Out of the Pocket by Bill Konigsberg Page B

the house.” And with that he was off.
    My mother turned around and offered a subtle, silent apology for my father—a shoulder bob and a certain way of creasing her eyes that says, Don’t Take It Personal, Bobby Lee. He’s Just Like That .
    Carrie was there. She hated football but sometimes she came to my games. She came up behind me and placed her chin on my neck.
    “That was one of the finest basketball games I’ve ever seen,” she said. I turned to her and smirked.
    “Hockey,” I corrected.
    “Look, I may be white, but the name-calling is totally out of place,” she said, kissing me on the cheek and heading out toward her car. She’s so weird. I love her.
    “What were you thinking when you threw the pick?” The usual suspect reporters had come to form their circle around me. I was a little relieved to see them fl ock to Rahim this time. But sure enough, they found me, too.
    There were about seven of them looming in front of me, including Finch who was waving a tape recorder in my face along with the rest of them.
    What kind of questions are these? What do you think I was thinking? What would you think if a six-foot-six mammoth in a helmet 79
    was running at you, full speed, with a look somewhere between homicidal and maniacal in his eye?
    “I was thinking, ‘Holy crap, I’m about to be mauled,’ ” I said, and the laughs came pouring out, as if from a comedy faucet.
    That’s me. Just turn my crank and I’ll gush stupid jokes at you all night.
    “Did you throw to the right place, and Mendez got messed up, or was it your fault?” asked a short guy, new to me.
    “Just a miscommunication,” I said, echoing Coach. “It happens sometimes.” They all nodded, as if this answered, rather than restated, their question.
    “Did their guy, Levy, get in your face today?” asked a tall, skinny guy, maybe fi fty, who was standing to the right of Finch.
    “I have no idea who that is,” I answered.
    He rifled through his notes. “Number fifty-five,” he said. “Linebacker?”
    “Well, I got knocked down a bunch, so probably,” I said. “Mostly it was number ninety-nine. I saw his number a lot from the ground.”
    A couple of them laughed.
    The man smiled thinly. “I’m doing a feature article about Gus Levy. He’s one of their linebackers, and he’s Jewish.”
    I laughed, feeling a little high from the adrenaline still. “A Jew in Southern California? Stop the presses!” I said. A huge laugh.
    I should do stand-up. Or more truthfully, when I’m punch-drunk on adrenaline and dealing with pesky reporters, I should do stand-up.
    “A Jewish football player who’s being recruited all over the country,” the man said patiently, his thin smile barely remaining.
    “Oh, okay,” I answered. “Cool. But there are some Jewish players in the NFL. That quarterback for Houston. Sage Rosenfels? He’s gay, isn’t he?”
    80
    It took about two seconds for the sirens to start going off in my head.
    I meant Jewish, of course, but I don’t think in my whole life I’d had a conversation with anyone about Jewish athletes, let alone thought about it. Gay ones, though, I’d thought a lot about that. It just slipped out, and there was no way to slip it back in.
    “Pardon me?” the older reporter said, his ears seeming to dance as they perked up.
    “Jewish,” I said. “Did I say? Wow. I don’t know why that was in my . . .”
    I looked at Finch. I didn’t mean to, but subconsciously I thought of our interview and I just looked at him. He had this expression on his face, like he was deep in thought, and I wanted to yell out, No!
    No! Stop thinking that. But I was already looking strange enough to the group of reporters.
    I looked away, and that’s when I found myself, once again, staring deep into the eyes of the goateed stranger whom I’d seen after our fi rst game, at Huntington Beach.
    He had this glint in his eye that made me blush. He smiled big, a flawless row of white teeth showing, and I lost my