cement.”
The men at midfield stopped what they were doing and assembled themselves into an impromptu welcoming committee. Like Larry, all of them were wearing gray athletic shorts and T-shirts with GUARDIANS written across the front. They stared openly at Todd as he approached, but their collective scrutiny felt less intimate than Larry’s had in the close quarters of the van.
“Who’s he?” grunted a barrel-chested man with a drill-sergeant crew cut and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once.
Larry draped his arm around Todd’s shoulder. “He’s that quarterback I was telling you about.”
Todd was startled to hear himself referred to in this manner. He had a vague memory of swapping football stories with Larry at the sprinkler park, but he must have made it clear that he hadn’t played the game in a serious way for almost a decade. At this point in his life, he was no more a quarterback than he was a seventh grader.
“You told us he moved,” said a bald-headed black guy who was maybe five-six, but had a build like Mike Tyson’s. He had cut off his shirt so it hung well above his navel, exposing an abdominal six-pack that belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine.
“I just ran into him,” Larry explained. “Outside the library.”
“I hope he’s as good as you said,” said a lanky guy with an orthopedic brace on one knee.
“He played in college,” said Larry. “How bad could he be?”
Todd didn’t think this was the right time to explain that he hadn’t been a starter and that it was a very small college. He already felt like enough of a civilian in his cargo shorts and polo shirt.
“I’m a little behind the curve here,” he said. “Who are you guys?”
“We’re the Guardians,” said the drill sergeant.
“We’re cops,” said the black guy.
“We play in the Tri-County Midnight Touch Football League,” Larry added. “A lot of towns have teams.”
“Our quarterback’s wife made him quit,” said the guy with the knee brace. “He got too many concussions.”
The other Guardians glared at the speaker, as if he’d divulged top secret information.
“Concussions?” said Todd. “I thought you said it was touch.”
“Rough touch,” said Larry. His teammates seemed to find this amusing.
“It’s basically tackle.” The drill sergeant spoke in a comically nasal voice. If Todd hadn’t been looking straight at him, he would have sworn the guy had clamped a clothespin on his nostrils. “We just call it touch for insurance purposes.”
“We really need a quarterback,” said a cherubic-looking behemoth who’d been silent up to that point.
“Why don’t we work on some simple pass patterns?” Larry suggested.
Todd waited for his good sense to kick in. There were lots of excuses available to him. My wife works nights. I have to study for the big exam. I can’t keep my eyes open at midnight, let alone play football. I don’t like concussions. But it felt so good to be standing there beneath the bright lights on that vast turquoise carpet, surrounded by men who called themselves the Guardians. Way better than standing in front of the library watching twelve-year-olds ride their skateboards. He had a feeling similar to the one he’d had right before kissing Sarah, like his world had cracked open to reveal a thrilling new possibility.
“Just let me warm up a little,” he told them.
After practice, Larry invited Todd out for a beer to celebrate their new alliance. Todd started to say no—it was already ten o’clock—but then figured, what the hell. It wasn’t like he went out drinking every night of the week.
“Cheers.” Larry lifted his mug. “You looked good out there.”
“You think?” Todd checked his face for signs of insincerity. “Some of the other guys weren’t so sure.”
“Who, Tony Correnti?” Larry waved away Todd’s concern. “He’s a pussycat. Give you the shirt off his back.”
Todd’s altercation with
The men at midfield stopped what they were doing and assembled themselves into an impromptu welcoming committee. Like Larry, all of them were wearing gray athletic shorts and T-shirts with GUARDIANS written across the front. They stared openly at Todd as he approached, but their collective scrutiny felt less intimate than Larry’s had in the close quarters of the van.
“Who’s he?” grunted a barrel-chested man with a drill-sergeant crew cut and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once.
Larry draped his arm around Todd’s shoulder. “He’s that quarterback I was telling you about.”
Todd was startled to hear himself referred to in this manner. He had a vague memory of swapping football stories with Larry at the sprinkler park, but he must have made it clear that he hadn’t played the game in a serious way for almost a decade. At this point in his life, he was no more a quarterback than he was a seventh grader.
“You told us he moved,” said a bald-headed black guy who was maybe five-six, but had a build like Mike Tyson’s. He had cut off his shirt so it hung well above his navel, exposing an abdominal six-pack that belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine.
“I just ran into him,” Larry explained. “Outside the library.”
“I hope he’s as good as you said,” said a lanky guy with an orthopedic brace on one knee.
“He played in college,” said Larry. “How bad could he be?”
Todd didn’t think this was the right time to explain that he hadn’t been a starter and that it was a very small college. He already felt like enough of a civilian in his cargo shorts and polo shirt.
“I’m a little behind the curve here,” he said. “Who are you guys?”
“We’re the Guardians,” said the drill sergeant.
“We’re cops,” said the black guy.
“We play in the Tri-County Midnight Touch Football League,” Larry added. “A lot of towns have teams.”
“Our quarterback’s wife made him quit,” said the guy with the knee brace. “He got too many concussions.”
The other Guardians glared at the speaker, as if he’d divulged top secret information.
“Concussions?” said Todd. “I thought you said it was touch.”
“Rough touch,” said Larry. His teammates seemed to find this amusing.
“It’s basically tackle.” The drill sergeant spoke in a comically nasal voice. If Todd hadn’t been looking straight at him, he would have sworn the guy had clamped a clothespin on his nostrils. “We just call it touch for insurance purposes.”
“We really need a quarterback,” said a cherubic-looking behemoth who’d been silent up to that point.
“Why don’t we work on some simple pass patterns?” Larry suggested.
Todd waited for his good sense to kick in. There were lots of excuses available to him. My wife works nights. I have to study for the big exam. I can’t keep my eyes open at midnight, let alone play football. I don’t like concussions. But it felt so good to be standing there beneath the bright lights on that vast turquoise carpet, surrounded by men who called themselves the Guardians. Way better than standing in front of the library watching twelve-year-olds ride their skateboards. He had a feeling similar to the one he’d had right before kissing Sarah, like his world had cracked open to reveal a thrilling new possibility.
“Just let me warm up a little,” he told them.
After practice, Larry invited Todd out for a beer to celebrate their new alliance. Todd started to say no—it was already ten o’clock—but then figured, what the hell. It wasn’t like he went out drinking every night of the week.
“Cheers.” Larry lifted his mug. “You looked good out there.”
“You think?” Todd checked his face for signs of insincerity. “Some of the other guys weren’t so sure.”
“Who, Tony Correnti?” Larry waved away Todd’s concern. “He’s a pussycat. Give you the shirt off his back.”
Todd’s altercation with
Similar Books
