Chapter 7: Sunday, Aug. 19

I actually slept until 6 a.m. before nature demanded I get up and moving. Just as well, I thought. It would be that much easier to get back onto Coach Tucker’s schedule tomorrow morning.

I went ahead and showered, shaved head and legs, brushed my teeth and laid out the clothes I planned to wear to church. I went without a tie, but did pull out the navy blue blazer. It would go with the powder blue Oxford cloth shirt I’d selected and I thought would set an appropriate tone of appearing in public wearing school colors.

Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, I grabbed my tablet and headed to the kitchen to scrounge some breakfast and catch up on the world. I really could have gone for one of Grandma’s country breakfasts this morning. I’d dropped about seven pounds during the first week of practice and wouldn’t have to worry about puking it back up during practice today.

Dad came in about 7 and started the coffee machine while I munched on a bowl of cereal and a banana and browsed the web. The sorry fuckers blew another two-score lead and lost 21-13 to the Bengals while I was spending the evening with Morgan. I think I came out ahead.

The starters built a 10-0 halftime lead and the scrubs got outplayed again. The starting quarterback was productive in limited action, going 10 of 15 for 86 yards and a touchdown in three series. At least the starters were winning their portions of the games. The guys who would be out of work next week were showing why they were headed for the unemployment line.

Next week would be the “dress rehearsal” game in which the starters were expected to play at least a half. The final preseason game would determine which of the hopefuls got to stick around a little longer.

The baseball team lost a wild one 11-7 to the Angels to fall 15 games under .500 and 20 games out of first place. Leading 2-1 early, the locals fell behind 6-2 in the fourth then pulled even in the bottom of the inning. The Angels took the precaution of scoring five in the seventh, hitting back-to-back homers, to blow the game open.

The locals’ starting pitcher should feel fortunate to have gotten out of it with no decision after giving up six runs on nine hits in six innings. The joker who gave up five runs in the seventh should be on a bus headed to the minors this morning.

One thing that surprised me was the baseball game drew almost 25,000 while the football game had about 89,000. The stadiums are just a few blocks apart and share some parking lots. It must have been a madhouse for folks trying to get out of there when the games ended.

Mom gave me another surprise when she came in all dressed up and told Dad to go get ready. It appeared I wasn’t the only Robinson who would be attending services this morning.

“Dr. Taylor invited us to sit with the team,” Mom said. “They’ll be joining us for lunch at the club after church. We can all ride together in my car.”

That actually worked out great for me. I wouldn’t have to worry about Ny’Quesha Taylor insisting on a ride in my Z4. I hoped Marshawn would take that into consideration on Monday when we started hitting.

Dad came out about 8:30 dressed in a suit and immediately went for another cup of coffee. I was dispatched to get dressed — “You are not going to church in shorts and a T-shirt,” Mom decreed, as if I’d ever considered the possibility — and told to make sure Kacie was up and getting ready. That was confirmed by the sound of a blow-dryer coming from our bathroom when I entered my room.

“Mom wants to make sure you’re getting ready,” I said, sticking my head through the door to find my sister wrapped in a towel, blow-dryer in one hand and hairbrush in the other.

“Tell her I am,” my sister said without disrupting her routine. “Now get out of here and let me actually get ready.”

I took one last look before closing the door. The damn towel stayed in place. Probably for the best.

After getting dressed — I even wore socks — I returned to the kitchen carrying the blazer and steeled myself to undergo Mom’s inspection. I passed, but she insisted on running a hand over my head to check for stubble.

“When are you going to let your hair grow out?” she asked.

“Soon, I think,” I said. “We all want to wait for Sherry to start school, but I want to have some cover before cold weather sets in.”

“That’ll be about mid-January,” Dad piped up, drawing a glare from Mom. “Just being honest, Honey.”

A little after 9, Kacie came in wearing what I think would be best described as a demure dress. It covered everything it was supposed to with a relatively high neck and long sleeves. The skirt came to the top of her knees, modest enough for church. She wasn’t wearing hose, though. It was still summer and the temperature would be in the 90s by the time we got home.

“You look nice,” Mom said. “That dress really suits you.”

Kacie grabbed a cup of yogurt and a banana to hold her until we had lunch. I often wondered why she didn’t just eat breakfast before she got all dolled up. She wouldn’t have to worry about messing up her makeup or spilling something on a nice outfit. But such mysteries are beyond me. I’m just a guy, after all.

Another cup of coffee necessitated another trip to the bathroom by each of my parents, which took us right up to our departure time. It was almost like they planned it that way.

Mom drove. She didn’t want Dad messing with her seat settings. We arrived at the AME Church a little before 10 to find a good number of the team already there. Marshawn and a couple of other players who attended the church were shepherding the herd. Or maybe flock would have been a better term.

By 10:15, more than 60 players and almost all of the coaching staff were on hand. Most of those not in attendance were Hispanic and Catholic. Apparently, there were several abuelas who would be mightily ticked off if their nietos skipped mass to attend another church, even in the name of team unity. I wondered if we’d receive the same invitation from Father Garcia that we had from Dr. Taylor.

