Free Out of the Pocket by Bill Konigsberg Page A

good enough for the best program in the country?”
    I looked down at my plate, studied the casserole.
    My father, however, was oblivious. “Don’t you think, Molly? Could you see Bobby starring at Ohio State, or maybe Notre Dame?”
    My mother looked at my father and said softly, “I guess I could, if he goes there and I buy a plane ticket.”
    I laughed. Her jokes were actually getting worse.
    “Wherever he goes is just fi ne, Donald.”
    “Well, USC at the worst,” my father said, exaggerating what we all knew wasn’t true. USC was exactly like his other two, an elite school that had its pick of every quarterback in the country. And maybe I was pretty good, but I was pretty sure somewhere in the United States there was someone bigger, and better.
    I mean, there has to be, right? Or else wouldn’t I have heard from more schools? And then I started to freak out, sitting there at the dinner table, started to sweat realizing that at this moment there were quarterbacks all over the country who were opening letters and answering calls from coaches and probably had a pretty good idea 69
    where they were headed to next year, and here I was, having heard from only a handful of schools.
    “We’re both so proud of you,” my mother said, looking at my father and then at me.
    “Thanks,” I said, trying to hide that I was having a little freak session in my brain.
    “On to other subjects. How’s Carrie?” My mother offered me a jug of water.
    I took it from her and poured some into my glass. “She’s good.
    She found out today she got the lead in Hairspray .”
    “I didn’t know she sang,” she said.
    “She doesn’t. Should be interesting.”
    My mother laughed. “I like her.”
    My father grunted. It was no secret that my father was not a huge fan of Carrie’s, whom he’d never actually met, especially after her prank call a year ago. For two days my dad was walking on air, amazed that MTV executive producer Kathy Quimby had called because she wanted to do a reality show about me, the quintessential all-American California high school quarterback.
    I was just confused, until the next day, when I saw Carrie in school.
    She was walking toward me in the hallway and had this mischievous look in her eye. She could fool other people, but not me. “MTV, huh?” I said, and she broke out laughing. After I told my father, he always referred to her as “that strange girl.”
    It was not a terrible description, actually.
    I looked at my dad and offered him more pot roast. He waved it away. He wasn’t eating much these days.
    “You should give her another chance, Dad. She’s a nice person.”
    He concentrated on swallowing. “You can do better.”
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    “Thanks, I guess,” I said, before taking another bite of my pot roast.
    My father reached for his glass, and as he raised it to his mouth, it slipped from his hands, bounced on the table, and fell onto the hardwood fl oor with a thunderous crash.
    It was like a glass explosion. Little shards fl ew across the fl oor.
    “Nice work,” I said, kidding.
    But when I looked at my dad, he wasn’t laughing. His face was beet red. “Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He then pounded on the table with both fi sts, making all the silverware jump.
    Time seemed to stand still. I didn’t think I’d ever seen my father really mad, let alone table-poundingly pissed off because of a simple dropped glass.
    My mother stood and rushed over to him, careful to avoid pieces of glass. “Donald,” she said softly, leaning down and enveloping him in a hug. He sat there with his eyes closed, his face still red.
    “Sorry,” I said softly. My heart started pounding.
    “It’s not you,” my mother said, her eyes a little dazed as she looked up at me. “Can you give us a moment, sweetheart?”
    I nodded, understanding that it was time for me to take a walk, which I did, not just from the table, but from the house.
    I walked out and stood in the driveway, shivering in the