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When God Comes to Brannon, Ohio

Nathan Driscoll

    The descent of the orange and black streamers painted the stage until not a speck of brown wood was visible. The stage resembled a large striped beacon in front of a backdrop of partly cloudy sky and timbered hills. The logging trucks hadn’t yet reached the few knolls around town, keeping their laser straight trees available for viewing pleasure until the hills would inevitably decline into barrenness. And then there were the lingering cardboard floats that had been parked up the street after the parade’s conclusion. A herd of giant buffalo, just the pageant for that neck of the woods. Overkill perhaps, but Gladys Reen and her band of party planners were never the modest type. Especially not on the day where gravity in Brannon, Ohio quintupled and sucked most occupants of the town and surrounding area to the same square.
    People kept pouring down Main Street into the square, those who had to miss the parade due to a necessary half-day of work. A whiff of fresh sawdust from the men who’d been busy downing trees mixed with the smell of hamburger grease on the catering crew from Shelley’s Diner. They could shower later, for they wouldn’t dare miss the year’s main event. Each breath in the crowd of fifteen hundred was stunted with anticipation for the coming finale.
    “So here we are,” Mayor Wacom said into the microphone. He was a man of little height to begin with, yet he looked like a dwarf on the massive, now-colorful stage. “The moment you have been waiting for.”
    The fidgets intensified while Mr. Mayor paused to revel in the squirming. He took another breath, enjoying the sight of the white geometric buildings around the square. He loved his time in the sun each year, as no date rivaled August 23rd in number of ears tuning into his raspy voice. Not a surprise for a mayor whose campaign consisted of walking into town hall, jotting down his name, and returning three hours later to accept the position.
    “It’s time,” he finally continued. “For you to see once again my friend...your Super Bowl winning quarterback...our pride and joy, Rye Brannon!”
    Jesus Himself could’ve walked from behind the curtain onto that stage and not have sparked a more boisterous reaction. Every step those thick long legs took toward Mayor Wacom pushed the crowd’s volume to a new level. Those blue eyes, that smile, that flowing blonde hair crawling down to a pair of shoulders that were well acquainted with the weight room. And he even wore his game jersey to boot, orange and black matching the streamers. Brannonians jumped for it, clambered over each other for it. By the time he reached the microphone, the span of the crowd had shrunk three-fold.
    “Thank you Mr. Mayor,” he said in his silky smooth baritone voice. He shook Wacom’s hand so hard that the toupee covering his scalp rattled, nearly flying off into the first row. Mr. Mayor then walked off the stage to readjust his doo and leave the spotlight for Brannon’s true leader, its namesake. “And thank y’all!” he shouted to his congregation with a fist in the air. “This is louder than any Bruisers game I’ve ever heard!”
    The roars heightened further. The most permanent and gentle smile to ever grace the state of Ohio kept adding fuel to the frenzy. Most hands were elevated, reaching, trying to get their fingers as close to him as possible. Most hands, not all. There was a set of dark brown hands near the mob’s center, very large for their age, that were instead holding a simple flimsy photograph. Those hands and that photo belonged to Spondike DePriest. He was wearing an identical jersey to Rye Brannon’s, with the black stripes accenting well the similarly colored hair curling up from his scalp. The only difference was that his jersey was purchased online instead of plucked out of Rye’s locker in Cincinnati.
    Though he didn’t have pure authentic gear draping him or an army of fans, Spondike DePriest was certainly a sensation in his own right. He had the freshest legs and the strongest arm in Brannon since the set surrounding the microphone. A five foot ten dump truck capable of running over any thirteen year old who stepped onto the field with him. Not as lauded as Rye was at that age, but equally as lethal.
    “Spondike move over!” his friend and classmate Jason Mills shouted. “I can’t see.” Jason was the slightest of stature at Brannon Middle School, the David to Spondike’s Goliath. Every boy in the class huddled in their section, and somehow tiny Jason found himself in the back.
    “Take a good look,” Spondike said, letting his buddy nudge by. “Ten years that’ll be me. Me and Rye up there on that stage together.” He gripped the photo in his hand even tighter while Rye inched one of his massive arms toward the microphone. The crowd quieted. Nobody wanted to miss a word.
