Friday night football

I was down at the outset.

It was the first Friday in 10 years that I hadn’t been involved in high school football in some way. In high school, I watched and twirled at half-time. In college and beyond, I reported game summaries for the Post.

And I always loved that first Friday of the high school football season. The sounds of dads coaching from the sideline, girls giggling over their football crush, that smell of almost-stale popcorn and fries with cheese, the awful cheers, and that sweet sound of victory on a Friday night somewhere in a Western Pennsylvania school district--big or small--that absolutely dominates this region.

As you may imagine, the newsroom was a little different. Stressed, excited, eager to finish quickly and accurately and before deadline. There was still that smell of almost-stale popcorn and fries with cheese, as there’s never a shortage of food among journalists. And the phones never stopped ringing.

Perhaps what I woke up missing the most was that my day was starting at 6 a.m. instead of 6 p.m. Or maybe it had very little to do with writing up game summaries based on someone else’s work. I could’ve done that in my sleep. It was such second nature to me that I had once done it three days before I gave birth, with my swollen feet up on a hard drive, and three days after I had Cienna, doing Kegels on a desk chair.

(God bless the sweet men of that department who always asked me if I wanted anything from downstairs. Downstairs was where they kept the food and drink.)

It might sound silly, but I really really love sports. And though that job was far removed from being a sports beat reporter, I was still part of the process. I got to hear and read the quotes from the game that didn’t make it to print the next day. I heard the funny locker room stories. And somehow, someway, I always got the trivia calls.

That’s what I miss the most.

What started as a joke--forward all the drunk trivia calls to Candy--became reality. I was never disappointed by the volume of those calls. I could always count on two things in Pittsburgh on a Friday night--high school sports and drunk trivia calls. I had it all, believe me, and I got an education in the process. I know more about NFL stats for the last 40 years than a 24-year-old girl needs to.

I just can’t believe that I once got paid to talk to drunk people, calling from Casey’s Draft House, and essentially end their bar fights.

You know how guys get out of prison and look for the cops that put them away? Well, one day, I’m going to have a band of angry drunks looking for me because I cost them several rounds of Jack and ginger.

Thinking about my old life and what I got paid to do, and other things I had to do during that time of my life and didn’t get paid for, made me cry while I dried my hair Friday morning. It was just another sign of progress I suppose.

It was also a big day for me because I broke front-page news. The Post, where I used to work in sports, and the Review, where I once interned and wrote for the features department, both followed the story on Saturday. So I still had my victory on the opening week of the season.

A front-page story usually means getting drunk or getting laid. I could’ve done both, but I opted for the former. Because a little part of me, when I was working Friday nights, used to wonder what it would it be like to go out before midnight on the weekends during football season. Apparently, it’s like getting drunk before 7.

Oh, make no mistake, I was drunk on vodka and diet sprite by 7.

Usually I go out with Philly on Friday nights. Well, that’s how it’s been lately. But he had surgery on his broken hand earlier that day. (The cute thing walked around with a broken hand for five days without going, but finally he was prodded into the ER. The ER sent him to an orthopedic specialist. The orthopedic specialist performed surgery.)

Anyway, I was just lost without him. We’ve become quite close. He’s the brother I’ve never had, and it’s the fastest I’ve ever been willing to call someone a best friend.

I was ready to pull out my hair through the day, worrying about him in the hospital by himself. I would’ve gone, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to be in the O.R., and HIPPA would’ve kept me from finding out anything before Philly told me.

He got in touch while I was drinking vodka and said he was out. We texted for a while and then he invited me to his parents, where he had gone after surgery to be pampered, watch the Steelers-Redskins exhibition game and eat pizza.

I passed on the pizza because I can’t eat while I’m drinking (I’ll get sick). Or as Mak would say, “I can’t like that.” But I did go to his parents’ house (instead of hooking up with a previously-mentioned wrong guy) and loved it. They are so great. I felt comfortable immediately, and that’s not always easy. Some houses just aren’t warm and welcoming, but this one was. I started talking to his mother and couldn’t stop. She’s beautiful and sweet and everything someone could want in a mom. His dad was funny and kickass and made a fine vodka tonic with lime.

(Hey, do you think I drink vodka tonic because it was Badass Dr. David M. Jones’ signature drink?)

We talked, we laughed, we looked at old pictures. I got drunker and played with two great dogs. OK, one of the dogs--Buck--just kind of laid around. However, Bear, the younger, taller, black lab-looking puppy, shared all kinds of love. They warned me that he was stupid, but like all stupid boys I’ve loved, he was cute, sweet and oh-so lovable.

In between drinks and dogs, I observed them interacting as a family--just as I observe everything. It brought tears to my eyes. The lighting--you know I’m a lighting hound--was perfect. His mother picked the perfect colors to make the family room inviting and comforting (thank you, Cameron, for giving me the experience to make such a call). Philly sat with his mom on the couch. I sat in a chair across from them, and his dad sat in a chair parallel to mine.

Philly and his dad talked about high school football fields and professional linemen. It was probably a conversation they’d had several times before and will have again.

His mother sat there in the glow of a lamp, holding her own vodka tonic, looking beautiful and young. I was shocked to learn her age. But I know moments like that one--with a loving family and two cute dogs around her--has kept her from aging a day. She’s still in love with her husband, and Philly is still her baby. Her children still bring her joy, and Mak just makes her day.

Mak makes everybody’s day. Her father can barely say her name without tears in his eyes.

It’s just one of the many reasons he’s beautiful.

