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raindrops danced on the surface of the puddles like popping corn.
    The team did tackling drills and blocking drills.
    The only things I was allowed to do was hit dummies or foam pads and run—run through obstacles, run laps, run sprints, run forward, sideways, and backward.
    That lasted a week, and at the end, I asked Coach Simpkin again. He smiled and patted my shoulder pads and suggested patience. I watched and waited a few more practices, and then a strange thing happened, something I can’t explain. Something I’m ashamed to admit.

9
    I don’t know if those two coaches did it to me, or if it was just growing up in a house where physical violence was the only thing worse than an F-word. I began to fear hitting. I’d stopped asking to be put into full-contact drills, not because I didn’t think they’d listen but because I didn’t want to go in. I’d grown accustomed to being the shell of a football player. And no one, not even the mean kids like Bryan Markham and Big Donny Patterson, ever said a word to me. They’d tease other players for shying away, or getting knocked off their feet, but me they ignored. And I was okay with that, because I didn’t want to hit or, most of all, be hit.
    They let me be on the team. My teammates even let me sit with them at lunch in the elementary school cafeteria if one of the regular guys was sick or something. When that happened, I’d nod my head in agreement when they all talked big about how we’d smash whoever was our upcoming opponent. (Of course,I’d never talk about smashing anyone.) I wore my jersey on Fridays like everyone else. My teammates would nod to me when we passed in the halls. And for the next four years, I got to collect the golden statue awarded to our championship team at the end-of-season banquets, same as the rest. I don’t think any of our other classmates suspected I was anything but a full-blown Highland Knights football player.
    My mom had no idea either because I’d even gotten some playing time. I was no starter, but our team was so good that we rarely went into the fourth quarter fewer than four touchdowns ahead of whoever we were playing. That’s when Coach Simpkin emptied the bench, putting the less skilled players into the game to get their taste. Me they sent out as the Z wide receiver, where I could stand away from the rest of the crowd. Occasionally, I’d have to run a pass pattern, always a go route, straight up the field, no chance to hit or be hit.
    And it was in this way that Coaches Simpkin and Markham coaxed me into a state of complete and total cowardice. I was further from a football player than if I’d never put the pads on. It went on for four years, until a few months ago, when we graduated from the Highland Knights to middle-school football.
    Now, everything’s changed.

10
    PRESENT . . .
    My alarm woke me and for a few seconds, I didn’t even know where I was.
    It all came back quickly, though—crashing down on me: the father I never knew was now gone.
    Exhausted from my sleepless night, I got dressed and went downstairs. My mom sat quietly at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, reading the news on her tablet. When I sat down, she put it aside with the half a grapefruit she hadn’t touched. Teresa asked me if I wanted eggs. I said yes, strongly aware that my mother was watching me. Her eyes looked tired and her mouth sagged.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œI’m going to the funeral later today.”
    I paused a moment and picked up my fork, even though I had nothing to use it on yet. “Why are you telling me?”
    â€œBecause I’m not taking you,” she said. “It’ll be a zoo—your father knew many, many people. Plus, you have practice anyway. I know you won’t want to miss that, right?”
    I shifted in my seat. It wasn’t like she was even giving me the option, and I wanted to protest, but something