The Heartbeat of Halftime (4 page)
Read The Heartbeat of Halftime Online
Authors: Stephen Wunderli
AN ATTITUDE PROBLEM
“T
his is not amusing,” my mother said as we walked out of the principal's office. “I don't know why you insist on embarrassing me this way. You know, I got the call when I was in a meeting. âMrs. Hyde, the principal from your son's school is on the phone.' Terrific.”
his is not amusing,” my mother said as we walked out of the principal's office. “I don't know why you insist on embarrassing me this way. You know, I got the call when I was in a meeting. âMrs. Hyde, the principal from your son's school is on the phone.' Terrific.”
I don't remember the rest of what she said; all I remember is how mad she was. She made me pull off my shirt and pants and put them in the trunk before I could get in her car. I sat in the backseat in my underwear, listening to her tell me how she could now forget about a raise, she'd be the joke of the office, and that it would be a long time before I could make this one up to her. I just sat there, slowly scraping the brown frosting off my face like I was taking off war paint. My hair was full of pear syrup and stuck straight up on top like a Mohawk. I
could see myself in the rearview mirror and thought I looked pretty fierce, and I guess I was feeling too much like a warrior who doesn't need his mother.
could see myself in the rearview mirror and thought I looked pretty fierce, and I guess I was feeling too much like a warrior who doesn't need his mother.
“I'd do it again,” I said.
My mother stopped the car. We were still a few blocks from home. “You'd what?” she said, more than a little upset.
“I'd do it again,” I said. “I don't care if they call you every day for the rest of my life.”
“You have an attitude problem,” she snapped.
“You're the one with the problem,” I said without thinking.
“You're right,” she said, calming down. “My problem is you.”
I guess it's not a real good idea to smart off to your mom when you're a few blocks from home wearin' nothing but your underwear. A mom could come in handy in a situation like that. But I didn't realize it until she was driving away and I was standing in the street, hoping that everybody I knew was either at work or school. As it turns out, I saw only two people. Mrs. Porter, who is nearly blind. She waved to me like she does every day, didn't notice a thing. And the mailman. He walked by quickly, and without missing a stride said, “Must have hippies for parents.”
“I wish,” I said back to him, walking as fast as I could. I figured if I ran, it would draw attention to
me and someone might think there was a fire or some kind of uprising. So I just walked proudly home like the emperor with no clothes. Mom had gone back to the office and Pop was sleeping, so I took a shower and waited for football practice. I went out back and tossed the ball on the roof over and over, not knowing where it would come off and diving for it when it did. I could tell then that I had changed, even before practice started. At first I was just bored and alone. I threw the ball up and caught it. Then I threw it farther away and had to dive to catch it. I'd throw it on the roof and crash through the bushes to make the catch. It was different than it had been before. I wasn't waiting for anyone. I was alone, I figured I would always be alone. Nothing mattered to me except football, it was all I had left. I headed out to practice before my father got up and made his way to his chair. I left before he could wave good-bye to me. I got my pads on and I walked to the field alone. When we scrimmaged that day, I threw blocks that sent the linebackers onto their heads. I caught every pass, and once, on an up-and-in, I caught the ball and instead of jukin' Sparky I ran right over him. We hit helmet to helmet and I knocked him flat on his back. He went and sat down on the side and wouldn't play the rest of practice. “That's football,” I said to myself. “That's what it's all about.”
me and someone might think there was a fire or some kind of uprising. So I just walked proudly home like the emperor with no clothes. Mom had gone back to the office and Pop was sleeping, so I took a shower and waited for football practice. I went out back and tossed the ball on the roof over and over, not knowing where it would come off and diving for it when it did. I could tell then that I had changed, even before practice started. At first I was just bored and alone. I threw the ball up and caught it. Then I threw it farther away and had to dive to catch it. I'd throw it on the roof and crash through the bushes to make the catch. It was different than it had been before. I wasn't waiting for anyone. I was alone, I figured I would always be alone. Nothing mattered to me except football, it was all I had left. I headed out to practice before my father got up and made his way to his chair. I left before he could wave good-bye to me. I got my pads on and I walked to the field alone. When we scrimmaged that day, I threw blocks that sent the linebackers onto their heads. I caught every pass, and once, on an up-and-in, I caught the ball and instead of jukin' Sparky I ran right over him. We hit helmet to helmet and I knocked him flat on his back. He went and sat down on the side and wouldn't play the rest of practice. “That's football,” I said to myself. “That's what it's all about.”
