ELEVEN

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"Go Aaron! Take it to the end! No no! Turn it around, AROUND!"

My eyes strained to see the field as I adjusted myself to sit up higher. The relentless wind nipped at my hair, and I cursed myself for forgetting a hair band once again. I watched between the broad shoulders of a balding man and his much smaller partner seated to the left. The ball, a little dot in the sky, was in constant motion, high in the air, then back to fumbling on the ground only to be scavenged seconds later by a stampede of boys only four feet high. It wasn't long before I spotted curly hairs protruding from the helmet. And then he was gone, trotting towards the eighteen, back on his feet after the failed run.

Dad was of course directly behind the line, pacing back in forth. His hands constantly fumbled with his white cap crumbled into his fist. He couldn't sit still even for a minor league game as this, even if he tried. His expressions never stayed static, fluctuating back in forth between a scowl and desperation. This was why I preferred to stand farther off the field in his taut moments. I didn't want to be in the line of his aggression when his temper erupted. It was bad enough listening to the careless profanities directed at my brother every time one simple mistake was made.

"Sprint Aaron!" His thunderous tone boomed. "Come on! Ball's in the air!"

My brother ran with his eyes on the prize, merely looking away every few seconds to survey the opposing team. The victory was in motion once more, rebounding back and forth between gleaming helmets of red and blue. Neither could hold on for more than one second as it jumped in an out of their hands tauntingly, refusing to claimed. Once more, the ball was in the air, soaring towards the limitless sky. My eyes trained back his jersey, number eight. He butted his way through a wall, head down with perfect posture. He could only see the ball. And maybe, had not every being of his attention been focused on the simple object, he would have seen the much stockier, more aggressive, player ramming in full force from behind. I twisted my knuckles in my hands as I watched each seen unfold. Aaron's eyes connected with mine through his netted helmet in all of a millisecond, before his face contorted, eyebrows pinching in obvious pain as his body went out of lock towards the ground.

The skid of his exposed skin against the prickly turf, made me flinch, half due to the scorching sound, but more in anticipation of the wrath of our father soon to embark. And just as predicted...

"What the hell was that? Get up off the ground now!" he demanded with hands in his hair. "Let's go! Get up!"

He searched frantically with a teary gaze, and I shot him my most sympathetic look the moment his eyes found mine.

"It's okay," I mouthed, although I wasn't sure he'd gotten it.

But, just as quickly, we parted eyes and he was back in the direction of the game, sadness now replaced with fury. If only Dad could see just how seriously his words affected him. I was the only one who noticed the slight slump in his posture or the way he froze, seeming to lose track of time for a moment after every foul play.

But now, the game was back in session with our team in possession. Another rocketed throw from number ten landed in the arms of three. Three was rather clumsy on his feet, but I couldn't help but grudgingly think that he had no reason to be nervous. After all, the resulting score of this quarter wasn't on his shoulders.

Dad was pacing again, making all shapes of wild gestures with his hands. I couldn't keep up with his endless commands, as his voice drowned out any other calamities within the surrounding area. And then, out of nowhere, came a blurred motion of feet, a streak of red yards away from the defense heading towards touchdown. The hollers changed octave then, hopeful, more enthused as I made out the number eight. Three saw the opportunity, and without hesitation sent it into a spiraling frenzy.

With his face flushed and breath visible as a cloud, Aaron took another wide step before leaping forward, hands locked into perfect shape. His pink lips curved into an o-form as his irises exploded in anticipation for the surging trophy, seconds away from his grasp.

My father stood bent over his clipboard with the hat pressed to teeth.

Please, Aaron, please.

My pleads were more for his sake than the scoreboard. We had taken charge as soon as the game began, well into the lead. Not good enough for Dad.

Aaron's fingers extended, red at the tips, too straight. He had it.

And...he lost it.

I pressed my eyes closed so that I didn't have to see it roll away.

