Dinged, page 7
I notice this one guy sitting inside, near the food tables. He’s the only person there who’s not up and about, mingling and chatting. He must be a pretty big deal because he waits for people to come to him, which is what my dad usually does. But this time, my dad goes up to him. They talk for around ten minutes, which is a really long time for my dad.
My mom and I are already in our seats by the time my dad comes over to sit down. He points back at the man in the chair. “See that guy? That’s Jimmy Lewis, although everyone calls him Thunder, because that’s what he did. He brought the thunder every time he carried the ball. One of the best tailbacks in history, played right here at State and then had a great career with the Broncos. We overlapped one year in the league.” My dad looks back at him and grins. “Man, it’s so good to see him.”
My mom and I glance at Mr. Lewis, or Thunder, who’s eating a sandwich. It takes him about five seconds to bring the sandwich up to his mouth, and we can tell from here that his hands are pretty shaky. My mom and I glance at each other. I’m pretty sure she’s thinking what I’m thinking. He doesn’t look so good.
But we don’t say that to my dad, of course.
The game starts, and on State’s second play from scrimmage, their quarterback, a sophomore named Russell Mangrove, throws a sixty-yard bomb for a touchdown.
I watch Russell as he sprints down the field, joining the celebration in the end zone as the crowd goes nuts. Then he heads back to the sidelines, getting smacks on the helmet from his coaches, before running behind his bench toward the stands and waving his hands upward, as if to say, More! More! Love me some more! And the crowd doesn’t need to be asked twice. They roar even louder, and keep roaring so loud that the Auburn offense can’t hear their quarterback call the signals, which makes them commit a penalty by jumping early, which makes the crowd roar even LOUDER.
I’m watching this whole thing with my parents, and we’re going just as bonkers as everyone else, and my dad looks as happy as I’ve seen him in a long time. I imagine how happy he would be if it were me out there, and I’m sure he’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking.
I live for the game.
There’s this other thought going through my head, too.
I want this.
I want the glory.
I want the love.
I want it all.
I take a selfie with the field and the rowdy crowd behind me, and I text it to Nina with the caption, Awesome, right?
She texts me back:
are they all cheering for you?
haha very funny
see you tonite?
yup.
I post the pic on Instagram and then keep checking to see how many likes it gets. By the time the game ends, it’s at 247. Not bad for a high school freshman.
State wins, 49–20.
14
The first thing that hits you in a college locker room is the smell.
It’s a whole different level of stink.
There are wet towels everywhere; random shoes and cleats and pads and mouth guards all over the place; soaked-through, filthy T-shirts lining the floor; and the air is thick with steam and sweat and men’s cologne or aftershave or whatever it is.
All things considered, it has to be pretty close to the most disgusting place on earth.
And it’s awesome.
My mom wants no part of it, of course; she’s waiting outside in the tunnel that leads to the VIP parking lot, where our car is. When my dad and I walk into the locker room, no one pays any attention to us at first, and I realize that a lot of these college players have no idea who my dad is. He played a long time ago, he wasn’t that big a star, and he could be just another one of those rich guys who give a lot of money to the program just so he can pretend to know the players.
So we’re in the middle of the grossness, trying to avoid discarded jockstraps, when a loud voice behind us booms, “There y’all are! Welcome to the party!”
My dad and I turn around to see Brandon Williams heading for us. He’s even bigger than I remembered.
“Great win, Coach,” I tell him. “Incredible.”
“Lots of things to work on, to be honest,” Coach Williams says. “But we’ll get there. We got some horses on this team.” He throws his arm around my dad’s shoulders. “So whaddya say, Dinger? Can you see your boy running around this place someday, making things happen?”
My dad beams. “Oh man, it would be a great fit.”
Coach Williams puts one of his giant paws on my shoulder. “Caleb, you want to meet Russell?”
“The QB?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yeah, sure, that’d be awesome!”
We head over to a corner of the locker room, where Russell Mangrove is talking to a bunch of people with cameras and phones that they’re using as tape recorders. They’re shouting questions at him, and he’s answering each one, quietly, patiently, with a smile, like he’s been doing it for a thousand years.
Coach Williams catches his eye, and Russell tells the reporters, “Give me a minute, guys and gals, would you please?” The crowd parts as he slides toward us. He slithers more than walks, kind of like a slow-motion snake. It’s like he knows he can take his time, because people will wait for him. It takes him ten seconds to cover the three feet between him and us. Hard to believe that an hour ago he was running all over Auburn, destroying them with his feet and arm.
He looks down at me. “Who’s this?”
“Better watch out,” Coach Williams says. “This kid’s coming for your job.”
Russell chuckles. “Nice, a QB! What’s your name, bruh?”
“Caleb. Caleb Springer.”
“Where you play?”
“Walthorne High.”
“Where’s that?”
“About four hours from here.”
“Sweet.” Russell nods. “Well, all I know is Coach Dubs here isn’t all that big on bringing high school kids into the locker room, so you must have something nice going on. Keep it up. We’d love to see you here at the Blue House.”
