She looks away, clears her throat. “I know it’s not your favorite thing, but you have to stop asking to quit. I’m asking you to stick with it for one more year. Do you understand that? You need to play football as a senior, and you need to like it.”

“Why? He let Justin quit after his junior year. Why not me?”

“Because part of him dies every time you complain about it.” She stares over my shoulder, looks at the front door, then back at me. “You’re his last hope, Zach. The only thing he has left. You know how much he loves football, how he always talks about his high school playing days. He made a mistake with Justin and he knows it, letting him quit like that. Your father, he always said he’d never force his boys to do anything they didn’t want to do.” She pauses. “But with football, he figured you two would just naturally love it, like it’s in the family blood or something.”

“Justin didn’t hate football, Mom. He hated Coach Horton. He was on his way to a full-ride, but then, boom! He quit out of nowhere and still refuses to talk about it.”

“Yeah, good ol’ Coach Horton,” she says, letting go of my hands as she glances at the oven. “That man’s a piece of work, I’ll admit that.” The smells of meat and onions fill the kitchen.

“What would happen if I did quit?”

“That’s not an issue, because you won’t. You need to do this for your dad, okay?” I realize she’s not asking anymore, she’s telling. “Stick with it for him, for me, and for you.” She forces a smile. “Look, that’s all I’m saying about it.” She stands and walks to the oven.

“Does he actually think I can get a scholarship? I mean, I suck pretty bad. I’m the worst player on the field. Everybody knows it. Justin has all the athletic genes in this family, not me.”

“I think your dad says things like that to keep you motivated.”

“Mom, he’s not exactly joyful at the games. He’s a psycho up there.”

“You know what I mean,” she says. And then, with a serious look: “Look at it this way, Zach. If you do this, and you will, you’re going to help him … and me.” She looks around the small kitchen and gazes out the window above the sink into our tiny backyard, staring at the assembly plant and its towering smokestacks in the distance. “He doesn’t have much. Nobody in Blaine does. I mean, yeah, it’d be nice if we lived in Blaine Heights, but we don’t.” She pauses, still looking out the window, as if imagining the wealthy lifestyle she’s never known. Then she grabs a dishtowel, dries her hands, and turns to open the oven.