Page 3 of Rock Bottom Girl

2

Marley

While Dad be-bopped into the backyard shed—a dusty, spider-filled museum to my childhood—looking for a soccer ball, I sat on the porch steps and dragged on my sneakers.

It was hot. Pennsylvania mid-August humidity hot. The air was thick enough that it felt like sitting in a bland, nostalgic stew. The fence needed a new coat of paint, but the same trees that I’d climbed and fallen out of as a kid were still there. The same garden beds were still neglected as they had been since Mom’s 1988 homegrown everything experiment. The red brick patio that I’d scraped my knees open on more times than I could count still cut a jagged swath through the green sod.

Stepping into the backyard was like traveling back in time to when I was eight. Except I was thirty years older. My dreams were dead. And I didn’t even own cleats or shin guards anymore. Did coaches need those? Or did they just stand on the sideline yelling as mine had? Were the rules the same? Or had the game evolved into something different with the viral popularity of Abby Wambach and David Beckham?

There was no way I could do this.

“Heads up!” The ball landed with a definitive thud in front of me. It didn’t bounce. “Guess it needs a little air,” Dad noted, jogging toward me with a bicycle pump in one hand.

He was wearing cycling shorts, leftovers from his three-month spin class obsession. He’d had trouble settling on a new hobby since retirement.

“What?” he asked as he pumped.

“I can’t get used to your mustache.”

He patted the furry caterpillar under his lip with pride. It was another post-retirement hobby: facial hair growing. “Think I’m going to try a goatee next.”

“Can’t wait.”

He gave the ball a poke. “Nice and firm.”

I tried not to watch him handle the ball while he said that. Dad had an uncanny knack for saying inappropriate things without ever trying.

“I seem to recall you were quite adept at juggling balls in high school, snack cake,” he said cheekily. “Let’s see if you still remember how.”

“Jesus, Dad. Listen to yourself.” But he was already scampering to the back of the yard.

We kicked the ball and the idea of me being a temporary teacher and coach around.

“What if my team loses every game?” I asked.

“They won one game last season, and that was because the other team’s bus got stuck in the traffic when the cattle escaped the auction. It was a forfeit. I don’t think the district is looking for a winning season.”

“But where do I even begin? Practice starts in two days.”

Dad shrugged and kicked at the ball like he was a puppet with wooden joints. His athletic experience had been deferred in favor of the AV Club during his high school career. “What did your coaches have you do during preseason?”

“I don’t know. Run until I hated running?”

“There you go. We can start there,” he said, winding up for a kick and missing the ball completely.

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t have an athletic bone in his body, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to support me. I didn’t deserve him, but I wasn’t willing to let that get in my way of appreciating him.

“We can look on the internet after dinner,” he suggested. “You can learn anything online.”

“Mmm. What about teaching? I don’t even know what a gym teacher does besides stand around creepily while students change and then make everyone play volleyball from November to May.”

I was by no means in the best shape of my life. Adulthood had taken its toll in the form of happy hours and sodium-laden convenience foods and no time for the gym. I was dehydrated and low on sleep. My shape was soft, round. And I lost my air with a flight of stairs.

“Dad, I don’t think I can do this. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been working in health care and data mining. Not sports and fitness.” I kicked the ball back to him.

He tripped over it and face-planted on the grass. I jogged to his side and pulled him up. “Maybe we should continue this discussion over beers. While sitting,” I suggested, picking his glasses off the ground.

“Sounds like a safer plan,” he agreed.