QB1-Short Story
Wanna know some scrub shit? Seeing your own jersey getting thrifted. Wanna know some really really scrub shit? Seeing your jersey get tossed back on the rack by some snotty 12-year old.
As I’m wheeling out, I see my #7 away jersey hanging on the end cap. Some kid looked at it with disdain, chewed it over and put it back on the rack. Then, he started roasting.
“Got damn, I forgot about this sorry ass nig…”
“Watch your fucking mouth” his mom shot back.
“I’m just saying, he boo-boo. I wouldn’t pay no damn $9 for this shit.”
She pops him on the back of his neck and they pivot down the aisle.
I plunge my eyes to the floor as soon as I can, both to not be noticed as well as to hide the tears forming around my eyes.
There’s an ever-growing throng of thrifters by the housewares section and in the store; fashionistas in training, poverty-stricken English majors, old people coming for old people’s day discounts, and hoarding motherfuckers. Only God knows why they need 17 editions of a ’75 TV Guide.
As they huddle around my cart, I see an older gentleman with a familiar gait ambling over. I can’t make his face out but his hunched look, reminds me of an old football coach… oh shit, it is my old football coach.
…
Before me, Thomas Daney was the biggest thing from this side of town. He coached at our high school for 27 years after retiring from the Raiders.
I watch him slowly ambling over, his 1984 Bulldog letterman jacket still fitting snug, a sharp light blinking from his SB XXX ring, a warm face amongst a throng of antsy shoppers.
“Scott, how have you been?”
“I’ve been good, Coach.” offering my hand only to be met with a hug.
He looked at my blue smock quizzically and my ever-watering eyes sympathetically.
I never listened to Coach Daney back in school. I wanted to play like Mike Vick on roids. He tried to reign me in, but we both knew our best option usually was letting me do whatever I needed to do to score.
He steps back for a second and strokes his beard.
“You know…Well, let me ask you, are you…”
“13 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days sober sir” (I’ve been asked this question so much, I can already tell what they about to ask)
“I can’t pay much…but I just lost Bo…remember him? The corner? He took another job across town calling the defense for Lowry. It’s the other side of the ball, but you pick things up quick…”
“Yes” I didn’t care what role I’d have, I just needed one more shot at ball. I’d have been the towel boy if he asked me to.
He smiles cautiously, pats my shoulder, and says “Great, great! We’ll see you down there next Tuesday at 7 am. The kids are gonna be excited to see you.”
I smile weakly, but I’m dubious after that brat’s reaction to my jersey.
“Scott, folks need a second chance, all people do. I’m glad you cleaned up, and I’ll check up on that. But this ain’t it for you. See you soon.” He shuffles away and disappears amongst the customers.
I wipe my eyes quickly, and begin unloading the cart. Lane ambles by, and notices my ever-growing smile.
“What are you so happy about Tom Brady?” he snarls, his breath wafting of Panda Express.
“Nothing…nothing at all” I smiled at him. “I gotta use the bathroom real quick, mind finishing the unload?”
Lane huffs out a “Fine, but don’t take too long” and takes over. I run to the back, grab my phone and send my resignation letter in. I toss my smock off and head back on the floor.
By now, the section is flooded with people picking through the shelves and the squeaking of feet around us. People picking up this and that, and trying to polish off hidden gems through the dust. I duck out behind the crowd and walk out the front just as Lane’s phone beeps “YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE”.
