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by redsox907 » 25 Apr 2026, 03:31
Chapter Forty-Three: Houston, We Have Contact
At first the idea of the Sooner Caravan expanding from what had become its routine of four cities—featuring Oklahoma City, Tulsa, Dallas, and usually Amarillo—to a Grand “Championship Tour” of eight cities, including traveling all the way down to San Antonio and Houston, seemed the only natural thing to do. What better time to capitalize on the popularity of the Oklahoma Sooners than following not only their first Playoff win since the College Football Playoff’s inception, but the programs first Football National Championship since the turn of the century?
And it wasn’t just the football program that was excelling under Roger Denny’s leadership, the men and women’s basketball teams had each surged to three straight Elite Eight appearances apiece, with the women’s team winning the 2027 National Championship. Headlined by myself, men’s basketball coach Porter Moser, and women’s coach Jennie Baranczyk, the Sooner Caravan sold out in every major city within 24-hours of tickets being made available, with the smaller cities selling out within a week.
The Caravan kicked off in Tulsa at the Mother Road Market and while the roughly 1,600 people in attendance was modest compared to the turnout in Norman for the championship parade three months ago, the totality of the event was something I wholeheartedly underestimated.
In years previous the Caravan had been approximately 60 minute event spread out between the AD and three major coaches all taking roughly 15 minutes to speak about the upcoming season, then an optional autograph signing sessions at the bigger venues. All in all, the previous iterations encompassed maybe two hours total.
With the overwhelming success of the athletic programs as a whole, the University decided on a 2-hour block for the speaking event, thirty minutes for each coach and Roger Denny, that was followed by an approximately 90-minute autograph and Q&A sessions with fans who’d paid a premium for “backstage access.”
“You’re a celebrity in this state now, Armando,” reminded Oklahoma President Joseph Harroz Jr. when we were preparing for the event, “Everyone one in the Tri-State area is gonna want a piece of the action.”
The first day was exhausting in its own right. The second day, even worse.
By the 12th day, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to publicly speak again. The Caravan had started in Tulsa, moseyed down to Oklahoma for a two-night stay, then hit Amarillo, Lawton, and Wichita before heading to Dallas for another two-day stint, San Antonio for the same, and finally ending in Houston.
Eight different cities had heard a variation of my speech for the upcoming football season, about how the team was hungry to prove themselves again and not content to live off of last year’s success. While the guts of the story changed from place to place, and honestly based on my exhaustion level between road-trips, but the closer never changed.
“When you build a standard, it doesn’t just last for a year. It lasts for generations. The standard in Norman, Oklahoma is pretty straight forward. Win, period. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I’m not joking, I’m getting a stamp made for my autograph next year,” I half-joked to Porter Moser as we prepared for our final autograph session of the Caravan tour.
“Nice try rook,” laughed Jennie from the other end of the row of assembled tables, “I tried that after we won our championship in ’27, no dice. They want the real thing.”
“I don’t mind signing my autograph for our loyal fans,” chirped Porter.
Jennie and I both exchanged knowing glances before each extending our arms in front of us to admire the Championship rings we both wore, each ensuring we angled our hands just enough for the rings to shine in Porter’s direction. It only took three days for Jennie and I to start ribbing Porter for being the “odd-man out” in terms of championships victories, and by the time we’d finished in Lawton it had become its own ritual between the three of us: Porter would joke about not minding some aspects of the fame that came with being a successful coach for Oklahoma, then Jennie and I reminding him he still needed to win a championship to hit that “legendary status.”
Before we could continue to rib Porter the event organizer for 713 Music Hall—Julia Lewis—interrupted with a matter-of-fact announcement that the doors for the Autograph Session would be opening. Within minutes, waves of Sooners fans mingled with regular college football fans flooded into the small greeting area, quickly choosing which line to wait in first. In what had become another common ritual between us, Jennie and I both glanced over at Porter as the lines began to form and reassured him that “one day, he’ll have a long line too.”
The three of us burst into heavy laughter, earning a quick glare from Julia as the first fans in line started to shuffle anxiously.
Thirty minutes later and the short moment of reprieve with Jennie and Porter felt like a distant memory, buried by the repetition of signatures, pictures, and quick small-talk between an endless wave of visitors.
By the thirty minute mark the cycle of faces began blending together, a phenomenon that started happening after the third event in Amarillo, into a collage of faces swathed in Crimson, some from the jerseys and others in face paint for the event. That is, until one face near the back of my line stood out.
