From Simple Beginnings -- Part 10
Continues from here.
***
Quinn spent his Sunday the way he always did -- reading the newspaper to get fodder for the next wave of strips. National news always came first, but it was a quiet week. Nothing much going on politically this week, Quinn thought.
He turned to the community news. This is more like it, he thought, as he started scribbling down ideas. People arguing over a park bench and where it should be placed would be good for three or four days easily.
He set the paper aside as he absently patted Jezzie on the head. She had settled in on the couch next to him with her head resting on his lap. He searched around with the other hand for the remote. It was about time to turn on the game. He wasn't a sports nut, but he did like to talk football with his Dad on Sunday nights.
***
Nick woke up when his phone rang around noon. He picked it up still half-asleep.
"'lo?"
"So where did you disappear to after the game?"
"George?"
"Yeah, we were all wondering. What happened to you?"
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah, man. Do you?" George asked with a laugh.
Nick looked up at the clock. "Shit. I'm missing pre-game."
"Yeah, man, you are. And you were watching over here today, or did you forget that, too?"
"Will Molly kill me if I skip out?"
Nick heard a moment's muffled conversation and then he heard Molly's voice clearly, "Nicholas St. James get your butt over here. Inquiring minds want to know what's going on with you."
George came back on the line and said, "The pregnant woman has spoken. Do you really want to make her mad?"
"No, I don't," Nick chuckled. "Tell her I'll be there by kickoff, but there's nothing to tell. I thought I had something to do last night, but it turns out I really didn't."
"Fine. I'll tell her, but I don't think she's going to believe it," George replied and then hung up the phone.
***
After watching the ESPN coverage, Nick was ready to crawl under a piece of furniture. Molly and George couldn't stop kidding him about the profile that aired about his defense.
"Nick, man, why didn't you tell me they were going to profile you guys?"
Nick had his head buried in his hands. "I didn't know. Jesus. Mark is going to kill me."
"Good publicity is good publicity, Nick. He's not going to get upset. It made the team look good," Molly said, reassuringly.
"No, it made me look good. That's not a good thing, Mol. Not a good thing at all."
"Surely it's not that bad." Molly looked to her husband for support.
"Well, on the plus side, the only footage they have of you is while you're pacing the sidelines. They didn't actually get an interview. On the minus side, they called the defense your brain child, and didn't even give Mark the credit for hiring you," George observed.
"Yeah, maybe it's not so bad," Nick groaned. He could only imagine what the post-mortem was going to be like the next day.
***
Quinn was still staring at the television when the phone rang.
"Huh?"
"Son? Are you okay?" John Jordan wasn't expecting anything less than Quinn's normally bubbly self on the phone.
"Oh, yeah. Hi, Dad. How's it going?"
"Fine. The game wasn't that bad - we did win."
"Yeah, we did, but it wasn't pretty." Quinn thought carefully about the question he wanted to ask. He had to make it come out right or his dad would get suspicious. "Did you watch SportsCenter?"
"Yeah. The college near you got some coverage, but you don't go to the games, do you?"
"No, I don't. You know how I feel about college athletics," Quinn stated flatly not wanting to start the old argument again.
"I know, but they are really quite good this year," John said. "I don't know that they'll be that good next year though."
"Really? Why not?"
"They're going to lose their defensive coordinator to the pro's. I'm sure of it."
"Really? Why?"
"St. James was on his way to being an all-pro lineman when he was injured. He's only coaching at the college level to prove that he can. Someone in the NFL is going to snap him up now that he's demonstrated he's more than a good player."
"So he played football?"
"Yeah, he played college ball for State - they won a national championship his senior year. He was a rookie of the year nominee his first year in the pro's, and he made the Pro Bowl every year he played including the year he was injured. He was amazing on the field, but I'm not surprised you don't remember him. He played during your 'I hate professional sports' phase," John chuckled as he concluded.
"I did not go through a phase, Dad. I had principled reasons for not watching."
"I'm sure you did, but you're watching now. What does that say about your principles?"
"It says I want to please my father in his doddering old age." Quinn burst out laughing a split second before his father. The image of his tall, athletic father doddering was just too comical.
As John stuttered to a stop, he said, "Your mother is making those motions again. I think it's time for me to go exercise my old bones. She says she'll talk to you tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir. Tell her I'll have my sketchpad handy." While Quinn talked sports with his father on Sunday nights, on Monday mornings, he and his mother talked and drew. It was a ritual as old as he was. "Love you, Dad."
"Love you too, son."
Quinn set the phone down thinking about what he had learned. Nick's last name was St. James and he coached football. He would have liked an opportunity to get to know the other man better, but after the disaster of the previous evening he didn't know if the other man would be willing to talk to him if they ever ran into each other again.
