So we say goodbye to Scott and follow the masses to the subway entrance.
Jake has tokens. We go through the turnstiles, descend underground, and push our way onto an already packed subway car. People yell, “No room!” but Jake mashes his body in between the other bodies and then pulls me in too. My brother’s chest is against my back; strangers are smashed against my arms. The doors finally close, and my nose is almost touching the glass window.
The smell of beer resurfacing through everyone’s sweat glands is pungent.
I don’t like being this close to so many strangers, but I don’t say anything, and soon we are at City Hall.
After we exit the train, we spin another turnstile, climb up into center city, and begin walking down Market Street, past the old department stores and the new hotels and The Gallery.
“You wanna see my apartment?” Jake asks when we get to the Eighth and Market PATCO stop, which is where I can hop a train over the Ben Franklin Bridge to Collingswood.
I do want to see Jake’s apartment, but I am tired and anxious to get home so I can do a little lifting before bed. I ask if I might see it some other time.
“Sure,” he says. “It’s good to have you back, brother. You were a true Eagles fan today.”
I nod.
“Tell Dad the Birds will bounce back next week against San Fran.”
I nod again.
My brother surprises me by giving me a two-armed hug and saying, “I love you, bro. Thanks for getting my back in the parking lot.”
I tell him that I love him too, and then he is walking down Market Street singing “Fly, Eagles, Fly” at the top of his lungs.
I descend underground, insert the five my mother gave me into the change machine, buy a ticket, stick it into the turnstile, descend more stairs, hit the waiting platform, and begin to think about that little kid in the Giants jersey. How hard did he cry when he realized his father had been knocked out? Did the kid even get to see the game? A few other men in Eagles jerseys are sitting on the chrome benches. Each nods sympathetically at me when they see my Hank Baskett jersey. One man at the far end of the platform yells, “Goddamn f**king Birds!” and then kicks a metal trash can. Another man standing next to me shakes his head and whispers, “Goddamn f**king Birds.”
When the train comes, I choose to stand just inside the doors, and as the train slides across the dusk sky, over the Delaware River, across the Ben Franklin Bridge, I look at the city skyline, and—again—I start to think about that kid crying. I feel so awful when I think about that little kid.
I get off the train at Collingswood, walk across the open-air platform and down the steps, stick my card into the turnstile machine, and then jog home.
My mother is sitting in the family room, sipping tea. “How’s Dad?” I ask.
She shakes her head and points at the TV.
The screen is cracked so that it looks like a spiderweb. “What happened?”
“Your father smashed the screen with the reading lamp.”
“Because the Eagles lost?”
“No, actually. He did it when the Giants tied the game at the end of the fourth quarter. Your father had to watch the Eagles blow the game on the bedroom television,” Mom says. “How’s your brother?”
“Fine,” I say. “Where’s Dad?”
“In his office.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry your team lost,” Mom says, just to be nice, I know.
“It’s okay,” I answer, and then go down into the basement, where I lift weights for hours and try to forget about that little Giants fan crying, but I still can’t get the kid out of my mind.
For whatever reason I fall asleep on the rug that covers part of the basement floor. In my dreams the fight happens again and again, only instead of the Giants fan bringing a kid to the game, the Giants fan brings Nikki, and she too is wearing a Giants jersey. Every time I knock the big guy out, Nikki pushes through the crowd, cradles Steve’s head in her hands, kisses his forehead, and then looks up at me.
Just before I run away, she says, “You’re an animal, Pat. And I will never love you again.”
I cry through my dreams and try not to hit the Giants fan every time the memory flashes through my mind, but I can’t control my dream self any more than I could control my awake self after seeing the blood on Jake’s hands.
I wake up to the sound of the basement door being closed, and I see the light streaming in through the small windows over the washer and dryer. I walk up the steps, and I cannot believe the sports pages are there.
I am very upset about the dream I had, but I realize it was only a dream, and despite everything that has happened, my father is still leaving me the sports pages after one of the worst Eagles losses in history.
So I take a deep breath. I allow myself to feel hopeful again and start my exercise routine.
Sister Sailor-Mouth
I’m at the Crystal Lake Diner with Tiffany; we’re in the same booth as last time, eating our single-serving box of raisin bran, drinking hot tea. We did not say anything on the walk here; we did not say anything when we were waiting for our server to bring the milk, bowl, and box. I’m starting to understand that we have the type of friendship that does not require many words.
As I watch her spoon the brown flakes and sugared raisins into her pink lips, I try to decide whether I want to tell her about what happened at the Eagles game.
For two days now I have been thinking about that little kid crying, hiding behind his father’s leg, and I feel so guilty about hitting the big Giants fan. I did not tell my mom, because the news would have upset her. My father has not talked to me since the Eagles lost to the Giants, and I don’t see Dr. Cliff until Friday. Plus, I’m starting to think Tiffany is the only one who might understand, since she seems to have a similar problem and is always exploding, like on the beach when Veronica slipped and mentioned Tiffany’s therapist in front of me.