1
Duffy
“Are you ready, Ms. Distefano?”
Was I ready? I kind of wanted to throw up and my entire body was shaking, so yes—I was as ready as I’d ever be. For someone who hated public speaking and avoided it at all costs—my career choice is tax accounting, hello—it was surreal that I was about to willingly go onto a stage and be interviewed in front of an audience.
My entirelifehad become surreal as of late.
“Yes,” I said, nodding and getting out of the green room chair, ready to follow the intern to my idea of hell on earth. “I’m ready.”
“Wait!” my dad said in a rushed panic, stopping his nervous pacing to hold up a hand and speak like he was trying to convince a hit man to spare his life. He’d insisted on accompanying me because he was certain without his guidance I would “sink us even deeper,” and his face was so serious it was almost comical when he leaned in close and said, “Duffy Distefano, this moment is of the utmost importance. I don’t care how much it hurts, yougotta dig deep and conjure upsweet. Pin on a smile and pretend to be freaking perky, you got me? You know I love you, kid, but don’t be yourself this time—there’s too much at stake.”
“Oh, that’s really nice, Dad,” I said, my heart beating out of my chest as the studio audience applauded about something on the other side of the curtain. My father was the only reason I was doing this. If it were just me, I’d accept my fate as a pariah and go underground forever, but being excluded from Sundays was killing him.
Minneapolis Coyote football—and being a season ticket holder—was part of his identity.
The man had proposed to my mother at a Coyote game while buzzed and wearing face paint, for God’s sake.
So when someone from theKel and Kell in the Morningshow called the house a few days ago and offered me the chance to tell my side of the story, my dad called them back (without asking me first) and accepted on my behalf.
“ ‘Don’t be yourself’ is exactly what every child wants to hear from a parent during a stressful moment,” I said, trying to take deep breaths through my nose. “Very reassuring. Thank you so much.”
“Come on, you know you suck at people,” he said with a smirk.
He wasn’t wrong, so I just kissed his cheek and said, “Get out of my way so I can do this, old man.”
I went around him and followed the intern, shaking out my numb fingers while desperately hoping I wouldn’t fall down or pass out or get struck in the face with another hot dog because that shit was getting old.
And yes, the word “another” was actually applicable in this instance.I’d been pelted with so many concession snacks over the past two weeks that I could probably nail a blindfolded test where I had to name which treat was bouncing off my forehead or which beverage was being thrown on me.
That’s a corn dog. That’s popcorn. That slime is the butter from a superpretzel.
Not only is that beer, but it’s the fall seasonal IPA that they serve only at the north end concession stand.
We stopped at the edge of the curtain and waited, and as soon as Kel said the words “Please welcome Duffy Distefano,” the intern gestured for me to move and I was walking out onto the stage.
Surprisingly, I didn’t hear a single boo as I went straight for one of the two stools sitting beside the sports talk show duo; I’d gotten used to being booed everywhere I went, so this applause was refreshing (but still terrifying). So far I’d been booed on the bus, booed at my cousin’s high school football game, and I’d even been booed by some rando at Sunday Mass, although my dad gave the entire congregation his slow-searchingI will find and destroy youscowl which made the booer go radio silent.
The guy probably started praying my father—and my three brothers—wouldn’t find him.
So why does the general population of the Twin Cities hate me, you ask?
Because they’d witnessed me “brutally attacking” Coyote Carl, the NFL team’s beloved mascot, on national TV.
It was such bullshit.
Had I knocked him down? Yes.
Had I meant to? Also yes.
Had he deserved it?Hell, yes.
The oversized furball had stopped right in front of my seat todancewhen the season opener was in overtime. It was third and one while his costumed ass did the Macarena and blocked my view, and when I tapped him and asked him to move—three times, for the record—instead of moving, hehuggedme.
Which did nothing to improve my visibility of the field.
And as I struggled to break free of Carl’s suffocating clinch, one of his gloved hands grabbed my ass.
