“I’d be a counselor, not a psychiatrist or something. I’d have a job that would probably be eight hours a day.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
The line goes quiet on both sides, and I know I should let her go, but still, I don’t want to hang up yet.
“Are you coming to our game next week?”
“I’m working.”
“Shit.”
“Are you really superstitious about that?”
“Fuck yes. I been wearing the same pair of socks since I was twelve. Things have more holes in them than there’s actually cloth left, but they’re my good luck socks.”
“Please tell me you wash them.”
“I didn’t until they gave me athlete’s foot.”
“That is gross.”
“Mom marched into the locker room at school and took them after practice, stating she refused to deal with the smell anymore. Embarrassed the shit out of me.”
“You deserved that if you didn’t wash them.”
“How was I to know if the good luck would rub off in the wash? The guys all commiserated with me since their moms had taken their lucky socks and washed them too. I was the last holdout.”
“Did your luck change?”
“We lost the next three games.”
“But you won again didn’t you?”
“No, it was the last three games of the season. Mom said next year I’d have to make new luck with clean socks. I bought a new pair and made sure to wash them after every game and then put them back in my duffel.”
“You’re weird.”
“I know, but all athletes are weird.”
“God’s truth,” she mutters.
“Know many athletes do you?”
She’s extremely quiet for the longest while before she replies. “I grew up in a town where football is king. I know athletes.”
“We’re a pretty big sports town here too.”
“I’m picking up on that just from the sheer number of different athletes that come by the house.”
“You still good there with so many people in and out?”
“It’s fine. I hardly ever even hear any noise and that’s honestly all I care about.”
“I should probably let you go huh?”
“Yes.”
