GAME DAY
Posted by user JERRY on November 2 at 9:00 p.m.
 
 
On game day, I usually wake very early and lie in bed thinking things over. I’ve got a small room with one window that faces east, so the first light filters through the curtains and hits my trophy shelves at about six a.m. Most of my trophies have miniature gold football players on top, and when the light strikes them, the figurines seem to come alive and play a little game. I lie in bed and watch them and think how dumb I was, and how lucky I am to get a second chance.
You all know what happened. Everybody knows what happened. Lots of people screw up and no one ever hears about it, but what I did was posted on the Internet and written about in newspapers, and it even made local TV. Some of the hardcore fans in town felt it was the worst thing to befall Kendall since the church burned down.
I’d like to say that what happened that night last October was a freak occurrence, that it was the first time I’d been to a keg party or the first time I drank too much and did something stupid. But that wouldn’t be telling it straight.
Okay, here’s some honesty. It’s very hard to be the quarterback of the high school football team in a town like Kendall and not have it turn you into an arrogant jerk. You’re anointed at age twelve. You are the star. Girls want to talk to you, even though deep down you know you’re not that brilliant or charming. Guys want to be your friend. Gradually, you start to think you can do no wrong—or at least that’s the idiotic conclusion I came to.
There are a lot of football towns like Kendall in Florida, Pennsylvania, and Texas, but not so many in New Jersey. When you push in through the doors of Kendall High, it’s not a coincidence that the first thing you see is the enormous trophy case. There must be five hundred trophies inside, some of them dating back nearly a century. When I lie in bed watching the morning light hit my own much smaller trophy collection, I can feel the weight of that forest of school trophies and the tradition behind them.
“Pride,” Coach Shea always says on the first day of a new season. “It’s all about pride.” I think he’s right. For our town it was always about pride. Years ago, when we had our amazing run and won three state championships, I used to sneak into the games with my friends, wriggling under the fence because we couldn’t afford the buck ticket. Those were hard times for a lot of people in our town, and it was thrilling to see the pride in people’s faces as they stood up to cheer, as if our town was going to war against another town, winner take all, with no quarter asked for or given.
On game day, I remember those faces as I get out of bed and pull on some sweats. My parents are still asleep, and our house is dark and quiet. I walk downstairs in my socks, holding my sneakers so as not to wake my dad, who works the late shift as a security guard at a warehouse. I slip out the door and stretch on our front lawn, and then I head up Sylvan Avenue at a fast jog.
Here’s the truth, the stinking truth, and nothing but the lousy truth. I had been to dozens of parties like that, and I had done worse things. I don’t want to write them down because they involve other people who are still my friends, but I had bullied kids. I broke a kid’s nose. I teased girls and sometimes it got out of hand. And I got away with it because when you’re the quarterback of the Kendall football team, who’s going to blow the whistle?
Two blocks away I stop at the house of my best buddy, Danny Rosewood, and rap gently on his back door. Danny is always dressed and ready, and he slips out the back and joins me. He puts on headphones and runs to music, but I like to hear the sounds of the world waking up. We don’t need to talk. Danny feels the same weight that I do on game day. I have to throw the touchdowns, and he has to catch them.
Danny is the fastest kid in our school—and possibly in the entire county—but he’s a sprinter, and when it comes to grinding out the miles, I can stay with him. We soon leave the town behind and run past the factory, with the chains on the gate and the busted windows. Then there are the fields—corn and alfalfa—and after that the first stubby trees and soon the pine forest takes hold.
Danny listens to Usher, but I listen to the wind in the pines and the birds and my own breathing. The run helps relax me, and even though we don’t talk, it gets Danny and me in the same space. I bet a lot of people don’t realize how close a quarterback and a wide receiver have to be to get it right. It’s not enough that we practice the routes endlessly, both with the team and on our own. We have to be able to anticipate each other’s actions and think almost with one brain.
Danny was there that night at the Sullivans’ party, but he never drinks because his dad’s a cop. He left early, but my other friends stayed late, standing around the keg in the backyard, cracking jokes and making small talk with a few girls.
I can’t remember who suggested we head to the reservoir for a late-night swim. I do remember a little argument about whether I was sober enough to drive, and me getting into my car and switching on the ignition and grabbing the wheel and saying, “Get in or get left behind.” And they got in, three buddies from my team and two girls I barely knew, one of them just a ninth grader.
Why did I get behind the wheel that night? Why didn’t I let someone else drive, or just stay at the party? I was the quarterback, the go-to guy, the leader of the pack, and things like alcohol that derailed other, lesser people had no effect on me. I was invulnerable, immune, all-powerful, and so when I said get in or get left behind, they piled in.
The road to the reservoir is narrow and winding. I remember driving out there in the moonlight, feeling totally in control, while my buddies were passing a bottle back and forth and fooling around. I didn’t drink on the way out, but I made up for it once we got there.
No doubt you’ve seen the photos that got posted and texted until they went platinum on local and even national news. I don’t know who took them, and I don’t care. Because yes, it happened. Yes, I was doing shots and, yes, I stripped and went for a swim and, yes, I was the one tilting the wine bottle while a fifteen-year-old girl in her underwear drank.
Danny veers off at his house, and I do a final sprint to my front door, and even on the coldest game days I’m sweating and loose. I jump in the shower and get dressed in jeans and my game shirt and go down to breakfast.
Dad is usually at the kitchen table when I get there, reading the paper and eating cereal. He always asks something silly on game day, like “Hey, beanhead, how’s the old chicken wing?”
“Loose as the caboose on a goose,” I tell him.
Mom ambles into the kitchen right about then and usually hands out some free diet advice. “Carbs,” she’ll urge. “Eat toast so you don’t get toasted.”
“No one’s gonna toast me today,” I assure her, and she gives me a look. I catch myself. “Yeah, carbs, thanks,” I say quickly, and fix myself some toast with strawberry jam, and maybe a banana or a protein bar.
I walk the...