"I'm gonna take a walk." I say to no one in particular before staggering off the sidewalk and down the street.
The mountain breeze has a sting to it and I zip my softshell jacket up around my neck to block it out. I walk down Adams Avenue -- I see it in white lettering on a green sign as I cross through an empty intersection. It's an avenue that is etched in childhood memories but is surreal and foreign on this day. I look up at the Cascade foothills that loom just beyond the rooftops around me and I swallow hoarsely. The golden, copper and ruby colored leaves glow against the backdrop of the Evergreens. This was once my favorite time of the year, I think to myself.
The doctor's voice echos in my head but already I cannot remember his words, only his tone and the long pauses between his sentences. A shiver, riding a gust of wind, finds its way underneath my jacket to run down the back of my neck. I picture my wife lying on a table with blood stained sheets between her legs; I picture the still form of a fetus being stolen away and I clinch my teeth to hold in the scream that has caught in my throat. There is a church ahead on the corner, its steeple pointing sharply like a middle finger to the sky. Not knowing where else to go, I point my steps in the direction of the hauntingly dark stainglass windows that cover the building.
The church parking lot is deserted and I suddenly find it difficult to stay on my feet. I find a curb and collapse to it. And then I see them, two boys playing in the empty field next to the church. From this distance they look to be twelve or so, although one is slightly taller than the other. They have a football and, play-by-play, they work their way from one end of the leaf covered field to the other. The smaller one hikes the ball to the taller one and then runs in a pattern. The taller one backs up a few steps, pumps his arm once and then throws the ball up against the backdrop of the setting sun. I watch as the smaller one then runs underneath the long pass. They repeat this again and again, frantically "marching" up and down this field against some unseen opponent; their feet kicking up a trail of golden leaves behind them as they play. I can hear the muffled sounds of the older boy announcing the score, the down, the time left on the game clock, the pass, the yards gained -- every angle of their private game.
But then they notice me.. quietly taking in their performance from the sideline. They watch me for a moment and then the smaller one scampers over in my direction.
"Hi, Mister." He says as he gets close. "Can you play with us?" I try to respond but my voice fails me. There is only the howl of the wind and the distant hum of logging trucks on the highway.
"We could use someone to play defense. Please." He says.
"OK." I say. "Just for a couple plays." I say.
"Alright!" He says and then he turns and runs back toward the taller boy. "He's gonna play!" I hear him yell as he runs away from me.
Slowly I pick myself off the curb and walk toward the two boys. They are huddled up with the ball sitting on the ground a few feet away. The taller one draws a line in the palm of his hand and the smaller one nods excitedly.
"So what's the score here?" I say. They finish their huddle with a synchronized clap and turn toward me.
"It's Super Bowl XL." Says the taller one.
"You're the Pittsburgh Steelers." Says the smaller one. "You can be Troy Polamalu." He says.
"I'm Matt Hasselbeck." Says the taller one. "And my brother is Bobby Engram."
"Am not!" Says the smaller one. "I told you, I'm Steve Largent!"
"Steve Largent retired before you were born." Says the taller one. "He wasn't even in the Super Bowl."
"I don't care." Says the smaller one. "Dad says he was the greatest of all time... And I'm gonna be the greatest, just like him." He says.
I smile in spite of my day. "OK." I say. "Hasselbeck and Largent... What's the score?" They both turn back toward me, letting the debate go for now.
"Steelers are up twenty-one to seventeen." Says Hasselbeck. "There's three seconds left in the fourth quarter and it's Seattle's ball, fourth down, at the Steelers thirty yard-line."
"This play is for all the stuff'n!" Says Largent.
My eyes are watering, mostly from the wind. "Let's do this." I say to the brothers.
Largent leans over the ball, looks left and then looks right. Hasselbeck calls out, "Blue thirty-two! Blue thirty-two!" Largent points to me with his free hand, I suppose to make sure one of his imaginary linemen remember to pick me up in case I blitz. "Hut one!" Calls out Hasselbeck. Largent lowers his head and looks back between his legs to Hasselbeck. "Hut two!" Calls out Hasselbeck, raising his right leg in the air and planting it back down in a fluid motion. And then the smaller one hikes the ball and bursts past me.
