Between Sundays (4 page)

The line shuffled a few feet closer. Two more kids, that was all. Cory gave a little wave to Megan, because she was watching him. She didn’t like it that he was giving Derrick a letter. She didn’t say so, but Cory could tell. He smiled at her and looked back at his shoes. Then he tried a trick to make the time go faster. He thought about his last soccer practice, and the drills, and he pretended in his mind that he was going around the cones and dribbling the ball and passing it to the other guys on the team.

And then, just like that, it was his turn.

Derrick smiled at him. “Hey, partner, how’s it going?”

His throat was dry, but he licked his lips and stepped forward. “Good.” He stuck out his hand, proper like the way his soccer coach did when he met one of the other coaches before a game. “I’m Cory Briggs.”

“Hi, Cory.” Derrick shook his hand. Up close, his face looked a little bit like Michael Jordan’s. He had a friendly smile and nice eyes and a smooth voice. “I like a young man who can look me in the eyes and give a proper handshake.”

The rumbling in his stomach settled down. “Megan says you’re the best quarterback who’s ever played the game.” Cory waited a few extra seconds before letting go of Derrick’s hand.

“Megan?” He looked behind Cory, and his eyebrows bunched together, confused.

Cory giggled, because Derrick seemed like a guy who laughed easy. He pointed at Megan sitting three tables away. “Over there. She’s my foster mom.”

“Oh.” Derrick waved at Megan, and then he took a photograph from a stack and signed it to Cory. “Here you go.”

All of a sudden, Cory felt panic because maybe Derrick was going to tell him goodbye, and that it was the next kid’s turn. But he put his hands on his knees and looked right into Cory’s eyes. “You play football, Cory?”

“I want to.” Cory felt his shoulders sink a little. “I play soccer. Megan says football has to wait.” He didn’t stay discouraged for long. “I’m gonna be a running back in high school.”

“Running back’s a tough position.” Derrick sized him up. “I think you’ll be a good one.”

His words made Cory feel twelve or thirteen, instead of eight. He stood super tall, and then in a flash, he remembered the letter. “Oh.” He twisted around and pulled the envelope from his back pocket. For a second he stared at it. The name Aaron Hill was across the front.
God, please…let Aaron get this.
He felt a little shy all of a sudden, and embarrassed because maybe he should’ve brought a letter for Derrick too. He bit the inside of his cheek and gave Derrick a worried look. “Can I ask a favor?”

Derrick put his hand on Cory’s shoulder. “Sure, partner.” His smile looked real, like it came from inside his heart. “What’s the favor?”

“This.” He held the letter out to Derrick. “It’s a letter for Aaron Hill.”

Derrick took the envelope and looked at the front. “Aaron Hill…yep, it says so right there.” He gave Cory a look, the sort of look a dad might give a son. Because Cory had seen it when the dads talked to the other guys on his soccer team. That kind of look. “Is Aaron your favorite player?”

Cory wanted to say no, Aaron wasn’t his favorite player. He was his dad. But Megan said that was the sort of detail that Aaron had to find out before any of his teammates did. So Cory shrugged one shoulder. “Kind of.” He rushed on. “Course, you’re one of my favorites too.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I liked you before I liked Aaron, and that’s the truth. ’Cause I’ve been watching football since I could walk.”

Derrick did one of those grown-up kinds of laughs. Then he held out his hand again, and Cory shook it. “Tell you what. I’ll make sure Aaron gets it.” He leaned in a few inches closer. “Promise.”

Everything inside Cory lit up all at once. “Really?”

“Really.” Derrick tapped the envelope on his knee, and then slid it into his own back pocket. “I’ll give it to him tomorrow at practice.”

“Okay.” Cory licked his lips again. “Thanks, Derrick. I mean it a lot. You’re the best.”

Derrick nodded toward Megan. “I think she’s saving you a seat.”

“Yeah.” Cory looked at her and waved again. “She’s good about that.”

“Get yourself some pizza and maybe you’ll win the tickets. We’ll pick the winners in about half an hour.”

