Friday Night Football

There were four of them standing between the side of the bleachers and the refreshment stand, looking a little bit nervous, and smoking or drinking cans of coke—obviously wishing it was beer, but this was a high school event. Last Friday there’d only been three of them. All dads of football players on Wayne Junior’s team and all gym buddies of Wayne’s. Big bruisers, who obviously spent most of their time in the gym bulking up. I was a midget in their midst when Wayne and I got down there. Even Wayne was a good foot taller than I was and all bulked up like Mr. Atlas or something.

They watched Wayne and me as we came down from the stands, and I was watching them too. I knew that look. I’d seen that look on lots of occasions in the isolated outpost in Iraq.

One of the guys had some sort of black strap contraption with handles, which he had doubled over and was nervously slapping slowly on his calf.

“He OK with this?” one of the guys asked Wayne as we approached their tight little circle. He was speaking to Wayne but looking at me. And I knew the question was about me.

“Yeah, he’s cool,” Wayne answered.

“Same as last time. $30 apiece. That OK?” This was spoken to Wayne again, like I wasn’t even there or something.