by Country9588
The thing that you have to understand about Sonny is that he never intended for things to end up this way.
That’s part of why his story is such a surprise to hear- because it surprised him too. But anyway. Maybe it won’t surprise you. But it surprised me.
So Sonny had been living by himself by the creek that ran through town since he’d gotten back from Afghanistan. Two tours had done him in. He wasn’t hurt or anything, actually, he was in the best shape of his life. When I saw him at the hardware store or at football games at the high school, he didn’t have that lean, haggard, seen-too-much look a lot of young vets have. He actually looked like he’d gained some since he got shipped out. I don’t know what they’d been feeding him but he looked good. You know, healthy. Burly and strong. Pink cheeked and broad shouldered and like he either could help an old lady cross the street or kick your ass if you looked at him wrong. All American and corn-fed, even though I didn’t think they ate corn in Afghanistan. The tours had done him in emotionally. He was done fighting.
When I’d talked to him then he’d told me in his same deep, quiet voice that he had missed being home the whole time he’d been gone. I remember because I didn’t know what else to say after that. His house wasn’t much to look at on the outside.
The other guys all liked Sonny like a brother, how could you not, he was the biggest kid in his grade but painfully shy, the guy that would take up for kids getting bullied, the hard working lineman always around and behind the showboats and the loudmouths but never in the forefront. But even being from this rough of a town, the boys also knew his home life wasn’t exactly something to brag about. It was one of those shotgun-style cottages that backed up to the creek around the part of town where the current slowed down and it got a little murky. His mama kept it decent looking but there’s only so much she could have done. His height had to have come from his dad if I had to guess, because otherwise there’s no way he could have stretched and helped her pull off the vines always trying to grow up the wood siding, or reach to rig up the sagging gutters with just that ole 3 foot step ladder otherwise. Once she’d passed on during his senior year, it was a good thing he’d always been used to being the man of the house.
He told me standing in the paint aisle lookin down from under the bill of his USMC hat that he was still living down there, barely holding the house together. I noticed the can of cheap whitewash in his hand and figured the house still looked about the same but I offered to help him if he needed anything, and told him to holler at me, like everybody does when you see somebody from way back when and you’re not sure how to end the awkward conversation in the store. You never actually expect them to look you up after you tell them to.
When I got the call it was the next Sunday afternoon. I remember because I was sitting on the back steps swatting gnats after I’d just leveled the jungle in my backyard. I had barely beat the storm that was supposed to come later that night. It was the kind of humid that makes you leave swamp-ass-prints anywhere you sit down. And without a shirt on, mine must have been pretty well-defined on the gray, weathered steps where I was sitting winded, half-watching birds check out the empty birdbath and then fly away.
When the phone rang I didn’t recognize the number, but when I picked up and heard, “Coach,” there was no mistaking that deep, shy voice. “I hate to bother ya, but I was wondering could you come help me here at the house before this rain comes in tonight?”
I told him I’d be over in a little bit and jumped in the truck. I guess I was hurrying so much because the sky was already grayish and the wind was picking up some, not enough to keep the air from feeling sticky. That’s why it was so hard to breathe, I told myself.
When I pulled up into the gravel driveway a big gray Tom cat slunk away under the porch, and I saw Sonny’s sweaty face in his cutoff T, grinning at me between two furry armpits, standing on that 3 step ladder trying to patch a piece of roof near the front right corner of the house. He had a blue vinyl tarp that was really giving him a hard time since the gusts were stronger now, and he couldn’t hold it down. His tall, stout frame on that tiny step stool made him too top-heavy to keep his balance against the house, too. His bare hands were scuffed from the shingles but he didn’t seem to notice, he did grin with relief when he saw me walking up. I might have distracted him though, because he lost his footing...
I grabbed his legs in a bear hug and pulled him back toward me on the porch so he could grip the edge of the roof again.
With my cheek pressed against his jeans pulling him to me I could feel how damp the tops of his thighs were with sweat. His muddy caterpillar workboots repositioned somehow, even though they were huge and clumsy on the top step, and he seemed to have saved himself from the fall. “You got it?” I hollered up to him, still holding on. “Yessir,” he answered, then by the sounds of it opened his mouth to correct himself from calling me that, but stopped short. I guess old habits do die hard, even if you are a grown Marine 3 inches taller than your old football coach.
“Good. I got you.”
There was a long pause while I hugged his thick, sweaty thighs to my face.
“Well hurry up, son! I ain’t hanging on down here for nothin!” I yelled, breaking the silence, and he resumed wrestling with the tarp until I finally heard a staple gun shooting it into submission against the decrepit roof.
When he started to climb down I noticed he wouldn’t make eye contact as he backed away, but I chalked it up to the fact that most guys don’t stare into the eyes of the man who just snuggled up to their sweaty junk while they tiptoe on a ledge 3 feet in the air.
“You saved me coach, it wouldn’t have been no fun gettin rained on in bed tonight,” he stammered with a small sideways smile. He always had gotten tongue tied when he talked to me, I never knew why.
