[Draft Day continued…]

When Eric wasn't back in over an hour, Tami couldn't take it anymore. She was a nervous wave of pacing energy.

"I'll go drive around and look for him," Mr. Taylor assured her. She insisted on coming with him, no matter how hard he tried to put her off.

"I'll watch Julie," Karen told her.

Once they were in his car, or rather Karen's, a four-door sedan, Mr. Taylor seemed to drive with a purpose.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"There's a bar in this direction, about twelve blocks from the house. I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up there. I might have, if I were him."

When he pulled to a stop in the parking lot behind a building painted with the words "The Watering Hole," Tami reached for the car door.

"No," he said. "Wait here. I've done some work for the owner. This isn't exactly a family friendly establishment. I'll just check if he's in there, and I'll come back."

She followed him anyway. He looked behind his shoulder at her and shook his head.

When they walked through the front door, Tami saw what Mr. Taylor meant. There were several men in the establishment, some in cowboy hats and some in sleeveless leather jackets that revealed their tattooed arms, some burly and intimidating and others lean and leering, some harmless looking and some dangerous looking, but hardly a woman among them. She could feel several pairs of eyes turn to her.

A bald, stocky man who sat at a high table near the door stared intently at her chest. She threw a warning glance at him, but he only smiled and lewdly licked his lips. She felt suddenly sick.

Mr. Taylor didn't notice, because he was watching the scene at the bar, where Eric stood waving a glass around, whiskey sloshing up and down the sides. Eric didn't drink whiskey. He drank beer.

"Cut off!" Eric shouted. "What? I haven't had that many!"

"It's the time frame," the bartender said. "The law requires me – "

"- Law!" Eric shouted. "What law? There's no goddamn law!"

"If you don't calm down," the bartender said, "I'm calling the cops."

"I've got him!" Mr. Taylor shouted. "Raylan, I've got him." He walked over to Eric and clasped a hand on his shoulder.

"Garrett, you know this punk ass kid?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah, I know him, and I'm going to get him out of here and get him home."

"I don't want any trouble," the bartended told him.

"I know," Mr. Taylor said. "I know."

"You going to pay his tab too?"

"Just debit what you still owe me for the repairs."

The man at the high table had gotten down to stand next to Tami, and he was looking her up and down. "What's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?"

Tami didn't respond to him.

"Too proud to answer me? Proudy, pretty thing, ain't ya?"

"Hey!" Eric shouted in his direction. "That's my wife!"

"You're with that loser?" the man asked. Then, looking straight at Eric, "It's a shame, because I don't think you've got what it takes to satisfy a girl like her. She needs a real man." He held his hands out as though gripping an imaginary woman's hips and began pumping his crotch forward and back and laughing.

Eric lunged toward him, but, in his drunken stumble, tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground. Before Eric's face hit the wooden floor, however, Mr. Taylor had crossed the barroom and punched the man in the face. The bald man's head snapped back, and blood dripped from his nose.

"Goddamnit, Garret!" the bartender shouted. "Not in my bar!" He picked up the phone.

Mr. Taylor tossed the car keys to Tami. "Get in the car," he said just before the bald man lunged forward and tackled him against a table.

[*]

It was hot in April, and especially hot in the car where Tami was waiting tensely in the passenger side seat. Eventually, she had to crank down the window. She heard the sirens in the distance. A minute later, two cop cars and an ambulance pulled into the lot. Four cops and two medics streamed into the bar.

It seemed like hours, though it was only another fifteen minutes, before Mr. Taylor emerged with Eric, walked him to the car, and assisted him into the backseat. Mr. Taylor slid into the driver's seat. He had a white bandage secured with medical tape to his forehead.

"What happened to you?" Tami asked.

"That bald guy cut me with a broken bottle. It's fine. Medics didn't think I needed stitches." He held out his hand. "Keys."

As she handed them over, she asked, "Neither of you is in trouble with the police?"

Mr. Taylor started the car and began to drive. "One of the cops goes to my church. I explained to him the situation, and he was understanding."

Eric groaned in the backseat. "Dad….I think I'm going to vomit."

"Not in my wife's car you aren't." He pulled over to the side of the road. Eric stumbled out and vomited into the gutter, near a storm drain, and then crawled back into the car. Mr. Taylor peeled off.

When they walked into the house, Karen took one look at Mr. Taylor's bandage and asked, "What happened?"

"I'll explain later."

"Is he okay?" Karen glanced at Eric, who was being supported by his father.

"He's going to take a little nap in the guest bedroom." Mr. Taylor led him there.

Tami slid wearily onto the couch.

