You & Me

Playoffs began.

Playoff season in Texas is hell on Earth for the players, their parents, and—most especially—for the team volunteers.

There were practices every day. As captains, Bowen and Emmet worked harder and did more than the rest of the team. They set up practice, ran drills, ran tape, watched tape, reviewed tape. Retuned the drills and rewatched tape. And then, after they’d given their all to the team, they dug deeper into their reserves and worked one-on-one with the offense and defensive coordinators and Coach Pierce individually, fine-tuning their own game.

Landon and I were in our own version of overload as the boosters and volunteers went into a frenzied whirlwind, trying to coordinate how to get everything the team needed for all the playoff games where it needed to go.

Every game was away, played on neutral ground in between the two schools battling to advance. We had to haul almost five times as much gear as we did to a local away game: equipment for a half-day practice, three full meals for the players, protein snacks, Gatorades, water, enough first aid gear to stock an ambulance. Spare cleats and helmets and pads, and tools to fix busted equipment. That hideous inflatable.

The parents had booster meetings most nights while the kids practiced, working out who oversaw what, when, and where. Who was driving and who was hauling crap from Last Waters to the game and back. My truck and I were one of the first volunteered to haul equipment. Landon volunteered to ride with me.

After the meetings, Landon and I sat in the stands and watched our boys. We were exhausted, and our routine had been thrown out the window. We didn’t have more than a few minutes here or there alone, and all we managed were kisses in the parking lot or brushes of our knees.

On Tuesday, since we weren’t having our date night, I sent a bouquet of two dozen red roses to Landon’s office. On Wednesday, a local cookie company delivered four dozen fresh-baked, gooey-warm cookies to my office. The cards we wrote to each other were identical: I love you. Love, L

Emmet and Bowen were exhausted after full days at school and their even more intense practices, and it was all they could do to shuffle to our cars, head home, shovel food in their mouths, and pass out. I had dinners prepared in advance—a tip from Landon—and I was able to heat them up as soon as we got home while Emmet blended his protein shake. He ate. I watched him chew and rambled about practice and the volunteer meetings. After, he hugged me, said, “Thanks, Dad,” in a barely awake voice, and then went face-first into his bed.

In the first round, we played a team from San Antonio in Waco. Next, a team from El Paso all the way out in windswept Abilene. Landon and I crisscrossed the state in my truck. I held his hand anytime I didn’t need to fight the winds on the highway outside of Sweetwater or coming down Interstate 35. We talked about kicking the inflatable off the back of my truck outside Weatherford and Mexia.

We played our third playoff game on Thanksgiving Day in San Angelo, and Landon and I toasted chicken fingers and drank Diet Dr Pepper on my tailgate as we waited for kickoff.

We were out to everyone, aside from with our sons. I held his hand in my truck, and when we stopped for gas, I’d give him a kiss before he went in to refill our sodas or buy another bag of Cheez-Its or trail mix. I called him babe when we were setting up on the fields, and fell asleep against his shoulder when all of the volunteers got a chance to sit down for a breather.

The other moms knew. Of course they did. We were sharing hot dogs and sharing sodas and sharing our lives. In the volunteer meetings, Annie started to talk about us like a matched set. Luke and Landon, Landon and Luke. Always together. Never apart.

The way I wanted it to be.

Our boys led the Last Waters Rodeo Riders through three rounds of playoffs and all the way to the state championships.

Every year, the Dallas Cowboys owner opened his big NFL stadium outside of Dallas for the high school state championship game. This year, the Last Waters Rodeo Riders faced the Houston Rocketeers. Kickoff was at 7 p.m.

My heart swelled as I watched Emmet and Bowen and the rest of the team waiting in the tunnel entrance on the visitors’ side of the Cowboys’ stadium. It was impossible to calculate how hard they’d worked for this moment. Not just grueling practices from this season, but all the off-season work, the summer runs and the weekend weight lifts, the team-bonding sessions at the lake, the years of junior varsity before this, and the years and years of middle school, elementary school, and toddler football, all of it one long thread extending behind each boy. They’d fought and they’d struggled, and they’d bled for this together.

