Red Dirt Rocker (18 page)

“Got it!”
I return boldly. My words have dual purpose, as I grab the handle of my guitar case just before it gets sucked back into the black hole of the luggage carousel. Betty is safely
back
in my possession. I feel whole again.

“Good.” Mama finalizes the discussion.

“Hey, Mama, check this out.” I unfasten the laminated KISS, all-access backstage pass that hangs from my wallet chain.

“Pretty dang cool.”
Mama smiles as I hand it to her.

“Dad has one, too,” I continue.

“Yep, I was a
V.I.P
.”
Dad smiles.

“You guys better have taken hundreds of pictures,” Mama
lectures
, pointing her finger at Dad. “Now let’s get a move on, boys. The game’s already started,” Mama declares. “Everyone in town is dying to hear about your KISS show. You know Forrest, you and the boys are hometown heroes.”

I grab our last piece of luggage from the baggage carousel and forge on like a soldier. I’m ready to go root my team on.

As I enter the buzzing stadium, I’m swamped with townsfolk shaking my hand and patting me on the back. If I’m asked how the trip was once, I’m asked fifty times. I can only repeat in simple words that it was the coolest experience of my entire life.

The continuous showering of heartfelt good wishes is wonderful, but I still feel a bit of jealousy that I’m not out on the field. I quickly shake it out of my head, though. I’ve just lived the dream of a lifetime. I need to cheer my brothers out on the field to victory.

I grab a large Coke at the concession
booth, that
I get for free from the booster club moms, and make my way through the crowd into the noisy stands. It’s the third quarter of the game and the score is tied: twenty-seven to twenty-seven. I suddenly realize that I’ve never been to a school function in my “rock-n-roll uniform.” I feel out of place in my skin-tight, jet black jeans, silver stud belt, wrist bands, and weathered, black leather jacket as I begin doing the old "excuse me…pardon me…excuse me," throughout my assent up the overcrowded metal bleachers.

I gingerly make my way past Mr. Franklin, an elder from my church. The frail gentleman stands up to let me pass. He adjusts his orange Coweta Tigers ball cap and gives me a slight sideways glance. For a moment I think that he might be judging me because of the bold look I’m sporting among the sea of conservative school spirit attire. I stand out like a sore thumb—a sore thumb in a black leather glove.

To my surprise, he has just the opposite reaction. "Come on by here, Rock Star!" Mr. Franklin states boldly, as he
pats
me on the shoulder. "How was the trip, young man?" he questions, extending his boney, feeble right hand.

"Unbelievable—it was just amazing!” I return, nodding in respect.

"Oh, that's just wonderful! Ruth and I are so proud of you boys. You've been blessed with a lot of talent…and opening for KISS…well that's just the bees’ knees!
We're all
alookin
’ forward to
ya
playing at the church again real soon.
We sure miss
ya
on the football field tonight, but the team’s
doin
’ a fine job, just fine. Well, I’ll let
ya
get to your seat. Take care, son."

I’m so grateful for his kind words. The generation gap is closed a bit tighter tonight, thanks to KISS and the Coweta Tigers.

Megan jumps up and down and waves wildly to me in the jam-packed bleachers.
"
Heeey
, bub!”
Megan yells over the cheers of the football fanatics. She gives me a big sisterly hug before I take a seat in the ice cold bleachers. I pull my fitted jacket collar closer around my neck to block the biting wind. I’m grateful for the orange and black plaid afghan that Megan has laid down. I take a seat next to her on it.

“
Oooh
, look at you in your leather! You look
soooo
hot, bub!” Megan beams, half teasing. “So how was it?” she asks, shaking my arm.

“Oh, man, Megan. Words can’t even describe how amazing it was. Meeting KISS was freaking incredible, and Sweden was
soooo
beautiful.
Me
and Dad wish you and Mom could’ve been there, but we took tons of pictures.” I wrinkle my nose. “The only thing I would’ve changed was the food. I’m totally ready for some good old Split Rail BBQ and Taco Bell for sure!”

I settle in the stands with my family and join the spirited home crowd in cheering on the Tigers. Kyle is having the game of his career, but
D.J
. is a little off. I could swear that he’s giving me dirty looks from the sidelines. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I think I am receiving way too much attention for his liking as usual.

“
Foooorest
…hey, Forrest!”
Heather’s shrill voice drifts up sharply from the field. She’s spotted me. Heather blows me a kiss and waves to me like a beauty queen in a parade.

I have a flashback of our elementary school talent show when Heather’s talent was demonstrating a “pageant wave.” Ironically, her cheerleading skirt is almost as short as the little, sparkling pageant dress that she wore in second grade.

“Well, well, well,” Megan chimes slyly. Miss Heather doesn’t think you’ll find out what she’s been up to while you were gone,” she continues as she shakes her head.

“Oh…hit me,” I’m sure I know what she’s been up to, but I’m anxious to hear the cold hard facts first hand from my sis.

