Don’t Stop Believin’

The alumni arrived on Friday. They were everywhere at once, swarming the quad, pointing at the old-time buildings and bike paths like, would you look at that! In the two hours it took for football practice to finish (a packed schedule with the hitting drills, sled drives, and no-contact scrimmage), our campus was transformed into a refugee zone. Where my friends had walked before, now strangers. The green squares of the quad were fully obscured, tour groups moving in great circles like herds of wild buffalo.

We parked outside the Student Union in Scott’s 4Runner, watched a gaggle of thirty-somethings fawn over the aluminum gator statue. On drunk nights, we would piss on the gator just because, but no one seemed to know this. The alumni patted the statue fondly, running their fingers along its jagged teeth and nubby ridges. Unattended, one child sat astride the gator’s head, thrusting his tiny crotch into a reptilian eye socket. The child’s mother ran over to yank him off, admonishing the boy in a string of non-profanities and tough love.

“Wow,” I said as the woman's face turned red and then redder. “I guess that’s what it’s like to be a grown-up.”

“No,” said Scott, a tremendous wad of tobacco stuck in his lip. “That’s what it’s like to be dead inside.”

“Come on.” Disco-Dan slapped the roof of the 4Runner. “Let’s go get Packie.”

Home was an old townhouse on the edge of campus, cohabited by Disco-Dan, Scott, and myself. Packie was waiting on the front porch when we pulled up; his former linebacker frame straddled the banister. A tiny spliff hung from his mouth, sending spirals and curls into the fringed leaves above. There was a song playing on his iPhone: “Closing Time” by Semisonic. 

“Hey, bitches.” Packie hopped down from the railing to greet us. “The rumors are true– I have returned.”

Dressed in his button down and dun-colored loafers, Packie would not have been amiss at a yacht club in some Maryland coastal town. And his hair! Combed to the side, in the fashion of European soccer stars and finance wunderkinds.

“Nice shirt, you goon.” I pointed to his checkered arms. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wearing sleeves like ever.”

“What can I say? Graduation has transformed me. I am a beautiful fuckin’ butterfly.”

We embraced, laughed, said, good to see you, Pack! It was all too easy. Unlike other ex-players, the ones who left strange and forlorn comments on our Facebook pages (Dude, make it last, college is the best!), Packie was an older brother type, someone effortlessly let back into the fold. He hadn’t yet joined the legions of former teammates we could no longer place, the frost-toed cadavers collecting dust in the mortuaries of our minds.

After dropping Packie’s bags inside, we all walked to the dining hall for chicken parmesan night. Over steaming plates of carbohydrates, Packie told us about his post-grad existence. He still lived with his parents, had procured a salaried position at the local stamp factory. All day, he imprinted images on tiny squares, an expanding portfolio of oceanside lighthouses, purple-topped Colorado mountains, legends of American history looking stoic and resolved. Packie held up his hands to show us they had been dyed a deep and majestic blue, the color of a whale’s heart.

“The blue is from the ink runoff,” Packie explained. “The machines are totally busted, but they’re never getting fixed because of some union issue. My boss is just like, deal with it!”

“Dude, it looks like you blue yourself,” Disco-Dan said, and we all laughed. 

“Ha,” Packie said. “Arrested Development. Good reference.” He pushed his chair back. “Does anyone need anything? I’m getting seconds.”

I pointed to his plate, banks of spaghetti sauce, and disconnected spaghetti. “That’s your third serving.”

“Fourths, then,” Packie waggled his eyebrows. “Fuck it, I’m not in training anymore. Besides, I get all the exercise I need with the ladies.”

Chuckling, we all agreed that we were good as far as chicken parmesan was concerned. Packie nodded and walked away, eyes trained on a group of volleyball players standing in the drink line. 

“He seems well,” Scott said. “I mean, like, he hasn’t overdosed or offed himself yet.” 

Disco-Dan and I murmured assent, the relief plain across our tanned faces. We would never say this aloud, but everyone thought it—guys like Packie were not meant to exist in the real world. They majored in History or Comms and barely made grades. Coach picked them up at the drunk tank three nights a week. As punishment, they were made to run gassers until sundown, until the sound of cleats on grass and ragged breathing was the only thing distinguishing them from the dark. To commemorate his love and frustration with our team captain, Coach even had a special nickname for Packie: Patrick McFuckface.

“College girls, man.” Packie returned with an ice cream cone held in each hand. Mint Chocolate Chip and Strawberry Cheesecake. “Bang them all while you still can. Bang them until your dicks turn blue.”

“Like your hands!” Scott said.

“Yeah,” Packie said. “Exactly.”

Nights before games, I could never sleep. The house became the center of the universe, all things suctioned into its gravitational pull. Squirrels scurried across the roof. A breeze buffeted my window. Unseen, an adjacent oak thumped against the cheap siding, sounding like the tail of my family’s yellow lab, Tuck.

Sometime around midnight, I discovered Packie sitting on the front porch, polishing off a six-pack of IPAs. A harvest moon, like the eye of some Lovecraftian beast, watched over us. Off in the distance, I heard the chants of a late party, phantom voices cheering on a keg stand, counting 1, 2, 3, 4….

