Minutes pass with very little action, both sides trading punts and the ball never coming near an end zone until Travis intercepts a pass and runs it back forty yards with fifteen seconds left in the half. I stand along with everyone else, and I check my camera to make sure it’s capturing game play while I pull out my handheld to get the other side of the story. My brother grabs his helmet and dashes to the line, and I zoom in as tight as I can on the huddle, wishing I had him miked to hear what he said, or at least to hear them all clap and yell “break!”
Katie, his girlfriend for at least the last few months, is standing on the first step at the front of the stands, her hands cupping her mouth; my mother is close behind her, holding hands with our neighbor, Travis’s mom, Linda, as if her son was going off to battle. The clock begins, and as slow as everything feels, it all happens so quickly. My brother finds a receiver, he throws with a snap, the ball is caught, and the drums begin.
I bounce on my toes, and I feel my cheeks ache from smiling, but in the middle of it all, I think of Nico. The field is too far for me to hear them, but every now and then I catch a glimpse of their forms running in the dim lights, until the fireworks signal our field goal and the crowd erupts. Nico and his friends don’t even pause—their own game far more important as the ball sails farther than any throw I’ve ever seen leave my brother’s grip, landing easily into the hands of the boy who teased me several minutes ago.
“Some game, huh Reagan?” Jimmy says, headphones around his neck as he clears out of the press box area and walks down the bleachers to join the rest of the team and coaching staff in the locker room.
I rarely respond, mostly because I don’t trust him. This is normally the time when I go find my friend Izzy and skim off her nachos and steal half of her drink that she’s tried to hide—though not too well—on the small table right in front of the bleachers. Izzy’s a cheerleader, but she went out of town for the weekend with her grandparents, leaving right after school. I climb down the few steps from the top of the press box and glance out at the crowd, most people making breaks for the restrooms and concession area. My mom is already on her phone, and her friends are all chatting around her. I could sit with these women, who I don’t necessarily like, for twelve minutes, but instead, I find my feet carrying me down the back steps of the bleachers and out into the darkness where boys wearing nothing but muddied jeans and skin are still battling hard.
I walk along the far end, the action currently on the opposite side of the field, and slide to a sitting position on the cool, damp grass that slopes down. I bend my legs and wipe the pieces of cut crass from the backs of my thighs and test my denim shorts to see how wet they are. Satisfied it won’t leave too much of a wet mark, I bring my arms around my knees and balance my camera on top, flipping open the viewfinder and zooming in as tight as I can. At first, I can’t see much—the light too little—but as the action comes closer, my camera takes more in, and when the boys are yards away from me, I can clearly make out their faces.
Nico’s friend—the talkative one—waves at me, but I don’t wave back. I’m not part of the story. I hold my camera on him until I’m forgotten again, and the plays become all that matter. There are only eight of them down there, enough to play a small pickup game, to pass and run, but the longer I watch, the more I realize how very little Nico needs. He moves like Noah. His feet fall back naturally, and he glides out of the reach of his friend who dives at him, shaking off a tackle with no help from pads or a uniform. When his friend comes at him again, he shirks him off once more, twisting and sprinting to the opposite side, giving his receiver enough time to make it to the corner of their makeshift end zone marked with discarded shirts, skateboards, bikes and hats.
I watch through the safety of my camera lens, his arm coming back, his bicep coiling, his arm strong as it rushes forward, sending the ball racing into his receiver’s waiting hands. I don’t even notice I’m standing at first, but when I do, I stay on my feet, watching these eight boys celebrate together in a way that seems so much more important than what happens behind me. Under the lights, where a band plays and thousands cheer, hands get slapped and choreographed routines play out for attention while wealthy people keep tabs for bragging rights at weekend parties. Here, in the dark and forgotten field in a game that doesn’t matter to anyone, something beautiful plays out.
Brotherhood. Honor. Tradition.
“You decide to cover the real story there, baby girl?”
Before I can stick up for myself, Nico slaps his friend in the chest, the smack knocking air from his lungs.
“Fuck, man,” he coughs out.
“That’s quite an arm you have,” I say, deciding to ignore his friend.
“Thanks,” Nico says, stepping closer to me. I press the STOP button on my camera and let it fall to my side, but not before Nico notices. He bends down to lift a nearby gallon of water from the ground, bringing it to his lips and tipping it back, guzzling until almost half of it is gone.