“Ain’t nothin to it bud,” I dismissed his thanks politely and tried to sit on a wooden kitchen chair that I noticed just in time was missing a leg. He noticed that I’d noticed.
“Hold up, come on in here and set down Coach, I’ll get you a beer.”
I followed him hoping I hadn’t embarrassed him by nearly busting my ass on his ragged furniture out front when I walked into the living room. A saggy leather couch and a used but newer recliner sat angled toward the tv hung on the pine paneling. Sportcenter chattered in the background while I took in the room, which wasn’t littered with booze bottles and garbage like I expected a single vet living in his mama’s run down house to look. There was a bottle half full of dip spit on a tv stand by the recliner and a few pairs of boots by the door that served as decoration and that was really it. The sweetish leather, musky smell of worn boots and the sharp mint aroma of Copenhagen Wintergreen perfumed the room actually, and he noticed me sniffing the air when he brought two bud lights back in from the kitchen.
“Smell bad?” He asked. That same on-eggshells, approval-seeking look he had playing for me even though he was big as a bear and strong as anybody on the team. Always reading my face for any hint of disappointment.
“Naw, just smells like leather.” I said as his shoulders relaxed. I took a big swallow of beer. “My ex-wife never would let me take mine off in the house. I’m kinda jealous of your bachelor pad!” I could tell he didn’t believe me.
“House looks like shit.” He said, looking around it. “I’m tryin to get it in shape enough to sell it and get outta here.”
“Where you goin then?” I asked him half-heartedly, embarrassed that I’d brought attention to the shack we stood in.
“I’m not sure. I may head to Colorado. I was in training out there and my uncle has a little construction company. Maybe he can hire me on, ya know?”
“Colorado’d be a hell of a lot cooler than Alabama, at least,” I said looking at the slow, wood-veneer ceiling fan as I took another slug of beer and noticed my forehead and pits start to wet down with sweat.
He sat down in the recliner and kicked the laced-up tan work boots off on the wooden floor beside it, all while never breaking his gaze at the tv. “Yeah it would,” he said absently, reading scores and flexing his toes in the white Hanes crews. I wondered how many days he’d had them on; they were so damp I could see the outline of every thick toe. He favored on ankle and worked it in slow circles, groaning a little bit.
I looked around at the pile of clothes on the couch and then said, “Well I better head back before it starts rainin,” and instantly he bolted up.
“I’m sorry Coach here, set down here in the chair. Nobody ever comes over here, I didn’t even remember to tell you to sit down, my bad.”
He threw the couch clothes into the floor before I could say anything else and sat down on it, it creaked under his solid weight, his stare now fixed on me, mouth slightly agape just like he always had looked at me, like the next words I was about to say would cure cancer or bring world peace. So long as I would stay and sit with him.
I thanked him and eased into the recliner, which was very comfortable despite looking a little worse for wear.
“Yessir, yessir,” he said, glad I had decided to stay a minute.
We talked watching ESPN about football, and the conversation drifted to his team when he’d played for me. I even got a few laughs out of him as I picked at him good-naturedly about goofy memories I had of him when he was an even more awkward, but just as big, teenager.
“I never will forget your senior year the night we played Rosedale,” I said chuckling as he listened, grinning. He had loosened up considerably as I stayed longer and longer, two beers became three, and the wind picked up outside.
He made a circle with his ankle again and I heard it pop. “That was my 18th birthday, and all the boys had been givin me hell all day about how much beer we were gonna drink that night...”
“And then you went and turned your damn knee jumpin around in the locker room actin a fool after the game!” I laughed deep from my belly remembering how bewildered he had looked when it happened.
He looked down at his beer laughing silently, fidgeting, peeling the label off the longneck. “It was my ankle. You got me fixed up though!”
“I liked to never have gotten it done, the way you was jerkin that foot around when I was tryin to wrap it!” I goaded. I remembered being a fresh new coach, worried I would hurt my star player even worse, but laughing at how crazy he had reacted that night.
He guffawed. “Well I couldn’t help it!”
“Shit!” I fired back, “your whole damn leg was quivering so bad you’d have thought I was performing surgery. I never did take you for a pansy til that night!”
I knew he was far from a pansy, I was as proud of his toughness and work ethic as any of my players, but I also knew saying that would push his buttons.
“Now cmon coach I’d played the whole game, that was just... that was muscle spasms!” he said, laughing.
“Bullshit you were flinching and carrying on like I had a needle on them big ole feet.” I knocked back more beer and looked down at his socked feet on the hardwood floor. “Big ole feet! Look at em!”
“Size 14,” he said proudly, and they were every bit of that big. He knew it, giving me an uncharacteristic smirk as he followed suit and took another gulp of beer himself.
“Well for such a big boy you sure were bein a wimp that night.”
“Well even Superman has a weakness!” he fired back in defense.
“Superman didn’t have little weak fragile ankles!”
“Naw but when you were messin with my feet after the game that was sure like kryptonite!” He turned red after he said this and looked at the tv, practically chugging beer.
I pounced. “You tryin to tell me you were jerkin around cause I was.... ticklin your feet, son?!”
“Naw,” he said toughly.
