”

Charlie covered the receiver, took a deep breath, let it out, thinking,
Okay, here goes.

“Actually I can't do that, either, Mr. Warren. My other team, the Cardinals, has a practice that doesn't end until six at the earliest, and the Bulldogs game starts at five-thirty. I'll just have to record it and watch it from the start without knowing the score when I get home.”

“I could send Carlos and you could catch the second half if you want. He won't mind missing a little of the game.”

“I wouldn't want him to do that,” Charlie said. “You know how much I love sitting next to you at games. I'll catch the next one, okay?”

Charlie had forgotten he had Cardinals practice when his mom had told him he should go to the game, the schedule changing from week to week depending on Coach Dayley's schedule at work. But he knew that if everything hadn't turned into this kind of crapfest—with the team, with Anna, even with the media—he might have taken Mr. Warren up on his offer.

But practice gave him an out, so he didn't have to lie to Mr. Warren and his mom. And he was going to grab it, just tell himself that this was the way things used to be before he was going to every single Bulldogs home game and sitting with the owner of the team, tell himself that when things were a lot more normal in his life, he would have been focusing as much on the Cardinals game against Palos Verdes on Saturday as he was on Bulldogs vs. Browns on Thursday night.

Only there was a new normal now for Charlie Gaines, which meant hardly anything was the way it used to be.

Oh, he'd watch the Thursday night game all right, root as hard as he ever did for the Bulldogs; as badly as things were going for them right now, they were still his team. He'd rooted for them in all the other bad times, in all the other seasons.

When he really thought about it, maybe one thing was back to the way it used to be:

He was fine with watching a Bulldogs game alone.

• • •

The Bulldogs lost again, lost even though the Browns turned the ball over four times. Tom Pinkett threw two bad picks in the fourth quarter, one on the eleven-yard line when a field goal would have tied the game and a touchdown would have put the Bulldogs ahead.

Jack Sutton played maybe half the snaps on defense, sharing time with Bart Tubbs. Each made a play that hurt the Bulldogs in the second half, Jack running right past the Browns' fullback on a screen when it looked as if he had the guy lined up for an eight-yard loss. The fullback ended up running thirty yards, down to the two-yard line.

On the NFL Network's broadcast, Mike Mayock, the analyst, said, “Maybe the next time the Bulldogs sign a free agent out of the movies, they should try for one of the Avengers.”

Charlie, who usually liked Mayock, said, “And maybe your network should go get Phil Simms.”

But even when Jack Sutton would make a bad play, and he was making his share, he would come back later and make a good one. Remind you of the player he used to be. And give you hope that he could figure things out before the season was over.

In the
Los Angeles Times
the next day, Charlie reading it on his phone on the way to school, Bill Spencer wrote this about Jack Sutton:

One of these days we are going to find out if a B-list actor can still be an A-lister on the football field for an entire game. There's a reason why he lights up talk shows the way he does, and you saw it again last night against the Texans: The guy continues to carry around a world of hurt with him, he just keeps directing it at the Bulldogs as much as their opponents. Like Sack Sutton is as good right now sacking himself as the other team's quarterback.

He and Anna sat together at lunch that day, as awkward as it was for both of them, everything more awkward between them than he could ever remember, and Charlie knew they both knew it. But it was also as if they both knew it would have been even more weird for them to stop having lunch together, or to avoid each other altogether, though they probably both wanted to right now. Anything would be better than ever having the kind of rockfight of an argument they'd had.

He asked her what it had been like in the suite in the second half.

“Oh, it was tons of fun,” she said.

“How was your grandfather?”

“Quiet,” she said, all the traces of sarcasm gone. “The look on his face, I've seen that look before, in all the other seasons when we turned into a bunch of losers.”

“They're not losers,” he said. “It's a weak division. They're still only two games out of first.”

“Right,” she said.

“They can just as easily win some games in a row the way they've lost some.”

“You really believe that?”

“What else am I gonna believe at this point?” he said. “What choice do I have? It isn't the way I'd bet, or even make with one of my fantasy picks. But I'm not betting. Or making a fantasy pick. I'm rooting.”

“At least you're honest,” she said. “You still crushing it in all your fantasy leagues, by the way?”

Trying to sound interested. Or just get the subject away from the Bulldogs.

“All but one.”

“Still behind in that one? Must kill you, being in second in even one of them. Who's that guy tormenting you?”

“He calls himself Dream Team,” Charlie said. “Don't worry. I'll pass him before the season is over.”

She nodded. “There's the old ego.”

Sticking the needle in, almost by force of habit.

