Little Children by Tom Perrotta Page B

Correnti—he was the drill sergeant with the off-kilter nose—had taken place during a scrimmage at the end of practice. He’d just let go of a pass, a sweet spiral that floated right into the hands of DeWayne Rogers, the short black guy he already thought of as his go-to receiver, when Correnti nailed him with a cheap shot, knocking him flat onto the artificial turf, which, true to Larry’s description, was about as forgiving as freshly paved blacktop.
    Except for having the wind knocked out of him, Todd was unhurt. He struggled to his feet and glared at his assailant, arms spread, mouth open, his whole body a tacit what the fuck? Correnti stepped up, getting right in Todd’s face like he was spoiling for a fight.
    “You got a problem?” he honked.
    “That was a late hit.”
    “Poor baby.”
    “Roughing the passer. Any ref woulda called it.”
    “No refs in this league, pretty boy.”
    Todd didn’t know what to say to that.
    “Well, take it easy, okay? It’s just a friggin’ scrimmage.”
    Correnti laughed in his face. “You think the Auditors are gonna take it easy? You think the Supervisors are gonna ask permission before cleaning your clock?”
    “You’re supposed to be my teammate.”
    “This isn’t Pop Warner, Ace. You either suck it up and play ball, or you get the fuck off the field, okay?”
    Larry told Todd not to worry about it. He said Correnti was just testing him, making sure he was a good fit with the team.
    “He’s an ex-Marine,” Larry explained. “A jarhead of the old school.”
    Todd shook his head, reminding himself to take shallow breaths. Every time he inhaled past a certain point, he felt a sharp stitch in his rib cage.
    “No wonder your last quarterback quit.”
    “Little Scotty Morris.” Larry spoke the name with contempt. “What a pussy. He wouldn’t have even gotten up after a hit like you took.”
    Todd nodded, acknowledging the compliment. Aside from Correnti’s cheap shot, practice had gone pretty well. He threw the ball better than he expected—all those push-ups had paid off—and had been surprised to find his football instincts intact after the long hiatus.
    “There aren’t too many guys who can throw on the run,” Larry continued. “You looked like John Elway out there.”
    “Thanks.” Todd was flattered. “I always kind of modeled my game on Elway’s.”
    “Well, it shows.” Larry signaled the bartender. “Hey, Willie, how about another round for me and my new QB?”
     
    Larry’s mood darkened suddenly, somewhere between the second and third beer, when Todd asked how his boys were doing. He remembered the twins from the sprinkler park, beefy kids with enormous heads, dead ringers for their dad.
    “The boys are fine,” Larry said. “But my marriage is in trouble.”
    Todd didn’t press for details. He didn’t know Larry that well—had never even laid eyes on his wife—and didn’t think it was any of his business. But Larry felt like talking.
    “Joanie thinks I should get a job. She thinks I’m too young and healthy to be hanging around the house all day.”
    He looked expectantly at Todd, as if asking for his opinion on the matter. Todd didn’t think he understood the matter well enough to have one.
    “Why did you retire? If you don’t mind my asking.”
    Larry seemed genuinely surprised by the question.
    “You don’t know?”
    “You never told me.”
    “Huh,” said Larry. “I thought everybody knew.”
    Todd shook his head and waited. Larry took a thoughtful slug of beer and inclined his head in Todd’s direction. He kept his voice low, even though there was no one within eavesdropping distance.
    “I was the one who shot that kid,” he said. “At the mall.”
    Todd understood immediately. It had happened a few years ago, around the time Aaron was born. A local cop had been dispatched to the Bellington Mall to investigate a report of a black teenager carrying a gun. The cop had entered the mall with his own gun drawn, just in