Page 3 of Sweeper
Jude’s face bends with sympathy. “I know, I know. Just focus on the facts, kid. Vaughn Harris doesn’t know you could be his son. And your mum doesn’t know you found that letter. That letter could be fake for all we know. This is your secret right now…and mine.” He lifts his brows and gives my arm a playful punch. “And the opportunity to play in the UK is ten times bigger than any family drama. Go kill it for this club, and no one has to know your connection to the Harris family. That’s up to you to decide once you’re over there. Football over bullshit, right?”
“Football over bullshit,” I repeat with a heavy sigh. Using the term football feels foreign, but I vow to get used to it if they offer me a deal. “I’m going to need you to remind me of that mantra if they actually fucking sign me, or my career will get a whole lot muddier than today’s game.”
Zander
Six Months Later
“More fucking rain,” I groan as I turn my Red Sox ball cap forward and wheel my two heavy suitcases and a carry-on toward the cab line outside of Heathrow airport.
“Where to?” a cabbie asks as he wrestles my bags into the trunk, flinching against the cold January wind.
I hand him the slip of paper from my pocket. “I need to go to a pub called Old George in Bethnal Green.”
“East London, got it,” he replies with a thick British accent. “Sit on that side. You’re a big bloke, and there’s more legroom there.”
I nod and fold myself into the back, adjusting to the feeling of riding on the wrong side of the road. I came to England for a camp once when I was twelve. My dad came with me, and I remember him telling me that England was here first, so America is actually the weird one.
I’d do anything to call my dad right now and talk to him about this big transfer. He was my biggest fan, and even though it’s been a year since he passed, I still catch myself picking up the phone to call him. And the number of times I’ve replayed the voicemails I have on my phone from him is crazy unhealthy. But each time I do, I can hear the smile in his voice. It reminds me of the man I love, regardless of whether or not he lied to me.
It’d be nice if I could talk to my mom, but things between us aren’t exactly copacetic. As we exit the airport, I pull out my phone to reply to the texts I’ve received from her since my phone connected to my international plan. After several flight delays, I’m here a good five hours later than I was supposed to be.
Me: Made it to London finally, and I’m in a cab.
Mom: Did all your luggage make it?
Me: Yeah.
Mom: Are you going to be on time to meet your landlord?
Me: Yeah, I texted him when we departed, and he said he could meet me later.
Mom: Did you sleep on the plane at all?
Me: Not really.
Mom: You have your endurance test tomorrow, right? Will you be rested enough for that?
Me: I’m good.
My jaw clenches as I see the bubbles on the text thread bounce and disappear, bounce and disappear. She doesn’t know what to say. We had a huge fight when I told her about the offer from Bethnal Green. She said it was too soon for me to transfer clubs after Dad died, which shocked me because it had been six months at that point, and this offer could change the entire trajectory of my career. And I knew it wasn’t the distance that bothered her because I was already thousands of miles away from her when I took a contract in Seattle.
The silent elephant in the room had to be that I was going to play for a club managed by a man she knew all too well, based on that letter. That fucking stupid piece of paper that I carry with me in my wallet like a psychopath. I waited for her to bring up the connection. I was patient because I knew she was still struggling with grief and depression. She was seeing a therapist for it and taking all these new meds. It took her months to go back to work, so I delayed my transfer from August to January, hoping she’d finally be honest with me.
At Christmas, it’d been a year since my dad passed, so I practically teed her up by asking all sorts of questions about the years she lived in London. I asked her advice on the area, the lingo, and sights I should see. I gave her a million chances to tell me that she might know Vaughn Harris from her time spent over there. Anything.
But she said nothing.
In fact, the day before I was supposed to leave, she told me that soccer was too cutthroat overseas, and I was better off being a star in America than a bench warmer in England.
It felt like a fucking knife through the heart. My own mother didn’t believe in me.
Dad would haveneversaid that shit. He would have put a damn sign up in the yard to tell all the neighbors that his son was signed to the Premier League. He would have written an editorial for the newspaper. He would have changed his career from accountant to “Father of a Premier League footballer” on his Facebook profile.
I realized then that I lost more than my dad last year. I lost my mom too.
On the flight, my mind swirled with doubt. Maybe the fact that she didn’t say anything means that letter is bullshit? Maybe she had some DNA tests done on me when I was younger and realized she made a mistake, and Vaughn Harris wasn’t my father. Maybe that’s why she never sent the letter. Maybe I’ll get to Tower Park Field, take one look at Vaughn Harris, and know he’s not my father. Then I can get back to focusing on what I’m here for: Soccer over bullshit.
Or football over bullshit, as Jude says.
