the paperback that Ms. Glassman had given me: A Moveable Feast . She thought I’d like it, and I did. In it, Ernest Hemingway, this writer we read for English, remembers his time in Paris in the twenties, before TV s and Game Boys and such, when he wasn’t but a couple of years older than I am now and trying to be an author. Romantic times.
Sitting there, the book open but not reading it, I got to thinking about when I had told my boys—Ahman, Jamaal and Juan—about Iowa State. It was the day after the recruiter’s last visit, and we were sitting on the back of the bench at the bus stop on the way to school, our feet on the seats. I didn’t say anything, just pulled the Cyclones cap out of my book bag and put it on—sideways, cool-like.
My boys popped up off the bench and tossed out high fives and jostled me.
“For real?” Jamaal said.
“Big 12 football, that’s sick, ese ! ” said Juan.
I had made All-District the year before, and ever since, my boys, all my teammates, expected me to represent at the next level, for the team, for our school. Huskies pride. And it felt good to step up like that—it did, for real.
I put the Cyclones cap back in my bag. Ahman must have sensed there was something else. “What about UT ? ” he said. “What about wearing the burnt orange?”
UT —the University of Texas—is a factory for NFL defensive backs.
Ahman played corner opposite me, and me and him had been balling together since Pop Warner. Even back then we’d always be jawing about going pro, picking off Tom Brady in the Big Show. But after recruiters started coming around, standing in a group in the bleachers, asking after me, well, we got to thinking that maybe it wasn’t just empty boasting.
Still, I said, “How’m I gonna pass on a full ride for a chance at a scholarship?” I added, “A bird in the hand,” like if I parroted Pops maybe I’d actually believe it like Pops wanted me to.
Juan got my back. “True that. Beats two in the bush.” Him and me were co-captains. He was our rush outside backer, all bull-necked and broad up top but narrow-hipped and long-legged. “My papa had a chance to train for TAC resource management.” His pops was air force too. “Woulda meant a promotion to senior master sergeant, but we’da had to transfer out to some base in South Dakota, and he just said no.”
“For real?” I said. “Your pops is separating?”
“As of next summer.”
And I remember thinking, Dang, I wish my pops would quit the military. I had that exact thought right then, like an omen.
Across the street, there was a line outside Lulu B’s taco trailer, like always, construction workers in jeans and boots mostly, their big mud-spotted Ford F-250s lining the road. One’s hard hat was camouflage, to look like a military helmet.
“But rising in the ranks,” Ahman argued, “being the best he can be, ain’t that why he joined in the first place? Ain’t that what we’re all supposed to try to do?”
And I knew that was true too. Working hard to live my dreams.
Jamaal, one of our receivers (when he actually got a chance to play, that is), jumped in. “Iowa? For real, Free?” He was snickering. “That’s the bunghole of America.”
They busted out laughing, all Fat Albert, arms and legs pumping the air.
Jamaal was Dumb Donald if ever there was one.
“Man, how you know Iow-a from Iow-bee?” I told him. “You can’t even read a map.”
“Ooh, snap,” he shot back. “You really busted on me there.”
And they all kept yukking it up. My boys.
But Jamaal was right. Ames, Iowa? Seriously?
“For real, yo,” Ahman said, insistent. “A chance at UT is still a chance, man. More than most get. Be all you can be, Free. How you not gonna try?”
Juan cut in. “Whatever, y’all. If you two,” he said, pointing his carrot-thick finger first at me, then Ahman, “don’t step it up on Friday night against the Connally QB , won’t none of this mean nothing no ways.” Then,
Sitting there, the book open but not reading it, I got to thinking about when I had told my boys—Ahman, Jamaal and Juan—about Iowa State. It was the day after the recruiter’s last visit, and we were sitting on the back of the bench at the bus stop on the way to school, our feet on the seats. I didn’t say anything, just pulled the Cyclones cap out of my book bag and put it on—sideways, cool-like.
My boys popped up off the bench and tossed out high fives and jostled me.
“For real?” Jamaal said.
“Big 12 football, that’s sick, ese ! ” said Juan.
I had made All-District the year before, and ever since, my boys, all my teammates, expected me to represent at the next level, for the team, for our school. Huskies pride. And it felt good to step up like that—it did, for real.
I put the Cyclones cap back in my bag. Ahman must have sensed there was something else. “What about UT ? ” he said. “What about wearing the burnt orange?”
UT —the University of Texas—is a factory for NFL defensive backs.
Ahman played corner opposite me, and me and him had been balling together since Pop Warner. Even back then we’d always be jawing about going pro, picking off Tom Brady in the Big Show. But after recruiters started coming around, standing in a group in the bleachers, asking after me, well, we got to thinking that maybe it wasn’t just empty boasting.
Still, I said, “How’m I gonna pass on a full ride for a chance at a scholarship?” I added, “A bird in the hand,” like if I parroted Pops maybe I’d actually believe it like Pops wanted me to.
Juan got my back. “True that. Beats two in the bush.” Him and me were co-captains. He was our rush outside backer, all bull-necked and broad up top but narrow-hipped and long-legged. “My papa had a chance to train for TAC resource management.” His pops was air force too. “Woulda meant a promotion to senior master sergeant, but we’da had to transfer out to some base in South Dakota, and he just said no.”
“For real?” I said. “Your pops is separating?”
“As of next summer.”
And I remember thinking, Dang, I wish my pops would quit the military. I had that exact thought right then, like an omen.
Across the street, there was a line outside Lulu B’s taco trailer, like always, construction workers in jeans and boots mostly, their big mud-spotted Ford F-250s lining the road. One’s hard hat was camouflage, to look like a military helmet.
“But rising in the ranks,” Ahman argued, “being the best he can be, ain’t that why he joined in the first place? Ain’t that what we’re all supposed to try to do?”
And I knew that was true too. Working hard to live my dreams.
Jamaal, one of our receivers (when he actually got a chance to play, that is), jumped in. “Iowa? For real, Free?” He was snickering. “That’s the bunghole of America.”
They busted out laughing, all Fat Albert, arms and legs pumping the air.
Jamaal was Dumb Donald if ever there was one.
“Man, how you know Iow-a from Iow-bee?” I told him. “You can’t even read a map.”
“Ooh, snap,” he shot back. “You really busted on me there.”
And they all kept yukking it up. My boys.
But Jamaal was right. Ames, Iowa? Seriously?
“For real, yo,” Ahman said, insistent. “A chance at UT is still a chance, man. More than most get. Be all you can be, Free. How you not gonna try?”
Juan cut in. “Whatever, y’all. If you two,” he said, pointing his carrot-thick finger first at me, then Ahman, “don’t step it up on Friday night against the Connally QB , won’t none of this mean nothing no ways.” Then,
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