“You're playin' like a madman,” Bam said in the huddle. “You got somethin' to prove?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Throw me the ball.”
He did. I caught it, but before I could slam Flash, the free safety, he let up.
“What are you afraid of?” I yelled at him.
“Save it for the game,” he said back.
“You save it,” I said. “I'm not holdin' nothin' back.”
And I didn't. Not that day, not the next two practices. By the time Friday night rolled around, I was ready to punish somebody, anybody, for everything I had lost.
MAKE THE ADJUSTMENT
I
wasn't asleep when Heat came by. I was on the roof again and I saw him and his pack of dogs walk onto my front lawn. Bam was with him, and so was Spray Can and Taco Bell. I knew what they were there for.
wasn't asleep when Heat came by. I was on the roof again and I saw him and his pack of dogs walk onto my front lawn. Bam was with him, and so was Spray Can and Taco Bell. I knew what they were there for.
“It didn't work last time,” I said from the roof.
They looked up at me. I was curled up in my blanket and perched on the edge of the roof like some kind of gargoyle.
“We didn't have enough of us,” Heat said. “The more we get, the stronger the force will be.”
I didn't have anything better to do, so I climbed down and went with them. Truth is I had to go anyway, so it might as well be in the end zone. No one said anything while we walked; I guess they
were all thinking about the task at hand, hoping desperately that this would help, that the force of nature would be strong enough to give us the edge we needed to win a game. I had my doubts, but I was willing to try.
were all thinking about the task at hand, hoping desperately that this would help, that the force of nature would be strong enough to give us the edge we needed to win a game. I had my doubts, but I was willing to try.
When we got to the field, everybody just stood around, nervous, like we were at a dance with girls or somethin'.
“Okay,” Heat said, getting right down to business. “We go in both end zones. That way we're the only ones who can lay claim to either, you got it?”
We all nodded our heads like we were about to embark on a top-secret mission.
“Oh,” he added. “One more thing. We'll start there, but you got to save some for down here. It doesn't do any good to only do one.”
We agreed again, seeing the logic. If we marked only one, well, that meant we'd have only one good half. A team can come back and beat you if you play good ball for only half a game. It made sense to us. But, you know, it was a lot more difficult than it sounded. Think about it. You're goin' in the first end zone; halfway through, you have to shut it off, then run a hundred yards to the other end zone, and let the rest out. It took some practice to get good at it. But we did. By the last game, we could squirt out a little, then walk casually downfield and squirt the rest. We were that good. In fact,
we were so good we could mark just about anything, anytime.
we were so good we could mark just about anything, anytime.
When we were done marking, we sat down in the middle of the field and talked about the plays we had learned that week. You see, every team has a little different defense. So even though we had most of our plays learned, we changed 'em just a little bit for each game. We were playing the Woods Cross Warriors the next day. We knew they had some big guys in the middle who would clog up our power plays. So Coach changed our dives to run off tackle instead of off guard. We also changed our sweep a little, pulled the guard from the far side so we had more blocking. See, those big guys are strong, but they're not fast, so we figured we'd run sweeps all day until they stacked the ends, and then we'd run off tackle. If that didn't work, we'd throw the ball.
Bam had a football, he always had a football, and we ran through the plays until it was almost midnight. Heat set up his dogs like the defensive line, and Taco Bell pulled over and over. Bam pitched and handed off to Heat and I ran pass patterns. Since Spray Can only played defense, he covered me every time I went out. On the way home we talked about Woods Cross and what they would throw at Spray Can.
“They got lots of big guys,” Bam said. “So they like to run up the middle a lot. You're gonna have to take on two or three blockers at a time â¦
bam
â¦
bam
â¦
bam!
Like that.”
bam
â¦
bam
â¦
bam!
Like that.”
“I can do it, I sthwear,” Spray Can sprayed.
For the first time that year, we believed him.