    “You know,” Rye began. “I still remember when my father called me and told me that they were going to make this glorious August day Rye Brannon Day. Now on our fifth one, and it still don’t feel real. I didn’t do anything to deserve this, and I definitely couldn’t have done it without y’all.”
    “We love you Ryland!” The anonymous female voice lit another flame under the spectators, Spondike and his friends included.
    “I love you too,” Rye said after a chuckle. He ran a few bashful fingers through his blonde hair. “Wow. Not even my mom calls me Ryland anymore.”
    “Did you know his real name was Ryland?” Timmy Butler, another student, asked Spondike down in the pit. “You know everything about him. Did you know?”
    “Shut up, Timmy,” Spondike said. The order wasn’t out of disgust but out of his fixation on the stage. Even phenoms had idols, and who better to pick than the man he hoped to one-day join.
    “This town,” Rye said from his platform. He glanced at the surrounding buildings, most of which weren’t any larger than the stage. They were the same structures that had always loomed over Brannon’s people, and they were beginning to show their age. The twelfth coat of white paint was chipping off of many of them. “This town is my heart. You guys taught me, cheered for me, laughed with me, cried with me...I still remember Mrs. Reen’s Sunday school class when I was little. Great work by the way on the parade.” He paused and blew a kiss to the elderly Mrs. Reen on the bottom right of the stage. Those old elated eyes closed and two hands fell over her heart after the affection from her favorite student. “Each lesson sure made me think. Especially the one she taught us about how God labored for six days to create universe and rested on the seventh. I never really understood why God had to rest on the seventh day. He’s God for goodness sakes! He doesn’t need rest, does He?”
    A chorus of laughs rang from below before resettling.
    “Now I know why,” he continued. “Lookin’ out at y’all. God had to rest on that seventh day to save His energy. He needed to save it so He could convince my great, great granddaddy Tom Brannon to move up from Mississippi and help him build this place. To bless Brannon with His almighty hand. I see God in y’all, each and every one of you.”
    Spondike lowered his eyes while the crowd’s volume elevated once again. He looked down at his dark brown skin. It was a vibrant darkness God had specially given to him, and he knew it. He then scanned the surrounding people, taking in the yellow logger’s gloves, aprons, dirty jeans, and modest homely tops of those who hadn’t bothered to change. They didn’t share his brown skin, his special darkness, and they didn’t sparkle like the occupants of his television set. But there were good honest faces around, soft and inviting. They too had God in them, and they had Rye Brannon.
    “Hey y’all,” Rye then announced. “With all the help y’all have given me, it doesn’t feel quite right for me to stand up here all alone. So I’m going to bring someone up very special to me. This man. This man taught me more about football than anyone. He taught me to play the game, and cared about me before I could even grip the ole pigskin. Y’all know who I’m talkin’ bout. C’mon up Coach McPhee!”
    “Hey, he’s talking about coach!” Young Paul Nathan grew excited at the name’s mention. “Look! Look, Spondike, there he is!” He tugged at the loose shoulders of Spondike’s jersey.
    Coach Bill McPhee shuffled from behind a curtain onto the stage, long socks, short shorts and all. He also donned a visor, shades, and a tightly fitting polo?–classic decor for an old school football coach.
    “Coach!” Rye exclaimed before hugging the man who barely reached his shoulders.
    “Yat, hey there Rye.” Typical Coach McPhee talk, as he was never one to get too ecstatic, even when next to one of the greatest players on Earth in the sport he loved.
    “I can’t believe Coach is pals with Rye damn Brannon,” Spondike said to his friends. “We need to grill him on it next practice.”
    “Sure do.”
    “No doubt.”
    There wasn’t much argument from the awe-stricken eighth graders.
    “This guy’s a miracle worker,” Rye said to the crowd, holding his arm around Coach and slapping the bill on Coach’s visor. “Found me as a lanky, uncoordinated ten year old and had me throwing perfect spirals into the end zone by freshman year at Brannon High. Y’all remember those four great years for the Brannon Buffaloes, don’t you?”
    Another cheer erupted. The memory of three consecutive state championships can have that effect on people. Spondike wasn’t old enough to see those days, but he’d have plenty touchdowns of his own to score in the Ohio high school football ranks. Freshman year couldn’t reach him fast enough.
