The call...

That night when I am making note cards for my debate my sister Beth yells out my name. When I answer the phone I’m surprised that it is not Renae or Amy or Patrick.

It is my District manager, Tom Otten.

“Hey Tom, how you doing?”

 Tom nods over the phone several times.

“I was just wondering if you’d like to represent us in the Young Columbus contest again this year?”

This is it. He is asking me. This is what I have wanted.

“You are the by far the best Paper Boy. It would be an honor to have you represent our district again." 

 Tom tells me that there have been an exorbitant number of patrons who have submitted my name in the contest and that it is almost unanimous.

“Now you did it last year, right?”

 

I tell him yes. I don’t want to tell him that this will actually be my third year in a row.  I don’t want to tell him that I emptied everything in my chest last year for the contest and came up short. In the dinning room both my parents' are looking at me with glazed visages. Mom has her knees together and is bobbing up and down as if she is going to jump off the plank of a diving board. Dad is looking at me with a smile on my face.

 

I want to tell him I’d be honored. I want to thank him for nominating me. I wasn’t to tell him what a privilege it will be.

"Yeah," I'd be happy too." I say laconically. A little stunned. Dad is shooting me a scowl. To tells me that he will be by tomorrow with standard paperwork I need to fill out and that I know all about garnering the recommendations. He tells me that the luncheon will be the 21st of January at Pere Marquette this year and that I will be required as always to give a speech."

"Yeah, no prob."


I tell Tom thanks again before hanging up.

Dad is furious. Dad tells me again that I need to be more optimistic.

"David you need to be excited. You are getting another chance.

I smile. I want to call Renae only my father is around.

            “David, this is your year. You didn’t sound excited at all when Tom offered you the opportunity to compete again.”

 

 

I feel like telling dad that I have already failed. That I have struck out swinging twice. That the first year I had no clue what I was doing but that the second year both myself and Tom really thought that I delivered the best speech, that I had the best chance to go to Paris. That, as if germane to the current status of my cross-country season, busted my ass daily trying to shave seconds off my time and it still ends up that I finish near the back of the pack.

Dad tells me again that I need to be more positive. He tells me again that this is my year. 

When I wake up the Young Columbus ad is cut out and scotched taped to my door in the fashion of Luther and the 95 thesis.

 

 

 

On the bottom in his blue ink pen that my father keeps stowed in his front pocket father has written, THIS IS YOUR YEAR!!! With a smiley face adorned at the bottom.


This is your year.

I look at the Christmas present identity bracelet.

TO DAVE: Love Renae.

Love.