“Prove it!” I taunted, picking his foot up off the floor and propping it on the arm of my chair, sole facing me.
His eyes doubled in size but he just watched frozen, willing himself not to respond.
The dirty sock flew off and flopped onto the floor.
I was met by a magnified scent that I’d smelled from the boots earlier. A sweet, leathery, musky scent. And the biggest, meatiest pink sole I could remember seeing.
To say he laughed when I dug into his toes and soles would be an understatement. He covered his face and shook. First quietly because he was sputtering and couldn’t quite catch his breath while he told me no. Then shaking, shoulders vibrating, laughing deeply and loudly from the embarrassment, the shock, and the relentless attack of the tickling.
“Cmon tough man, you ain’t ticklish I thought! Naw naw!” I mocked. “Not one bit is he big boy?”
As I used both hands he laughed so fully and completely that he couldn’t form words. He just laughed. Red faced. Shaking his head wordlessly as all of the walls in the house seemed to shake from his voice and his size.
I doubled down, holding his foot in a reverse lock now, clawing his tender, sweaty skin. “Imma scrub the stank off these sumbitches, think I ought to? Laugh if you think I ought to Sonny!”
He laughed, all right, in spite of himself. He closed his eyes, gave in, leaned back, and laughed. Completely giving in. He heaved, gulped, and hollered laughing, until he winced.
I stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s my bad foot coach,” he said trying not to grimace.
I started to rub it for him, talking quickly to try to smooth it over, but he was melting in my hands. Like butter, I watched him slide down into the couch and moan. He closed his eyes and completely relaxed.
I kept bullshitting and talking and watching Sportcenter, reliving my coach and trainer days, when I looked over and noticed a very unmistakable hard-on against a thigh in a certain sweaty pair of jeans. He met my eyes, and stuttered. I stopped rubbing
He stood up, stammered some more, and mortified, started sniffling, angrily wiping his face, trying and failing to get himself together. I sat there in silence. I didn’t know whether to apologize, leave, didn’t have a clue how to react. So I just sat and waited.
He turned around and said angrily, “I’ve wanted that for so damn long and then I do this shit.” He said, his voice full of contempt at himself. But wait.. wanted this?
“What? Why?” I heard my voice echo my confusion.
“That night,” he said thickly, still not completely ok.
“Yeah?” I guided him.
“That night back when I turned my ankle on my birthday,” he stopped himself. The wind screamed in the loose window casing behind me.
I stood up in front of him and looked at his brown eyes. Taking the reins.
“Go on, bud. I got ya. What’s wrong Sonny?”
“That night, when it was just you and me... and you were helping me and then teasing me and I was spazzing out and I couldn’t go drink with the guys and all of it, I didn’t even care. I wanted to be right there with you. You know I didn’t have anybody in them stands that night? Nobody had sent me off that morning sayin happy birthday. Nobody was waitin on me to walk outta the locker room, the boys had all got sick of waitin on me and left. It wasn’t nobody but us. Just you and me... That’s the first time I... remember wanting to kiss you Coach.”
I took a step back out of instinct. But I wasn’t repulsed. I wasn’t even confused. Somehow I understood. I just stared at him and understood. Because that night, I’d felt so much love for him I’d wanted to kiss him too. I didn’t know it then or even five minutes ago. But I knew it now. This poor kid becoming a man that night and not getting to celebrate after a great game with his buddies. With a proud dad.
“I’d spent so many years fighting and trying to run from it, so many years telling myself it didn’t make sense, that I was a fighter, a soldier, that I wasn’t no pansy, like you always said coach. Like you said I was your big dawg. I...”
He dissolved in ragged sobs. Lightning illuminated his figure in the dim room. Such a strong figure in front of me, but so hurt for so long. He jumped when the thunder boomed after.
I didn’t know until right now that I wanted to kiss him, too.
And so I did.
I took this 28 year old man, this abandoned, scared, man I’d helped to raise both on that field and off it that night 10 years ago. I took him in my arms and I kissed him with all my might. A hard, urgent kiss. And I felt the rippling muscles slack. And I felt the tear that ran between our faces. And I knew it was right.
“I love you coach,” he said. His massive arms wrapped around my back and his head nuzzled into my shoulder. Completely needing to be held. To be protected. “All those nights over there with nobody to talk to. All those days when I didn’t know if I would get back...” he choked up, swallowed, continued.
“I love you, too Sonny,” I whispered in his ear. “And I got you.”
Another tear fell. This time on the top of my head. A cold tear. And another. That turned into a drip. I looked up to see the tarp leaking on us.
He let out a happy laugh, his toes scrunched up and he pressed himself completely into me. I never wanted to let him go.
These days the house is looking better than it ever did. We’ve added my hound dog to the cat that lives under the porch and the roof is patched up. Mainly though, you can see that the house is happy, finally. Both of us were surprised it happened but looking back I guess we shouldn’t be all that surprised. Things like this just work out. Sneak up behind you out of nowhere sayin, “I got you,” and then hold on and won’t let go. Another pair of boots in the pile by the front door. Mine right by my boy’s. My Sonny.