“The what?”
Coach Williams laughs.
“That’s what we call the stadium.”
I nod. “You played great,” I tell Russell.
“Thanks.” He does a few slow stretches, and winces. “Nothing too bad today. Still standing. That’s a win in my book, baby. All you can ask for.” He glances back at the crowd of people still standing around his locker. “Well, let me go get this over with. These people are like lions in the zoo, man; they won’t leave you alone until they’ve been fed.” Russell gives me a fist bump. “Work hard, bruh. Nothing more to say than that. If you got the talent, that’s the only thing left. The work.”
It takes him another ten seconds to walk the three feet back.
I look at Coach Williams. “Does he walk so slowly because it looks cool, or because it hurts to move?”
“Both,” says the coach.
15
“THUNDER! THUNDER!”
I can hear my dad’s voice from across the room as Coach Williams introduces me to some other players, a few coaches, and one of the team’s student managers, a girl named Stacey. “She’s forgotten more about football than you’ll ever know,” Coach tells me when he introduces us.
Everyone is incredibly friendly. They’re all in a great mood because the team won big, of course, but I can tell they’re also being super nice because when Coach Williams brings someone around, it’s for one reason and one reason only. To make that someone fall in love with State football.
It’s totally working on me.
I’m just finishing talking to the quarterbacks’ coach when my dad’s voice booms again. “THUNDER! Come meet my kid!”
They’re heading toward me. I notice all the players stop what they’re doing and watch. They didn’t know who my dad was, but they definitely know who Jimmy “Thunder” Lewis is.
Thunder seems to be walking okay, but his hands are shaking.
“This the kid?” Thunder says when he reaches me. “Gotta be. He looks like you.”
My dad looks as proud as I’ve ever seen him. “Caleb, I want you to meet one of the greatest football players ever, one of the toughest football players ever, and a Hall of Famer, James ‘Thunder’ Lewis. Jimmy, this is my son, Caleb.”
Jimmy raises his hand, and I shake it. He’s a big man, but his grip is weak.
“What did you say your name was again, son?”
“Caleb.”
“Ah right. You a running back?”
“Quarterback.”
“Good for you.” He looks over at my dad. “Just like his old man, that right?”
My dad clears his throat. “Uh, actually, Thunder, I played wideout for the Jets, remember? We had that one season together in the league. Greatest honor of my life, being on the same field as you.”
Thunder scratches his head. “Oh yeah, brother, sure, sure. What did you say your name was again?”
No one seems to know who he’s asking, so I decide it’s me.
“Oh, uh, sorry. It’s Caleb.”
“Caleb, right.” He squints over at my dad. “This your pop? What’s his name, then?”
My dad shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Thunder, buddy, it’s me, Sammy. Dinger. We’ve been—you know, we’ve been talking about the old times. It’s so good to see you, man.”
Thunder’s eyes flicker with recognition. “Oh yeah, brother, so good to see you, too.” He laughs—a tired laugh—and winks at me. “These days, I call most men ‘brother’ and most women ‘sister.’ Just easier, you know what I mean?”
“I sure do, Mr. Lewis.”
He pretends to be mad. “Hey now, you call me Thunder!”
For the first time, I notice a young woman standing a few feet away, and I realize she’s watching Thunder closely. She slides past a few people until she’s next to him. “Dad, you getting tired?” she asks him, softly. “We should go. It’s been a long day.”
“Oh yeah, honey,” Thunder says. “It has. It’s been a long day. It’s been a real long day. But a good day, right?”
“A great day.”
“We going to the game, then?”
Thunder’s daughter seems completely unfazed by this question. “The game just ended, Daddy. State won big.”
His face lights up. “Oh, that’s great! That’s just great, baby.”
She gently takes his arm and starts guiding him out of the room. Brandon runs interference for them, protecting their path like an offensive lineman.
“We’re honored you came out today, Thunder,” Brandon says. “The boys on the team are never gonna forget it.”
“See you soon, brother,” Thunder says to no one and everyone. Then he slowly walks away, with his daughter holding his arm.
I’m standing next to my dad, waiting for him to tell us what to do or where to go. I figure we’re going to follow them out. But instead, he just stands there, watching them.
“Dad?” I ask him, after a minute. “Should, uh, should we go, too?”
“Yeah,” he says, still looking straight ahead. “Let’s go find Mom.”
We say goodbye to a few people and leave the locker room. Outside, we look for Coach Williams, but he’s not around. My mom is waiting by the exit, and when she sees us, she comes running over. “How was it?” she asks, excitedly. “Was it awesome? Did you meet some of the players?”
“It was cool,” I say. “I met the quarterback. He seems really nice. He told me to keep working hard.” I’m trying to sound enthusiastic, but my mom can tell there’s something off about my voice.
She turns to my dad. “Everything okay?”
But he doesn’t answer. He just gives her one of his grunts that means, I don’t want to talk about it.
My mom gets the message.
