Still, I suppose I wasn’t everbulliedin the traditional sense. Not by my peers, for whom I was largely an afterthought, the pudgy boy who spent recess buried in a book. I do remember one November day in first grade when I asked pigtailed Cindy Miles to collect leaves with me, and she tentatively mumbled, “I’m… not supposed to.” Years later, I’d learn from our clueless guidance counselor that a coalition of Morrocroft moms had, not long after my mother’s death, righteously put the fear of God in their children that Jenny and I were never to be “bothered.” In these kids’ minds, we’d been so bubble-wrapped in perpetual grief they forgot we were there, naturally pursuing friendships that didn’t come with caution tape. Of course, I had no clue; I just assumed I was radioactive.
Fifth grade at Morrocroft Prep commenced with “School in the Sticks,” a three-day camping trip just north of Asheville designed for class bonding, though I was stunned the first night when the boys were all marched into a cavernous group shower room. Naturally shy, I clung to my swim trunks, discreetly trying not to disrobe, as afraid of showing my plump frame as accidentally revealing a boner at the sight of the other boys around me.
Then came Mr. Adamson, a portly veteran of the math department. “What kind of pansy are you, Luke Griffin? Nobody here wants to smell you ’cuz you didn’t wash your privates. Take the pants off, boy. Now.”
I shoved my bathing suit down, frantically scraping a bar of Dove soap over my exposed crotch. When I made to flee, I collided with Ian Butler at the next showerhead over, our naked bodies tumbling onto the grimy tile.
“For God’s sake, don’t play grab-ass. You’re not in San Francisco yet, kid!” Adamson barked, pulling me up roughly by the arm. While the reference eluded me then, I grasped the undercurrent of his words and cried silently all night, my face turned into the cabin wall. That Friday, Ian’s mom called Mitch to check on me after she’d heard the story, and by Sunday Adamson had been fired. Mitch was a valued member of the faculty, leading the top athletics program in the state. He’d never thrown his weight around, maybe waiting precisely for an occasion like this.
A week after the shower incident, Mitch conscripted me for thedefensive line on the middle school’s football team. Anticipating my dread, he’d come prepared: “Have you heard of a ‘Renaissance man’? It means you’re exceptional ateveryskill…”
To Mitch’s credit, he hadn’t defaulted to shoving sports on me. A widower before forty, he’d been so fearful of putting a foot wrong as a single dad that he never laid down any mandates. However, he recognized the stakes were changing, and he was certain football would guarantee I’d be untouchable, though perhaps he was biased. Our personal histories often convince us the most familiar choice is the only one.
I was shocked I actually enjoyed it. Not the sport of football itself, butfeelingathletic, an instrument of force and velocity. While I wasn’t the most imaginative player, I was a workhorse who did well with a mission. When I joined Morrocroft’s varsity team and Mitch officially became my coach, I broke the record for quarterback sacks my freshman season. Before long, I was team captain, catching the eyes of people who mattered—including the scouts at Dartmouth.
Mitch’s plan was working, and teenage Luke started to dream his own dreams, the fantasies that security and safety provide. Through pro football, I’d be able to live whatever life I wanted: banking enough cash to retire in a beautiful house with kids running wild, even if I had to do it on my own. After all, hadn’t I been successfully raised by a single dad? I’d never attracted much attention from the scant gay boys who’d crossed my path, so as nice as a partner would be, that imaginary man was simply a hazy outline. Fatherhood alone felt concrete. And football was my ticket to achieving that.
Just before my senior year at Dartmouth, my coaches and agent suggested some flashy press might build buzz in advance of the NFL draft. Admittedly, it’s rare an openly gay middle linebacker comes along. We never dreamedLiberty Today, the biggest news program on television, would spotlight me that October. I was unprepared for a national audience to latch on to my story, though my coaches valiantly tried to protect my privacy, even screening my mail on campus. Mostly, it was kind: older gay men writing to say what a landmark it was, how many people I’d inspire.Not that we’d find out. Cue the car crash a month later that rendered me a bittersweet curiosity of what could have been.
That June, college degree in hand and several months of physical therapy behind me, I resolved to take a gap year helping Mitch coach while I applied to PhD programs in English literature. Wasn’t that actually best for the boy who’d been so quiet, heavy, and bookish?
Then I got the call. Mitch summoned me to the phone a week after graduation, a curious twinkle in his eye. TheLiberty Todayproducers were on the line to introduce four high-level executives at the network, all curious if I’d healed up. “Enough,” I’d replied nervously.
“Luke, as you probably know, our reality shows are killing it in the ratings, so this summer we’re exploring a new venture…” The execs described a still-untitled “Battle of the Reality TV Stars,” a chance for people to see their favorites compete for a “significant” cash prize. I admittedly didn’t watch reality TV (really,anyTV), but even I’d noticed the proliferation peppering every channel.
“But why are you calling me?”
“You really made an impression onLiberty Today. We want you in the cast.”
“That was an eight-minute segment. Nobody knows who I am.”
“You’re wrong about that,” one smoky-voiced female exec answered. “But we need an answer tomorrow. Filming starts in Grand Cayman next week.”
I’d instantly been opposed. Who wanted to watch some battered rando attempt a comeback for a stillborn sports career? Well, aside from my dad.
“Think big picture, bud. Maybe you win some cash for grad school? Even if you lose, they said you get a couple grand for each episode you’re in,” Mitch said over dinner that night.
“I said no. Final answer.”
“Is this about the scars?” Jenny asked. She’d been on sabbatical from her PhD program at Penn ever since the crash. My sister had mothered me forever, but lately she’d taken it to new heights—and obliterated mypatience. She’d even lived with me in Hanover my last semester, practically dragging my depressed ass to class to guarantee I graduated.
Mitch flushed, too familiar with this routine. “Jenny—”
“You can’t keep babying him! Luke acts like he’s deformed now. It’s not healthy.”
When the janitor hit us, he’d plowed into my side of the car. I remembered nothing after impact, but the hospital mirror eventually revealed how glass and shrapnel had slashed the right side of my face all the way down my torso, my skin reconceived as a jarring landscape of deep intersecting cuts. I’d never been uniquely handsome, but I’d made peace with my face. Now I was a horror show, brushing my teeth each night with my back to the mirror.
Mitch wearily leaned across the table. “Kid, you need to findsomethingthis summer. You can’t sulk around the house,” he said. “Can’t you do it for the old man?”
I could have screamed the most awful things—no one would have blamed me—but I saw it in his eyes, how desperate he was for me to say yes.
Now here I was, about to board a plane with no clue what lay ahead. Mitch nudged me as we approached security. “Remember, it won’t kill you to have fun.”
“Said the man who despises reality TV.”
“If it’s your ticket back to the land of the living, then I’m its biggest fan.”
I finally permitted myself a smile. “I’ll probably get booted the first episode.”
