Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,28
what Gunner had done many times before in our simple, abusive relationship. He was about to clock my shoulder and send me spinning to the ground as he bulldozed past. Normally my lunch tray would be there to come down with me, but this time the hand pie would have to suffice.
It was night, I was in foreign territory—his territory—and the energy of the crowd and the lights propelled him.
Beside me, Cirrus raised her phone and snapped a picture. This was fun for her. And why wouldn’t it be? She had no idea.
Gunner strode toward me with clear aim and intent. I could not let this happen. I was wearing a hoodie with protective silver crosses, for Antichrist’s sake. I was a rock star.
So I began clapping and hooting. “Let’s go, Gunner, c’mon! We love you, buddy!”
Cirrus, infected by my bogus enthusiasm, joined in with an awkward chant: “Go, Gun-Nur! Go, Gun-Nur!” She threw me a look that said, Is that how you say it?
Surrounding fans corrected us with the more properly cadenced “Go, Gunner, go! Go, Gunner, go!”
My ploy worked. Gunner quickly realized he could not strike down an innocent fan for no reason in front of everybody.
“See ya, Sunny,” he blurted, clearly discombobulated. He spin-dodged me, thrilling the fans, and hustled off to the brilliant green field.
“He knows you?” said Cirrus.
I froze again, for a different reason this time. Normally, I would’ve turned around and run from Gunner. This was the first time I had stood my ground, and the ground felt marvelous to stand on. I fully acknowledged the irony of gaining real confidence by faking being someone else. Maybe this was why people engaged in performance. To let go of old fears.
A voice exploded above us.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, PLEASE STAND FOR THE NATIONAL ANTHEM!”
The marching band wheezed their way through the desiccated Francis Scott Key relic, and the crowd groaned along with its hoary antiquated lyrics, as always omitting the third stanza threatening murder for free former slaves before erupting into a barbarian Woo.
“Let’s get seats,” I said, and led Cirrus up into the blinding bleachers.
“AND NOW, BOTH TEAMS WOULD LIKE TO OBSERVE A TOTALLY OPTIONAL NONDENOMINATIONAL MOMENT OF SILENT REFLECTION!” boomed the voice.
At that instant, everyone around us began murmuring in unison.
O God, we thank you for the privilege of playing football on this glorious night.
Please fill us with athletic resolve and blessed energy.
Grant us the grace to accept victory or defeat,
Whichever way shall fall thine judgment.
Cirrus gaped at me. “It really is like church,” she whispered.
“I told you,” I said, bless-this-mess. But inside, I was just as awestruck as she was. I could not fathom why so many people would worship such a tedious game with this much reverence and gravitas. And yet here we were, surrounded by them.
She touched one of the silver crosses on my arm. “You rebel heretic.”
To my shock, she bowed her head, touched her forehead to mine, and giggled as the crowd prayed on.
Watch over us as we tackle and run.
Watch over the health and happiness of our loved ones young and old
As they cheer thine glory in Jesus’s name, amen.
“Ra-men,” I said, and looked up to see Cirrus’s eyes inches from mine. Those eyes of hers. She sat up, took in the crowd. She offered me another hand pie.
“So now what?” she said.
“Oh, so now what happens is, uh,” I said, stalling for time.
“PLEASE GIVE A WARM WELCOME TO THE VISITING TEAM, THE DELGADO BEACH AVENGERS!”
From the sparsely populated bleachers opposite ours came a football team that looked very much like that of Ruby High, all red-and-white as opposed to our white-and-red. Their cheerleaders looked like our cheerleaders; their coach shared the same taste in vee-neck sweaters. It might as well have been the same school, just with everything flopped in mirror image.
It was another school in the multiverse of schools, and had the heavenly coin of fate landed heads, I would’ve found myself in the mirror world opposite us, rooting for Delgado Beach High.
But the coin hadn’t landed heads, so I was on this side of the field.
The crowd on this side of the field applauded politely for our guests.
“AND NOW,” cried the speakers, “HEEERE’S YOUR RUBY HIGH RAH-VAH-JURRS!”
Immediately the crowd stomped to their feet, the Ruby High marching band blasted the air with fiery brass and a fast hailstorm of ratamacues, and everyone around us began clapping and hooting.
I had a habit of ridiculing fans of sport. Teams switched players all the time.