We head out to the VIP parking lot. It’s not very big, but we still can’t find the car.
“You were supposed to take a picture of where we parked,” my dad says to my mom. “Damn it, honey, I told you that like five times.”
“I forgot,” she says.
“I hate it when you forget things,” my dad says.
My mom finds the car two minutes later. My dad looks at her with nothing but love in his eyes.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says.
16
After dinner, in my room, I flip open my laptop.
I go to YouTube.
First, I type in “Jimmy Thunder Lewis highlights.”
I watch about ten minutes of Thunder carrying or catching the ball, bulling his way for extra yards, dragging defenders, faking them out of their shoes, and getting hit. Hit high, hit low, hit late, hit often, hit in the head.
Some of it hurts just watching it.
I close the laptop.
I lie back on my bed. I need to do some homework, but I’m not sure I can concentrate.
Finally, I go back to the laptop, back to YouTube.
This time I type in, “Sammy Springer hardest hits.”
A bunch of videos pop up immediately, including some I recognize. I start scrolling through them—a greatest hits of hits. I watch my dad getting popped, bumped, dumped, smacked, crushed, smushed, totaled. The touchdown catch against the Browns in ’02 is one of the biggest shots he takes. But then I find a video I’ve never seen before.
It’s called “HUMAN WEEBLE: DINGER SPRINGER.”
I have no idea what a “weeble” is, but of course I click on the link.
YOUTUBE VIDEO
Human Weeble:
After Getting Leveled by Tremaine, Springer Wobbles But Doesn’t Fall Down, 12.7.2005
ANNCR 1:
. . . the way the Jets are playing, you wouldn’t know they’re already pretty much out of playoff contention.
ANNCR 2:
Say what you will about this team, Jeff. They come to play every week. They compete, they fight hard, and if they’re going to go down, they want to go down swinging.
ANNCR 1:
The Jets break the huddle with a two-wide set. Heath is split out to the left, Springer to the right. Derek Adams is the lone setback. Ball is snapped . . . Evans looks to Springer over the middle . . . Pass is a little high . . . Springer reaches up and . . . oh my!
ANNCR 2:
WHOA!
ANNCR 1:
Tremaine came flying in from the strong safety position and just destroyed Sammy Springer . . .
ANNCR 2:
He never saw that coming, Jeff. He was a dead duck right there.
ANNCR 1:
Looks like shoulder-to-head contact, Andy. That’s a clean hit, but holy smokes, that cannot feel good.
ANNCR 2:
Springer looks a little wobbly, Jeff.
ANNCR 1:
He sure does, and can you blame him?
ANNCR 2:
No, I cannot.
ANNCR 1:
Sammy Springer getting a little help as he heads to the sidelines. He’s going to have to sit out a play or two here, I would think.
I stare at the video of my dad weaving unsteadily to the sidelines, with one thought going through my aching head:
I recognize that walk.
It’s the same walk Thunder Lewis had in a few of the clips I just watched.
ANNCR 2:
Maybe so, but if I know Dinger Springer, he’s going to want to get right back out there. That’s just how he’s wired.
ANNCR 1:
He’s taken some real hard shots over the years, but he always seems to bounce right back. He is some kind of warrior, there’s no doubt about that. Listen to the hand he’s getting as he makes his way to the bench.
ANNCR 2:
Sammy Springer is a credit to the game of football.
I shut my laptop while the video is still playing, because I know how the story ends.
My dad retired two weeks later.
I text Nina:
i think maybe you were right
Then I turn my phone off before I have a chance to read her reply.
17
“So, what was that about, last night?”
We’re sitting at Slice of Life, my favorite pizza place, and Nina is doing something she’s really good at: not letting me off the hook.
“What was what about?”
She rolls her eyes, because she knows I know exactly what she’s referring to.
“Texting me, then ghosting me.”
“I didn’t ghost you! I fell asleep.”
“I texted you back in two seconds. You fell asleep in two seconds?”
“I was tired.”
“Right. Sure.”
I finish one slice and dig into another.
“So,” she says again, “I was right about what?”
“Do we have to talk about this now?”
“CALEB!” she says, in her no-nonsense voice. “You keep bringing it up, then saying you don’t want to talk about it, then texting me, then ignoring me. Enough! Spit it out!”
“Okay, fine.” I eat as slowly as I possibly can, while she waits patiently. “My dad . . . It’s like his brain goes on vacation sometimes. Like, one minute he’s totally there, and he’s my dad, and he’s great, and the next minute he’s screaming for no reason, or he’s threatening to beat up some drunk fan, or he can’t remember something he said, like, five seconds earlier. It’s scary. I can tell my mom is scared, too. But then it’s over and he’s fine, like, back to normal. I don’t—I’m not sure what to do.”
Nina’s eyes change as I’m talking. They start out gentle, understanding; then they turn colder, and I see anger.
“You know what this is, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious. It’s football. This is your dad having, like, some delayed reaction from getting the crap beat out of him for years.”
