Stick by Michael Harmon

quit—remember? And besides, even if football is useless, what you’re doing is useless, too.”
    He swung his backpack at me full-force, and in the next second he was on me, flapping his arms, slapping me, trying to hit me. I felt like I was being attacked by a herd of sixth-grade girls. Hunching over and putting my arms over my head, I waited until he was finished.
    Finally he stood back, panting, his eyes wild, staring at me.
    I peeked at him through the crook of my elbow, expecting another flurry. “Are you done?”
    He kicked his backpack, sending it into the street. “I know I’m not a superhero! I know I’m not strong or tough and I can hardly walk down the street without tripping over my own fucking feet, but if I’d just been able to do something when—” He stopped suddenly, swallowing, and I saw tears in his eyes.
    In the next breath, he snatched up his pack and ran. His footsteps echoed down the street as he disappeared into the darkness. And as I watched him go, I knew I’d hurt him. This
wasn’t
a game to him, and it wasn’t pretending. I felt like a fool. There was nothing for him to win, I realized, because he couldn’t win his father back to life.

I cut the headlights and coasted to the curb in front of my house. Thank God there were no lights on, and as I opened the car door, I hoped my dad was beer-sleeping. A tornado wouldn’t wake the guy up when he fell asleep with a beer in his hand.
    I knew I was in all kinds of trouble. I’d stolen back my car, which he knew about now for sure; I’d quit the team and declined a scholarship; and at one-thirty in the morning I was way past my curfew. A week ago if I’d ever thought of doing those things, I’d have thought I’d be better off slitting my wrists and jumping off a bridge.
    As I tiptoed up the porch stairs, I grunted. Tiptoeing? It was like sneaking back into prison. Straightening, I opened the front door. It banged into something. Pushing, I moved whatever it was and poked my head in, looking down.
    There, barely glinting from the moonlight, was a box full of every trophy I’d ever won. I smiled. At least it was a big box.
    “Those are yours.”
    His voice came from the recliner. His words were slurred, but not like the usual drunk-and-half-asleep slur. I stepped inside. He turned the lamp on.
    I shut the door. “I’m sorry I’m late and I’m sorry I took my car. I should have told you.”
    He pointed to the box. “You earned those. Keep them. Nothing else, though.” He held his hand out. “Keys.”
    I looked down at the box, then back at him. “What’s going on?”
    “It means you no longer live here. You take your trophies and get out.”
    “Dad, come on. I said I wa—”
    “GET OUT!” he boomed.
    He was half drunk, but this wasn’t just the booze talking. The football drilling my chest flashed through my mind. I wondered for a second if he’d turned into a total jerk or if I’d just gotten old enough to know he’d always been one. “Okay. I’ll pack my clothes and leave.”
    He shook his head. “You take the clothes on your back and that box full of wasted dreams. Get out.”
    “Dad, come on.”
    “You screwed up, Brett. You’ve thrown away everything you’ve been given, and this is what happens to people like that. Give me the keys.”
    “No.”
    He stood, his eyes boring into me. “Now!”
    “Or what? You got a football you want to hit me with? Maybe grab me and shake me? That’s one of your favorites, right? Throw me up against the wall? Slap me again?” I stared right back at him. “You know what I did tonight? I tried to help a kid who lost his dad. Murdered right in front of him. He goes out and tries to make the world a better place because of it. You know what I do? I catch a fucking ball. That’s all I’m supposed to do, right? And now your poor little world is ruined.”
    He came at me, his eyes flaring, and as he did, I raised my hands and shoved him. Hard. He flew back, crashing against