Sweet Rome

When I turned to the TV, a montage of us was playing to the music “Hall of Fame” by The Script. It was all there, a reel of our lives: the kisses before the Tide games when we were at college… the two of us holding hands as we walked around campus… the kisses at the SEC Championship… Mol’s dramatic return at the National Championship… the Tide’s homecoming parade where I’d refused to let go of her hand… the NFL draft where I’d been first pick and proposed to my girl… our graduation day, hugging and laughing in our gowns… the paparazzi picture from the airport as we left for Seattle, all of our friends in the background, waving us off… my first game for the Seahawks and Molly sitting in the stands, cheering me on… shots of Mol over the years, pregnant with each of our four children… the many Superbowl wins and finally, me, a few months ago at the Centurylink Stadium, as they retired my jersey, surrounded by my wife and our four children. The montage ended with a simple script, the text reading:

“Welcome home, Romeo and Molly Prince.

Forever Roll Tide!”

The presenters went on to discuss the game plan for the Tide’s upcoming season and when I looked to our children—who were silently staring up at us—I realized Mol was crying. I was pretty choked up too.

“Momma, Daddy, you looked so young in those pictures,” Isaac, our eldest boy, said quietly. With his curly brown hair and glasses, he was the only one of the four who was just like Mol, with an IQ to match… a cute little geek through and through.

“We were young, little man,” I murmured, still staring at the commentators on the screen, but not listening to a word they had to say, my hand gripping almost painfully onto Mol’s. “It seems like so long ago yet weirdly, just like yesterday.”

“They called you Bama’s own Romeo and Juliet,” Taylor said softly, her mood forgotten. “At the beginning, they said your story was famous around here.”

Laughing, Molly nodded her head. “That’s what the press began to call us. Because of all the trouble we had in being together—publicly, unfortunately.”

“With Daddy’s parents?” she asked tentatively, and that old stab to the chest ripped through me in an instant.

“Yeah, honey,” Mol replied as she slid her arm around my back, rubbing it up and down in soothing motions. I hated any reminder of my parents and the years of shit I suffered at their hands… especially the miscarriage. I never saw them again after the meeting in my daddy’s study that day. And they were both long gone now. My Momma drank herself into an early grave only two years after she left Bama and my daddy suffered a heart attack ten years ago while incarcerated. We’d decided long ago to always be honest with our children—well, as honest as their ages would allow. Our troubles had been well documented and we didn’t want them to hear any of our past from anyone but us.

“Go, Daddy!” Eli and Archie suddenly shouted from the sofa, completely ignoring our conversation, both jumping up and down excitedly, pulling our attention back to them. Our youngest boys ran to the front of the large TV, clapping and screaming as shot after shot of me playing football rolled: sprinting, passing, scoring touchdowns. We all burst out laughing when Eli, the youngest, ran full out at Archie, tackling him to the floor, screaming, “Boom!” and patting his chest, holding it to the sky, my—now famous—touchdown celebration.

Breaking from Mol’s hand and running at Eli playfully, I lifted him above my head, tackling him to the ground. Squealing and laughing, Eli wriggled on the floor as I tickled him and Archie then jumped on my back, wrapping his tiny arms around my neck. As I glanced up at the other two on the couch, Isaac threw down his iPad, piling on too. Even Taylor, who at first rolled her eyes at us, finally succumbed to temptation and, with a squeal, ran and jumped on top.

“Let me up, you monsters!” I shouted dramatically as I tried to throw them of my back.

“Never!”

“We got you pinned, Daddy!”

“We brought down the Bullet!”

We were a mass of arms and legs, giggles and screams. And then I looked up at Mol watching, laughing at us all, and then it went quiet as five sets of eyes zeroed in on her, and she quickly lost her smile.

Backing away with her palms held up, Molly warned, “Oh, no. Don’t you even think about it, I don’t have time…”

My eyebrows danced as I said, “Kids, Momma is getting away. Defense, are you with me? One, two, three, break…”

Yells of agreement echoed around the large room as the five of us launched to a chase. With a scream, Mol turned and ran toward the kitchen, beelining for the huge backyard. She’d made it onto the first patch of grass when I hit her from behind, protecting her from being hurt with my body as we tumbled to the ground, our four crazy children piling on top.