And so I wondered in that moment, do they have any clue how lucky they are? Just to have each other...

I’ve always been absolutely fascinated by functional families who truly love and support each other. It’s such a novelty to me. You can’t buy that. You can’t fake that. You can’t even build it without the right people.

I’m surprised I held back tears. I’m surprised I didn’t have to make that second trip to the bathroom. But when I look at him--whether he’s smiling, laughing or just sitting there biting on the left side of his bottom lip--I feel stronger instantly. Because I know that, when I’m with him, I don’t have to worry about anything. He won’t hurt me, lie to me or use me, and he won’t let anyone else do it either.

So I decided that, just as I hoped he never took his beautiful family for granted, I wouldn’t take a beautiful friend--a real friend--for granted.

We left and drove to his house which is nearby. We both drank there and talked. We watched TV--though I have no idea what was on. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, and the extra water made his hair spiky in the front, which looked really cute. I’m used to seeing him in a hat.

I might know every curve of his face.

As always, I was very talkative, so we kept talking. Until his phone rang at 1:30 a.m. It was Mak’s mom, wondering why he didn’t call to check on her earlier that day. He explained that he had surgery and she asked how he was doing. And then they hung up.

But I guess it pissed me off that she called at 1:30 a.m. to essentially complain. Standing in my shoes, I think she has it pretty damn easy. He loves Mak, he’s a friend to her, he doesn’t hurt her, lie to her, and he’s an active father who sees his daughter every week, as often as possible.

That’s a dream to me.

I sort of questioned the situation, but he took it as me accusing him of having a different sort of relationship with her--that of the booty call variety. He explained that wasn’t anywhere near the truth--which I was well aware of--but felt like I didn’t believe him, and that upset him.

I had said, “Well, I’d just never even think of calling Mike at 1:30 a.m.”

He said, “Yeah, well this is totally different. First of all, I don’t beat [Mak’s mom], and I love and actually take an interest in my daughter.”

And though I knew he didn’t say it to hurt me, it did. And it stung severely. And the reason I think it hurt so much was because he said it. And the reason why that mattered was because I met him the weekend after Mike had hit me. He talked me out of a nightmare at 3:30 a.m., and that’s how we became friends.

Since then, we built a friendship on kindness, gentleness and not hurting each other.

He’s not someone who says hurtful things, and I’m probably one of the last people he’d ever want to hurt.

But that comment hit the bull’s eye. And I felt so stupid and vulnerable and broken that all I could do was say, “Real nice,” and leave quickly.

He tried to talk on my way out of the door. He tried to make me stay.

But I left and cried the whole drive. In fact, I cried so hard I couldn’t see, which is how I side-swiped a stopped--yeah, stopped?--car on an exit of the parkway. I thought they were moving--because they were in a driving lane--but they were stopped. It wasn’t major, but we exchanged paint.

I got a drunk text from my darling friend and her brother, and I called them back crying.

Philly called and sent text messages to see if I was OK, but I didn’t reply. Not because I was mad at him--I knew he wasn’t trying to hurt me. I just felt stupid and vulnerable and broken.

About twenty minutes later, he was at my front door. I was startled by it because I wasn’t sure who it was. I didn’t know if it was a hookup, a neighbor, a criminal.

“It’s me,” he said.

I unlocked the door and couldn’t look at him. I kept my head down. I didn’t want him to see me looking stupid and vulnerable and broken.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking. I know I hurt you,” he said, walking toward me.

Then he hugged me and said, “I’m sorry.”

And I cried. Because, at that point, I was really feeling stupid and vulnerable and broken. And scared. Scared that I might not know another man who would drive 30 minutes in 20 at 3 a.m. just to say “I’m sorry.”

So I got into bed and he laid beside me and we talked. Just talked.

“I feel like I reversed everything by saying that to you. I wasn’t thinking,” he said.

We laid there on our stomachs, facing each other. I was under the covers with a green box of Kleenex. He was on top of the covers with a beige arm wrap. He had left his car at work because of the surgery, so to get to my house, he walked to his parents’ to get their car and drive to say three words.

“It’s just that...I don’t need reminded that I made bad choices and had a baby with someone who doesn’t love me. And I don’t need reminded that he doesn’t love Cienna. And I’ve tried to pretend that she’s OK with just me, but she’s not. You know what she calls you? She calls you “Daddy.” Not because she thinks you’re her father, but because she really thinks your name is Daddy because that’s what Mak calls you. And do you think it’s easy for me to watch how wonderful you are with Mak, knowing Cienna is never going to have that? You think there aren’t other miserable people in my life, who are secretly unhappy with their lives, who try to rub my face in it? And the worst part is I would’ve been OK if someone else said it, because I expect other people to hurt me, but it was you. And I trust you to not hurt me. And I care about what you think. And I really give a fuck about you. I kind of need you and I don’t want to. And I know I’m going to lose you because...”

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” he said slowly and genuinely.

I knew he wasn’t lying. And I knew he was sorry.

Before he left, we hugged again. He always gives real hugs--not those insincere hugs with a lot of patting.

After he left, I cried myself to sleep. I still felt stupid and vulnerable and broken, but I knew it was OK.

Just as his beautiful, loving, comforting family is rare, so is it that he would walk to his parents with a broken hand, take their car, drive to my house in the middle of the night just to apologize. Just to say “I’m sorry.”

Some coaches wait their whole lives for that kind of win. And the only thing missing was the almost-stale popcorn and fries with cheese.