"Hasselbeck is back to pass." Says the taller one. "The Seattle offensive line picks up the blitz." He says. "Hasselbeck looks left into double coverage." He says. "Nothing there. Hasselbeck scrambles out to his right. He has a man wide open down the sideline!" He says. I watch as he plants his feet and coils his right arm back. "With time running out... Hasselbeck throws deep..." He arches his body and then unleashes the deep ball down field. I turn and watch as the smaller one tracks the flight of the ball from the ground below. His legs find another gear as he runs down the deep pass. Then, as the ball sets on the horizon like the late afternoon sun, Largent launches out above the field, his body perfectly parallel to the ground, his arms reaching out for the football. "Largent dives for the pass!" Says the taller one from behind me. Time slows and I hold my breath as Largent plucks the ball from mid-air, tucks the ball under his chin and then crashes down onto the field of leaves.
"Touchdown!" Screams the taller one. "Touchdown! Touchdown Seahawks!" He yells. I look back to him. He has his arms raised high and he runs past me and toward his brother. "Do you believe in miracles?" He yells out. "The Seattle Seahawks have just defeated the Pittsburgh Steelers in Super Bowl XL!" He yells. "I don't believe what I just saw!" He yells. I can't help myself. I raise my arms above me and let out a yell of my own as the two brothers run and collide with each other in celebration. "I don't believe what I just saw!" Yells Hasselbeck one more time. The three of us run from one end of the field to the other as the sunlight drains from the sky and the words repeat in my head, again and again. "I don't believe what I just saw..."
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The long dining table stretches out from one end of the room to the other. My wife and I sit alone at one end, the backs of our chairs pressed up against the wall. Our family sit in front of us. Their conversations are warm; their faces are bright. But I can only stare at the thermostat on the far wall, wishing that there was enough room at my side of the table to take off my wool sweater. I roll my sleeves up as far as they will go and pull at my neckline. I watch my wife as she stares at the large cooked bird on the table top. She is a vegetarian and I imagine that if she had the energy she might pull at the neck of her sweater too.
"There is a family tradition in this house." Says my dad from the other side of the table. My mom comes in from the kitchen and sets down two more trays of food before sitting next to him. My dad continues to talk. I watch my wife's blank stare and feel my chest twist on itself underneath this damn sweater. I picture her in another time -- her smile, her laugh. I watch her now and I wonder how long it will be until either of us can smile, really smile, again.
"Son." My dad's voice pulls me back to the dinner table in front of me. "Would you start this year?" He asks me. He smiles warmly and for a moment I think about telling him, telling them all. Instead I take a deep breath and pull at my neckline again. I think for a moment about what I can possibly say on this day. They all watch me and wait for me to say something, all except for my wife who still stares blankly at the dead meat on the table in front of her.
"Tell us what you are thankful for this year, son." Says my dad. I reach under the table and take my wife's hand in my own. She squeezes my hand, blinks and takes a sip of apple cider from the crystal glass next to her plate. I raise my head and look around the table at them.
"I'm thankful for my family." I say. They all smile. "My wife." I say. They all smile again and look at her. I pause for a moment. My wife squeezes my hand again under the table.
"I'm thankful for miracles." I say. My throat tightens and my eyes blur with moisture. "I'm thankful for Matt Hasselbeck. And for Steve Largent." I say. They look at each other and my dad shrugs.
"I'm sorry." I say. "I know it's random. But it's what I'm thankful for on this particular day." I say. "For miracles... and for Steve Largent."
My wife slips her arm inside of mine and we hold each other softly at the end of my parents' dining room table. I look out their window at the night and think about the winter season that is coming. I lean in and kiss my wife lightly on the neck. It won't last forever, I tell myself. Spring will come, I tell myself. And maybe this can even be my favorite time of year again. Maybe someday, I tell myself.
Someday.
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