I only caught a glimpse of it, but something about the face startled me out of my daze of repetition, pulling my attention away from the eager 10-year old, accompanied by his father, recounting how all of his friends went “ballistic” when Isaac Adcock broke free for the game-winning punt return against Texas in the Red River Rivalry earlier last year.
“-and then Isaac went this way,” the kid continued, miming juke moves while standing mostly in place, “Then that and BAM, he was gone. I’m tellin’ you sir, me and my friends yelled until our throats were hoarse.”
I must have taken longer than normal to answer, because when I finally refocused on the 10-year old, Clive, both him and his father were intently waiting for my response.
I forced myself back into character, telling the kid that play right there is why he won the Jet Award in my opinion, “Show me another kick return bigger than that last year,” I remarked, earning an enthusiastic nod that shook his whole body from Clive. By the time I took a picture with Clive, flashing the horns down—despite the University originally urging us to avoid the negative mannerism for our hated rival—the familiar stranger had dispersed back into the crowd. I stood up, trying to crane my head over the crowd to spot the mysterious stranger again, but my attention was quickly pulled back to the line and the next adoring fan awaiting their 3 minutes with Coach Leon.
Fifteen minutes later, my questions would be answered.
In the middle of a rambling story by an old-cowboy who claimed he’d been watching the Sooners before I was in diapers, a man three people back in line not only stole my attention, but suddenly transported me twenty-five years into the past, to New Year’s Day 2005.
The last time I saw my father in person. Until now.
The old-cowboys hand grasping my shoulder snapped me out of my daze and I vaguely heard him ask if I was alright while tightening his grip on my shoulder, in an effort to secure me should I faint I would later presume.
When I simply answered with a shallow head nod, the cowboy quickly grabbed my bottle of water off the adjacent table.
“Take a few swings o’ that,” he instructed, “You just went whiter than the ten-gallon hat I wear line-dancing on Saturdays.”
I took a sip and thanked the man, who thankfully dropped the subject after I quickly signed the football he’d given me before his tale of fandom, before refocusing my attention on the man in line.
Now without the element of surprise, it was clear he was not Arturo. Instead, it was more like looking in a mirror, a reflection of what I could have been under different circumstances.
The man had the same rugged jawline as my father, same dark features too, but there was a harshness to his features that the carefully composed version of Arturo I remembered as a child never had.
We locked eyes and all he gave me was a simple nod. As if to say, you’ll find out soon enough.
The two fans who preceded him went by in a blur, their faces and questions lost in the fog that had slowly enveloped my mind, with only one clear thought cutting through the dimness.
‘Who is this?’
Then suddenly, there he was, within arm’s length from me. Before I could begin to form a logical thought, instinct kicked in and I reached out to shake the strangers hand. He met my hand midway, creating a clear divide between our individual spaces, before he leaned in, still grasping my hand, just enough over the divide for his voice to carry to my ears alone.
“Hola, Armando,” he said quietly, the usual warmth of such a greeting noticeably absent.
“You’re not-“ I began, still trying to form a coherent thought, but was quickly cut-off by the stranger.
“Arturo? No,” he laughed, not with amusement, but with contempt.
“Dicen que soy el clon de mi viejo, pero gracias a Dios no salí igualito a él.” added the stranger, the words quickly rolling off his tongue as naturally as his English had.
When I simply stared at him with a blank expression, clearly not understanding what had been said, he chuckled another humorless laugh.
“Figures the golden boy wouldn’t know how to speak our native tongue,” he spat, still low enough that the conversation stayed between our clasped hands, neither wanting to be the one to break the handshake and fold first.
“I guess that’s the only thing our father gave me, and not you,” he bristled.
“Who are you?” I finally managed to ask, fighting back the shock that had clouded my thoughts since the first sighting.
“Nobody for you to worry about,” the man seethed, finally beginning to soften his grip, “I just wanted to finally meet the man who got everything when Arturo disappeared, while I was left to fend off the dogs alone.”
With that, he finally released his grip on my hand and turned to disappear into the crowd. Before I knew what was happening, I quickly grabbed him by the forearm, pulling him back towards the table.
He whirled around in surprise, but before he could protest, I quickly interjected.
“What, sir, you almost forgot your signed program,” I objected, quickly falling back into character, noticing the few people paying attention had begun to form their own puzzled expressions.
Maybe realizing the ploy of simply trying to keep appearances, or maybe he was as caught off-guard as I had been, his rehearsed act finally ending and having to improvise, but the man stayed planted in front of my table as I reached for one of the programs, a picture of me hoisting the National Championship flanked by the team on the front with the headline “Only the Beginning” scrawled across the top in Sooner Crimson.
“Who do I make this out to, your son perhaps?” I questioned, fully back into the charade.
