Page 104 of The Fed Sex Man

Tyson

While Joand her mother prepared what would be my third home-cooked Sunday meal in as many weeks, I followed John toward a metal building that was positioned behind their home.

He seemed preoccupied, kicking a small piece of a fallen tree branch as we walked. A lawn tractor sat in front of the remote building’s open doors. The smell of freshly-cut grass lingered in the air. Upon scanning the adjoining field, I realized the acre or so of grass that surrounded the home had just been cut.

“I love the smell of fresh grass,” I said.

He lifted his head. “Used to hate it when I was a kid. Grown to like it, though. It smells like progress.”

Although the city had grown around them, the land his family had spent two generations harvesting vegetables on remained unchanged. I wondered how long John would be able to continue to look after the acreage, and just what would happen to it when he was too old to continue.

“Is Jarod coming today?” I asked.

“He always comes,” he replied. “Anybody’s guess when he’ll be here, though. World’s biggest procrastinator, that boy.”

I chuckled. “Jo says the same thing about him.”

He looked up from the stick that he’d nearly kicked all the bark from and smiled. “Jo’s the opposite. Always on time, no matter what. Hard to believe they’re brother and sister.”

He paused at the back corner of the building and put his hands on his hips. A lone oak tree fifty yards in the distance had a large tractor tire hanging from one of its larger branches. The tire was far too big to be a swing.

I studied it, puzzled by what purpose it served. “What in the heck’s that for?”

“Peace of mind,” he responded. “This is where I do my thinkin’.”

A large steel horse trough placed thirty feet or so from the tree puzzled me. I studied it for a moment, and then looked at John. “Do you have horses?”

“Never cared much for ‘em,” he responded. “One of the SOBs stepped on my foot when I was a kid. Mashed it all to hell. They’re too big and too unpredictable for my likes.”

He sent the stick sailing with a swift kick of his right foot and stepped to the edge of the watering trough. Much to my surprise, it was filled with sun-faded footballs. He picked one up and looked at it.

“That store that sells everything for a dollar right off Stacy Road sells these things, cheap. They’re not a buck, but they’re damned affordable. I buy fifty of ‘em every three years or so. Sun makes ‘em all wappy-jawed after a few years. SOB’s don’t fly straight after that. Not bad for four bucks a piece, I suppose.”

He raised his arm, hesitated, and then threw the football toward the tire that hung from the tree’s branch.

Like a guided arrow, the ball flew through the tire’s opening without so much as touching the surrounding rubber. When it rolled to a stop in the distance, I looked at John.

“Still have quite an arm on you, Sir.”

“Come out here every chance I get. Keeps my head straight.” He reached for another ball and then looked at me. “Ever miss the sport?”

I’d spent eighteen years trying to forget entirely that football existed. Sharing my story with Jo was allowing me to heal, but I still grew extremely frustrated when thinking about the sport.

“Not so much. No.”

His gaze fell to his feet. After a moment, he looked up. “I’m not asking you to talk about it, but I feel like I need to say something. Hard for me not to, knowin’ what I know now.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Jo told us about what happened to your father. Goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m sorry, Son. I truly am.”

I sighed. “It’s been eighteen years. I’ll never forget it, but it doesn’t eat on me like it used to.”

He raised the ball over his right shoulder. “My father wasn’t murdered, but I lost him when I was a youngster. I still feel like I was robbed of what I was entitled to.” He threw a perfect spiral toward the tire. Like the first, it flew right through the center. “Ain’t a day go by that I don’t miss spendin’ time with that man.”

He picked up a ball and handed it to me. Before I could resist, I was holding it.

I hadn’t held a football since the day of my father’s death. Although I would have expected it to feel awkward, it didn’t. I hoisted its weight, squeezed it, and grinned. “Feels pretty good for four bucks.”