    “I remember the Levinson Valley game,” Rye said with a playful sigh. “Right there on that field fifty yards from us. I just didn’t have my stuff that night. But I still heard the cheers through the good and the bad plays. God flowed through you guys in the stands, out onto the field, and straight into my soul. We wouldn’t have won that night without you. Remember that coach?”
    “Course,” Coach said into the microphone. “You couldn’t hit shit that day.”
    Coach and Rye laughed at the joke in front of a mumbling, dull audience. Insulting Rye Brannon, even in a joking capacity, was blasphemous.
    “What about y’all!?” Rye then yelled. “Y’all remember that win over Levinson!” That elicited a far more positive reaction. “So Coach. Now that I have you up here on the hot seat, how are your Peewee’s looking this year. You know I hate us losing to Levinson, even if it’s just the youngin’s.”
    Coach reached down and pulled up his calf-huggers a bit further. “Won’t have to worry bout losing to Levinson this year. Not as long as Spondike DePriest steps onto that field on game day. Spondike, where ya at son? I know you’re here.”
    Spondike froze, statuesque after processing his name over the loud speakers.
    “Here Coach!” Timmy Butler shouted. “Here!”
    “Wow,” Coach said after locating the yells. “Most the team came out.”
    Coach wasn’t the only one busting with curiosity, as Spondike stood helpless while some eyes in the crowd collapsed in on him. Some of the spectators he recognized, some he didn’t. The moment he’d imagined and prepared for was on him faster than expected. There was even a very special set peering down at him from the stage. Rye Brannon, too, was attentive. Spondike squeezed the photo so tightly it was ready to tear at a moment’s notice.
    “Most of you already heard the name,” Coach said, pointing at his new star quarterback. “But there he is. One of the best ballplayers in the entire nation for his age.”
    It began with a few claps from his classmates then built and built. The hands of Brannon were colliding again along with hoots and hollers not for the MVP of last February’s Super Bowl, but for an eighth grader. A stunning feat no matter the thickness of the eighth grader’s legs.
    Rye smiled. “Good luck on your journey, Spondike. Let’s keep doing this town proud.”
    Spondike, inflating by the second, stared at the stage at the enormous man who’d just addressed him personally. “I will if you will!” A few random heads chuckled over the challenge.
    “You’ve got a deal, buddy,” Rye answered. “Coach McPhee and Spondike DePriest everybody!”
    Another applause followed, one that Spondike enjoyed much more vigorously. He took a hand off of the photo and offered a wave to those smiling around him. They’d be the voices willing him to the end zone for the next five years, after all. His true nature of a showman was poking through.
    “Dude!” Jason shouted to Spondike over the ovation. “You need to go meet Rye after he’s done!
    “Yeah!” Paul Nathan exclaimed. “You basically know him now! That’d be so cool!”
    “You guys think?” Spondike asked. He twisted a curl of his black hair.
    The applause was beginning to die down.
    “I say do it,” Timmy said, patting him on the back. “You’re Spondike DePriest for crying out loud.”
    “You guys are right,” Spondike said. “A few tips from him could help for when I get my turn in the league.” There was no scent of bashfulness left on him. “Plus, I could get him to sign this.” He gave the photo in his left hand a quick flick with his right.
    “That’s the spirit,” Timmy said.
    Rye stepped back to the microphone while Coach Bill McPhee moseyed off of the stage. “God I wish my wife was here to see this. So beautiful and graceful that woman is, and I’m so lucky to have her.” A few luscious gasps from female members of the gathering flew by. “Only a three hour drive from Cincy, I know. But, when you’re eight months in and about to pop, sometimes long car rides don’t sound real great. Anyway, I bring her up because she gave me this next idea, and I loved it. Can I share it with y’all?”
    A flood of the word yes bolted into the atmosphere of course followed by the customary shrieks received by most rock stars.
    “Good,” he said, widening his grin. “As I’m sure you know, they hand out our Super Bowl rings first game of the season in a couple weeks. And I was going to put it on this chain.” He looped a thumb through the gold links around his neck and held it up for the crowd to see. “But...those rings are so damn heavy. Don’t want it hurting my neck.” The sly smirk of sarcasm was as clear as the roasting sun above. “How bout I get that sucker encased in glass and keep it here in the Brannon High trophy case? What do y’all think? Would y’all give it a good home?”