TBC
***
Quinn spent his Sunday the way he always did -- reading the newspaper to get fodder for the next wave of strips. National news always came first, but it was a quiet week. Nothing much going on politically this week, Quinn thought.
He turned to the community news. This is more like it, he thought, as he started scribbling down ideas. People arguing over a park bench and where it should be placed would be good for three or four days easily.
He set the paper aside as he absently patted Jezzie on the head. She had settled in on the couch next to him with her head resting on his lap. He searched around with the other hand for the remote. It was about time to turn on the game. He wasn't a sports nut, but he did like to talk football with his Dad on Sunday nights.
***
Nick woke up when his phone rang around noon. He picked it up still half-asleep.
"'lo?"
"So where did you disappear to after the game?"
"George?"
"Yeah, we were all wondering. What happened to you?"
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah, man. Do you?" George asked with a laugh.
Nick looked up at the clock. "Shit. I'm missing pre-game."
"Yeah, man, you are. And you were watching over here today, or did you forget that, too?"
"Will Molly kill me if I skip out?"
Nick heard a moment's muffled conversation and then he heard Molly's voice clearly, "Nicholas St. James get your butt over here. Inquiring minds want to know what's going on with you."
George came back on the line and said, "The pregnant woman has spoken. Do you really want to make her mad?"
"No, I don't," Nick chuckled. "Tell her I'll be there by kickoff, but there's nothing to tell. I thought I had something to do last night, but it turns out I really didn't."
"Fine. I'll tell her, but I don't think she's going to believe it," George replied and then hung up the phone.
***
After watching the ESPN coverage, Nick was ready to crawl under a piece of furniture. Molly and George couldn't stop kidding him about the profile that aired about his defense.
"Nick, man, why didn't you tell me they were going to profile you guys?"
Nick had his head buried in his hands. "I didn't know. Jesus. Mark is going to kill me."
"Good publicity is good publicity, Nick. He's not going to get upset. It made the team look good," Molly said, reassuringly.
"No, it made me look good. That's not a good thing, Mol. Not a good thing at all."
"Surely it's not that bad." Molly looked to her husband for support.
"Well, on the plus side, the only footage they have of you is while you're pacing the sidelines. They didn't actually get an interview. On the minus side, they called the defense your brain child, and didn't even give Mark the credit for hiring you," George observed.
"Yeah, maybe it's not so bad," Nick groaned. He could only imagine what the post-mortem was going to be like the next day.
***
Quinn was still staring at the television when the phone rang.
"Huh?"
"Son? Are you okay?" John Jordan wasn't expecting anything less than Quinn's normally bubbly self on the phone.
"Oh, yeah. Hi, Dad. How's it going?"
"Fine. The game wasn't that bad - we did win."
"Yeah, we did, but it wasn't pretty." Quinn thought carefully about the question he wanted to ask. He had to make it come out right or his dad would get suspicious. "Did you watch SportsCenter?"
"Yeah. The college near you got some coverage, but you don't go to the games, do you?"
"No, I don't. You know how I feel about college athletics," Quinn stated flatly not wanting to start the old argument again.
"I know, but they are really quite good this year," John said. "I don't know that they'll be that good next year though."
"Really? Why not?"
"They're going to lose their defensive coordinator to the pro's. I'm sure of it."
"Really? Why?"
"St. James was on his way to being an all-pro lineman when he was injured. He's only coaching at the college level to prove that he can. Someone in the NFL is going to snap him up now that he's demonstrated he's more than a good player."
"So he played football?"
"Yeah, he played college ball for State - they won a national championship his senior year. He was a rookie of the year nominee his first year in the pro's, and he made the Pro Bowl every year he played including the year he was injured. He was amazing on the field, but I'm not surprised you don't remember him. He played during your 'I hate professional sports' phase," John chuckled as he concluded.
"I did not go through a phase, Dad. I had principled reasons for not watching."
"I'm sure you did, but you're watching now. What does that say about your principles?"
"It says I want to please my father in his doddering old age." Quinn burst out laughing a split second before his father. The image of his tall, athletic father doddering was just too comical.
As John stuttered to a stop, he said, "Your mother is making those motions again. I think it's time for me to go exercise my old bones. She says she'll talk to you tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir. Tell her I'll have my sketchpad handy." While Quinn talked sports with his father on Sunday nights, on Monday mornings, he and his mother talked and drew. It was a ritual as old as he was. "Love you, Dad."
"Love you too, son."
Quinn set the phone down thinking about what he had learned. Nick's last name was St. James and he coached football. He would have liked an opportunity to get to know the other man better, but after the disaster of the previous evening he didn't know if the other man would be willing to talk to him if they ever ran into each other again.
TBC