Packie sighed. “I miss this fucking place.”

“I bet,” I said. 

“Yeah…” Packie trailed off into silence. 

Because I felt like I had to contribute something else, I added, “I don’t know what I’m going to do next year, really.”

“You’ll get by. You have to.” Packie stared into the distance as if recalling a war atrocity he’d witnessed in a past life. “Do you remember the game against Dickinson?” 

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

“Man.” He hung his head. “I really fucked that up.”

He was talking about our season-ending loss the year prior. Early November, our home field was surrounded by an arena of foliage, sentinels of red and green, shivering pines. The light itself was cast through a sepia filter and our uniforms, normally white and blue, were the color of shadows and twilight. On the day Packie lost us the game, he was more a wraith than man.

I remembered that afternoon, but not in the way Packie did. Packie didn’t just remember the plays; he had a clear recall of how his stomach felt, realizing that, in a sense, this was life’s last true competition. His uniform, sweat-stained and fetid, would never be worn again. He was the latest in a long line of gladiators and soldiers cresting that final hill, weapon in hand, heart bursting with joy.  But we both knew the tragedy of his story: instead of rising to the challenge, Packie crumpled in the moment. 

What people don’t realize about football is this: it is not a thinking man’s game. That doesn’t mean you can be dumb. Preparation is key (there are plays and techniques and soft zone coverages to memorize), but in the seconds between snap and whistle, you have to trust yourself. See an opportunity and seize it. If you pause to blink, you’re dead. Everyone else will run by and you’ll be stuck there, cement.

That day, Packie was thinking, trapped within himself. It was 4th down and seven yards to go—the game on the line. Diagnosing a pass, he dropped into coverage. Then he saw the handoff, the muscular running back darting towards him. Rather than rush up and attack, Packie froze. Only after it was too late did he lunge, fingers clasping at empty air. The running back sprinted to pay dirt. We lost. 

Packie’s punishment was wondering if there was something weak in himself that refused to be great. Was that moment a microcosm of his entire life? He confessed that this question haunted him at night, even more than the girlfriend who’d dumped him and moved to Georgia for the Health Corps.

As if to banish these thoughts, Packie sniffed and tossed the bottle from the porch. It crashed against the sidewalk and blew shards of glass out into the street.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said.

I watched him shuffle away, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets. For Packie, that game might as well have been his life’s Super Bowl. For me, for Scott and Disco-Dan and the underclassmen, it was another thing in the rearview mirror. I remembered the seniors that night after the loss, how they held one another in the basement, keening like angels cast out from heaven. I drank my foamy Bud Light and thought, god help me if I’m ever like that. Just put me down, man. 

****

The next morning, I arrived at the field early, my pregame routine. The locker room—with its smell of Old Spice and dried sweat—was empty, which was good. Before warm-ups, I liked to practice guided image therapy, a technique I’d learned in Psychology 101. It required a stillness of mind and heart, a state that was difficult to achieve when surrounded by teammates all hopped up on pre-workout and synthetic testosterone.

The point of guided image therapy was thus: Fill your mind with positive visualizations, and success will surely follow. I found that songs were good for conjuring images, but memories worked best. There was one, in particular, I liked to focus on—a recruiting trip to tour an Ivy League in Boston. My meeting with admissions made it clear I was out of my element, academically speaking, but Boston itself was a special kind of enchantment. I’d sensed a stirring pulse underneath the city and ever since, felt compelled to answer its call. 

As I sat in my locker, clad in my exoskeleton of plastic and cotton foam, I achieved a zen remembrance. In my mind’s eye, I was in Boston proper, walking over alternating patches of grass and cobblestone. I passed under architecturally sound bridges while nearby, rowers stroked in silent unison up the Charles River. The whisper of long-dead colonial heroes came rattling up from headstones to fill me with confidence and pride, the strength in their words looping around my soul like a suit of armor to be worn. I felt I was ready for anything. 

Fifteen minutes before kickoff, Packie came to wish us good luck. He was drunk. His cheeks flushed, his eyes folded in matchboxes. The alumni had started partying at dawn, and all warm-ups, we could hear them in the soggy fields beyond the woods, chanting like infantrymen. Besotted, Packie patted our padded elbows and whispered, “I’d do anything to be out there today. Anything.”  

We smiled, said, “You kidding? Of course, you’ll be with us, Pack.”

It must have meant something to Packie because his bloodshot eyes filled with tears, his expression was the expression of a person reunited with their lost love. Seeing the sad joy there, I averted my gaze. In truth, he wouldn’t be on the field with us; he’d be in the stands, and the gulf would be unassailable. We were already millions of miles away. We were watching ourselves through electron telescopes.

Someone yelled to turn off the music. We gathered around our Coach as he gave his pregame speech and then led us in group prayer. I didn’t believe in god, but I mumbled along regardless, as I’d done for the past three seasons, so my teammates wouldn’t know me as a non-god guy. Sometimes, I thought I was dumb not to believe, ashamed of my inability to surrender to a higher power.

