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Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling. He stands and immediately wishes he hadn’t, willing the ground to swallow him. In eons of minutes he showers and dresses in the suit, blankly staring at his phone until Michael is ready and they leave, his parents driving separately.
He feels the pull of the earth in his walk to the school. The brothers are dressed identically, same black Oxfords, same black suits, same black belts and ties, same black shirts. His father almost the same, but in place of a jacket a dark gray sweater, arm held by his mother, wearing a dark gray overcoat and a black two-piece Andrew thinks is new. They arrive well before the first bell, but a student still calls out to him.
They walk through the commons, down one empty glass hall to the next, into the large gymnasium. There are many people here, with tables set for every athlete announcing their college decision. His table is obvious, with cameras pointed at it, and around it faculty, technical crew and journalists. Faculty wear lanyards, the rest wear bright red stickers.
A red sticker says “Hey Andrew! How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling like I’ll answer all of your questions after the conference, thanks.”
Michael laughs. His football coach spotted their entrance and has joined them.
“‘Morning, Andrew, you excited?”
He sighs. “I’m ready to get this over with.”
His coach grins, he expected this response. The principal and two more administrators reach them and they talk with his parents. Andrew and Michael slip around to the table and the producer introduces herself. Andrew takes the chair and looks down the large camera ahead of him. A monitor on one side shows the feed of the table, a monitor on the other side shows the ESPN set, soundless. Three hats, one red, one blue, one black, each atop a thin stack of paper. A single pen is already beside the letter for Florida
Andrew looks at the camera, a monitor on one side shows its feed of the table, a monitor on the other shows the ESPN set. Three hats, one red, one blue, one black, each sit on a thin stack of paper. A single pen is beside the letter for Florida.
The producer and her assistant get him ready, then go through the routine. The assistant clips a box to his belt and has him open his jacket so she can put a microphone on the collar of his shirt, then she gives him an earpiece. They have him test each, then repeat the tests twice, Andrew’s annoyance rising.
The producer says “Okay, Andrew, I’ll be standing beside your monitor. You’ll hear the count-in, then I’ll cue you, and Rece will take over.”
His parents and his brother stand behind him.
Andrew watches the soundless screen, a direct feed of the ESPN set. He feels like hours pass.
“Two minutes, Andrew,” says the voice in his ear.
It feels longer. His hand begins to itch for the blue hat.
“Thirty seconds, Andrew.”
Time crawls. He’s just about to take the hat when the voice counts down and the producer points at him.
“—School in Atlanta. USA Today’s national player of the year and ESPN’s number one recruit, the multi-threat wide receiver and free safety Andrew Black joins us. He’s narrowed his selection to Georgia, USC, and the University of Florida. Thank you for joining us Andrew, and congratulations on getting here.”
“Thanks.”
When he says nothing more, Rece chuckles, “It’s been a long coming, now you’re here. What are your plans?”
Andrew runs over his speech and skips to the end. He takes the blue hat.
“I’ll be playing for the University of Florida.”
There is light applause and isolated cheers from the small crowd before they quiet, thinking he will say more. When again he doesn’t, he hears laughter in the earpiece. “Andrew Black, cutting straight to the point. Swapping sides in that Georgia rivalry to go to the Gators. What made you choose Florida?”
“They need a wide receiver, Devaris Walker is the best quarterback in college football, and it’s a lot closer than California.”
Rece laughs again, “You know, I’m a big fan of Walker myself, and I can confirm it is closer. You’re a funny guy, Andrew, I love the candor. Anything else?”
Andrew shakes his head. “Nope.”
Rece grins, “Well, alright, congratulations again. I’m looking forward to your highlights this fall. Good luck.”
The producer says “Great, good job,” and Andrew is already standing, taking off the earpiece and microphone and box and setting them on the table, then his jacket and tie that he trades with his mother for his bag. He walks across the gym hardwood, ignoring calls and avoiding other tables of signees as he enters the lockers, kicking his shoes across the room and stripping down. He’s pulling up his gym shorts when Michael comes in, also free of his jacket and tie, also with a bag in hand.
“Damn, Drew. How do you feel?”
“Glad it’s over.”
Michael snickers. “What is it with you and being on TV?”
“It’s that I don’t give a shit. I’m in this to be the best who’s ever played. Everything outside the field that’s not about being the best on the field doesn’t matter.”
Michael’s surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. When you’re on the mound and you’re glaring at the guy at the plate, are you thinking about eventually being interviewed by some whogivesafuck on ESPN?”
Michael shakes his head, but then nods. “Well, yeah, sometimes.”
“What’s Mike Trout’s personality?”
Michael shrugs. “He likes weather, and the Eagles. And pretzels.”
“Exactly, and he’s the best. No bullshit, just play.”
They return to the gym, a journalist is waiting. “Andrew, could you say anything more about your decision?”
Andrew rolls his eyes. “You heard everything. But, ah, I am thankful for my coaches here, and my family through all of this.”
“What about the other universities?”
Andrew shakes his head. “They just wanted me to play football for them. That’s all, have a good one.”
His mother hugs him. “I’m so proud of you.”
“You’ll have another one of these with Mike next year.”
Michael says “I don’t think they air college baseball commitments on TV.”
“For you, they might.”
Andrew feels free. His decision took a year and now that it’s made he has nothing left to do but show up. School, to practice, to home, to his nightly runs.
Routine, routine.
Classes blur, practice blurs. Home life blurs, schoolwork blurs, running blurs. Daylight lingers, days warm. Baseball brings fervor and haze. Games blur.
Victories are more numerous but there are the rare losses, he doesn’t carry his baseball team. Not like Michael, who is neither at full height nor full ability to turn fools at the plate but still he chews through batters. Michael doesn’t see this, he thinks he’s in the shadow of a .750 leadoff.