Julie had been waving a stuffed monkey over Andrew in the pack n' play. She dropped it. "Daddy sick?" she asked.

"Yes," Tami told her. "Daddy's sick. So he's resting for a little bit."

Mr. Taylor returned to the living room. He said not one word about what had just transpired. Instead, he sat down on the floor, plucked up another one of Julie's stuffed monkeys, and said, "My monkey."

"No!" Julie cried. "MY monkey!" She ran to him, and he tickled her. They mock tussled, and Julie was all gales of laughter until she noticed his bandage. She pointed to it and asked, "Boo boo?"

"Just a little one," he said, and Karen raised an eyebrow at him. "I'll explain later," he repeated to her.

"Tami, honey," Karen said, "why don't you go lie down with your husband? Get some rest. We'll watch Julie."

Tami took her up on the offer, crawled into bed next to Eric, and curled up against his side. He was on his back, snoring. Somehow, maybe it was pure weariness over all that had just happened, she dozed off.

When she awoke, he wasn't in the bed. She heard the shower running in the guest bathroom. In a matter of minutes, Eric re-entered the room, a white towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp. He dropped his clothes in a pile to the floor, avoided meeting her eyes, and lay down in bed next to her on his back.

"Did you drink some water?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered as he looked up at the ceiling.

She put a hand on his knee. "How are you feeling?'

"Like shit."

"I'll drive us home tonight." She glanced at the clock. They'd slept awhile. It was already ten at night, but they both had work and classes tomorrow. They couldn't stay overnight.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't make it. I'm sorry I threw the bottle. I'm sorry I got drunk. I'm sorry I couldn't defend your honor against that asshole. I'm sorry that I wasn't even man enough to do that."

"Eric," Tami said softly.

"I don't deserve you."

She curled against him and kissed his cheek. He turned his head aside and closed his eyes tightly. She could tell he was trying not to cry, but she didn't try. She just cried. When her tears wet his shoulder, he said, "You're disappointed in me."

"No, Eric. I believe in you."

He took in a shaky breath, and Tami could see the tears pooled in his eyes, not yet running over. "Why?"

"Eric, you're my husband and the father of my child. You don't think I know you?" He didn't answer. "Well I do know you. You're strong, and loyal, and conscientious. You're hardworking and smart and sexy and – "

"- Stop."

"No. I'm not going to stop. I'm never going to stop believing in you. I'm never going to stop supporting you. Whatever the future holds, I'm going to be by your side every step of the way. And there's nothing you can do to stop me."

He turned his head, put a hand on her cheek, and kissed her deeply. "I love you," he whispered. "And I'm going to make myself worthy of your faith in me."

[*]

When they emerged from the guest bedroom a little later, they found the living room empty. They went to the kitchen, where Karen was emptying the dishwasher. She stopped when she saw them. "Julie's in our bed. She was a little keyed up, but Garrett read to her, and she finally fell asleep at 9."

"Karen," Eric said, "I apologize for my behavior today. There's absolutely no – "

"- It's okay, Eric," she assured him. "You had a really bad disappointment. I know you didn't mean to do it. I understand."

"Thank you." He looked at the floor. "We're going to need to get going back to Waco soon. Where's my dad?"

"He's in his shop in the garage."

When Eric and Tami opened the door to the garage, Mr. Taylor stopped hammering. He hung his hammer up on a peg board full of tools and wiped his hands on a cloth. He had a window air conditioning unit running in the garage, and it was nice and cool. He appeared to be making a toy chest.

Eric put a hand on one of the workbenches – Mr. Taylor had two - and did not look at his father as he spoke. "I apologize for my behavior today. It was unacceptable."

"Yes, it was," Mr. Taylor replied. "There were children in the room when you threw that bottle. You terrified my son and my granddaughter. And you were a guest in my wife's house. That was disrespectful to her. And then you drew me into a bar fight."

"I drew you in?" Eric looked up now. "You threw the first punch."

"Because you were too drunk to throw it."

"It wouldn't have needed throwing if you hadn't brought Tami in there in the first place."

"Nobody brings Tami anywhere, son. Tami goes where she pleases."

"Fair enough," Eric said. He swallowed. He seemed to be waiting for his father to say something more, but Mr. Taylor was silent. Finally, Eric said, "I'm sorry I disappointed you, Dad, that I didn't make it to the NFL, that I let you down."

Tami wondered if she should leave them alone, but she thought Eric might want her support, so instead she put a hand on the small of his back.

"It doesn't have to be over, Eric," his father said. "I admit, you're probably right that you aren't going to get signed as an undrafted free agent now. But this glut of quarterbacks won't last. And if you continue to play football in the amateur leagues for – "

"- No," Eric interrupted him.

