“I don’t plan to be falling back a single step.” Isaiah folds his arms across his chest.
“No one ever does. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen,” Rich replies with a depth of feeling I’ve never heard from him before.
Isaiah’s aunt turns to me. “I’m curious. What do you think, Miz Miller? Why are you here today?”
“I’m the cautionary tale. The person who discovered first-hand how important a college degree can be. I was a college athlete—I played tennis at Georgia Tech and was looking to turn pro as soon as I graduated. I was on my way, dreaming about being the next Serena Williams, when I . . . I was involved in a car accident. My chance to compete professionally was over in an instant. I lost somebody I loved.” I don’t mention that I lost the love of my life. Or that I also became a single mother. “Fortunately, I had a degree. And I went on to law school. I represented a few athletes who needed help with their contracts, and ultimately, although I hadn’t planned it, I became an agent. So, as far as I can see, I’m here to make sure Isaiah understands how important it is to have a degree when and if the ability to play football is taken away. And frankly, it doesn’t even take an injury to make that happen. According to the NFL Players Association, the average career of an NFL player across the league is 3.3 years. For wide receivers, it’s 2.81.”
“Aw, hell!” Isaiah says. “Those are just numbers. I’m not worried about any of that shit. Nothing’s going to be happening to me.”
“You’re not the first athlete to believe that. That doesn’t make you right,” I reply as calmly as I can.
He snorts in disagreement. The only reason he hasn’t stormed out of the room is the hand his aunt has placed on his shoulder.
“And if Isaiah was your son?” Yvonne’s voice breaks on the last word. “If you’d raised him up and you knew how much he wanted to be a professional football player?”
“I’d be every bit as proud of him as you are, Miz Booker. And I would absolutely want him to have a college diploma. Once he’d earned that diploma, I’d want him drafted as advantageously as possible.”
I glance over at Rich, who’s watching Isaiah’s face carefully, almost as if he’s searching for something in it.
“There are a number of really strong receivers in this draft class. Next year, there are only one or two. If Isaiah has as good a senior year as we think he can”—am I really presenting Rich Hanson and me as a team?—“he’ll be much more valuable. He’ll be totally ready and in the front of everybody’s minds. Not an afterthought. And he’ll have an education no one can take away from him.”
I’m starting to wonder why Rich isn’t chiming in as I wrap up.
“I think that makes a lot of sense. We’re only talking about a year,” Aunt Yvonne says quietly.
Isaiah’s chin juts angrily. His body language is as closed off as it’s possible to get. “With all due respect to you, Auntie, this is total and complete bullshit. I don’t want to wait and waste this time on a degree I’m not ever going to need.”
The young man glares at me and then at Rich.
Yvonne cups his cheek with one weathered hand. “You need to listen to what they’re saying, son. You need to stay in school and get that degree and show all those scouts who you are and what you’re made of. You do not need to settle for what you can grab right now. That’s the easy way, the lazy way. And I know I taught you better than that.”
She drops her hand but holds her nephew’s gaze. I am so impressed by this woman, I’m barely breathing. This is the very kind of tough love Erin and I were talking about the other day.
Finally, Isaiah nods. He closes his eyes briefly. It’s clear he’s still not happy about waiting, but he’s not going to buck this woman who has raised him and done so much for him.
As we prepare to leave, I notice what seems like a silent conversation taking place between Yvonne and Rich. A relieved smile. A nod of the head. I look more closely as she packs up a small bag of cookies for the two of us and hands them to Rich along with parting words I can’t hear and another look I don’t fully understand.
“Thank you so much for coming out. And for . . . explaining things,” she says as we walk toward the door. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jazmine.”
Moments later, we’re outside and heading toward my car.
“That went well,” he says. “And you didn’t even have to pull the single-mother card. Thanks for coming with me.”
While I back down the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Rich Hanson’s face. He’s wearing a satisfied smile, but there’s something more there. Something that doesn’t quite add up.
My foot finds the brake as realization dawns. I wasn’t there today to impress or convince Yvonne Booker of anything. Just the opposite. This was all a show. Performed for Isaiah’s benefit.
“You could have told me why you wanted me to come with you today, you know. Instead of playing me.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his indignation is feigned.
I shake my head, mashing my foot on the gas as I put together the signs I missed. “She reached out to you, didn’t she? To try to talk some sense into her nephew. And for some reason, you decided to add me to the cast.”
I drive, watching the small, neat houses go by as I try to work it out. “Seriously. How do you and Yvonne know each other?”
For a minute, I think he’s going to try to deny it. Then he says, “Her son was an old friend of mine. The very first NFL player I ever signed.”
“Hiram Booker.” The name slips out of my mouth, the final puzzle piece. “Wide receiver, UNC, two-time All-American. Went to the Atlanta Falcons in the second round. Injured in a playoff game in 1997 and never walked again. Died in . . .”
“In 1999. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head,” Rich finishes. The sigh that follows is heavy. “That was the year Isaiah was born. Yvonne took him in when her younger sister died in childbirth. Gave her a purpose and him a home.” Another sigh. “Yvonne did everything she could to keep Isaiah from playing football—there’s not a single photo of Hiram in a uniform or a plaque or anything else from his football days anywhere in that house. But Isaiah has the same kind of speed and talent. He reminds me so much of Hi.”
For the first time, I feel the urge to comfort this man. I push it aside. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”
“Not knowing allowed you to be yourself and speak more convincingly.”
I take my eyes off the road long enough to give him a steely look.