Read Home Field for Free Online

was born: the baskets of food, the bouquets of flowers, the boxes of homemade fudge. He felt as if people were paying him homage, as if he were a minor king.
    The heron was still standing there, glowing more whitely now that the light was fading. Dean called to the boys, and they started, as if they’d forgotten he was with them. The heron was startled, too, and stretched its wings. Suddenly it was in flight, sailing low, just a few feet above the water. Its white form was like a streak of fresh paint against the muddy creek.
    Robbie and Bry waded back to shore, where their shoes and socks were waiting for them. Together, the three of them climbed the steep bank and walked across the meadow that led to their house.
    There was an aluminum-foil-wrapped pie pan sitting on their front step. People were still dropping off baked goods. Dean didn’t know how to make it stop.
    â€œPeach,” said Robbie, sniffing.
    â€œI wish it was chocolate cake,” Bry said.
    Dean brought it inside and found a note tucked beneath the foil. It was from Julie Frye, a woman from church. Most of the baked goods he received were from church ladies. Joelle said they were “on the prowl.” Dean couldn’t help thinking that each of these little offerings was meant to make him feel guilty for skipping services, week after week. He stuck it in the fridge with all the other leftovers, wedging it so tightly that he ended up knocking over something in the back. It was one of Nicole’s bottles of sunscreen. She liked it to be cool when she put it on her face. He gazed at the white bottle with its orange cartoon sun, little bits of the sun’s rays chipped off with use. The boys were staring up at him.
    â€œCan we watch TV?”
    â€œIf you get ready for bed first,” Dean said.
    â€œBut it’s still light out!”
    â€œJust do it.” Dean chose not to remind them that they fell asleep every night in front of the TV, a habit he hadn’t meant to foster but had stopped trying to resist. TV, along with snacks, worked like a sedative to get them past the precarious border between waking and dreaming. It worked for Dean, too, although his snack was beer or bourbon.
    â€œCan we have microwave popcorn?” Bryan asked.
    â€œSure, sure,” Dean said. Outside, someone was pulling into his driveway. His first thought was Stephanie, but when hechecked the kitchen window, it was Garrett’s shiny white Geo. He probably got it washed every week.
    â€œGarrett,” Dean said, meeting him at the side door.
    â€œHey, Coach. I just wanted to drop off the playbook, like I said.” Garrett held up a manila envelope.
    Dean opened the envelope and flipped through the book. There were notes on almost every page. Dean couldn’t believe so many plays were going to be affected by Laird’s departure.
    â€œI got a little carried away and ended up staying late,” Garrett said. “And then Brett Albright stopped by.”
    â€œWhat did he want?” Albright was his QB and team captain. He was one of Dean’s favorites, a smart kid who had learned the game from his older brother, borrowing his playbook and memorizing it for fun. Dean had taken him out of JV his sophomore year even though he wasn’t quite physically ready.
    â€œHis right shoulder is acting up, but we can talk about it later. I gave him some stretches. And, uh, I told him about Laird. I told him not to mention it.”
    â€œOkay.” Dean didn’t really feel like being annoyed with Garrett. “You want to come in for a beer?”
    â€œI would,” Garrett said, “but I have plans with Connie.”
    In the spring Garrett had begun dating a tennis instructor, a woman Dean had inadvertently introduced him to when he gave Garrett free passes to the country club where Nicole worked. Secretly Dean felt that Connie, who was fit and young and innocently pretty, was out of Garrett’s