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.”I wedged myself between the door and the van.“Think about it.If I did.Gave it up.Never took another snap.” I waved my hand behind me.“Even though all these people are screaming for my return and you, you of all people, know in your heart of hearts that I could.That I can.That I’m still good enough.Wouldn’t it cause you to think that something isn’t right here? That maybe I never lied to you? That maybe someone that’s not me is lying?”We hadn’t said this much to each other since shortly after my arrest.Given the evidence, the story Angelina had spun, doubt had crept in and Audrey had distanced herself from me.Everyone had.The words she spoke here were words she wished she’d said in the courtroom, to cut herself from me.And knowing that I was facing a minimum of twelve years, I don’t blame her.Twelve years is a long time when you’re staring it in the face.If it would have helped ease her pain, cut the cord between her heart and mine, then I wish she’d said it then.Maybe the last decade wouldn’t have hurt her so much.Problem was, she hadn’t.And as much as she hated me now, and no matter how she’d tried to forget me, and even though she’d quit wearing a wedding ring, and even though she’d only come to see me once in prison, and even though my anklet would follow me the rest of my life, and even though I couldn’t make her believe me, she couldn’t deny that her heart was still tethered to mine.Her words were mocking in tone.“Play the martyr.I don’t care if they bury you beneath the fifty yard line.” A stiletto finger poked me in the chest.“Your heart lied to mine.”“Football means nothing without you.” She slammed the door, cranked the engine, and roared off.I spoke to exhaust, taillights, and smirking reporters.“Always has.”Wood stood next to me.Eyes wide.Mouth open.Watching the van disappear down the street, he shook his head.“She was here all along.Right under our noses.” He turned to me.“I had no idea.”“She wanted it that way.”My sensational return to town was covered by the networks.Jim Kneels, who had departed daily reporting years ago to anchor a weekend-only show, came out of semiretirement to host a special.Somebody in the Sheriff’s Office leaked the location of Wood’s cabin, and within an hour, three broadcast boom trucks were parked at the gate.Several inspectors and state officials were brought in to measure the distance between the cabin and school grounds.Several school administrators were interviewed and much was made about “protecting the children.” I don’t blame them.If somebody who was like they thought I was shacked up half a mile from their children’s school, and he’d actually done what I’d been convicted of doing, I’d have chaired the committee to run him out of town.But this was me they were talking about.And I knew me.Various measuring instruments were used, including satellite and GPS imagery, all of which confirmed that I was, in fact, entirely legal.“But,” Jim Kneels said with raised eyebrows, “just barely.” Jim concluded his report.“Mr.Rising’s insistence that he has no intention of playing professional football begs the question, ‘What then, Mr.Rising, are your plans, and why, of all places, would you choose to live where you are living?’ ” Jim shook his head and folded his hands.“When a man is accustomed to winning, as Mr.Rising is, it is difficult to accept losing.You can take the man out of football, but taking football out of the man? Well, that’s another thing entirely.”I clicked off the TV, stared out the window through the trees in the direction of the shade barn, and nodded in silent agreement.CHAPTER ELEVENThe barn door squeaked when I pushed it open.I turned up the flow of gas on the lantern and walked in.When the light from the brilliant white mantle showered the inside of the barn, I stood back in wonder.A shade barn was designed to hang and dry shade tobacco.On average, barns were fifty feet wide by a hundred and fifty feet long and fifty feet high—nearly the same size as a basketball gymnasium.They were vented on the sides, top and bottom, by hinged doors that ran horizontally along the length, intended to control the heat and humidity.Inside the barn, rafters crossed the entirety of the interior.Five feet apart, each ran the width of the barn, spanning its entire length from front door to back.The rafters started just overhead and climbed every four feet like ladders to the roof.The inside of the barn looked like a laundry rack for tobacco leaves, and a monkey would have had a heyday.For Wood and me, it was better than Disney World.We would climb the ladder to the first rafter and then pick our way like Spider-Man all the way to the far end without ever touching the ground.Given the decline in shade farming, few barns remain in the South.You can find a few in Connecticut, but most have been disassembled board by board and sold for the value of the heart-pine lumber.Heart-pine is a unique feature of pine trees.Turpentine, a natural product of the tree—which is farmed and refined into kerosene or Pine-Sol or a thousand other things—resides in the fibers of the wood.It’s the sap.When cut, the sap remains, leaving a natural fire starter in the wood with almost the same ignition qualities as gasoline.On cold nights, I have dug up more than one pine stump out of the dirt, peeled away a small section of bark with my knife, lit the raw, exposed end of the root, and watched it burn like a torch for hours.And if you find the true heart of the pine, where the thickest sap resided, it will create a blowtorch sound when lit.Given that the barns are constructed of what is essentially fire starter, it’s no wonder that when one of these barns catches fire, it makes quite an impression.There’s a very short window to stop it before it gets out of control.Within seconds, it can turn into a raging blaze.Best thing to do is back up and watch the show.You’ll seldom see its equal.The aroma of manure, tobacco, earth, and turpentine, delivered in the suffocating packaging of humidity and heat, filled and reminded me as I walked in.It’d been a long time.And while the memories were sweet, they paled in comparison to those hanging inside.Filling one third of the barn were posters, awards, plaques, game balls, jerseys, newspaper articles, every form of memorabilia ever associated with my career had been found, bought, uncovered, purchased, or stolen and hung on the inside walls, where it was accessible and viewable by absolutely no one other than Wood and Coach Ray.I climbed the rafters, rising in the heat, and hung the lantern.Thirty feet off the ground, I straddled the beam and viewed in amazement my own private hall of fame.One wall was covered in the WELCOME TO GARDI—HOME OF MATTHEW “THE ROCKET” RISING sign stolen from the city limits.On the ground below me, covered in dirt and manure, lay the head of my bronze statue, along with pieces of arms and elbows.I had no idea where this stuff had come from, who had collected it, and had never seen most of it, but sitting there I felt thrust back into a world from which I’d been banished and that I’d tried to forget.I climbed another twenty feet to the top of the rafters and stared out the vents.The world around me was dark.Quiet [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]