from his snaky jaw. “Of course, we’re depending on Tyler Moldenhauer. Sports Desk just listed Moldenhauer as one of the top ten quarterbacks in the tristate area. He’s being heavily recruited but hasn’t committed yet. A very talented player. A team leader. A prolific passer. Tyler did a great job for us last year of getting the ball where we need it to be. We just hope he stays healthy.”
“Can we borrow Ty-Mo for a second, Coach?”
I tense up, wondering where I can hide, then relax when Coach gives the guy a look that asks if he is kidding and walks away without answering.
In rapid succession, Cargo Pants drags several players off the field for quick interviews. Colt O’Connor, a kid both muscular and chubby, tells Cargo that he plays tight end, that his goal this year is to “take it one game at a time,” and that the one person, dead or alive, who he would most like to have dinner with is Megan Fox. When Cargo Pants asks why, Colt gives him a look like, “How gay are you?” and says, “ ’Cause she’s lookin’ good, dog.”
Cody Chandler, a guy with freckles and red hair, says he is a wide receiver and that he gets psyched for games by “gettin’ all up in my crunk” with his teammates. That he has “Lil Wayne, 2Pac, Fiddy Cen’, and, of course, my man Snoop,” on his iPod. After every answer Cody, who wants to be gangsta but looks like the Lucky Charms leprechaun, asks, “Ya feel me?”
Typical wigger jock.
Cody and Colt? Why would parents give these names to babies if they didn’t want to program them to be football players? I should not be puzzling over this question, because, while I am daydreaming, Tyler breaks away and jogs over, pulling his helmet off as he comes. His hair is dark with sweat. My heart hammers. I don’t need to worry. Even though I am close enough that I get hit with a drop of his sweat when he shakes his head, he takes absolutely zero notice of me.
Cargo Pants is all hectic as he announces, “It’s the man of the hour himself, returning all-state QB, Tyler Moldenhauer. Tyler, can you tell us a little bit about yourself?”
Tyler leans his head to the side and smiles into the camera. “What do you want to know?”
Tyler Moldenhauer has dimples.
Actually, only one. On the right side. That isn’t surprising. What is is something I hadn’t noticed in my postpuke delirium: Tyler Moldenhauer has country teeth. Like Miss O’Day, my third-grade teacher who told us that hers were all mottled from growing up in the country and drinking well water. Also, Tyler’s teeth are crooked. Not horribly crooked, kind of cute-crooked, but crooked enough that any parents who could have afforded it would have put him in braces. My teeth were not as crooked as his are, and Mom, who couldn’t afford it, and reminded me constantly of what it was costing her to get the inside of my mouth sliced to ribbons with metal wires, got me to the ortho.
“Tell us what your goals are for the team this year.”
Tyler is wearing his shoulder pads over his jersey like some kind of exoskeleton. “We need to keep the same record as last year. Need to get deeper into the play-offs than we got last year. Actually, that is not a goal. That is what we are going to accomplish.”
Unlike the other boys, Tyler doesn’t try to sound ghetto. He picks his words carefully. He works to sound smart and well-spoken.
“Can you tell us about some of the colleges that are scouting you?”
“No.”
The way Tyler says “no”—not mad, just final, not open to debate—makes me understand why everyone looks to him to tell them what to do. I wonder what my father would think of Tyler. I imagine Tyler promising him that he’d have his daughter home by curfew. My father shaking his hand in a way that made it unnecessary for him to say, “You’d better. Or else.”
Cargo Pants apologizes, “Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem. Look …” Tyler pauses, puts his hand on the boy’s skinny shoulder, leans in, asks, “What did you say your name was, son?”
Son? It is such an oddly grandfatherly thing for Tyler to say to someone only slightly younger than he is. The oddest thing about it, though, is that he sounds completely natural saying it. Like it would fit perfectly if he pulled out a knife and started teaching