Need a reason? Here’s one: when I played football, I felt myself disappear. My conscious self faded, and I became something else entirely. This occurred in the third quarter of our game that day. As the quarterback yelled, “Hut!” I tore past the man opposite me, close enough to feel the warmth on his body, the pounding snuffing of his breath, the tiny whisper of him going, “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”

It was a laser focus, heat-seeking missile intensity. 

In that moment, I was as god—real or not—made me. 

My helmet collided with the quarterback, and for a long second, the world lost color and sound. I was a child again, floating weightless in a womb of fluid and ichor. Bits of artificial turf sprayed into my mouth and nose. Then, my senses returned all at once, a roaring river. Eyes clenched as if in prayer, the quarterback curled over the football like a man gut-shot. When I looked to the sidelines, my teammates and the crowd were in a fervor. Scott and Disco-Dan were wrapped like lovers in one another’s arms. Packie had his fists raised to the sky, like, yes! 

This is how it ended: our opponents punted. We won 14-3.

Later, after dinner with our parents, we returned to the house to find Packie sleeping on the porch. Half his shirt was ripped, the crotch of his jeans moist and dark-stained. His five o'clock shadow was a second shadow obscuring his face, blurring the handsome jut of his jaw, the crooked nose he’d broken sophomore year in a frat house scuffle. I covered him with a blanket and sat down on the couch. Reaching over, I took his cheek into my palm and pressed a thumb to his shut-eye, trying to burrow into his dreams, trying to understand why why why.

****

That night, our house filled with football alumni and other partygoers. Into the basement they marched, two by two, down the narrow stairs. Many were drunk, and the place smelled thickly of Polo Ralph Lauren and Skoal Long Cut. Seeking to impress us, the alumni adopted words of brotherhood and affection, nodded with approval at our renovated wooden bar. They stood semi-circle around the kegs and put their arms on our shoulders, and as we drank they promised internships and entry-level positions, heartfelt recommendations that would set us on the right fiduciary path. 

For our part, we listened dutifully as they espoused the merits of adulthood: the wine tours in Napa, leadership events in European capitals, molly-heavy parties in Ibiza with girls we couldn’t even fucking imagine, dude.

“Trust me,” one towering ex-lineman, now a hedge fund manager, slurred. “When you’re my age, you won’t even miss this kid-shit anymore. It will be like Pokémon or Chuck E. Cheese. Totally forgettable.”

I felt like saying: Then what are you doing here?

On the flip side was Packie. He had awoken hours before and immediately resumed drinking. We’d made him shower and change, but the look of sleep never left his face. I’d once seen Packie squat a car’s worth of weight on his back and not flinch, composed as a Grecian god. Now, he was the opposite of that—a lobotomized prisoner at Alcatraz. I watched him bump through the party, his face a mask of PTSD-bliss. Approaching group after group of girls, he held up his blue hands, seeming to say, Don’t worry! I come in peace!

Then, the inevitable: Packie stumbling through his words and sloshing beer on himself, the girls looking at him like, Haha, please leave us alone.

I pivoted away, found myself bending over the bar to take a whiskey shot. I did one and then another, and soon my head was filled with liquor and a somber sort of drunk. In the basement, the walls wept beer and sweat, and my skin took on a special sheen, a kind of sixth sense.

Looking into my cup, I found myself once again in Boston, walking under the million shimmering lights of downtown. Before me strode future-me, dressed preppy with a different haircut. Hovering on the shoulder of future-me, I saw myself look to the sky with anticipation. 

Ahead, a jet fuel comet slashed a white tear across the horizon, and elsewhere, there was a humming, a familiar song. In a flash, I was hundreds of miles away. A darkened highway, cicadas humming in the dusk. I glimpsed it then: Packie’s Corolla overturned on Rt. I-79, emergency lights blinking against the star-sotted night. Packie’s letterman jacket was folded like a flag in the inverted backseat, “Closing Time” by Semisonic tinkling through crunched-up speakers. 

But that was all yet to come. We still had time left.

Back in the present, the rap music paused. There was the clicking of scrolling through an iPod, then the sound of piano and guitars. There was a singer, and he spoke of small-town girls and lonely worlds, city boys and South Detroit, midnight trains going anywhere. There was talk of streetlights becoming people and vice versa. And the chorus! It was like something fashioned from everything we had always wanted to say but never possessed the words.  

Generations of players and admirers joined voices, and the basement shook with mutual love for what we were together, what we would always be. It was less a song, more the collective sound of our souls crying out. And behold this, a miracle occurred. Here and now, Packie returned to life. A clear purpose imbued his jelly limbs. His bones recalcified. His eyes achieved a monastic fervor. He sang loudest of all, standing on the steps and waving his beer: 

Don't stop believin’...

Don't stop believin’...

Don't stop believin’...

Pat Jameson is a writer living in Roanoke, VA. His stories have been published in the Under Review, Cleaver Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, X-R-A-Y, BULL, HAD, and Hex, among others. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 2024, and named a finalist for Hemingway Shorts 2024 and SmokeLong Quarterly Flash Fiction Award 2022. Find him on bluesky @patjameson.bsky.social.