Week 28 - Hometown Hero

Hometown Hero

Matthew Ryan Fischer

It was already painful; everything was sore, and the game hadn’t even begun yet. He sat on the grass, legs extended, trying to reach his toes… He hated stretching. It was important. It was good – for the muscles and for the game to come. It was going to help him stay young. He knew all that. But boy, did he hate it. His legs hurt already. His muscles felt tired for no good reason. A gift that came from getting older, he supposed. It was a bad sign. This was going to be a long game tonight. He didn’t want to run. He had run so many times. Maybe he could play Quarterback for a while. The problem with that idea was his arm. Everybody here knew he was mostly a short throws sort of guy, and that his accuracy left a lot to be desired. That was no way to lead a team – poorly. He was a receiver. He knew it; they knew it. He was fast, he knew the routes, could still turn on a dime, and had the hands to make touch catches. That’s what they would want him to play. For years now, that was what he had done. Outran people. Ran the Post. His team would expect that. They needed someone to do that. He wasn’t looking forward to it. No, not at all. His legs hurt already and tonight he was being reminded of his age.

There were too many kids here. None of them were even 30. He was sure of that. They seemed like children. What was he doing here? So many new faces. So many “friends” that he only saw one night a week during the summer. People that responded to an activity post or were friends of friends or maybe they had driven by in prior weeks and seen the game being played. So many people who came from all over town, but none came from his past. Where were all those people? Where were his people? The ones he had grown up with. So many new faces. And they all looked so young.

Flag football at the War Memorial. It had been an institution throughout his life. He had played here when he was fifteen, with friends from the high schools across town. They used to fill the field. There were times they might have had too many people that wanted to play. He could remember times they divided the field and had two games at once. That was how many friends he had. That was how popular the game had been. Back then it was twice a week in the summer. Back then they were all a lot younger. Where were they all now? What was he doing here? Alone. Faces all around him, but he was alone.

Maybe institutions were meant to be handed down.

It was just a game of flag football at a park. He couldn’t even remember the real name of the park. The park wasn’t even really at the actual War Memorial. Truth be told, they were closer to the Central Library. But he had always thought of it as the park at the War Memorial, even though he didn’t know the name of it. How many times had he been here? Hundreds? A thousand? More. He was sure there was a sign somewhere around, but he had never looked for it. Why did it matter? It was just a game at a park.

It wasn’t the sort of thing that people would remember. It wasn’t the sort of thing strangers would care about. There would be no highlights. No one was going to write any articles about him... Or about this game... Or about the things he had done. Nobody would care if he caught three touchdowns or dropped three passes. Nobody would care if he played his hardest or just trotted along. He wondered if any of these people with him here, that were about to play, would even care if he did or didn’t show up next week. How many of them even knew his last name?

Reggie Miller for three. The thought came from nowhere, suddenly, popping into his mind. Wrong sport, he knew. But so what? For him, it was always going to come back to that. It was a battle cry. A mantra. Words to psyche himself up by. Reggie Miller for three. There were newer stars. Flashier stars. Stars that had won more. Stars that were younger and more in line with the times. But none of that mattered. For him, it was Reggie, in the air, taking that three-point shot. Reggie for 3. “Boom, baby.” Did any of these kids even know what that meant? Had they held their breath, watching, waiting, and hoping – only to be what?  Amazed… redeemed… inspired? Sure, they might feel that way now, about someone else, but was it the same? Did it mean the same? Maybe people still thought and said things like that, but not in the same way that he knew it, not how he meant it. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Had it been twenty years already? Had he really aged that quickly? He blinked once and time flew away. He was afraid of what might happen if he blinked again.

It wasn’t about greatness. Well, it wasn’t just about greatness. There were greats before and greats after. And there were those that were better. Or at least put up more stats on a piece of paper. But talent wasn’t always as important as tenacity, grit or desire. There was hope. Inspiration. One man making a city feel like giants, feel like anything was possible, if only for one moment. Too much talent and there’s nothing to hope for. There’s only what’s expected. There’s no thrill in seeing or doing what’s expected. There’s no danger. No risk. No proper reward. With that question mark, with that doubt, there was always the risk. The fear of failure. The feeling that something was truly on the line. There was something better in getting hopes up and pinning emotions to a chance and a prayer, and making something out of that chance, no matter how slim. There is greatness in doing more than talent should allow, doing the unlikely, the impossible. Talent is great, but greatness isn’t always talent.

What was it, back in 1995? Or was it ‘94? How did he not know that? How could he have forgotten? It wasn’t so long ago, and yet, it was a lifetime. His son could have been an adult by now if only he had bothered to have one. An adult son who wouldn’t know what his father was talking about.

He should have kissed that girl instead of watching that playoff game. Alone in her room, everyone else in the city occupied. A moment that would have been theirs and only theirs, hidden somewhere mirrored within the moment that everyone else had that day. Theirs and theirs alone, while everyone else would only have whatever it was they had shared that day. He could have stayed there all day. He could have stayed there forever. Twenty years later and he was still in that room.

The game was on. The playoff series was going to be decided. A hero was going to be born. That seemed important. That seemed to matter. Everyone said it mattered. He wanted to be part of that moment, that excitement. And he had gotten a lot of excitement out of the win. Not that he hadn’t also gotten plenty of excitement from kissing the girl. But he had done a lot of that already and he was young and foolish and assumed he would do a lot more of it. There was only one playoff game and there were millions of girls in the world. That seemed to make the difference. Little did he know.

Win or lose, a moment frozen in time, and a man in the air about to shoot a three point attempt. That was a symbol. That was an icon. That was something to be part of. He was a part of that. A small insignificant part consisting of yelling and screaming with thousands of others, but that was still a part, right? He had done something. He had been a part of something. They all had. They all had that shared experience. A moment frozen in time, made real by the emotional investment of those that were there. An emotional moment, scarred across time and space. Nothing could take that away. No picture would mean as much to a stranger, no retelling would ever have the same impact on the young. But for those there, it was everything, if even for just one moment. It was the world. And it was so long ago.

Where were they all now? Where had they gone? Did they still remember? Did they still feel it? Or was it just a fleeting moment, lost? Why weren’t any of them here? Alone, on a field full of friendly faces.

This was going to hurt. He could already feel it. In his knees, and in his muscles. First foot on the field and he could already feel it. He smiled. His team. His teammates. They wanted him to run the post. They needed him to run the post. And that’s what he was going to do. It was going to be a long game, and he was going to end up even more sore than before, but he loved it already. The challenge. The effort. Feeling in control of his body. Feeling in control of something. Once in a while it was all he needed.