The Silver Linings Playbook (12 page)

When Jake sees me, he yells, “Hank Baskett’s tailgating with us!” and then runs over to give me a high five and a chest bump.

“What’s up, dude?” Scott says to me as we too exchange high fives. The big smile on his face suggests that he is happy to see me. “Man, you really
are
huge. What have you been lifting—cars?” I smile proudly as he punches my arm, like guys do when they are buddies. “It’s been years—I mean, um—
how many months has it been?”
He and my brother exchange a glance that I do not miss, but before I can say anything, Scott yells, “Hey, all you fat-asses in the tent! I wanna introduce you to my boy—Jake’s brother, Pat.”

The tent is the size of a small house. I walk through the slit on one side, and a huge flat-screen television is set up on milk crates stacked two by four. Five really fat guys are seated in folding chairs, watching the pregame show—all of them in Eagles jerseys. Scott rattles off the names. After he says mine, the men nod and wave and then go back to watching the pregame show. All of them have handheld personal organizers, and their eyes are rapidly moving back and forth between the small screens in their hands and the large screen at the far side of the tent. Almost all have earpieces in, which I guess are connected to cellular phones.

As we exit the tent, Scott says, “Don’t mind them. They’re all trying to get last-minute info. They’ll be a little more friendly after they’ve placed their bets.”

“Who are they?” I ask.

“Guys from my work. I’m a computer tech now for Digital Cross Health. We do websites for family doctors.”

“How are they watching television out here in the parking lot?” I ask.

My brother waves me around to the back of the tent, points to a small engine in a square of metal, and says, “Gas-powered generator.” He points to the top of the tent, where a small gray plate is perched, and says, “Satellite dish.”

“What do they do with all this gear when they go into the game?” I ask.

“Oh,” Scott says with a laugh. “They don’t have tickets.”

Jake pours a Yuengling Lager into a plastic cup and hands it to me, and I notice three coolers loaded with beer cans and bottles, probably four or five cases. I know the plastic cup is to keep away the police, who can arrest you for having an open beer can in your hand but not for holding a plastic cup. The bag of empties just outside the tent suggests that Jake and Scott are way ahead of me.

As Scott finishes grilling breakfast—thick sausages and eggs scrambled in a pan he has placed over the gas flames—he does not ask me many questions about what I have been up to, which I appreciate. I’m sure my brother has already told Scott all about my time in the bad place and my separation from Nikki, but I still appreciate Scott’s allowing me to reenter the world of Eagles football without an interrogation.

Scott tells me about his life, and it turns out that while I was in the bad place, he married someone named Willow, and they
actually now have three-year-old twins named Tami and Jeri-Lyn. Scott shows me the picture he keeps in his wallet, and the girls are dressed alike in little pink ballerina outfits—tutus, tights—their hands stretched up over silver tiaras, pointing toward heaven. “My tiny dancers. We live on the Pennsylvania side now. Havertown,” Scott says as he loads a half dozen sausages onto the top rack of the barbecue, where they will keep warm while the next batch cooks. I think about Emily and me floating over the waves only the day before, and again I promise myself I’ll get busy making my own daughter just as soon as apart time is over.

I try not to do the math in my head, but I can’t help it. If he has twins who are three years old and he was married sometime
after
I last saw him—but
before
his wife got pregnant—it must mean that I have not seen Scott for at least four years. Now maybe he knocked up his girlfriend and then married her, but of course, I can’t ask that. Since his daughters are three, the math indicates he and I have not talked for at least three or four years.

My last memory of Scott is at the Vet. I had sold my season ticket to Scott’s brother Chris a season or two before, but Chris often went away on business conferences and allowed me to buy my seat back for the few home games played when he was out of town. I came up from Baltimore to see the Eagles play Dallas; I don’t remember who won or what the score was. But I remember sitting in between Scott and Jake—up in the 700 Level—when Dallas scored a rushing touchdown. Some clown behind us stood up and began cheering as he unzipped his jacket, revealing a throwback Tony Dorsett jersey. Everyone in our section started booing and throwing food at this Dallas fan, who smiled and smiled.