“Okay.” Cory was going to shake Derrick’s hand a third time, but he changed his mind. Too much of that sort of stuff bugged people. So he took a step back and pointed to his letter in Derrick’s pocket. “Tomorrow?”

“Yep.” Derrick gave his pocket a few light pats. “Soon as I see him.”

A few kids in line were saying hurry up, and that Cory was taking too long. He took a step backward. “Thanks again.”

Derrick winked at him, and then just like that, the meeting was over. Cory walked back toward the table where Megan was but he didn’t remember taking even one step. And he didn’t want pizza either. All he wanted was to sit there and watch Derrick and imagine that sometime tomorrow he would take the very same envelope that held Cory’s letter and hand it over to Aaron Hill.

The whole event was a dream come true.

“That looked like it went well.” Megan gave him a hopeful smile when he reached her. “He took the letter, at least.”

“Yeah.” Cory’s voice was full of victory, the way it was after he scored the winning goal in the first soccer scrimmage a few weeks ago. “He said he’ll give it to Aaron tomorrow at practice.”

Megan told him to get some pizza, and even though he wasn’t hungry, he obeyed because maybe he’d be hungry later. Plus, he had to find something to do to make the time go faster between now and the drawing for the preseason game tickets. This was his best chance ever to see the 49ers play in person.

Cory kept his eyes on Derrick, even when he was eating his sausage pizza. Finally, the director of the youth center stood on a platform and tapped her microphone. It made a loud sound and she backed up a few inches. “Okay, kids, settle down.”

The kids weren’t that good at settling down, not usually anyway. But today everyone settled very fast because the director was going to tell them about the tickets. Derrick came over to her, and another lady gave him a big basket of names.

“Now boys and girls, you know there’s only five sets of preseason game tickets available tonight. But Derrick brought lots of water bottles and 49ers T-shirts and bumper stickers. So after I draw the winning names, stay quiet. You still might win something.”

Cory crossed the fingers on both hands, and then, just for a little extra help, he crossed his hands and set them on the table next to his empty pizza plate.
Come on, Derrick…pick me. You gotta pick me.
That would be perfect because then he could meet Aaron, and by then Aaron would’ve read the letter and they could get right down to business and talk about how Aaron was his dad.

Derrick swished his hand around in the basket and pulled out a slip of paper. It looked wrinkly as he handed it to the director.

This is it!
Cory held his breath.

“The winner is…Tommy James.”

All the air in Cory’s lungs came out. Now how would he ever get a chance to go to a game and meet Aaron Hill? Across the room, a big kid jumped out of his seat and shoved his fists straight into the air. He hooted a few times as he ran to the front of the room. Someone took a picture of him and Derrick, and then Derrick gave him a package.

Four more times Derrick picked a name, and four more times it wasn’t Cory’s.

When all the excitement calmed down, the director handed the microphone to Derrick. “I know there’s a bunch more of you kids out there who’d like to see a game at Monster Stadium.”

The kids clapped and cheered.

“So, here’s the good news. I’ll have a pizza party like this every Thursday or Friday night through the preseason—depending on whether the 49ers are home or away. And each time we’ll give away five pairs of tickets and a bunch of other stuff.”

Cory’s heart felt light again. If Derrick gave away five sets of tickets at every pizza party, one of them was bound to go to him and Megan. It had to.

Of course, there was one other way they could make it to a 49ers game this year. Derrick could give the letter to Aaron at practice tomorrow, and Aaron could read it, and he could be glad that he had a little boy named Cory living just a few miles from the stadium. And he could call Cory up and invite him and Megan to a game. Then he could ask if Cory wanted to come down to the locker room afterward so they could hang out. And that, Cory told himself as they left the youth center that night with nothing from the prize table, would be even better than a water bottle or a T-shirt or even preseason game tickets.

Because that’s what a dad would do.

D
errick walked out onto the field at the Santa Clara practice facility fifteen minutes before any other player. Today would be light, since the past week was one of the hardest so far. Derrick headed to the warm-up track and planted his feet, shoulder width apart. He put his hands on his hips and leaned to the right for ten seconds, then to the left. Stretching took longer than it used to, his bones and muscles and tendons holding tight to the memory of a hundred NFL games.