    A Super Bowl ring, the rarest of rare sporting artifacts, resting comfortably in the town of Brannon. The pinnacle of athletic achievement within their city limits. The mention of the idea nearly burst Spondike’s eardrums, though he was shouting right along with everyone else.
    “Thought y’all might like that,” he said. “It’ll be here within a month.” He waved to one fan, smiled at countless others, and silently soaked in the embrace from his town. Nostalgia ran heavy on that stage and in his great, great granddaddy’s erected home.
    “Okay everybody quiet down,” Rye said with a sweet laugh. “One more thing I want to do before I get off this stage. I’d like to say a prayer with y’all for our home.” There were no objections, only more animated encouragements. “Please bow your heads y’all.”
    “Hey, Spondike.” Timmy Butler nudged him as all the other heads in Brannon went southward toward the pavement. “Now’s your chance. Go try to get backstage.”
    “Shit, yeah,” Spondike said, almost as if he’d forgotten about that plan. “I’ll be back.”
    “Dear Lord...”
    Rye’s prayer began right as Spondike dodged his first wave of motionless bodies on his way to the front. Both hands were on the photo, and he maneuvered them together as to not risk harming the precious item.
    “We’re not deserving of these amazing lives you’ve given us,” Rye continued.
    Spondike slid past a woman.
    “Bless every person listening to my voice with Your eternal grace.”
    Spondike ducked under a man’s outstretched arms.
    “Keep us happy, healthy, and safe while we try to spread your word and make this planet you’ve provided for us a better place.”
    Spondike was close.
    “And most of all Lord...watch after Brannon. Keep her lively and always full of great citizens like the ones in her now. This is our home, and it always will be until we meet You in Your everlasting house. Keep a spot warm for us. Amen.”
    The heads near the railing on the left side of the stage elevated to see Spondike standing in front of them. Spondike had completed the first part of the mission, but the locked gate prevented the access he desired. Up next was getting the attention of Mr. Mike Clarizio, vice principal at Brannon High and makeshift security guard for town events. He was standing arms folded by the edge of a large curtain.
    “Mr. Clarizio,” Spondike said.
    “Well y’all. I guess this is it.”
    Rye’s ill-timed words drew Mr. Clarizio’s head toward the platform above.
    “Mr. Clarizio!” Spondike said with much more force. Robbing an ear from Rye Brannon was a tough chore, but he succeeded in snatching it away.
    Mr. Clarizio lumbered over. He was a robust man, bearded and all, a lineman in his Brannon High glory days. “Hey Spondike. What’d ya need?”
    Rye’s voice still dominated the background.
    “You think I could get backstage?” Spondike asked. “I’d really like to see if Mr. Brannon could sign this for me.”
    “I don’t know Spondike...”
    “C’mon Mr. Clarizio. He knows who I am. You heard it.”
    “But sometimes Mr. Brannon gets a little worn out after public appearances.”
    Spondike held up the photo next to a smile for his gatekeeper to see. “Please.”
    “Okay fine, you twisted my arm,” Mr. Clarizio said. “Come on back.”
    The nearby spectators were too busy drooling over the stage to notice that somebody had been let through the gate behind it. Mr. Clarizio walked Spondike to the other side of a massive black curtain, leaving the crowd no longer visible. They came to a stop next a set of stairs leading upward toward the stage. It may as well have been the stairway to heaven.
    “Wait here for him,” Mr. Clarizio said. “I’ll be right on the other side.”
    The event’s security marched back around the curtain while Spondike prepared. He grabbed the pen out of his pocket that he’d brought in case by some miracle this scenario came to fruition. If he hadn’t been holding that and the photo, he may have given himself a slap or two. Young Spondike DePriest had dreamed of being at the bottom of that staircase most of his life.
    “I love each and every one of y’all! See y’all soon!”
    Another explosion of sound rushed in from the other side of the curtain, arguably the loudest ovation yet. The noise didn’t waver Spondike’s focus, as he was fixed on the crest of that staircase until he saw the flowing, blonde locks peek over the top. Then came the face carrying a smile that could melt a block of ice. Then the orange and black jersey followed by the bulging arms, one of which won the Cincinnati Bruisers football’s ultimate prize. Then the legs that never ran too far from home. Rye Brannon was fully in Spondike’s view. He turned and gave the people a final wave goodbye before taking that first step downward out of their sight.
