They strolled through the quad’s explosion of orange and red leaves, which dotted the perfect green lawn. The boys would run off together, one the receiver and one the defender, and he would loft the football in a high arching spiral. The leather would crunch amongst the leaves as the boys rolled on the ground laughing.
He and Pete used to do the same thing with Pop, though they would end up coming to blows after the third or fourth tumble. He missed Pete.
Those early September afternoons, much like this one had been perfect, the heat wasn’t oppressive like it was in summer, but the cold didn’t bite you like it could in the fall, the sunshine was plentiful in the cloudless sky.
It was a good day to be alive. He wished Pete were here to see it. They’d talked about going to college here to play football, and a hundred other dreams.
And then high school had come and they’d taken different paths, their old dreams becoming lost memories. He wondered what his boys would do. If they would stick together, or drift apart over time. He wanted to believe blood was a binder, but he knew not to put hope in clichés.
Uncle Ted had met Pop at the gate before each game. While the boys ran the sidelines and played pick-up games, Pop and Uncle Ted would stand at the top of the bleachers and watch the game.
He could hear the noise of the crowd and the scratch of the announcer’s voice over the PA as they approached the brick gates. As he did every time, he looked for Pete, even though he knew he wouldn’t be there.
The boys went to meet their friends. He climbed to the top of the bleachers alone.