***
The losing streak raged on as I continued to make mistake after mistake throughout the rest of the day. My hair was already suffering from the first one, knotted at the ends and in desperate need of a brush. If that wasn't bad enough, I was stuck in the car waiting for the real hurricane to blow in. Of all days to forget my set of headphones, I had to be the witness to one of Dad and Aaron's disputes. Well, it wasn't so much of a an argument on poor Aaron's end, who could do nothing but nod and listen. I caught sight of them approaching through the rearview mirror, both already in their distinct positions.

Dad's natural color had returned to his face, but that added no comfort. His eyes were straight ahead on the car. Aaron was trailing behind by a few steps carrying his equipment along with a grim defeated expression. A couple of his teammates ran by, giving him pats on the back and offering beaming smiles.

They had won, there was no obvious reason to be upset.

I braced myself as the back door came open with Aaron following inside. With another quick glance in the mirror, I saw that Dad had been approached by some parent, probably making a front to congratulate their victory before requesting more playing time for their kid. I'd hear later on at the dinner table - "Damn people can't get everything they want. We're in it to win. Your kid sucks? He ain't leaving the bench."

Dad's motto proved beneficial for him as the team maintained their winning streak within the conference. His job was to make them football players, not fans. If they were in it for mere enjoyment they could take a seat right on the bleachers and watch as spectators. And if they wanted the hands on stuff, well, the team could always use a few more ball boys.

I didn't exactly agree with his way of thinking, but I knew better than to contradict him aloud. I'd surely then have to listen to an hour long lecture about which of us is the coach and which knows absolute shit about the sport. Since words never got us anywhere but into an argument, I had to show him how I really felt through actions. Between taking Aaron to the Dairy Queen after a rough game or bandaging his fresh wounds, I always managed to cast Dad a glare of disapproval. He thought I was babying him, making him weak. And he couldn't stand it.

Now, as he climbed into the driver seat and discarded his cap in the back, he glared the same patronizing expression into the mirror. Aaron was invisible back there, head down, waiting. The pregnant silence was finally put to rest by the groan of the engine.

"Good game Aaron," I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Thanks."

We drove on for about a mile before Dad finally parted his lips.

"You know," he said, hand leaving the wheel to rub his stubbly chin, "I think maybe that boyfriend of yours, Kaya, could show Aaron a few things. Don't you think?"

I bit down hard on my tongue, fighting against myself, holding it in. Aaron's voice answered for me.

"No."

I mentally thanked him, but didn't get a chance to aloud before Dad was back to patronizing once more.

"I believe I asked your sister. What do you say Kay? Think you can put in a word for me?"

"I really don't think..."

That he should come within a one mile radius of my brother. It was bad enough that I had to deal with the likes of him, and I refused to put Aaron through that.

"You don't think what? Huh?" His voice suddenly rose. "One favor, Kay. That's all I ask. You know, you act just like your mother sometimes, making things more difficult than they need to be."

Every time I opened my mouth to speak I had to close it again because he wouldn't stop.

"Don't you want your brother to be good?"

He was now surely squinting at me from beneath his shades. I decided then to give him the answer that he wasn't looking for.

"He's not now? Honestly Dad, don't you think your asking for a little much. They win and yet you still find something to be upset about. Aaron's fine. Actually he's great."

I stole a quick glance to the backseat to see the beginnings of a smile formed on his face. But before I could rejoice in this small victory the battle had turned against my favor.

"There's always room for improvement. Come starting January, I want Mason at every practice he can make. I think what the team could really use is an assistant coach. And I'm sure it shouldn't be a problem for him. Either you go to him or I do. What's it gonna be?"

I wanted to curse him I was so frustrated. Then follow with an explanation of why an abusive, bipolar lunatic wasn't the ideal leader for a little league football team of ten year olds.

But, I did what I do best and sat back, silently.

"Fine."

This was the last word I graced him with as we traveled the rest of the way home. And I swore I could sense Mason's very presence right there in the car with us.


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