Family Matters by Deborah Bedford

This was his career . This was different. She’d told him, I never thought that you would be the coward.
    As Buddy watched his friend and former colleague pull up behind the ball, he heard the roar of the crowd in his ears again, remembering what it felt like to run across the indoor field in pursuit of a ball rolling so fast it was only a blur sometimes, while his fans roared.
    He reminded himself, It wouldn’t ever be the same.
    The phone call he’d received this morning had taken him by surprise. He had been away from the field for so long now that he thought most people had probably forgotten he ever played.
    â€œBuddy,” Harv Siskell had boomed at him over the line. “I’m sending a courier over with tapes. I want you to have a look at them and tell me why we didn’t win last night.” Harv had been coaching Buddy since he’d been a sophomore at Southern Methodist.
    â€œWhy does it matter what I think?” Buddy asked him brusquely.
    â€œBecause I need a new assistant coach!” Harv bellowed at him. “I want to know what’s wrong with my game. Then I’ll tell you what’s right about your input.”
    â€œSuppose I’m not interested in viewing your tapes?”
    â€œToo late, Buddy. They’re already on their way. And, Bud…”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDon’t worry about tipping the courier. He’s my nephew. He was drooling buckets just to ring your front doorbell and have a look at you.”
    â€œThanks, Harv.” His tone said, Thanks for nothing.
    â€œCall me as soon as you’ve got comments for me.”
    Even with the advance notice, Buddy jumped at the knocking on his door a few minutes later.
    â€œGee, Mr. Draper…Buddy…” the boy said, stumbling in his excitement. “It’s great to meet me…I mean, meet you!” He held the package out to Buddy. “My uncle sent these over. He told me I could bring them.”
    Buddy took the package and handed the little boy a dollar bill. “Thanks, son.”
    The kid never even noticed the tip. He just kept staring at Buddy. “I’m in the fourth grade at Prairie Creek Elementary School in Richardson. We play soccer every Saturday. I’ve been playing since I was five years old and I practice all the time.”
    â€œThat’s what it takes,” Buddy said, standing there holding the door open and waiting for the boy to leave, for no good reason deciding he was in a hurry now to tear open the packet and watch the game. “It takes hard work and practice…for all your life…”
    â€œThat’s what my uncle says, too. He got us all tickets to the last three Burn games. He can get them for us anytime we want.”
    The boy just stared up at him, his brown eyes huge and glowing.
    â€œThat’s really nice,” Buddy said, touched.
    â€œOh, gee, Mr. Draper…Buddy…would you mind…? I mean, if you’ve got time…I really wanted…”
    â€œYes, son?”
    â€œI really wanted…your autograph?”
    Buddy grinned. It had been months since anybody had asked him to sign anything. “Sure thing, kid.”
    â€œI thought about you signing my soccer ball but it gets kicked around so much that I knew it would rub off. You don’t mind writing on paper, do you?”
    Buddy invited the boy in. His eager guest followed him as he pulled a Sharpie out of his drawer and fished around in the closet for a team sweatshirt. “Here,” he said when he found it. “Now. What’s your name, son?”
    â€œBilly,” he said. “Billy Siskell.”
    Buddy hated to admit it but he felt better than he’d felt in a long time. He looked at the little boy again. “B-I-L-L-Y? I want to be sure I spell it right.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Billy told him.
    â€œTo Billy Siskell,” he wrote, “an excellent courier and soccer player. Keep on