He drew in a long breath and stared at the place where the brown rolling hills met the sheer blue sky just beyond the field. This was it. His last chance at a game he’d loved since he was in kindergarten. He could feel the finality as surely as he felt the constant ache in his throwing arm. After a standout career and a dozen playoff wins, after two Super Bowls and the roar of the crowd one touchdown pass after another, the whole glorious ride was about to come to an end.

He squinted toward the afternoon sun.
God, show me how…

Another deep breath and he started to jog. He took the first lap slow, just fast enough to get the blood flowing through his body. Retirement would be nice, no question. His wife, Denae, had all sorts of plans for him and their three young teenage kids. Trips to Hawaii and Mexico and a cruise to Alaska. And of course, coaching. Two of the three were boys and Derrick rarely saw them without a football. He would coach them as long as the local high school allowed it.

Derrick had a pretty good hunch they would.

But all that could wait. Here, now, he had just one goal that mattered, one that had consumed him since he took his place with the 49ers. He had to help this team reach the big game, had to win one more Super Bowl. He’d made a promise, after all. If Derrick wanted to be remembered for one thing when he hung up his helmet, it was for being a promise keeper.

Fans of Derrick Anderson never had to worry about opening the pages of the sports section and finding his name linked with drugs or drunken behavior or police activity. He might not be flashy like Aaron Hill, but he was dependable. God alone had given him the ability to play, and when he went out, he would do so with the sort of tribute his God deserved.

If he could only figure out exactly what that tribute was.

He rounded the first lap and picked up his pace. The run was easy, second nature. With every lap he felt his body waking up, falling into a familiar rhythm and quickness that he would need if he was going to make a difference this season. And he would, because God had told him so. Derrick’s only question was how that would happen.

Near the entrance to the facility, a few other players were arriving. But Derrick kept his focus. This season was going to be special, maybe the most special of all. There was the foster program, of course. The city was inundated with foster kids, most of whom had no plan outside their eighteenth birthday. Derrick wanted to change that. The pizza parties were only the beginning. He wanted to pass on his love for foster kids to the other players. Get the whole team to embrace the city’s parentless kids.

That wasn’t all the next four or five months were about. Coach Chuck Cameron’s job was on the line, for one thing. He’d taken the team to the playoffs four of the last seven years. But he hadn’t won a conference championship, and he hadn’t made it past the first round in five years. This year, once again, the best thing going for the team was Aaron Hill, the top-ranked quarterback in the league, but the 49ers were weak at the line and two of their top receivers had undergone surgery in the off-season. No one expected them to break records this year. Grumbling was coming toward the coach loud and clear from the front office. Win it this year, or pack up and leave. The owners expected a new stadium in five years—whether it was in Santa Clara or at Monster Park. They wanted a championship team long before that.

Coach Cameron wasn’t the main reason he was here, though. The main reason, Derrick believed, was the team’s hotshot quarterback, Aaron Hill. Coach Cameron thought so too.

“Get through to him, Anderson,” Coach had told him last week. “Guts and talent aren’t enough in this league. Never mind his reputation, Aaron Hill won’t go to the next level until he plays with heart.”

So maybe that was his primary job, the formerly great Derrick Anderson: Help Aaron Hill play with heart. When he prayed about the season, about what God wanted from him, he sensed it didn’t have much to do with his own on-field contributions. Derrick was realistic about the coming schedule. He might not play a down all season. But he knew the secret to winning, and Coach was right. It had everything to do with the inside of a man, the life that happened off the field. Between Sundays. If the 49ers’ starting quarterback would slow down enough to realize that, they might all win in the end.

The first fine layer of sweat broke out on his forehead and the small of his back. It was eighty degrees and breezy, the sort of late summer day that hinted of fall. Derrick kept his breathing even as he pushed himself. Four more laps and he could join the others.

