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But Dad just smiled.
I think about that now as Cary Pierce takes his chair at the head of our dinner table. We’ve celebrated his birthday this way for as long as I can remember. It used to be a small get-together. Just my parents, me and my sister, plus my uncles Grant and Ty. They aren’t really our uncles, but they might as well be.
Grant studied theatre with my mother while they were at Chicago North, and they’ve worked together ever since. He used to babysit me and Courtney when our parents were away; Mom starring in an off-Broadway show, or Dad leading his team to yet another championship win.
Ty played for the Bearhawks with my dad back in the day. He wanted to go pro, but he tore his ACL right out of school and became an agent instead. He insists he’s happier for it. Him playing professional football was always his father’s dream, not his.
The guest list has expanded — along with the adjustable dining room table my mother had custom-made to fit all of us: our family, the Kirbys, and the Novaks.
The Kirbys have joined us ever since they moved into the same neighborhood when I was little.
John Kirby was a Bearhawk, too. In the pros, he played for my dad’s rival team. The media loved to play them up against each other, but they’re really best friends behind the scenes. Together, they founded Champion’s Gym here in Chicago — Train like a champion, with champions — and that’s kept them busy ever since they retired.
His wife, Dr. Rose Kirby, is a tenured professor at Chicago North University in the science department. Chemistry. Not my area of expertise, but she seems to get a kick out of it. She used to visit our classrooms back in elementary school. You know, one of those guests that brings in with slideshows and props to make science seem “fun.” It never worked on me, but I know plenty of kids who plan on declaring science and tech majors because of her presentations.
Rose’s sister’s family moved to the area a few years ago, so they join us, too. Daisy is an award-winning sports photographer. Her husband is Home Run Hunter himself, Hunter Novak. He’s a former professional baseball player (but we don’t hold that against him) and currently works for the athletics department at Chicago North.
They have two children: Violet and Aster. Violet is a few years older than me. She’s a dancer at some fancy ballet academy downtown. Vaughn Academy, I think it’s called? She was infamous before she was even born, thanks to Trisha Wells at Sports Illuminated magazine doing an exposé on her parents.
Aster is six. He likes dinosaurs.
Rounding out the gang are Alex and Ben Kirby, the two best friends a guy could ever have. Insert your preferred trio reference. Amigos. Musketeers. Stooges. It all fits. Growing up in the shadows of famous parents has its peaks and valleys. Alex and Ben understand my life better than anyone, just as I understand theirs.
And then there’s Dana. The little sister, or so people mistake her as when they first meet her. They’re triplets, but only Alex and Ben look identical. Dana is smaller. Quieter. Never too far away from her inhaler, unfortunately. I don’t know the specifics, but her lungs didn’t develop well, and she’s prone to asthma attacks.
Her little eyes filled with fear as she clenched her chest. She recoiled away from me, wheezing, her voice broken.
What have I done?
“Look at you, kid.”
I glance away from Dana sitting directly across from me, realizing the remark was for me. “What’s that, Coach?” I ask my grandfather.
“All grown up, eh?” he says, his grin as wide as his shoulders.
I chuckle. “I hope not.”
“Are you excited to be starting school?”
“Very.”
“When’s your first scrimmage?”
“It’s not all about football,” my mother says, her voice playful yet pointed down the table.
“Oh, of course not,” Coach says, drawing a few laughs. “School is about books and learning.”
“And Delta Xi!” I quip.
“Delta Xi!” John, Ty, and my father chant in unison, their knuckles rapping twice upon the table, always happy to honor their fraternity.
Some laugh. Others, like Daisy and Grant, roll their eyes.
“It’s nice to know the kid has his priorities in line,” Ty jokes.
“First scrimmage is Tuesday, Coach,” I say, answering my grandfather’s question.
He nods. “I’ll be there.”
