A kid is sitting on the bleachers
A kid is sitting on the bleachers. This must be a dream because we're in Memorial Stadium in Johnson City, home of the Hilltoppers — it got demolished years ago. But even more than that, the kid is me, only he's… I'm 10.
He's sitting at the bottom of the bleachers in the shade of the big press box in the late evening as daylight is slipping away.They bolted metal sheets along the bottom when they built the steel risers on top of the old concrete stadium. The kid is sitting where I always sat, on the walkway, legs dangling over the ledge so he can hammer his heels into the sheet on 3rd downs. He's making a rumbling sound with each kick: boom, boom.
I sit next to him and pop my heel once, for old-time's sake. Boom.
"Am I dead?" he asks me.
"If you were dead, I'd be Jesus."
"Yeah, your beard isn't long enough."
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yeah, you're me … you got kinda fat."
"Easy. I just had a kid this year."
"I become a dad!?!"
"Yeah, bud. It's a girl. And your wife is super pretty."
"So she's hot?"
"Yes, very hot."
He's bouncing his feet into the metal sheet without thinking. I realize I'm doing the same thing. Couldn't sit still then, can't now. Boom. Boom.
He stops mid-boom. He looks at the stands across the field. His brow is furrowed, perplexed. "Where do babies come from—"
"The Cubs win the World Series in 2016."
"NO WAY!"
"It's even better than you can imagine."
"Were you there?"
"Well, no." I stopped, realizing why I wasn't. I turn to face him: "You know they're going to win now. Buy that $656 ticket for Game 7 on Ticketmaster. It'll be worth it. The Cubs win it in the 10th. Oh, and bring a rain jacket."
"Does it get rained out?"
"Short delay. Enough time to get a corn dog."
"You still like corn dogs?"
"I'm 32. I'm not dead."
We sit there, swinging our legs. The late evening sun disappears behind the light stanchions. Boom. Boom. Boom.
"What's our job?"
"We make videos," he doesn't react. "Movies. We make movies."
"NO WAY."
"One of our movies will play at a theater in Knoxville. A big theater."
"Like a real movie screen?"
"With popcorn and everything."
He's smiling, watching the gold light slide up the opposite stands with the setting sun. He looks at the field. Boom. Boom. Boom.
"Do we play football here?"
"Sure do."
"No way!"
"And later, you'll make movies on the field at Neyland Stadium someday for Vols games, too!"
"No way!"
"Yeah, it's part of your job."
"I bet I get to go to a bunch of SEC Championship games with them, too, then!"
"Yeah! Absolutely!" I lie.
The cicadas in the trees over in the Keystone neighborhood just beyond the bleachers are humming. Boom. Boom. Boom.
"You're pretty cool, you know?" he says.
"Why? Because I make movies and was on the field at Vols games?"
"Nope. I just think you're cool," he smiles as he pops the metal sheet. Boom. Boom.
"Thanks, bud. I, um, I needed that. You're pretty cool, too." My eyes are a little wet.
We sit there watching the last of the sun fade off the bleachers. There are so many things I want to tell him, to warn him about. But I don't. I'm still here. He will be, too.
Boom. Boom.
"Do you have to leave soon?" he asks.
"Probably."
"Will you come back and see me sometime?"
"I'd love that," I walk up the steps, both heavier and lighter.
"Oh, by the way," I say, turning around. "Next time you see Lee Lou, give her a big hug and tell her we love her … Aunt Becky too."
Boom. Boom.