Blah, blah, blah, Darry says. He’s standing

next to me now.

Besides being fast,

Darry’s got a good throwing arm,

and me, I can catch.

But I’m still too skinny

to do much more than that.

Ollie’s good at all of it. And Daniel’s pretty good too.

Everett, he likes to tackle even though

we’re supposed to be playing two-hand touch.

So my only real job

is staying out of his way.

But at the 20-yard line, I lift my arm to throw the ball

the way I’ve seen my dad do a thousand times

the way he’s always told me to do.

Get the wind under it, ZJ, my daddy said.

Use every single muscle you got to send it flying.

Love the game, my daddy used to say to me.

Love the game!

But I don’t love it.

And maybe that’s why

before the ball leaves my hand, Everett is on me

and I’m going down, tasting snow and dirt and spit

and something else too.

Blood.

Everett gets up off of me.

Sees me put my hand to my mouth

sees my hand come away with blood on it.

Sorry, dude, he says, reaching to help me up.

It’s nothing, bruh, I say back. Just football.

I wipe the blood from my lips.

Check to make sure none of my teeth are loose.

Let Everett pull me to my feet and keep on playing.

Then I think about my daddy again,

and without saying a word to anyone,

without even taking my ball back from them,

I walk off the field.

Swearing this time it’ll be forever.

Everett

Yo, Everett says, catching me up in the boys’ room.

Yo back, I say. My lip is a little swollen.

Inside my mouth, I can feel some ripped skin

where my tooth dug in. Doesn’t hurt, though.

Just tastes and feels weird.

I look in the bathroom mirror, pull my lip down to see.

Sorry about that, Everett says.

You don’t understand touch, obviously.

I do, Everett says. Tackle’s more fun, though.

Then he just stands there, looking at me.

So your daddy used to be a football star.

Yeah.

How come he don’t play anymore?

I shrug, wash my hands and, since

there aren’t any paper towels,

dry them on my jeans.

Cuz he got tackled one too many times, I say.

Everett blinks. Then says That’s not a reason, son.

You got a better one?

Everett shrugs. He looks a little bit stung

and I know this thing.

He doesn’t want me to be mad at him.

He wants me to be his friend.

He wants Zachariah Johnson’s son to be his friend.

I’m gonna go pro one day, Everett says.

Make that money. Live that dream.

He has my dad’s same broad shoulders,

same light-brown skin and too-big hands.

Maybe in another life