"Son, you were robbed. You were robbed by some two-bit, cocky defensive end. You were a better player than him in high school, and you're a better player than him now."

"Dad, Mo sacked me twice when the Bears were playing A&M. He was good in his position in high school, and he got better in college. I was surprised when I didn't see him on the invitation list to the Combine. He's an ass, sure, but it's not his fault I didn't get drafted. He earned that pick. He's a better football player than I am."

"You have real talent, son. You have a gift. If you just play for an amateur league for a while, you will be noticed again. They'll all be sorry they passed you over. You could –"

"- No," Eric said. "The amateur leagues take up a huge amount of time and pay nothing. I have a family to support. There's a reason you quit playing semi-pro."

"I didn't have the support of a wife. I didn't have someone to share the burden. And I still wish I'd done it, that I'd found a way to keep playing, that I hadn't given up when I did. I should have made it work, asked my sister to help more, gone into debt if I had to."

"Well I'm sorry you regret your decision, Dad, but this is my decision. I need to be a man and take care of my family. I'm going to look for a teaching job somewhere where I can get on as a coach too."

"So you'll coach?" Mr. Taylor asked, his voice slightly raised. "You'll start as some low-level assistant, with a paltry stipend, and put in hundreds of hours of work a year to coach, but you won't do the same thing to play? Why?"

"Because if I pay my dues coaching, I know I can eventually get to a point where I can support my family doing it. You don't know how many plays I've suggested to my coaches over the years that they've told me where good calls. You don't know how much I love coaching those little kids at the after-school program. I can be good at that job, Dad. It'll be much easier to teach and coach for the same school than it will be to work some unrelated, full-time job while playing in an amateur league."

"Are you even certified to teach?"

"I'll have my B.A. in May. There's an alternative certification program. I can get certified over the summer, start work in the fall. There's a teacher shortage in Texas right now."

"What about the CFL?"

"What about it?" Eric asked.

"They have open try outs. You could maybe get in, make an impression, and later get drafted from the CFL to the NFL as a free agent."

"Even if they wanted me, as a rookie CFL player, I'd probably only make around $30,000."

"Well that's more than you'll make as a teacher!"

"I'd have to pay Canadian taxes on that salary. And the cost of living is a hell of a lot higher than in Texas."

"Not a hell of a lot."

"I'd have to learn the Canadian rules."

"They aren't that different, Eric."

"I'd have to move my family to Canada. Tami would need a work visa or something."

"They could live across the border in America," Mr. Taylor said. "You could go back and forth."

"What? And maintain two households? On that salary? And not see my wife and child for days at a time? Even if they did want me, I'm not going to put off building a teaching and coaching career and rip myself from my family for the CFL."

"You're giving up, Eric. You didn't get what you wanted when you wanted it, so like a petulant little boy, you're just throwing in the towel." Mr. Taylor tossed the rag he was holding onto the bench. "You're not even trying!"

"I have tried!" Eric's voice echoed against the garage door.

Tami put a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him. He waved her away and took a step closer to his father.

"For sixteen years, I have tried," Eric said. "Since I joined the Tiny Mites in Pop Warner when I was six year old, I have tried. I have trained, and I have studied, and I have watched game tapes, and I have run routes. I've lifted weights until my arms ached. I've worked-out until I puked! Trying is not enough! I've invested my entire life in football, and I still couldn't make it. The truth is – and it's a hard truth to accept – but the truth is - I'm just not quite good enough for the NFL. You made me believe I was, because you wanted me to be. But I'm not."

"Don't try to make this about me, son. You love football."

"Yes, I do love football. And I want a career in football. But I want one where I might actually rise to the top instead of spending all my energy treading water at the bottom. I want one that could potentially last fifty years instead of five. I want to coach."

"You're selling yourself short. You're just as good a football player as I ever was. You're – "

"- No," Eric said slowly and decisively, his voice strong, but calmer now. "I've watched all that old 8mm game tape of you. You would have been drafted if you hadn't quit. You were phenomenal. You were….you were the one with the gift. And you gave it all away." He closed his lips tightly and looked off into a corner. "For me." He took in a shaky breath before looking back at his father. "And I'm sorry, Dad, but…I can't give it back to you. I just can't."

Mr. Taylor's head fell. His eyes seemed fixed on a stain on the cement floor of the garage. His jaw was set tight.

"It's time for me to move on," Eric said softly.

Mr. Taylor swallowed, but he didn't say anything.

"It's okay," Eric said quietly. "You still have one son left." He fished his keys out of his jeans pocket and took Tami's had. "C'mon, babe. Let's go."