“Let's not go there,” he said. “Please?”

“Whatever.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “The stuff I said.”

“Good,” she said, and left it there, Charlie hoping that was her way of accepting his apology, but not sure that she had. His mom talked sometimes about how there were bells you couldn't un-ring. Maybe him calling her a know-it-all was one of them.

• • •

It was Saturday morning, Culver City Cardinals against the Palos Verdes Vikings, Charlie thinking that there was at least a chance to salvage something out of his football weekend, one that had started as badly as it did with the Thursday night game. The Cardinals and Vikings were tied for first place, so today's game felt a little bit like the start of the playoffs.

Coach Dayley had actually been playing Charlie a little more the last couple of games, Charlie surprising himself by holding his own with the first stringers on defense, feeling more and more as if he belonged. Sometimes thinking he was doing a lot better defending his turf at linebacker than his man Jack Sutton was with the Bulldogs, Charlie starting to wonder if Sutton would even make it to the end of the season, worried that Matt Warren might cut him any day now.

Charlie's teammates were pretty much leaving him alone on what was happening with the Bulldogs—what Charlie had helped
make
happen—with the exception of Sean Barkley. Of course.

“Hey, Charlie!” he said when they were stretching. “Hey, Charlie Gaines! Just promise me you aren't gonna make no suggestions on improving my Lakers this season, okay?”

Charlie just laughed along with his teammates, knowing that if he came back at Sean, he'd just encourage him to keep going. All he said when the laughter stopped was “I promise, Sean, as long as you promise to kill it today against the Vikings.”

They were next to each other in the grass. Charlie reached over and gave Sean some fist to pound, the subject back to football, them having a game like this to play in a few minutes, one that meant something. Coach Dayley always told them to appreciate mornings like this, they didn't know how many of them they were going to get in their lives.

It really was a perfect day for a game, and Charlie's mom was in the stands along with most of the other parents. Big-game Saturday in Culver City, for both teams, you could feel it in the air. It was all you needed in sports, whether it was Pop Warner or high school or college or the pros.

Two teams wanting the same thing.

You couldn't ask for more than that. Charlie knew
he
couldn't, not with the way things felt like they were spinning out of control lately. At least he'd have some control today, however many plays he got.

Maybe that was why the game felt even more important to him than it normally would have. There was a moment, right before the kickoff, when he looked into the stands, trying to locate his mom, eyes searching until he found her in the top row of the bleachers next to Jarrod Benedict's dad. Pretending, just for that moment, that Jarrod Benedict's smiling dad was his own.

Then he let it go, the way he always had to let it go. One more truth in his life that he couldn't run from. So he just waved at his mom, telling himself to be happy with what he had today: her, the game, first place on the line.

First
place on the line.

He turned around one last time. That's when he saw the old man sitting in the far corner of the bleachers.

THE STANDS WERE COMPLETELY empty, except for Joe Warren, by the time Charlie got to the Palos Verdes side of Memorial. Nobody ever wanted to stay around long when you lost, especially if you were the visiting team.

Mr. Warren was still in his seat, top row, corner. When Charlie got close he saw the old man was wearing a heavy Bulldogs windbreaker with leather sleeves. What was called a “throwback” jacket on their website and in the team store at the stadium, even though there was no “throwback” era for the Bulldogs because they hadn't been around long enough.

It just looked like the kind of throwback jacket you could get from the Giants and Bears and Packers and Steelers—teams that actually had a history.

“You came,” Charlie said when he'd made his way to the top of the aluminum bleachers, even his rubber spikes making a lot of noise on the way up.

“Told you I'd show up one of these Saturdays,” Joe Warren said, pulling down his sunglasses and giving him a wink.

Then he had both hands inside the side pockets of the jacket again like he was cold, even though this was one of those perfect L.A. mornings, Charlie's mom always telling him that L.A. was the world capital of mornings like this.

“Well,” Charlie said, sitting down next to him, “at least you saw a good game.”

“You were in on a couple of tackles when you were in there,” Joe Warren said. “First guy in on one of them, that sweep near the end of the first half.”

By now he knew the old man didn't miss very much in the game he was watching.

“You're the one always telling me that even a blind squirrel finds the acorn once in a while,” Charlie said.

“I think in the modern world you might be obligated to say the nearsighted squirrel, now that I think of it,” the old man said.

He smiled now at Charlie, pointed a trembling finger across the field.

“Aren't you holding up your mom?”

“I told her I was coming over to see you. She's still over there hanging with the other moms.” There was just a slight pause before he added, “And dads.”