    Thump, thump, thump down the stairs. He moved with haste just like any seasoned athlete would, though fresh nerves prevented Spondike from taking him in. His eyes fell. Not until Rye was close to the bottom did his young fan finally muster the courage to look up. Had a rotten smell floated down the stairs as well? Spondike sniffed the air, wondering if he’d adopt the same sudden scowl. No such luck, but Spondike wouldn’t let a change in expression ruin the greatest moment of his life.
    “Mr. Brannon,” Spondike said, taking a step forward, lifting the photo and pen. “It’s me, Spondike. Do you think you could...”
    “Out of my way nigger.”
    An aggressive nudge caused the photo to slip through Spondike’s dark fingers. Those huge feet kept moving past him, and before Spondike could try to get his bearings, Rye Brannon was already gone.
    No parting words of prayer this time.
    Spondike didn’t scream, cry, or take off after him. He was frozen, standing in place behind the curtain, listening to the fading cheers from the crowd and looking down at the scuffed, torn photo. The young boy in the picture was holding onto his toy football for dear life. Spondike would always focus on the smile he had while posing next to the poster of his hero Rye Brannon. Now all he could see was a stark difference in complexion.
    “That’s a great shot.” Mr. Clarizio had wandered back into the makeshift room and hovered alongside. He had good hearing, well good enough to hear words behind a curtain. “The two best athletes in the history of this town in the same frame. Let me pay you for it.”
    “But Mr. Clarizio,” Spondike said. “The picture’s ruined.”
    “No it’s not,” he replied. “You can still see the both of you. This isn’t a favor, son. This thing’s going to be worth a lot of money when you’re in the NFL. Sign it for me.”
    “But...”
    Mr. Clarizio handed Spondike the photo after yanking it off of the ground. “Please sign it for me.”
    “Okay,” Spondike said. “If you say so.” He put the pen to the photo while making sure not to write over the face of the man who was supposed to be signing it.
    “That’s the stuff right there,” Mr. Clarizio said, taking the photo. “Here ya go.” There was a one hundred dollar bill in his outstretched hand.
    “Sir, that’s too much,” Spondike protested.
    “It’s a steal,” Mr. Clarizio said. “I’ll sell it for a thousand in ten years. Take it.”
    Spondike had a keen eye for determination, and he saw that no wouldn’t be taken for an answer. “Thank you so much,” he said after plucking the bill from his elder’s hand. “See you later.” He turned and took a sluggish stride around the corner.
    “Hey Spondike.”
    “Yeah,” he answered, giving another look to Mr. Clarizio.
    “Use it,” Mr. Clarizio said. “Use this. And be better when your time comes.”
    Spondike gave a nod before heading back into the dense crowd. Most lingered, chatting about the excellent show they’d been given. He’d left the premises, but Rye’s name flew around like he remained on the stage. The eager strides that had v-lined for the gate five minutes prior meandered on the way back. Spondike swerved without much intention to greet his friends, but he could hide in that mass about as easily as a plum in a bowl of white rice.
    “There you are!” Little Jason Mills led the boys’ charge to their own star quarterback.
    “How great was he!?”
    “Did he sign it!?”
    “Is he going to help coach you!?”
    The questions were flying in from the boys faster and faster.
    Spondike forged a grin. “You’ll never guess what happened, guys. He paid me for it.” He emptied his pocket to the amazement of the team. The crisp one hundred dollar bill wasn’t a sight often witnessed within the group.
    “Whoa!” Timmy Butler shrieked.
    “Amazing!” Paul Nathan yelled. “A hundred dollars from Rye Brannon! He really thinks you’re going to make it big, doesn’t he?”
    “He does,” Spondike said. “Like I told you, me and him up there on that stage one day. Just the way I want it.”
    Spondike DePriest soon left the crowd of Brannonians without so much as a word to anyone. He couldn’t escape the party, however, as the noise from the square covered the town well into the night. The herd of bulls was removed immediately following the end of the festivities, but the giant wooden stage wasn’t put into storage for another week. It was as if the people knew that when the stage was gone they lived in any other small, middle-of-nowhere town. The stage, stowed with reluctance, became a mere dormant shrine collecting dust, preparing for the tumbling leaves of fall. But it would live to see another day, next August 23rd, the day the great Rye Brannon was set to grace his beloved town once again.

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