Jake was so drunk he could hardly stand, but he charged after this guy, climbing up over three rows of people. The sober Dallas
fan shoved Jake away easily, but when Jake fell back into the arms of drunken Eagles fans, a cry went up, and the Tony Dorsett jersey was forcibly removed from the visiting fan’s back and ripped into many pieces before security arrived and threw out a dozen people.

Jake was not thrown out of the game.

Scott and I were able to get Jake up and away from the mayhem, and when security arrived, we were in the men’s room splashing water onto Jake’s face, trying to sober him up.

In my mind, this happened last year, maybe eleven months ago. But I know if I bring up this incident now as we are grilling in front of the Linc, I will be told that the memory occurred more than three or even four years ago, so I do not bring it up, even though I want to, because I know Jake’s and Scott’s responses will help me figure out what the rest of the world believes about time. And also,
not knowing
what the rest of the world believes happened between then and now is terrifying. It’s better not to think too much about this.

“Drink some beers,” Jake says to me. “Smile. It’s game day!”

So I start drinking, even though the little orange bottles that my pills come in have stickers forbidding me to drink alcohol.

After the fat guys in the tent are fed, we eat off paper plates, and then Scott, Jake, and I begin throwing the football around.

In the parking lot people are everywhere, not just tailgating, but roaming. Guys selling stolen or homemade T-shirts, moms parading around little girls in cheerleading outfits who will do a cheer if you donate a dollar to their local cheerleading booster club, crazy bums willing to tell you off-color jokes for free food and beer, strippers in short pants and satin jackets handing out free passes to the local gentlemen’s clubs, packs of little kids in pads and helmets collecting money for their peewee football
teams, college kids handing out free samples of new sodas or sports drinks or candy or junk food, and of course the seventy thousand other drunken Eagles fans just like us. Basically, it’s a green football carnival.

By the time we decide to have a catch, I’ve had two or three beers, and I’d be willing to bet Jake and Scott have each had at least ten, so our passes are not all that accurate. We hit parked cars, knock over a few tables of food, beam one or two guys in the back, but no one cares, because we are Eagles fans in Eagles jerseys who are ready and willing to cheer on the Birds. Every so often, other men will jump in front of one of us and intercept a pass or two, but they always give back the ball with a laugh and a smile.

I like throwing the football with Jake and Scott because it makes me feel like a boy, and when I was a boy, I was the person Nikki fell in love with.

But then something bad happens.

Jake sees him first, points, and says, “Hey, look at the asshole.” I turn my head and see a big man in a Giants jersey, maybe forty yards away from our tent. He is wearing a red, white, and blue hard hat, and the worst part is that he has a little boy with him who is also wearing a Giants jersey. The guy walks over to a group of Eagles fans who give him a hard time at first but eventually hand him a beer.

Suddenly my brother is walking toward this Giants fan, so Scott and I follow. My brother starts chanting as he walks, “Ass—hole! Ass—hole! Ass—hole!” With every syllable, he throws his index finger at the hard hat. Scott is doing the same thing, and before I know it, we are surrounded by twenty or so men in Eagles jerseys who are also chanting and pointing. I have to admit it feels sort of thrilling to be part of this mob—united in our hatred of the opposing team’s fans.

When we reach the Giants fan, his friends—all Eagles fans—laugh, and their faces seem to say, “We told you this would happen.” But instead of acting remorseful, the Giants fan puts his hands up in the air, as if he has just performed a magic trick or something; he smiles widely and nods his head like he is enjoying being called an asshole. He even puts his hand to his ear, as if to say, “I can’t hear you.” The kid with him, who has the same pale skin coloring and flat nose—probably his son—looks terrified. The little guy’s jersey hangs down to his knees, and as the “ass—hole” chant intensifies, the kid holds on to his father’s leg and tries to hide behind the big man’s thigh.

My brother transitions the crowd into a “Giants suck” chant, and more Eagles fans come to join in. We now are at least fifty strong. And this is when the little kid breaks into tears, sobbing. When we Eagles fans see that the kid is really upset, the mob chuckles and respectfully disperses.

