handle Bobby’s practices.
I followed Bobby toward a cluster of barrels filled with grains and seeds that you could scoop yourself. He pulled a bag off a roll and poured in a scoop of granola, holding it up to see how filled it was. Satisfied, he twisted the top and tied it into a knot.
“There’s a lot more seeds than I realized,” I said. Had I really made an observation about the many kinds of edible seeds? Was I possessed by George Tomczak?
“Don’t worry, I like a nice burger, too.” Bobby grinned. “All things in moderation, even seeds. I need to pick up wheat germ; then I’ll get you home so you can finish your homework and whatever else you need to get to.”
I thought of how, after riding next to him in his car, the first thing I’d be doing likely wouldn’t be homework. I flushed, as if my intention to masturbate had scrawled itself across my forehead.
Lucky for me, he’d already turned to the wheat germ.
“Got it,” he said, looking victorious, and we headed to the checkout. Earl rang him up, gave Bobby another back slap, and told me to listen to my coach.
“He knows what he’s doing,” Earl said.
I’ll bet, I thought.
Near the exit, Bobby paused at a bulletin board covered in flyers advertising babysitters for hire and bikes for sale. In the center was a flyer with the words “Personal Best Training” across the top, and beneath that, a photo of Bobby that must have been cut from a larger image. He had his leg up on a weight bench. Someone had drawn a large penis extending out from his shorts.
In haste, he tore it down, but not before I saw that almost none of the row of flaps where he’d printed his phone number had been torn from the bottom.
The sad look on his face as we walked to the car made me desperate to say something.
“I think having goals at the park has really helped out,” I said. “It’s cool you got them.”
Bobby faintly smiled. “You know, the school gave me an account for Powell Park Sporting Goods. For jerseys. I ordered them last week.”
“That’s good, right?” I said, so chipper I could hear the pity in my voice. “Like they’re excited about the team?”
“The account was for twenty-five dollars,” he said, unlocking the door. I didn’t know how much jerseys cost, but I knew that there was no way he’d get nearly a dozen of them at Powell Park Sports for that amount. “But I know how uniforms make you feel like a team in a way not much else does. So I got them.” He tossed his now balled-up flyer into the back seat. “I’m hoping my personal training business picks up. Teacher pay . . .” He shrugged. “You know.”
I didn’t, but I could see Bobby carefully considering jerseys for us the same way he compared wheat germs. I wanted to think of the right words to say thank you. He’d spent his own money.
“Don’t say anything to the team yet,” he said, as I started to open my mouth. “I want it to be a surprise. But you asked me before, so I figure it can be our little secret.”
The words “our little secret” uttered as Bobby looked into my eyes were as exciting as if I’d put a scoop into one of the barrels of seeds and lifted out diamonds.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I said. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“They weren’t my first pick of colors, but there’s always next year,” he started saying with excitement. “I hope they’ll be ready next week.”
I didn’t care about the jerseys. He’d spent his own money on us. He was making plans for the next year, for us.
He deserved a team that was worthy of him, and if he was going to call me his star player, I had to try to live up to the title.
Twelve
Joe picked me up on Saturday morning for our next practice at the park. His Nova had ripped brown seats that were taped in places and the glove box door was missing, but you could tell he took care of the car. One of those pine-scented trees dangled from the rearview mirror.
“Um, what is that?” I asked, pointing at the tape sticking out of the 8-track player. “You like the Doobie Brothers?” My dad liked the Doobie Brothers.
Joe grimaced. “It’s been stuck there since I bought the car from my uncle,” he said. “I thought you