He watched Aaron strut onto the field, then he shifted his attention straight ahead. Aaron was a nice guy, likeable. After seven seasons in the NFL, he was one of the most liked players in the league. The guy played through strained ligaments, back spasms, and concussions, and that made him a hero to his adoring public. As long as he could score a touchdown in a two-minute drill, the world loved him.

Off the field, Aaron was shallow and cavalier. He partied hard, though the press hadn’t caught wind of the fact. A different stunning blonde or brunette waited for him after practice every week or so. He drove a Hummer and prided himself on being a slick dresser. All neat and put together, just like his reputation.

Derrick had a feeling Aaron had lost something deep along the way. No doubt, Aaron Hill was one of the reasons God had moved him to the 49ers.

“Hey, Anderson,” Coach Chuck Cameron waved him over. “It’s time.”

“Okay.” Derrick wiped his brow and jogged toward the others. The two-mile run was his own doing, a way of compensating for the years.

The sound of the guys drifted across the field, most of them talking about Friday night or laughing about something. As Derrick rounded the final curve, Coach Cameron blew his whistle and waited. The guys pulled up around him and silence fell over the team.

Derrick found a spot near the back, his stomach muscles pushing through his shirt from exertion.

One of the linebackers leaned toward him. “Show off.”

“Yeah, you’re jealous.” He grinned and focused on Coach.

“Things are heating up.” The coach paced a few steps. “I don’t think I have to tell you all that’s riding on this season.” He tucked his clipboard against his side and studied them. “
Sports Illustrated
says ten teams have the chance to go all the way this year.” He paused. “We’re not one of them. The media thinks we’re a quarterback, nothing else.”

A disgruntled mumbling came from the group.

“Best offensive line in the league.” Aaron Hill grinned and gave a nod to a few of his linemen. His support of his line was widely touted throughout the league. Aaron treated them to steak dinners and bought them iPods during the season.

Smart guy
, Derrick thought. Without the line, Aaron would be like any other quarterback, scrambling for his life and winding up on his back half the time.

“So here it is.” Coach Cameron’s voice rang with sincerity. “We need to come together this year. Because the media’s not God.
Sports Illustrated
isn’t God. This year”—he walked along the front of the group, his eyes never leaving theirs—“I have a feeling. You know what I mean?”

The guys shifted, their attention fully on the coach.

“Let’s get out there and prove some people wrong.”

He didn’t mention that his own job was on the line, but the intensity of his brief talk remained as practice began. Derrick lined up between Aaron and rookie quarterback Jay Ryder—a fourth-round draft pick out of Texas A&M. The three of them were taking snaps and firing consecutive short-pattern passes.

Aaron threw another one and grinned at Derrick. “I was waiting for Coach to say, ‘Aaron Hill isn’t God.’” He laughed. “Since he got all religious on us.”

Derrick caught the snap and released it in a single fluid motion. “Well”—he kept his tone light—“you’re not.”

“Not what?” Aaron looked at him.

“God.”

Jay Ryder grinned, but he didn’t say anything. Jay was twenty-one, and he stayed quiet most of the time. Still figuring out his place on the team.

The center snapped the ball and hit Aaron in the chest. Frustrated, he snagged it off the ground and threw a bullet at the receiver. “I’m kidding, Anderson. Take a joke.”

Derrick didn’t push. Half the team was made up of people strong in faith, and Coach Cameron was one of them. His message wasn’t meant to be humorous. Derrick spent enough time talking to the guy to know that much. Most likely, in his ongoing communication with the Lord, Coach had come to the realization once more that with God, all things were possible. All things.

Even a Super Bowl.

He and Aaron didn’t talk again until after practice when they headed for their lockers. Derrick’s was near the back, between Aaron’s and Jay’s. Coach made sure of that. Aaron took the lead down the aisle between the lockers. He’d been brilliant on the field today, probably spurred on by Derrick’s comment.

Derrick kept pace with Jay. He was impressed with the young player. Four or five years and he would be a major contributing force in the league. “Good job today.”

