The Book of Joe

off, Sean,” Brad says. “I mean it.”
    From behind the bar, Louis, the diminutive, weasel-faced bartender, calls out anxiously, “You guys want to take this outside?” He is instantly assailed with a boisterous barrage of shut-the-fuck-up s from the assembled crowd, who are not about to be robbed of an evening’s entertainment.
    “You’re defending that piece of shit?” Sean says. “After everything he said about all of us?”
    “I’m not defending what he did,” Brad says simply. “But I’m not going to stand here and let you pound him.”
    Something in my belly catches and chokes at Brad’s words, and I slowly roll off the table and onto my wobbly feet. Sean is now standing toe-to-toe with Brad. “Get the fuck out of the way, Goff,” he says menacingly, wiping some spit from his mouth. “And let him fight his own battle.”
    “It’s not going to happen,” Brad says quietly. I am almost bowled over by the rush of gratitude and admiration that pours through me as my older brother stands his ground on my behalf. A lump forms in my throat, although that might be a result of the beating I’ve just taken. The air between Brad and Sean seems to visibly thicken and swirl as they face off, each one waiting for the other to end the stalemate. With a sinking feeling, I understand that there is no way for this to end peacefully. Egos and manhood have been stirred into the mix, in public no less. Blood is now mandatory. My battered face begins throbbing hotly.
    “It’s okay, Brad. I can handle this,” I say, not because I can but because I’m an idiot who always feels the need to say something.
    There is a chorus of approval from the crowd, anonymous calls for Brad to let his brother fight his own battles, et cetera, which I hope to god he won’t heed. Brad flashes me a withering, skeptical look that borders on contemptuous, the same look I would have gotten from him years ago if I’d challenged him to a one-on-one. Normally that look would enrage me to the point of doing something recklessly stupid, but now I find it positively reassuring. Brad isn’t going to let me get myself killed tonight.
    “You’d better move it, Goff,” Sean says, his voice husky with rage. “I have no problem with you, but if you don’t step down, I’m going to put you down.”
    “Let’s get on with it, then,” Brad says.
    Sean steps forward and Brad’s hands come up in a defensive position, his brow fiercely furrowed with a grim sense of purpose, but before anything can happen, a booming voice shatters the pulsating silence, freezing both fighters in their spots. “What the hell is going on here?”
    The onlookers part, and through them, in an unhurried, almost regal gait, strides Coach Dugan. The coach is a tall, imposing man with a high forehead and dark, glowering eyes. The hair beneath his ever-present Cougars cap has gone from gray to titanium white in the years since I last saw him, and his face is considerably more creased than I remember.
    Portions of his architecture now creak and sag under the weight of time, but he still exudes a powerful sense of grace as he makes his way through the respectful crowd, a general going through the motions of mingling with his troops.
    “Tallon!” Dugan yells in a throaty voice. “Goffman! What the hell are you two doing?”
    “It’s not about him,” Sean says, still frozen in his pugilistic posture. He points past Brad at me. “It’s the brother.”
    The coach turns to look at me, his eyes burning twin holes in my skull. “He is no reason for two of my boys to come to blows,” he says, not taking his eyes off me. “Now, the both of you, put your hands down and step back from each other.”
    They look at him and back at each other, frowning with un-certainty. “Do it now!” Dugan growls. Brad and Sean drop their hands and take a few reluctant steps back from each other. All the while, Dugan’s eyes remain fixed on me, his expression a combination of scorn and amusement. “Art Goffman’s in a coma over at Mercy Hospital tonight, and I think it would be a hell of a nice gesture, a token of our collective respect for our friend and teammate, if maybe we didn’t beat the shit out of his jackass son.” He turns to the bar, where Louis stands, looking comically relieved. “That being said, Louis, I turn to you, as the owner of this establishment, to help keep the peace. There’s a man here who, by his very presence, offends your regular clientele, and I