He loses any sense of time and rides weeks into months until he’s sitting beneath the closed iris of the Falcons’ stadium waiting for his name to be called and his procession made and diploma received. The grass spreads to four corners around him, the neat rectangle rich and green and the presence in every space not filled by voids. He wonders with rows of plastic and metal on uncovered turf the weather of the city of the team that will draft him and if their field is grown or laid.
His name is Black, it will be called soon. Soon, state baseball championships in a week. Soon, moving to Gainesville in a month. Soon, walking onto the national stage like—
“Andrew Black!”
Like he walks now onto this local stage to raucous adoration. He waves to the cheers and time firmly locks in place. Most names must still be called and where for that moment he was the focus of the crowd, now he focuses on them. The platform, the podium, their seats, the gowns over clothes and below caps and hair of voids and their dim warmth.
Voids.
He thinks he should stop calling people “Voids.”
The figures in the field, black and untouchable. He physically looks at his parents, his mother notices, she waves, he holds his hand up in response.
Pictures are taken with his family and with just his brother. With Isaiah, with other football players, with baseball players. With his coaches, with administrators, with so many girls. He shakes hands, many people tell him congratulations, many wish him good luck. The girls want hugs, he wants to go home. They go to dinner first.
His phone is full of party invitations.
He jumps up the back steps, the lock turning as he reaches for the handle and he’s up and changed and down and back out the door while his parents still talk in the kitchen. “Andrew,” he hears his father say as his foot hits the driveway.
“What’s up?”
“Are you going out?”
“No, just running.”
“Okay, be safe.”
He runs.
When he returns he locks himself in the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror.
He thinks he should have gone to one of the parties. But how can he sit listening to some girl, how can he stand as person after person talks at him, as if he isn’t what he is? As if they know anything about what he can do, as if they have any idea of what happens in his mind? Who else knows thoughts with no natural end and pushed aside or else distracted emerge again in endless day? It isolates.
It isolates.
The brothers practice outside of practice. Andrew wants to leave a final trophy for his coach, Michael wants to set the tone: Andrew’s leaving, but Black remains the best. The playoff format means Michael starts game one of every series, and while he’s always willing to start on short rest, it’s never needed.
Andrew twirls the bat, swings, and runs the bases.
The trophy sits beside him in the bus on the way home, his head on the window. Michael and his friends are talking about a party, Andrew’s already declined, using the excuse of getting ready for the move.
He’s looking over the small bookshelf in his room when Michael texts him.
Hey. Ended up somewhere sketchy. Can you pick me up?
Location Received
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Andrew drives to an area near a university. Gentrification has radiated out in lines, splitting neighborhoods between new affluence and old destitution. Andrew parks on a brightly lit street and walks into darkness and squalor. The night is hot, he hears window AC units and little else, these houses are quiet, few porch lights on, each yard surrounded by fences, occupants almost entirely inside. Michael sees him and joins him and they begin walking to his car when he finds the figures, just out of sight in an alley.
“We should get out of here,” Andrew says quietly.
Their pace quickens but the group has emerged, following them.
“Hey. Hey! The fuck you doing in that hat?”
Michael turns, confused, “It’s an Atlanta Braves hat?”
“The fuck you wearing blue on my street?”
Andrew shifts his posture to emphasize his height and size. “Hey, sorry guys, we didn’t know, we’re gone. Don’t need to worry about us.”
“Nah. Nah, man, that’s not good enough. Give me your shit.”
Andrew shrugs, “Man, I got nothing on me,” turning out his empty pockets to emphasize.
“You got your shoes,” he says.
Michael says “Fuck that. I’m not giving you shit.”
“The fuck you say?”
Michael matches Andrew’s pose. “I said we’re not giving you bitches shit.”
Andrew shoves his brother out of the way and throws his left fist through the nose and cheekbones of the first charging figure. The second is moving to his right, Andrew’s right foot is already raising, kicking their abdomen and as they bend forward his right catches their jaw, sending them back, their head slamming against concrete. He pushes away the weak swing of the third, now fully looking at them, and punches their chest, knocking them also back, another head hits concrete. He only glares at the fourth and turns to Michael whose eyes flash amazement then terror.
Andrew hears it but doesn’t think, he turns back to see the gun as it fires again and he’s moving forward, his left hand out and the metal piece firing a third time before it’s ripped from their hand so violently that fingers dislocate and hand fractures and wrist twists and breaks and his right levels between their eyes: lights burned out. Andrew sees the dented bullets scattered at his feet and he draws them with the casings, crushing them together with the gun and putting the ball in his pocket.
Michael stammers, “An–Andrew—”
“We have to go, come on.”
“Andrew—”
“We have to go!”
“But he—”
Andrew grabs at his brother and Michael’s sense returns and they run.
They’re in the car and driving. Andrew notes idly how he isn’t shaking and his heart and breathing feel normal. Michael shakes, his breaths are rapid.
“You. He shot,” his voice tremors.
“He shot,” Michael leans over his knees, his hands on his head. “He shot you! And the gun–it’s like–it–it just–he fucking shot you! And you’re fine!”
Andrew’s thoughts are elsewhere. “FMJs in a neighborhood. What an asshole.”
“What?” says Michael, Andrew can feel a finger poking through the hole in his sleeve. “Why are you not freaking out about this?”
Andrew just starts to move his hand to his head, then puts it back on the wheel. “I guess I knew that would happen.”
Michaels “What?!” is so loud someone else would flinch. “This is impossible.”
“It’s not the only thing.”
The little pops of cooling metal are the only sound in the garage.
An old baseball has drifted from a shelf and hangs unturning in the air, above his car, which is in the air as well.
“What the fuck. Andrew. What–what the fuck, Andrew?!”