Some struggles were on the outside. Some, like Emmet’s, had been a war fought on the inside.

I laid my hand on the small of Landon’s back. I wouldn’t be here, sharing his moment with Emmet, if it weren’t for him.

Bowen, Emmet, and Jason were in the front of the team. They wrapped their arms around each other’s waists and jumped as one, chanting nonsense to pump everyone up.

The other team was announced to the crowds first. The crowd was amped, and music blasted through the packed stands as they roared. High school championship games in Texas were mini Super Bowls. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house.

Right before Last Waters was announced, Emmet split off from the team and jogged to me. I reached for him, worried, wondering if something had gone wrong, if he’d gotten hurt in practice, if he was sick, if he thought he couldn’t play—

Emmet tore off his helmet and looked me in my eyes. He spat his mouthpiece into his palm and stared at me like he was trying to stamp these seconds into his memories so he could sketch them later. “Dad?” Fear flashed in his eyes. I saw him grit his teeth and steel himself. “I’ll see you after the game?”

“Yes,” I promised. “You will. I’ll be on the sideline waiting for you.” I will always be here for you. Always.

He nodded, shoved his mouthpiece in and his helmet back on, and then sprinted to join Bowen and Jason as the announcer started to roar, “…your Last Waters Rodeo Riders!”

One of the benefits of playing at the Cowboys’ stadium? No hideous inflatable. The boys burst out of the tunnel to a shower of sparks, running to midfield while rock music thundered. Neon lights dazzled around the stadium, scrawling Last Waters across the million-watt display boards and our sons’ faces filled the jumbotron.

I thought I was going to puke. Everything was too loud, too bright. I’d never seen anything this vibrant before. Our sons’ uniforms were glistening, their helmets polished to a sheen. The world moved in slow motion. My pulse thundered in my ears.

The teams were getting five more minutes of drills in as the referees finished setting up. Landon and I were herded to the far end of the Rodeo Riders’ sideline and told we couldn’t leave the bounds of the spray-painted box on the turf. Across the field, Bowen threw passes to his offense as Emmet counted off snaps and set his defense in practice lineups. They were light on their feet, bouncing on their toes. Muscles snapping, fingers flexing. Charged up.

My soul was a tuning fork to my son’s, Emmet’s nerves singing electric inside of me.

Bowen and Emmet took center field for the coin toss. I hummed and swayed on my feet, almost unable to watch. This was only the coin flip, and I was already beside myself.

Last Waters lost. Houston elected to start with the ball, which meant Emmet was on the field first. I was going to faint.

Emmet put up his brick wall after Houston managed one first down. He blocked Houston from a third down conversion by literally stopping their running back in his tracks on the line of scrimmage, forcing Houston to kick a field goal. Emmet and his defense jogged off the field like heroes to the roar of the crowd, and he and Bowen had a quick confab on the sideline, a brain dump of what they’d each seen.

Then, Bowen tugged his helmet on and jogged out to lead the offense.

Three days before, Bowen had sat Landon, me, and Emmet down in Landon’s kitchen, in one of the rare moments we managed to grab together. He was deadly serious, fiddling with a bottle of Gatorade as his jaw clenched. “Dad,” he’d started. “I need to tell you something.” He’d inhaled, and his gaze shot to Emmet before he spoke again. “I don’t want to go to the University of Texas. I don’t want to play football. The things I like best about the game? They don’t last after this. I like the mentoring and the coaching, and all that fades when you get into college, or if you go pro.” He’d studied Landon’s face as he bit his lip. “I want to teach English, and I want to help kids like you helped me all these years. I want to stay here and go to college. I don’t want to leave yet, Dad.” He’d braced himself like Emmet had, waiting for anger.

“Bowen,” Landon had breathed. “You don’t have to go. You don’t have to play football, either. You can be anything you want. And you will always have a home here.”

