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sat on my bed holding it, not even turning it on. I kept thinking about what Rooney had said about my dad:
The talent of an all-star, the attitude of a punk.
    What did he mean? What was he talking about?
    Around nine I opened my bedroom door, stepped out into the hallway, and tiptoed downstairs. In the living room my mom was drinking tea and watching a Christian television channel. I went back upstairs and turned on the radio. The Mariners game was only in the sixth inning. My dad wouldn't be home for hours.
    I slipped into the computer room. I'd done searches on all sorts of things before, but I'd never done one on my dad. I'd never even thought of doing one on him. I had his trophies, his pictures, his scrapbooks.
    I opened up Google and typed in "Mike Johnson San Diego Charger running back." I hit Return and the screen filled with sites. I read down, searching for one that fit. And there it was. The dates and names matched.
    I clicked on it and was taken to an article from the
San Diego Union Tribune.
The headline read ROOKIE GIVEN UNCONDITIONAL RELEASE. I read through it, slowly. Lots of it I knew. The career as a Washington Husky. The selection in the third round.
    But after that, everything was new. All through the Chargers training camp, my dad had been in trouble. There had been fights with teammates and arguments with coaches. There had been missed team meetings, an arrest for drunk driving, and another arrest at a
dance club in Tijuana. On the football field in the preseason games, there were blown blocking assignments, fumbles on kickoffs, personal fouls. "He just didn't have what it takes to succeed in the NFL," the coach said, explaining why he'd cut my dad. "It's as simple as that."

8
    I didn't sleep much that night. I lay on my bed, confused and angry. That stuff my dad had said about an ankle injury—it was a lie. How many times had I told my teammates what a great running back he'd been as a Husky? How many times had I said that if he hadn't been injured, he'd have been a star in the NFL? How many of them had known the truth? Some of their fathers must have known all along. They must have followed his career as a Husky and his flameout in the NFL. They'd have told their sons. And if some of my teammates knew, that meant all of them knew. Kids probably talked about my dad and me all the time, talked about us and laughed.
    I woke up early the next morning, ate breakfast by myself, and then returned to my room, shut my door,
and just sat on my bed, being mad all over. Around ten my dad knocked. "You want to toss the ball around?"
    "I don't feel like it," I said through the locked door.
    "You're not quitting, Mick. I mean it."
    "I just don't feel like playing football right now. I'll play later."
    He went away, and I thought what a hypocrite he was, telling me that I had to play. What had he done? Drunk, and missed meetings, and gotten in trouble with strippers in Mexico. He was married to my mom then, too. She had told me that they got married while they were still in college.
    A few minutes later he was back at my door, only this time he was pounding. "Get out here, Mick," he said. "Right now."
    "I'll play catch later," I shouted.
    "I'm not talking about that. I want this door open now."
    He was mad, but I was mad, too. I stomped across my room and opened the door. "What?" I said.
    He grabbed my arm, yanked me into the spare bedroom, and pointed to the computer. "Have you been checking on me?"
    My face went red. "No," I said.
    "No? Then what's this?"
    The browser was open. He moved the mouse until the cursor hovered over Go. He dragged the cursor down to History and then he clicked. A couple of clicks more and the
San Diego Union Tribune
article was on the screen. "So tell me again—you weren't checking on me?"
    "I wanted to find out the real reason you never played in the NFL."
    There, I had said it.
    "So you go snooping behind my back?"
    My mom must have heard shouting because she'd come upstairs