“No, no son. Just me,” he answered, intentionally stopping the answer short of the question he must have realized I was fishing for. Before the awkward cat-and-mouse game could continue, the fan behind him shouted.
“Hurry up man, we all want to meet Coach Leon too!”
Maybe the heckle startled him, but all it took was a quick eyebrow raise on my part for him to finally divulge the last piece of info I would be able to get.
“Raul, my name is Raul,” he murmured, just low enough for me to make out.
Muscle memory kicked in as I signed my usual piece, “#BoomerSooner” with my looping signature directly below it. I don’t fully know why, and to be honest, I didn’t even register what I had done until the program was already in his hand, but below my signature I had scrawled my University provided cell number.
“In case you ever want to get in touch,” I muttered under my breath as I handed him the program, before increasing the audio to thank him for being a fan as I turned and gestured for the next in line.
By the time I made it back to the table, Raul had disappeared back into the crowd. If it wasn’t for Porter asking me as the event began to wind down about the sulking figure that creepily held my handshake, I may have been able to convince myself it was all a dream.
I declined the invitation from Roger Denny for a celebratory dinner, convincingly telling him “I’m all talked out, Rog,” before retiring to my suite for the final night before we returned home to Norman.
In reality, I had other business to attend to.
Back in the suite, I made a beeline for my travel bag, dumping the letters in the front pocket out onto the black-oak desk that sat under the north facing window in the suite.
The three letters spilled onto the desk, their bright white card stock contrasting the black oak of the desktop, along with the yellow legal pad neatly clipped onto the three letters.
I re-read each letter, despite having them nearly memorized at this point, before flipping to the legal pad and jotting down notes.
“RAUL?” I wrote in bold print halfway down the third page in the legal pad, before adding “Orozco???” Below it with a double underline.
The first two pages of the legal pad were filled with random thoughts, half-baked ideas about who could be behind the letters, and what their motives were.
The third page, however, was simply a list of possible suspects. All of which were crossed-off. Jonathan Smith, Mike Locksley, hell even Dan Lanning had earned the title of “prime suspect” but after all this time, one fact or another had ruled them out.
And now, we had a new contender in the ring.
“Who the fuck are you, Raul. And why did you call Arturo our father?”
Before I lost myself in the rabbit hole of who this mysterious person was, the FaceTime notification cut through my thoughts. As soon as I hit the green answer button illuminated on my MacBook, Tara Lydia’s face filled the screen.
“WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME” she boomed through the microphone, too close to the speaker on Jessica’s phone to be any quieter than a roar.
Before I could answer, Jessica had pulled her to a more manageable distance away from the phone, leaving room for Jessica and AJ to fill the picture beside her.
“I’m coming home tomorrow sweetie, then we’ll head down to the Baked Bear for ice cream, sound good?”
Her delighted squeal was more than enough of an answer as she quickly bounded down the hall, content with how the conversation had unfolded.
“I’m surprised you aren’t out with Roger,” Jessica questioned, one eyebrow raised like there was a deeper question that she wouldn’t press in front of AJ.
“He invited me, I’m just honestly too tired to keep the act up for much longer, this has been exhausting,” I sighed, quickly adding, “I was going to call you after I took a shower, I just wanted a bit to decompress.”
She simply nodded, as if that was the answer she expected. “Anything crazy happen at the final event?”
There it was, the opening to start slowly peeling back the layers on the letters and questions that had slowly been amplifying from the front of my travel bag.
“Nah, just another three hours of smiling and waving,” I joked, trying to seem casual. This wasn’t the time to tell her about the letters. Not from 500 miles away over a FaceTime call, simply because a stranger rattled me with some telltale about knowing Arturo.
Tara Lydia’s shrill cry quickly cut through the noise on Jessica’s end, followed by a wail.
“MOM, AJ TOOK THE BARBIES HEAD OFF AGAIN!”
The look of exhaustion on Jessica’s face matched my own and we both shared a quick laugh when our eyes met through the screen.
“Next time, I’m signing autographs,” she chuckled before motioning with her hands she had to go.
“I’ll call you after my shower,” I laughed back blowing her a kiss that she returned before ending the call.
‘Now isn’t the right time,’ I tried to reassure myself, turning my attention back to the letters and legal pad on my desk, angled precisely out of the sight of the MacBook camera.
Before I could dismiss the thought, my own inner-voice answered back.
‘Will there ever be a right time?’
I wasn’t sure what bothered me more that night: not knowing if there ever would be a right time, or trying to decode the mystery of Raul’s connection to my family.
they gotta be able to sling that bihh on occasion too tho, keep the D honest