their good-luck charm when they won.

I was just a little kid back then but I remember

the sky above me. And my daddy smiling.

And the sound of roaring that must have been fans.

Cheering the team.

And me.

And Daddy.

I hope my dad can remember that.

Waterboy

There was Sightman and Chase and this other guy

we used to play with.

Right now, I don’t remember his name.

My daddy has his head in his hands.

Uncle Sightman and Uncle Chase. And the other guy

is Uncle Willy Daily, I tell my dad. They’re your friends who

played football too. Sightman was a wide receiver

and Chase was a running back and Uncle Willy Daily,

he was the water boy.

You guys always tease him

and call him Waterboy.

Cuz he really didn’t have no game, my daddy says.

Tell me Waterboy’s name again, little man.

Uncle Willy Daily.

My daddy pulls his hands away from his head.

For a long time, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at them.

They’re shaking like dead leaves shake just before

the wind blows them off the trees.

Maybe he’s remembering how the ball landed

safely in his hands.

Maybe he’s forgotten what we were talking about.

Daddy? I whisper, gently touching his shoulder.

Some days his head hurts so bad, he just sits holding it in his shaking hands.

And we can’t touch him.

And we have to whisper.

And walk on tiptoe.

Does your head hurt?

My daddy nods. He’s a big guy, but he looks so small sitting there.

He reminds me of the ant I watched the day before—

it had lost its whole long line of ants

and was walking in circles,

its antennae searching the empty air

for the friends it had lost.

Tell me that guy’s name again, little man.

Uncle Willy Daily, I whisper. But you all called him Waterboy.

Wishes

The year Daddy tore two ligaments in his knee,

but made the touchdown anyway,

he was home like this

for a month.

And we made so many songs

and had so many laughs

and watched so many games that I wished

it could be this way for always.

And now I know what people mean when they say

careful what you wish for.

Too Many of Them

In the kitchen, my mom and Bernadette are talking

about some other football players my mom knows.

I am sitting on the stairs in the living room, half hidden

and listening.

Too many of them, my mom says. I hear her

put the coffeepot on the stove. Hear the

click, click, click of the igniter catching flame.

Too many of them are doing things nobody

understands. And they’re young like Zachariah.

The fridge door opens and closes. I hear the

glug of milk into a pitcher, the clink

of the sugar spoon against the bowl.