Catching Unitas

April afternoon, on an old weathered backyard porch step was where Patrick Tatigan found his father. He was sitting staring at the patches of yellow grass.
    "Ma told me you'd be out here," Patrick said.
    "This is where old men go on Sunday afternoons when there ain't no game on?"
    "Ah, you ain't so old."
    "Fifty-nine years ain't young."
    "I always saw you as strong as an oak tree."
    "The roots is still strong, boy, but the limbs are withering. Just like that old willow."
    Patrick sat uncomfortably behind his father. He stared at the willow. "Pa," Patrick said, "I need to talk to you 'bout something."
    "What is it, son?"
    "Pa, I don't think I'm gonna make the cut this year?"
    "Nonsense. You're the best flanker on the team."
    "I appreciate that, Pa, but the team's going with two back and a tight-end next year and then they drafted that Rollins kid out of Texas. He's got fresh legs."
    "But you've been with the team for five years. You know the system."
    "I know that, Pa."
    "Do you remember your senior year at Fordham? You thought you were all through there too. Remember? You became an All-American. And remember after that, you thought nobody would draft you, and then the Colts called. You're not one to give up, son."
    "I know that. And I've been working real hard. Back home in Baltimore, I've been trying to get in real good shape. I've been working real hard, but there is something that just eats at me. I can't seem to get on with things until I clear it up."
    "You'll be just fine, boy. Tatigans ain't quitters."
    "It's more than that, Pa."
    "What is it, son?"
    "This is hard, Pa," Patrick said, "and it's serious."
    "Give it to me."
    "You know, Pa, I never doubted that you and ma loved me."
    "Go on."
    "I'm having a hard time getting over this..."
    "What is it, Patrick?"
    "Pa, do you remember the beatings you used to give me as a boy?"
    The old man stiffened. "You mean the spankings."
    "They were a bit more than spankings, Pa. They were beatings."
    "Now I don't know what you mean, son."
    "They were a bit much. You hurt me. You used to make me tear off my own switch from the willow..."
    "I don't have to listen to this nonsense," Pa Tatigan stood from his seat on the porch and turned away from Pat. "I was just disciplining you."
    "You injured me."
    Pa was terse. "I made you a man."
    "You hurt your own son."
    "I made you a professional ballplayer."
    "You confused me."
    "Damn you for your gratitude." Pa turned and went inside, slamming the door behind him.
    Patrick stood at the porch and stared at the old willow in the corner of the back yard. His mother joined him.
    "What happened out here?" she asked.
    "Nothing," Patrick said.
    "Your father just came in white as a ghost. Don't tell me nothing happened. What did you say to him?"
    "I just wanted to talk about the past." Patrick said.
    "The last time he stomped through the house like that was that game you lost to the Packers."
    "I'm sorry," Patrick said, "But I'm not scared of him now."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "I know you love me, Ma. I never doubted that. And I don't blame you. You would have never let him hit me like that...If you knew."
    She leaned against the white-washed porch rail. She couldn't speak. She did begin to cry.
    "I'm sorry, Ma." Patrick said. "I wish I could let it go."
    Mother continued to lean on rail. It was a while before she spoke. "I remember your first game with the Colts," she said. "The whole town met at Tortin's Bar to listen to the game. Your father was royalty that day. He was like the mayor. You beat the Giants, 23-14, I remember. You would have thought your father caught the winning touchdown the way he was treated. Back slapping, hand shaking . . . everyone wanted to touch your father that day." Her face grew a memory-inspired smile. "He bought the house a drink that day. He sat on the tallest stool and smiled a grand prize winning smile. Tortin himself offered a toast and everyone turned toward your father. 'To Tommy Tatigan,' he said, 'who, after years of throwing touchdown passes to his son down at the old school, is the man who makes Johnny Unitas look good.' I remember how filled his life was that day.
    "You know I married your father the day he came back from the Marines. He was to be shipped out the next week to the Pacific somewhere and I couldn't bear not being his wife a second longer. He came back a year a half later to find his baby boy almost a year old. He took that job in the paper mill because he needed work and we needed a house. He wanted to be a carpenter. Did you know that? But he took that old mill job. He worked year after year hating his job thinking of the bookcases and cabinets he could have built. He was a sad man. The only thing I remember that made him happy was playing catch with his son. I'm sure that as he labored day after day in the choking wood pulp-dust he daydreamed about you catching passes for touchdowns. Patrick, you were what made him happy. That day in Tortin's, every hour of a job he hated, every shelf he didn't make, or table leg he didn't carve was excused. You made an old man's life worth living. Don't take that away."
    "But, Mother..." Patrick tried to interrupt.
    "...but nothing, baby. He made mistakes. We all did. I'm sorry for him. I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry for all of us. I love you. He loves you. All those evenings down at the school throwing catch in the snow. That's his way of saying I'm sorry." She turned toward Patrick. She put her small hand on his left cheek. "He's a tired old small man in a big cold world whose one small dream came true. Think about that." She went back into the house.
    Patrick sat on the cracked-paint steps and watched the weak breeze throw the willow around like a hurricane. He tried to count how many passes his father must have thrown to him over the years—thousand? ten thousand? a million? An hour past before he realized it was closing in on evening. He was about to go inside when he heard the old screen door creak open. His father walked slowly out onto the porch. He walked down the steps and sat next to Patrick.
    "You know," he said slowly, "I should get this old porch painted."
    "The two of us could get it done in a day," Patrick said.
    "Ain't much we can't do together, aye-Patty?"
    "No, Pa, not much." Patrick put his hand on his father's shoulder. "You should do something about that old willow. She looks like she ready to die," Patrick said.
    "She's not dying, son. She's just sad. She's weeping about all times I made her help me hurt you." His head fell like the vines of the willow.
    Patrick knew that he had nothing to say. So they sat in silence.
    "Hey, old man," Patrick finally said, "are you up for a game of catch?" He stood and reached under the porch for the football. "Yup, still here."
    Patrick threw the ball at his father. As the ball came back in a perfect tight spiral, Patrick said, "I think Unitas has you for distance, but you always had him beat for touch." An hour later, the sun disappeared into the willow and Mother called them both in for dinner. Patrick stuffed the ball back under the porch and walked in the house with his arm around his father's shoulder. "I hope you and Ma can come up to Pittsburg for the season opener and root for old 88."
    "You know we'll be there, son. We wouldn't miss it for the world."