Sarah switched to another tab and pointed at it. “I had already looked him up, football-wise. He was good in college,” she commented, scrolling down a page of statistics about completion percentages and passing yards per game. “A three-year starter at a decent program. They were better ten years ago, of course, a powerhouse.”
I nodded like I already knew that, which I did not.
“I wonder why it didn’t work out for him after he was drafted. But it happens.”
“Why? What do you mean?” I asked.
“He had great numbers,” she explained, pointing again to the screen. “But sometimes that doesn’t translate. Lots of quarterbacks can’t make the jump to the pros. Maybe in college, they had the speed to run for yards instead of staying in the pocket and going through their progressions, so they didn’t develop those skills. That means they don’t have the ability to look at all the options for passes,” she translated. “Or they may not actually have great arm strength and once they’re playing at a professional level, their legs aren’t enough. The guys on the defense are so much bigger and faster.” She tilted her head as she looked again at her stats. “That doesn’t seem to be true for Everett Ford, but who knows?”
I nodded again, this time signaling that I understood about pockets and options. I really had heard those terms before and I got the gist of what she was saying: at the highest level, some quarterbacks just couldn’t outrun their weaknesses.
“Maybe they buckle under the pressure of being on such a big stage, with so much more at risk. A pro-style offense might be too complicated for them to learn. There are a lot of reasons why it might not work out,” she concluded briskly, “but they all sighed contracts that guarantee them good money. The bench is a great place to earn a living without worrying about injury.”
It certainly didn’t seem like a bad life to me. You got to play a game and get paid a ton for it, all while not taking any hits. I would have signed up for that for sure. But since football wasn’t a possible career path for me, I left the elementary school and hurried to Emilia Schaub College to advance my education instead. I had enough time to do some homework before my classes, and then I managed to stay awake during those (which didn’t always happen).
And honestly, I didn’t think much more about the events of that day, besides when I glanced at the sealed bag containing my pukey shirt on the passenger seat. I’d left it there so I would remember to bring it inside and wash it when I finally got home.
I still wasn’t reflecting on Everett Ford and his one-named wife when I hurried to the bar where I worked a few nights a week. It wasn’t the best place, as in, it wasn’t one of the busy establishments on the main street of town where people ordered fancier liquor that resulted in bigger tips. But the owner had been a friend of my dad’s, and she was easy about my hours. She didn’t mind that I was about fifteen—ok, twenty minutes late in arriving for this particular shift, but I’d come as fast as I could. A car had skidded off the road into a ditch and several people had stopped to help, causing unexpected traffic.
Also, I had left late from the college. I’d had to stay after class to explain to my professor why I hadn’t submitted the paper that had been due three days before, and which I probably wouldn’t finish until a few days from now. But the bar would be slow tonight, as it was every night at Jannie’s, so I would have time to research and write. There were only a couple of regulars and one or two other patrons who had come into town for the Woodsmen game this Saturday. I had time to get in a few sentences, but then I got lost in thought about what might have happened if I’d met a normal football player who could have been impressed by my nice shirt. I did look up when the door opened and then stayed that way, letting the chilly fall wind sweep in some skittering leaves.
Just like I had earlier in the day, I went to investigate the situation. And just like before, it was…really?
“Everett Ford?” I asked as I peered through the darkness of our parking lot.
This time, he was on his feet, but he still had on the inside-out T-shirt. I saw it because he wasn’t wearing a coat even though it was late October in northern Michigan, which meant that it wasn’t warm. But I also saw something else: he wasn’t drunk anymore. Hours had now passed and he must have sobered up. All my days seemed to last at least a week and our previous encounter felt like ancient history, but it really had been enough time for him to get it out of his system.
He stared at me and then walked inside, and I closed the door behind him. One other customer got slightly excited, because maybe Ford was third-string and only semi-famous, but he wasstill a Woodsmen football player. I felt sorry for him, again. “Come this way,” I directed, and ushered him across the bar and into a booth in the darkest corner.
He sat and stared at his hands. “I’ll have a whiskey,” he ordered. “Neat.”
I wasn’t going to serve him, no way. He didn’t need to restart the cycle. “I can get you a cup of coffee,” I suggested. It was going to be instant and it was going to taste terrible. This wasn’t a fine dining establishment, just a mediocre drinking place.
“I’m not getting what I want today,” he told me. He sighed.
“Sorry,” I apologized.
That word from me seemed to trigger a memory. “I know you,” he announced. “You’re Miss Harmon.”
“I am,” I said, very surprised. “We met a few hours ago, at Woodsmen Stadium. What happened after I left?”
“Were you there when I got fired?”
“No. You got fired as a football player?” I asked, even more surprised. “I didn’t know they could do that.”
“I got sent down,” he explained. “I had to go meet with the coach and the GM. I don’t remember much but I know that I’m done.”
“I was probably on the stadium tour with the class by that point,” I said, and he nodded.
“There were kids all around. Then I crashed.”
“You were on your face on the floor,” I agreed. “Or do you mean when I fell on you?” I rubbed my elbow as I remembered, because it had been hurting all day.
“I mean that I wrecked my car,” Everett Ford told me, and my jaw dropped.
“You hit kids? Are they all right?”
“The kids were in the doorway,” he said. “Nobody was on the road except for me.”