By the time players, coaches and assorted family members were counted up, we had about 120 people on hand. There were even a couple of the student trainers and managers, like Stephanie, who gave me a shy smile before engaging Kacie in conversation.

Marshawn assured us the sanctuary was more than big enough. He said they regularly had larger crowds, especially at the holidays and for other special events.

My sister gave me a smirk that I couldn’t decipher as the family members went inside. Marshawn informed us there were several rows of pews reserved for the players and coaches, some of whom had elected to sit with family.

We were ushered inside and found our places as the organist began playing the call to worship. I found myself sandwiched between Marshawn and Coach Bennett, which made me feel rather small and vulnerable. I took solace in the hope that neither would do anything on holy ground, kinda like the old movie where the French dude tried to fake a Scottish accent.

I don’t know if they were pulling out all the stops for the football team or if this was what all AME services were like, but they put on an impressive production. In addition to the organist and pianist, the musical portion of the service included a horn section, drummer and bass player. I half expected Berry Gordy to be directing the choir. The choir loft looked like it could hold the entire team and it was packed. I noticed Mrs. Taylor and Ny’Quesha in the middle of the front row.

And they got into it. I’m not talking about the typical hymns one might expect or even traditional gospel numbers. The music was contemporary and the arrangements sounded professional. The musicians backing the choir put on a show, but still came across as appropriately worshipful.

Dr. Taylor sat serenely in a chair behind the pulpit through the first few numbers, then got up to give the opening prayer and welcome today’s special guests. I don’t know how much time he spent rehearsing during the week, but he was definitely accustomed to public speaking.

After a couple more songs, another prayer and the offering — the team had been told a dollar apiece would be sufficient — Dr. Taylor began his sermon. I just thought the man resembled Samuel L. Jackson, and he didn’t even say “motherfucker” one time.

Mixed in with religious parts was a message about overcoming life’s obstacles by creating unity from diversity. I thought it could have been used as a pregame pep talk or a political speech. All he would need to do was tweak a word here or there to fit the audience.

There were several “Amens” and a “Preach it, Brother!” from the congregation, the latter eliciting a sly smile from the reverend that seemed to indicate he was just getting warmed up. If the musical portion of the service was a production, Dr. Taylor’s sermon was a performance. He knew how to read the room and it became more like a pep talk as he exhorted all in attendance to strive for perfection even when we knew it was unattainable. I wondered if Coach Tucker was taking notes or would just invite the good reverend down to the locker room before home games.

Dr. Taylor wrapped things up at 11:30 on the dot even though I never saw him look at his watch. I guess he’d been doing this long enough that he knew how much time he was allotted. With one last prayer and the call for prospective members to come forward, the choir launched into its last number.

Even though the service had lasted a little more than an hour, the time had flown by. Before I knew it, the team was filing out to find Dr. Taylor shaking hands and sharing a quick word with every member of the congregation who came within reach. More than one little old lady thanked him for his inspirational message.

Team members were milling around off to the side when Marshawn called out to me.

“You didn’t bring the ragtop?” he asked as he scanned the parking lot.

“Nope,” I replied. “I rode with my family. My mom’s SUV is right over there.”

“Man, I was hopin’ to arrive at that fancy country club in style,” he said. “See what it’s gonna feel like when I make it in the pros.”

“You make it in the pros, you’ll need something a little flashier than a Beemer,” I said. “Think Italian, suits and cars.”

“I can do that,” he said. “At least Ny’Quesha won’t be askin’ to go for a ride with you.”

“Remember that tomorrow,” I said, hoping against hope that he would.

“Maybe after I knock you outta your cleats a coupla times,” he smirked. “I already said I’m gonna bring the pain. A man’s gotta live up to his word.”

I was saved from further torment when Dad said we needed to be heading that way.

“We’ve already got people waiting on us,” he said. “Your mother promised Chef Maurice we’d be there on time. It seems she had him whip up one of his special dishes today.”

I noticed Mom and Kacie were already in the X5.

“I’ll see you at the club,” I told Marshawn. “Maybe you can see what it’s like to lounge poolside. I hear pretty girls are impressed by Super Bowl rings.”

“I can do that,” he smiled.

It took us about 20 minutes to escape church traffic and make it to the club. Mr. and Mrs. Richards were right behind us. They’d dropped Jed off at home so he could go get Keri, while the Bennetts were also coming. The Taylors would be along shortly depending on how much time the reverend spent visiting with members of the congregation.

We entered the main dining room to find Grandma and Grandpa with my aunts and cousins at a log table set up for a couple of dozen. The Ensberrys were also there, requiring me to greet Morgan with a quick smooch. I got the feeling Kinsey and Kirsten expected the same, but I just gave them each a hug.

