The name on the back cover of the program was Lowery Auto Group, in red letters over a picture of a smiling man in a cowboy hat. Marcus held it up so everyone on the deck could see. Under the smiling man, in small type, were the words, Proud Sponsor of Northport High Athletics. My brother, Brad, stood by the cooler with a Coors in his hand, and I watched the man in the photograph on the program and the man standing in front of me become, in the eyes of every guest, the same person.
Brad said, “Now hold on.” His voice cracked on the first word. “I sponsor half the teams in west Alabama. I give them uniforms. I give them bus fare. That does not mean I know what goes on in a locker room.” Marcus said, quietly, “No, sir. I know. I looked into it.” He turned the program to the middle page, where somebody had written in pencil. “Those are the names of eleven players. Those are the dosages. And that handwriting belongs to a man named Rick Dawes, who managed your dealership for twenty years.”
Brad stared at the program. A flush crept up his neck. He said, “Rick?” He said it again, as though the name were a stranger. I felt my daughter, Kelsey, step close beside me. She had been standing silent through the whole exchange, one hand pressed against her stomach. She said, “Daddy, I am so sorry. I have kept this program for four years. I found it under the bleachers the night Marcus collapsed. I did not know whose handwriting it was until last spring.”
A whistle blown for sixty dollars on a Tuesday night may be the only thing between a boy and the end of his life.
Marcus said, “Mr. Lowery, I do not think you knew. I have spent a year trying to find out, and everything I can find says that Rick ran it on his own. He bought the pills from a supplier in Mobile and gave them to the coaches as a sponsor perk, in energy drink bottles. Two other players ended up in the hospital that season. One of them is my cousin.” His jaw worked. “But the pills were sold in the name of your dealership. And the money for them went through your accounts.”
Brad set down the can. He rubbed his hands over his face. He is a loud, blustering man, my brother, with a billboard and a ten gallon hat, but I have known him all my life, and I know what he looks like when he is truly afraid. This was it. He said, “I never looked at the books. Rick did the books. I trusted him because I could not stand arithmetic.” He laughed, a wretched sound. “I put my face on a sign, and I let him run my business behind it.” He turned to Marcus. “Son, I am sorry. I am so very sorry.”
Marcus nodded slowly. He did not smile. He said, “Mr. Lowery, I am not looking for an apology. I am looking for the truth to get to the people who need it.” He took a breath. “There is a district attorney named Hargrove who has been waiting for someone with standing to come forward. She needs the books.” Brad was already pulling out his phone. “Call her,” he said. “Call her tonight. I will have the accountant bring the files to my house in an hour. I will sit with her until sunrise.” He swallowed. “And Kelsey, honey, I will need you to come too.”
My daughter nodded. She went to her uncle and took his hand, and the whole deck watched the two of them walk down the steps together to his truck. It was a small thing. But I remember thinking that I had never been prouder to be a Lowery. They sat at the kitchen table of my brother until five in the morning with the district attorney and a box of old ledgers, and Rick Dawes was in handcuffs by the end of the week.
The case ran for nearly a year. Rick Dawes pleaded guilty to distribution and fraud. The supplier in Mobile was arrested the following spring, along with a pharmacist and two coaches. Brad testified for the state without a lawyer. The court fined his company heavily, and he paid it, and he paid the medical bills of every player who had been harmed, and the school district got a check big enough to fund heart screenings for every athlete in the county. He never asked his name to be on it.
The billboard on I 20 came down in the spring. In its place, Brad put up a plain white one that reads, Get your heart checked before you play. Underneath, in small letters, it lists the free clinic and the date of the next screening. Marcus rides in the truck of Brad on screening days, to talk to the kids, and he says nothing at all about what happened to him. He only lifts his shirt and shows them the scar. Then he asks if anyone wants to be next.
In October my daughter refereed the first game of the new season at Northport. The gym was full. Before the opening whistle, she stood at center court in her black and white stripes, and the whole home crowd stood. She was embarrassed. She motioned for them to sit, and they did not. Up in the stands, my brother in a plain jacket, with no hat, was clapping with the rest. He caught my eye across the court and gave me a small, humble nod. It was a start.