Bowen smiled that huge smile of his, relief pouring from him.

This was Bowen’s last football game.

Beside me, Landon was rocket fuel waiting for a spark. He whispered Bowen’s name like a prayer, and when Bowen lined up for the snap, he stopped breathing.

Bowen started easy, a short pass to the outside, watching how Houston’s defense unfolded. I peeked up the line and spotted Emmet toeing the sideline at midfield, his eyes peeled and taking in every twitch of Houston’s players. Every shuffle step, every glance left or right, every adjustment they made.

Bowen got two first downs and took the team to the end zone, but the defense held fast, and they had to settle for a field goal. Tie game.

Another fast and furious conference between Emmet and Bowen. Emmet ran to the center of the field and squared off against the quarterback. He set his defense up against a pass play.

Snap. Emmet backed up, arms spread, hands open. He drilled his gaze into the quarterback’s eyes. Turned and hauled to the right, moments before the quarterback launched the ball downfield to a receiver in front of Emmet. Ball caught, and the receiver spun. Emmet was there, and he took the receiver to the field before he managed a step.

I closed my eyes. I heard the crunch of pads, the car-crash sound of plastic on plastic.

“Fumble!” Landon shouted. “Em forced a fumble!”

I couldn’t look. I kept my head down as the crowd roared. A few seconds later, Landon threw his arms around me as the stadium’s train whistles blared. “Em forced a fumble, and his defense scored!”

The rest of the first half was grueling. I could only watch some of the plays. I had to pace away, hum to myself, lean against the backboards and try to still my racing heart.

There was a problem with the offensive line again, and Bowen was being taken down too often. Each time Bowen hit the turf, Landon seemed to lose a year of his life. Everything inside him stopped, at a cellular level, until he saw his son clamber to his feet.

The only touchdown for either team in the first half came from Emmet’s forced fumble.

Landon and I were beside ourselves by halftime as we refilled the water jugs. I almost wished I smoked again—cigarettes or pot, I didn’t care. I just needed a comedown. I was going to crawl out of my skin. “How did you do this for four years?” I asked Landon.

“This is the first time they’ve gone to the state championships. I’m not sure I could have done this every year.”

We paced in the tunnel and waited for the team, too nervous to eat, too certain we’d puke if we tried. Our sons were in the locker room, making adjustments and fine-tuning their plays. With the team sequestered and everyone’s attention on the halftime show, Landon and I were alone.

I took his hands in mine and leaned my forehead against his. Breathed out and whispered his name. “If we survive this, I want to tell them as soon as we can.”

As soon as we can might not be that night, or the next day, or even the next week. After this game came the end-of-season banquet, and then winter break and the holidays were on us. What was the right time to roll the dice? Before or after Christmas or New Years?

“I want that, too. I want to be with you.” Landon’s voice dropped, grew quieter. I almost couldn’t hear him, not with the eruption of noise coming from the stadium. “I want to be with you forever.”

Forever, I thought. I had forever on my mind, too.

Is Landon the love of your life?

Yes. He was. It was a fact I knew for certain, like I’d known I would love Emmet for my whole life as soon as I heard his heartbeat, and then when I held him in my arms. Emmet and Landon had pieces of me inside of themselves, and I was only complete when we were together. You and me, forever. Father and son. Landon and me. The loves of my life.

The second half began with an ear-splitting, eye-bursting fury as our team took the field. The stands were so raucous and rowdy my bones shook. Marching bands for both teams wailed as waves of the two teams’ school colors ebbed and flowed above us in an ever-changing kaleidoscope.

Landon kept a running commentary going for ten minutes straight, no stops, almost never breathing. He soaked up Bowen’s every move, watched for the minute ways the offense had tightened around him. Better plants, faster slides to the inside, deeper dips with their knees. More power in their thighs off the snaps. They were solid around Bowen, and he stayed on his feet. Got his passes off faster, too, launching the ball down the center field or rolling to the left or right when one of his receivers sneaked up the sideline and found open turf.

