Page 25 of Playing for Keeps

Chloe

“Where’ve you been, Smitty?” Mike Foley says as I take a seat in the first row at the stadium. He throws the name Smitty out like an accusation and I know something’s up. The team’s practicing on the game field today, a full pad scrimmage. It’s the first time the veterans are going to see any real action. And about time, too. This should be a good test for Tate.

“Back at the studio working on a top-secret project.” I keep my eyes on the field, sensing he wants to talk more about me than the team.

“You never mentioned you were Oscar the Mouth Smith’s daughter.”

“Never came up. What of it?” Still keeping my eyes on the field while he laughs, I wait him out. Talking about my pedigree has become my least favorite subject. The weight of the legend is getting heavier by the day between questions at the studio and everywhere else I go. Or maybe I’m being paranoid.

“It explains a lot is all.”

I ponder whether I ought to be tired of being known as my father’s daughter and annoyed at Foley. I’m not sure whether he’s judging me or pandering to me because of who my father was when Duff comes over and gives him the nod of approval. Trusting Duff, I decide Foley is okay.

We watch as the A-team defense lines up against the B-team offense. My eyes zero in on Fontanna. Of course. From then on, Foley and I exchange thoughts on who will make the cut and who may be harboring injuries.

“Everyone is injured,” he says, “to one degree or another. This is football, isn’t it?”

“Say that with a cigar in your mouth and bad grammar and you’re a ringer for my father,” I say, only exaggerating slightly.

“I met him once. A memorable occasion. We had dinner at The Press Box, the old sports reporter hangout in the north end of Boston. He talked about you, in fact. You had just gone away to college and he missed you. He ordered every appetizer on the menu and tasted every one of them with a chaser of JD.” Foley shakes his head.

“That’s Dad. Living large.” The whistle blows, stopping the action on the field for a while for coaching intervention. “So is The Press Box still in business?”

“Nah. Changed hands a few years ago and got upgraded. It’s not called The Press Box anymore. No one goes there now—I mean none of the media types.”

“Too bad. It would be nice to get out—somewhere besides the studio or my apartment or this place.”

The past week I’d been immersed in doing the investigative work for the project, editing daily clips from practices and commentary about players who were cut. Trying to prove myself all over again to Henry. But that’s how it always is—I’m always proving myself. If I stop trying, I stop succeeding. Another Oscar the Mouth truism.

“I’ve been watching your interviews,” Foley says. “An upgrade over the usual bland stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Coming from a print reporter that means a lot.”

He laughs. He may be no expert, but hearing his approval is better than a kick in the head.

“Hey, I’ve been on air before,” he continues. “All the best reporters get guest spots on sports shows these days.”

Pretending shock, I know it’s true. “Sure—they’ve got to fill all that airtime with content somehow.”

He elbows me and I’m feeling comfortable, like he could really be a friend, especially since Duff seems to approve with his stoic silence.

“Henry is pissed that my next interview is with the kicker, Sean Patrick, because he wants the bigger name guys, but I told him we’ll get them closer to the start of the season.” I test him to see if he’ll give me anything on Patrick.

Foley nods, “Sure, build up to it.”

Nothing. I’m hoping I can get Sean to slip and reveal something about Fontanna’s back injury, but I don’t share this with Foley. In an ideal world, I’d go directly to the trainer who I originally overheard and ask him for a quote, but those guys aren’t even allowed to talk to the media and if they did I know they won’t admit to anything except routine bumps and bruises.

“Coach Marini keeps a tight-lipped ship,” I say. Foley grunts.

“Must be hard on Cat, being the coach’s daughter and trying to balance good PR with a tight-lipped boss who’s also her dad.”

“She manages,” Foley says. “Must be harder for you. I bet you miss your dad.”

Now I want to hug him. He’s treating me like a real human being. Duff turns and nods in his direction again. A double seal of approval.

“So now that The Press Box is out, where do reporters around here hang out?”

“Nowhere. There hasn’t been a gathering place like that for years.” We all agree it’s a shame, especially Duff.