“Heather and
D.J
. spent the week party-
hoppin
’ together. Let’s just say I saw them getting very cozy at the Quick Trip the other night. She should really put the top up on her convertible when she’s playing ‘kissy-face.’ Not too
discreeeet
!” my sister sings out.

“Dude, Megan. You just made my night.”
I high five my sis.
Relief runs through me. Now I can finally get
rid
of Heather once and for all without feeling guilty.

Not wanting to waste any more time on relationship drama, I turn my focus to the Tiger marching band and spot Sophie right away. I stand and wave my arms in all directions, trying to get her attention. Sophie sees me. She waves back. Her broadening smile illuminates the band bleachers. I survey the height of the fence and decide I’m going to hop over it as soon as the game is over—I’m going to make a path straight for Sophie.

I turn my concentration back to the very close game; I yell until my veins pop in my temples as the opposing team runs the ball down to our ten yard line. The score is still tied, twenty-seven to twenty-seven. I begin to bite the jagged cuticles on my nails.

“COME ON TIGERS!
HOLD
EM
’!”
I wail. I stand up and stomp my feet on the clanging metal bleachers. I feel completely helpless. Trying to encourage my teammates from the stands is frustrating. I’d give anything to be on the field blocking.

Relief comes over me as the Tigers’ defense makes a crucial tackle on the fourth down, stopping our rival’s forward progress. The football is set sailing with a thud as it’s punted. Now it’s up to the Tigers to get the ball over the goal line. The time clock is ticking relentlessly, with only two minutes left to go in the game. My stomach is in knots.

On the field, my team huddles for their final time-out. I know
D.J.’s
best decision is a pass to the end zone to Kyle. The other team’s defensive coverage of the receivers had gotten weak due to an injury during the last play.
D.J
. appears to be distracted by Heather and the smiles and waves she’s directing toward me in the stands. I can see that he’s fuming. He’s certainly not giving the game the attention it needs, especially on the critical last downs at hand.

T
wo quick plays later, the Tigers aren’t gaining much ground.
D.J
. still refuses to throw the ball to Kyle, even though he’s been wide open near the goal line. I have a sneaking suspicion he won’t let Kyle have the ball because Kyle’s my best friend. I’m sure
D.J
. is still holding a grudge because of Kyle’s cut down after Box tackled me. Instead of an athletic leader,
D.J
. has become a manipulative dictator.

D.J
. reluctantly hands the ball off to his running back, but the defensive line is too beefy. The play is squelched after only a gain of a yard. The Tigers now have the ball on the fifteen-yard line. Dad and I scream until we’re blue in the face for
D.J
. to pass Kyle the ball. I can see Kyle screaming at
D.J
., too.

The Tigers huddle for their last time-out.
D.J
. opens his mouth and rebels, the steam from the cold night air puffing out of his mouth. He looks like a mad, fire-breathing dragon. Even
D.J.'s
dull-witted friend Box shakes his head in agreement with Kyle. I can hear the burly center snorting at him to pass Kyle the ball. It doesn’t matter what the team or coaches want at this point—
D.J.’s
mind is made up.

"Sixteen on two…sixteen on two!"
D.J
. commands. He ignores the coach’s orders as the team reluctantly breaks from the huddle before a delay of game penalty is called. It’s too late for anyone to dispute the call as
D.J
. belts out, "Sixteen…sixteen…hut, hut!!”

Helmets crack as the spent linemen begin to block for
D.J
., who selfishly holds onto the ball. He finds a small rabbit hole and breaks from the crumbling line of scrimmage. He
sprints,
dodging the first defender, but a solid-as-a-rock linebacker on the opposing team nearly picks
D.J
. up and throws him down. The violent crack is audible into the top seats of the stands. The football sails out of
D.J.’s
hands before he hits the frigid, hard, unforgiving turf.

We all hold our breath collectively as the pigskin pops out of
D.J.’s
flailing arms. The entire home bleachers have all but chalked the game up as a loss. The most important game of the past eight years comes to a bitter close. We all gasp and begin to exhale in unison in gut wrenching disappointment.

The rickety scoreboard clock ticks off the last three seconds of the game without mercy. There’s no way to stop it. Three…two…one…and, lo and behold, out of the crowd of grass-stained jerseys, Kyle leaps into the air and secures the barreling football. He lands with both feet churning like the Road Runner and turns for the goal line, four treacherous yards away.

The opposing team grabs in vain at his un-tucked shirt-tail, but Kyle is able to shuck off two defenders as he closes in on the two-yard line.

I’m on my feet, going crazy. I’m so pumped that I feel dizzy. "GO KYLE! GET IN THERE!" I scream, trying to
will
my buddy across the goal line.

Kyle shakes off the last defensive player and, as the horn buzzes signifying the end of the game, he leaps into the end zone, hits the ground, and rolls twice.