“What did you tell your coach just before the fourth quarter?” Joe Warren asked. “That the other quarterback was going back to that side of the field on the interception? It was, wasn't it?”

“I just thought I saw something,” Charlie said.

“You
thought
you saw something.”

“Actually, Mr. Warren, I remembered something Tom Pinkett told me the day we were watching film together.”

Charlie told him about what Tom had said when he walked up to the screen, how the defensive back knew what Tom was going to do.

“So you trusted that the other team's quarterback would go back to his favorite receiver with the game on the line,” Joe Warren said.

“I did,” Charlie said. “Tom said veteran QBs don't do it all the time. But I figured that didn't apply to a kid my age. I figured he'd trust his go-to guy.”

“Wonderful thing, that kind of trust,” the old man said, staring out at all the green in front of him, hunching his shoulders a little, like he wasn't just wearing his throwback jacket, but using it like a blanket.

“Bit like faith, the whole trust thing,” Joe Warren said. “Sometimes you gotta believe in what you can't see. Or haven't seen yet. Might not ever see.”

Sometimes, Charlie knew, you just had to let Joe Warren go. Eventually he'd get to his point. You just never knew how long it would take him. And sometimes half the fun was listening to him get there.

“Don't you stop trusting yourself because we're not seeing the results we want right now,” the old man said. “Don't you stop. I haven't.”

Charlie looked across the field at his friends, some still on the field, some hanging around in front of the Cardinals' bench, like they were fine with the game being over but not this best part of their day, Charlie wondering if any of them even noticed him over here. Or had any idea who the old man with him was.

Mr. Fallon would have known, but he wasn't with the Cardinals today. He was at the radio station, hosting pregame and halftime and postgame shows for the UCLA-Washington game.

“Jack Sutton was a terrible idea,” Charlie said. “I wish my mom hadn't even taken me to see them shoot the movie that day. We would've all been better off.”

“He did a dumb thing with that penalty, no question,” Joe Warren said. “Cost us that game all by himself. But I'm not giving up on him any more than I'm giving up on you. He still shows flashes of the player he once was.” He turned now, and faced Charlie. Then he smiled and said, “It's why I've decided not to cut either one of you.”

“Bet Matt wants you to cut us both,” Charlie said.

“No, sir, he does not.”

“You've got to be kidding, Mr. Warren.”

“Well, even though I
am
quite a kidder, Charlie, I'm not pulling your leg on this, mad as he was that day after the out-of-bounds penalty. My son looks at the same game film our coaches do. And what he tells me is, Sack Sutton is starting to get his groove back.”

“Too late,” Charlie said.

“Well, if one of us is going to worry about it getting late, it's me,” Joe Warren said. “Only I'm not. Anytime I start to feel a little too old and a little too sick, you know what keeps me going, Charlie?”

Charlie didn't answer him right away. The old man had never put that word into play before.

Sick.

“Do you, Charlie?” Joe Warren said.

“No, I don't.”

“I remind myself how much I love these games, how young they make me feel while they're happening, how I can't wait for the next one soon as the one we just played is over.”

“Even when we lose?”

“Even then.”

“And you still think we've got a legitimate shot at the playoffs?”

“It's what keeps me going,” the old man said.

The two of them sat there, quiet now. There were two little kids, Jarrod Benedict's twin brothers, on the field, one of them with the ball, the other chasing.

Finally Charlie asked Joe Warren if he and Carlos could give him a ride home. The old man said absolutely they could. Charlie went back down the bleachers, helmet in his hand, ran across the field, asked his mom if that was okay with her. She said fine with her, she'd go over to Santa Monica, do some shopping and see him at home.

“It's a good thing,” she said, nodding across the field.

“What?”

“Him,” she said. “Being here. For you.”

He ran to the car, left his jersey and helmet and pads in there, took off his football pants and put on a pair of jeans and sneakers that his mom had brought with her and a Clippers T-shirt. Sprinted back across the field and back to the top row, out of breath as he said, “You never said anything about being sick before, Mr. Warren. Are you? Sick, I mean?”

“As a matter of fact, Charlie boy, I am.”

He stood up. It took some time, and some effort. Then he told Charlie to put out his arm so he could grab it like a railing, that railings were an old person's best friend, even if they were attached to a young friend of his.

Put a death grip on Charlie's forearm. The two of them made their way slowly down through the bleachers.

“Take a walk?” Joe Warren said.

“Whatever you want,” Charlie said. “I have no place I need to be except with you.”

“Got another true story for you,” the old man said. “This one about me.”