Jake and Scott are laughing as we walk back to our tent, but I don’t feel so great. I wish we did not make that little kid cry. I know the Giants fan was stupid to wear a Giants jersey to an Eagles game, and it is really his own fault that his son was made to cry, but I also know that what we did was unkind, and this is the sort of behavior Nikki hates, what I am trying—

I feel his hands explode through my back, and I stumble forward and almost fall down. When I turn around, I see the big Giants fan. He is no longer wearing his hard hat; his son is not with him.

“You like making little kids cry?” he says to me.

I’m too shocked to speak. There were at least fifty men chanting, but he has singled out me.
Why?
I wasn’t even chanting. I wasn’t even pointing. I want to tell him this, but my mouth won’t work, so I just stand there shaking my head.

“If you don’t want a problem, don’t wear a Giants jersey to an Eagles game,” Scott says.

“It’s just bad parenting to bring your son down here dressed like that,” Jake adds.

The mob quickly forms again. A circle of green uniforms surrounds us now, and I think this Giants fan must be crazy. One of his friends has come to talk him down. The friend’s a small man with long hair and a mustache—and he’s wearing an Eagles shirt. “Come on, Steve. Let’s go. They didn’t mean anything. It was just a joke.”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Steve says, and then shoves me again, his hands exploding through my chest.

At this point the Eagles fans begin chanting, “Ass—hole! Ass—hole! Ass—hole!”

Steve is staring into my eyes, gritting his teeth so the tendons in his neck bulge like ropes. He also lifts weights. His arms look even bigger than mine, and he is taller than me by an inch or two.

I look to Jake for help, and I can see that he looks a little worried himself.

Jake steps in front of me, puts his hands up to suggest that he means no harm, but before he can say anything, the Giants fan grabs my brother’s Jerome Brown memorial jersey and throws Jake to the ground.

I see him hit the concrete—my brother’s hands skidding along the blacktop—and then blood is dripping from his fingers and Jake’s eyes look dazed and scared.

My brother is hurt.

My brother is hurt.

MY BROTHER IS HURT.

I explode.

The bad feeling in my stomach rockets up through my chest
and into my hands—and before I can stop myself, I’m moving forward like a Mack truck. I catch Steve’s cheek with a left, and then my right connects with the south side of his chin, lifting him off the ground. I watch him float through the air as if he were allowing his body to fall backward into a pool. His back hits the concrete, his feet and hands twitch once, and then he’s not moving, the crowd is silent, and I begin to feel so awful—so guilty.

Someone yells, “Call an ambulance!”

Another yells, “Tell ’em to bring a blue-and-red body bag!”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, because I find it hard to speak. “I’m so sorry.”

And then I am running again.

I weave through the crowds of people, across streets, around cars, and through horns blaring and cursing drivers screaming at me. I feel a bubbly feeling in my midsection, and then I am puking my guts out onto the sidewalk—eggs, sausage, beer—and so many people are yelling at me, calling me a drunk, saying that I’m an asshole; and then I’m running again as fast as I can, down the street away from the stadiums.

When I feel as though I am going to throw up again, I stop and realize I’m alone—no more Eagles fans anywhere. A chain-link fence, beyond it a warehouse that looks abandoned.

I vomit again.

On the sidewalk, outside of the puddle I am making, pieces of broken glass glint and sparkle in the sun.

I cry.

I feel awful.

I realize that I have once again failed to be kind; that I lost control in a big way; that I seriously injured another person, and therefore I’m never going to get Nikki back now. Apart time is going to last forever because my wife is a pacifist who would never
want me to hit anyone under any circumstance, and both God and Jesus were obviously rooting for me to turn the other cheek, so I know I really shouldn’t have hit that Giants fan, and now I’m crying again because I’m such a fucking waste—such a fucking non-person.

I walk another half block, my chest heaving wildly, and then I stop.

“Dear God,” I pray. “Please don’t send me back to the bad place.
Please!”

I look up at the sky.

I see a cloud passing just under the sun.

The top is all electric white.

I remind myself.

Don’t give up, I think. Not just yet.

“Pat! Pat! Wait up!”

I look back toward the stadiums, and my brother is running toward me. Over the next minute or so, Jake gets bigger and bigger, and then he is right in front of me, bent over, huffing and puffing.