Bowen and the offense fought for every yard, every inch. I was exhausted watching them, and I was only on the sideline. I was clenching, unclenching, holding my breath, squeezing my eyes closed and grabbing Landon, certain that disaster or victory would strike in the next moment.

On the field, Bowen and the offense looked bedraggled and winded as they lined up for a snap near the end zone. They had a chance for a touchdown, the only time they’d been close since the first half of the game.

Houston’s defense was on our receivers like angry was on a wet cat. Bowen had no openings, no possible targets. He dumped the ball to avoid a sack on the first down and then launched a hopeless throw toward Jason that skittered out of the end zone on the second.

On the third down, he faked a pump pass to the right before he ran and launched himself into the end zone in a cannonball, curling around the football. Touchdown, and the stadium roared, but Bowen ended up on the bottom of a tackle beneath a half dozen gigantic Houston players.

Landon strained like a hound dog against me until Bowen pushed to his hands and his knees and then climbed shakily to his feet. His jog to the sideline was wobbly, and Emmet grabbed him as soon as he walked off, took him to the bench, and sat him down.

Bowen grabbed Emmet’s jersey as Emmet took a knee in front of him. The jumbotron captured Bowen’s lips moving, saying, “Hold them.”

Emmet nodded, clasped Bowen behind the neck like they were making a vow, and took the field.

He held. And in the final play of the game, Emmet forced a turnover on downs with under a minute left on the clock.

Last Waters’ ball. And game over.

When the final whistle blew, the score was seventeen to three. Emmet had held Houston to one field goal. Bowen had fought for a touchdown, and Emmet had managed a defensive play that resulted in a turnover touchdown, plus the field goal from the first quarter.

Our sons were the Texas state high school football champions.

The team stormed the field, Bowen at the tip of the arrow that raced out to surround Emmet. Last Waters moms and dads and siblings and friends went wild in the stands. Our marching band blasted the school song. Train whistles roared. The jumbotron and the electric boards both screamed Last Waters, Texas State Champions.

At center field, our boys celebrated. They were all leaping, jumping, screaming. Some of them were crying. Balloons in red, white, and blue rained down on their heads. Parents screamed for their sons as players chanted number 1, number 1, number 1. Tears rolled down Landon’s cheeks.

“Dad!”

About fifteen men turned, but I recognized the voice.

Emmet flew out of the mass of players, running full speed to the sideline. Balloons kicked away from his cleats. He was soaked in sweat, absolutely dripping with it, his uniform a modern art masterpiece of sweat and turf. His calf was bleeding, one long scrape running from his shin to his ankle.

He flung his helmet to the ground three steps in front me. He threw his arms wide, like he was about to tackle me. He stutter-stepped, came to a sudden, reality-jerking stop a hairsbreadth from my face, and wrapped me into a bone-crushing hug.

“Dad,” he shouted into my neck. “Dad…”

The third time, it was a sob. He crumpled into me, weeping as he chanted, “Dad, Dad, Dad.”

My lips moved against his sweat-drenched hair and his cheek as I repeated that I loved him, that proud I was of him, that he was amazing, perfect, and the best—the absolute best—thing that ever happened to me. I held him like I could merge myself with him and share this joy and this agony, all the ricocheting emotions inside him.

Riley, I wish you could have seen this. Our son is so fucking perfect. I wish you were here to see him, too.

I closed my eyes and squeezed Emmet as hard as I could.

Bowen appeared, and he wrapped his arms around Emmet and me. He kissed Emmet’s hair, then my hair, and then Landon was there, too, his arms coming around the other side of Bowen. All four of us were together, with the balloons and the band and the neon lights.

Emmet lifted his head and smiled. He wrapped his hands around Bowen and Landon’s arms and squeezed, drawing them closer into our huddle.

I tipped my head against Landon’s, my heart and soul too full to hold on to this moment any longer. Everything was brimming over, everything was perfect, with all three of the men I loved more than life itself in my arms.

This is how we were meant to be. This is what our life was meant to be.

Family.