I'm with Stupid

I'm with Stupid by Geoff Herbach Page A

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Authors: Geoff Herbach
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back in the ESPN studio.
    â€œFelton Reinstein,” says the sportscaster. “Good to see you, buddy. Nick Clemmons here.”
    â€œYeah. Uh-huh. Yeah,” I say to the air. “Hello, sir.” Lights so bright they’re burning my face.
    â€œLooks like you have a full house out there in Wisconsin.”
    â€œBig,” I say.
    â€œWell, there’s a lot of excitement in the studio too. How are you feeling about your choice?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. I blink into the lights. I feel sweat roll down my forehead. Where’s that towel?
    â€œYour mom happy? She sure looks proud.”
    I feel Jerri move. She puts her hands on my shoulders. She squeezes.
    The whole thing is only supposed to take a couple minutes. ESPN will cut to another recruit in just a few minutes.
    â€œSo let’s get to business. Felton Reinstein is rated the number three running back prospect in the country by…”
    And then I think: Dad was a national champion… I picture him crushing a tennis ball, exploding across the court, crushing another, which I’ve seen on fuzzy VHS video at Grandpa Stan’s house.
    Nick Clemmons keeps talking. But I don’t listen. I think: Dad. I think: Dad ran across the court. Dad crushed the ball. Dad didn’t move when he was zipped into a bag. Dad. Where did that energy go? Where did his life go? Where? Are you there, Dad? No. You’re dead with Curtis, but Pig Boy is here and Abby is here and Terry is up there in the stands staring down at Jerri and probably thinking he’d like to be making out with her on our damn couch because his marriage is done and Jerri’s been done with it all forever because Dad, you’re dead and gone forever…I see him crushing a tennis ball. Exploding across the court… I can’t take this anymore.
    And then Nick Clemmons says, “It’s time, buddy. Are you still in deliberations?”
    I hear him. I jerk to attention. “No. Sorry.”
    â€œWhere you heading next year?”
    I look at the hats. I see them, see the insignias. (I’m not blind.) I reach and pick up the Wisconsin hat. The crowd completely erupts. There are huge cheers, like screams of joy. I say, “Shit,” on national television. I shake my head. I say, “No.” I put the hat down and pick up the Stanford hat.
    â€œOuch. Harsh, my man,” laughs Nick Clemmons from the ESPN studio.
    I hold my breath. I know what I’ve done. Intentional. “No. That was…I’m going to Stanford,” I mumble.
    Then there’s this giant hiss—the whispering of a thousand confused Wisconsinites.
    â€œWe wish you best of luck, Felton. Enjoy California, buddy,” says Nick Clemmons.
    â€œThanks. Okay,” I say.
    The TV lights go off. Jerri says, “Wow, Stanford. Didn’t see that coming. That’s wonderful.”
    The gym is so quiet. People murmur. Confused.
    The gym is so quiet.
    Then Karpinski yells, “Good one, Rein Stone.”
    Coach Johnson says, “I’m surprised. It’s a good school. Good for you. I’m very surprised. We looked forward to seeing you up in Madison.”
    â€œI’m not going to Wisconsin,” I say.
    â€œNo. I see that,” Coach Johnson says. His face is red. I’ve embarrassed him. The crowd hisses.
    I decide right then I’m taking the rest of the week off. “I need to leave, Jerri,” I say.
    She nods.
    I pull the mic pack out of my pants, unclip the other part from my collar, hand it to the ESPN guy.
    â€œCongratulations, man,” he says.
    While kids flow out of the gym into the commons, Jerri and I leave by the side door. We don’t go through the school. People from the town and the state and wherever else are in the parking lot. A few say, “Good school.” But they’re quiet. They’re mad. Of course. I picked up the Wisconsin hat.
    Terry Sauter meets us in the parking lot. He

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