A smile lifted Jay’s lips. “Thanks. My arm felt good.”

They reached their places, and Aaron seemed to keep his back to them.

Derrick opened his locker and slipped off his cleats. As he did, his eyes fell on the photo that hung on the inside door of his space. A photo of his wife and him, and their four beautiful children.

“Your kids coming to practice next week?” Jay sat next to him and began working the laces on his shoes.

“They’ll be here. Denae took them to Anaheim last week.” He chuckled. “The two boys would rather be here than riding a rollercoaster. But she wants them to know more than the game.”

“Wise woman.” Jay slipped off his practice jersey. “So hey, I saw your name in the paper. What’s that thing you did last night?”

Derrick pulled his shirt over his head and leaned on his locker. “Pizza party for some foster kids. The city’s full of ’em.”

Aaron turned and grinned at Jay. “Good old Derrick Anderson, saving the world one project at a time.” He faced his locker again.

Jay raised his brow, as if to say maybe the comment was a little harsh. He pulled off his socks. “I did a report on you when I was in seventh grade. You did a lot of work with foster kids, even back then.”

Derrick tried to focus. Aaron’s reaction bugged him, but he kept his frustration to himself. The starting quarterback’s cockiness covered up something deeper—that had to be the reason. He glanced at Jay and then at the photo of his family. “I learned something a long time ago.” Derrick pulled his duffle bag from his locker and set it on the bench. The smell of sweat and ripe shoes was strong, the way it always was after practice. “Something that stayed with me.”

“About foster kids?” Jay pulled his pads from his pants and hung them at the back of his locker.

“About life.”

“Do tell us…” Aaron turned around again. The frustration was gone, and in its place the easygoing smile known to sports fans around the country. “Oh, great and mighty one.”

Derrick laughed to keep things light. At the same time, he remembered the kid’s letter, the one the freckle-faced boy had given him last night at the youth center. He pulled it from his bag. If God wanted him to influence Aaron Hill, he’d have to get the guy to trust him. Easy for a rookie like Jay Ryder. Much more difficult for a proven player.

He cocked his head and stared at Aaron. “Who you are as a man, as a player, isn’t about what happens out there on game day.” He held up the envelope and then handed it to Aaron. “It’s what you do between Sundays. That’s what matters.”

“Between Sundays.” Jay drew out the words, as if they were hitting him in slow motion. “I like that.”

Aaron took the letter. “What’s this?”

“A kid gave it to me last night. Wanted me to give it to you.”

Aaron gave the envelope another look and then tucked it along one side of his locker. “That’s really how you spent your Friday night, Anderson? Having pizza with a bunch of kids?”

“And a whole roomful of foster parents.”

Aaron whistled. “Doesn’t get any better than that.”

“You’re doing it again this week, right? Didn’t I read that?” Jay finished undressing and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“Every Friday or Thursday night throughout the preseason.” Derrick hesitated. “Come with me this week. The kids’ll love it.”

“I was thinking that.” Jay nodded, thoughtful. He looked like a taller version of Tiger Woods. Same lanky body, same easy smile. He would’ve been a hit with the ladies, but his family kept a tight circle around him. “Might help me connect more with the people of the city.”

“Exactly.” Derrick was almost ready for the showers too. “How ’bout you, Hill. You up for a Friday night at the youth center?”

Aaron chuckled, then he squinted and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Let’s see…Friday night.” He raised his eyebrows at Derrick. “Booked solid. Sorry.”

Jay slipped his bag back into the locker. “Why foster kids? I mean, the city’s got sick kids too. And a bunch of other causes.”

The reason didn’t come up often. Most people never asked. Derrick tucked his towel around himself. “When I was young, my best friend was a guy named Mikey, a foster kid. He moved around, three or four homes, but he always stayed in the area.” Derrick shut his locker. “’Cause of him.”

“You stay in touch?” Jay leaned against his locker.

“No.” Derrick felt the familiar pain, the one that never quite went away. “Mikey turned eighteen and started selling drugs. Got messed up with a gang. Two years later he was killed in a drive-by.”