The Pattersons came in, which required a quick smooch with Staci and more baleful glares from my cousins. I guess I was lucky the Metzgers were elsewhere today. A smooch with Bethany might have sent Kirsten over the edge. At least I didn’t have to explain the situation to Dr. and Mrs. Taylor. Yet.

The Bennetts and Taylors came in together, Erin and Ny’Quesha deep in conversation. My ears didn’t burn, so I took that as a good sign. Jed and Keri were the last to arrive, then we began arranging ourselves. We had 27 in our party and 24 places. Jed and I were dispatched to drag up another table.

Grandpa took his usual place at the head of the table and engaged Dr. Taylor in conversation while the other men grouped around them. The women centered on Grandma and Mrs. Taylor, leaving us 11 kids to sort ourselves out.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when Kirsten muscled her way in to sit next to me before anyone else made a move. If I’d been thinking, I’d have taken the seat on the end, which instead went to Marshawn. Jed, Keri and Erin arranged themselves on one side and the other girls grabbed what was left.

Morgan allowed Kinsey to take the seat on the other side of me, drawing grins from Kacie, Staci, Keri and Erin and curious looks from Ny’Quesha and Marshawn. Before any questions could be asked, our server arrived to take drink orders. Jed and I convinced her that she could save herself a lot of walking if she’d just bring us a couple of pitchers of iced tea. The older girls all agreed on Diet Coke, so that was served by the pitcher, as well. Marshawn surprised me by joining my cousins in asking for lemonade, so that was another pitcher.

I don’t know exactly what Mom promised or threatened for Chef Maurice, but he outdid himself with the entrée. It was basically his version of Beef Wellington, but he did something with the pastry that added an extra little kick. Jed and Marshawn both asked for another serving before any of the rest of us were half done. I was tempted to join them, but decided to wait and see if any of the girls couldn’t finish theirs. Kirsten came through for me when she dumped the last third of hers on my plate.

“Y’all eat like this all the time?” Marshawn asked before shoveling in another forkful.

“Not hardly,” I said. “I’d be pushing three bills if I did. I think my mom wanted to impress your folks. She’s the general manager here.”

“She was our boss this summer while you were totin’ bags of cement mix,” Jed said. “Coach Tucker’s easy on us by comparison.”

I wasn’t sure about that part, but I did concede that I didn’t have to deal with Coach Tucker at home.

I took the time to ask Kinsey and Kirsten how the first week of school had gone. Kirsten had the same sixth-grade teacher that Kacie had had. Kinsey had a couple of teachers I vaguely remembered from junior high, but I wasn’t able to offer her much advice. The place had changed so much in just the few years since I went there that I’d be lucky to find my way around now. It wasn’t lost on me that the junior high had nearly as many students as her former town had for its entire population.

Kinsey had kept up with Staci and was firmly on the cheerleader track for next year. Her sleepovers this weekend had both been hosted by cheerleaders. She’d thought about volunteering to serve as a student manager for the cheer squad to further strengthen her ties.

Kirsten thought she’d like to play tennis in the spring. They’d played a little in PE this week and she’d enjoyed it. I was sure Grandma would be glad to fund lessons here at the club from Serge, the tennis pro, or one of his assistants.

The big news was Kinsey would get to host her own sleepover later this month for her 13th birthday, which was just a few days before the cutoff date for being in eighth grade. I’d have to find out where Grandpa was going to be that weekend. Other than attending the party itself, I couldn’t imagine him staying in a house full of junior high girls.

Kirsten, of course, was already planning the sleepover for her birthday in October.

Just as we finished dessert, Grandpa called Jed, Marshawn and I to the other end of the table to get an update on the football team. Jed was smart enough to bring our pitcher of tea, while Marshawn refilled his glass from the pitcher he shared with my cousins.

Jed said the offense was looking good for this early in the season. All the position groups had their timing down already. Marshawn said the defense had a few spots to fill, but that there were enough returning guys with varsity experience that it shouldn’t be an issue. Not everyone was a returning starter but a few had rotated in on a regular basis last year.

Of course, none of what we’d done this past week really mattered. The real work would begin Monday when we put the pads on.

“We’ll find out real quick if Gary here can take a hit,” Marshawn said with just a little too much glee for my liking.

“Well, if things go like they should,” I countered, “I won’t have to take a hit unless we’re so far ahead that it won’t matter. If I get hit holding for kicks, it’s a free 15 yards for roughing.”

I did learn a little of Dr. Taylor’s background while we were there. He’d worked his way through Paul Quinn College, an HBCU that was affiliated with the AME Church. He and Mrs. Taylor had married young and had two children before he completed his degree. After working as a counselor and having a third child, he’d attended Jackson Theological Seminary in Arkansas, earning his doctorate of divinity, and preached at some small churches while continuing to work as a counselor for various agencies.

The Taylors had come to our town when Marshawn and Ny’Quesha were both preschoolers. Dr. Taylor started out as minister of education and associate pastor, then took over the church about 10 years ago when his predecessor retired.