SOMETHING TO PROVE
M
y father gets up early on Saturday mornings. By the time I wake up, my uniform has been washed and dried and he's sitting on the downstairs couch pushing my pads into the pants. There are clean socks beside him, next to my jersey, and a shirt for under the shoulder pads. I always wake up and sit on the fireplace, rubbing my face awake. This is our time, when the house is quiet, to talk about football. If there is anything else that needs to be talked out, it comes later, after the game, after we have talked about each play. And even though most afternoon talks were about a loss, the morning talks were always optimistic. I sat there that morning watching my father tiredly thread the belt through the slits in my pants. His hands were shaking, but it was his job and I didn't want to take it away from him.
y father gets up early on Saturday mornings. By the time I wake up, my uniform has been washed and dried and he's sitting on the downstairs couch pushing my pads into the pants. There are clean socks beside him, next to my jersey, and a shirt for under the shoulder pads. I always wake up and sit on the fireplace, rubbing my face awake. This is our time, when the house is quiet, to talk about football. If there is anything else that needs to be talked out, it comes later, after the game, after we have talked about each play. And even though most afternoon talks were about a loss, the morning talks were always optimistic. I sat there that morning watching my father tiredly thread the belt through the slits in my pants. His hands were shaking, but it was his job and I didn't want to take it away from him.
When he was done, he was breathing hard and his eyes were half closed and sad.
“Bam will give you a ride this morning,” he said. “And I'll try to make it to at least part of the game.”
“Okay,” I said back to him.
He closed his eyes then and laid his head back on the couch. I got dressed while he breathed through his mouth. His skin had turned pale and I could see the bluish veins running across his face like highways, tiny rivers of traffic running over his cheeks. It made me think of all the places he had been. Oakland, California, where he'd been born. Santa Fe, where he'd worked for a winter, Norfolk in the Navy, Germany on some base there, Missoula with a friend and a broken-down cattle ranch, Salt Lake City selling oil property, our small streetâa stream that runs into the main river, with small houses right up to its edge like it's only a matter of time before the water washes them all away.
“Pop,” I whispered into his face. “Pop, I'm leavin' now.”
He half opened his eyes. “Okay, okay,” he said softly. “See you there.”
I didn't say much to Bam on the way to the game. His older brother Darrel drove us over to the high school. Darrel was on the high-school football team. He was proud of his little brother and wanted Bam to be a hero like himself. He turned the music up loud and shouted over it.
“You guys are about due for a win,” he yelled. “I'd say it's about your turn.” Then he'd slug one of us on the shoulder pad or cuff us on the back of the head.
“Are you ready?” he yelled.
“Yeah, we're ready,” Bam shouted back when we were climbing out of the car.
“How âbout you, Wing?” he said to me. “You ready, huh, huh?”
“Shut up,” I said. “This isn't your game.”
“That's right,” Darrel said, after thinking about it for a minute. “I'd make sure I'd win, if it was. You got what it takes to make sure, Wing, huh?”
I didn't say anything back, just walked ahead of him, feeling him staring at me like he wanted to kick me or somethin'.
“What's with you?” Bam said when we were stretching out.
I didn't answer that, either. I was eager to get the game started and I was looking over at the other team, their blue-and-white uniforms jumping up and down in perfect sync like a platoon of soldiers. I wanted to get up right then and run toward them, crash into 'em, send every one of them flying like bowling pins. But I figured my chance would come.
It did, the very first play of the game. We won the flip and would receive. Heat and I lined up deep to take the kick. It sailed in Heat's direction, but I cut in front of him, hauled in the kick, and headed
right down the middle. By the time I hit the swarm of blue jerseys, I was running faster than I ever had before. Taco Bell cut in front of me to pick up one of their guys, and I shoved him right into the oncoming traffic. It was a good block, but there was someone else right behind him. I hit this tall kid at full speed and knocked him right onto his butt. Someone hit me from the side, but I stepped through it, then cut to the outside and straight-armed another blue jersey. I picked up speed, heading down the sideline right in front of our team. I could hear them screaming, I could see them jumping up and down. I could also see the kicker, the last man between me and the goal line. He had the angle on me and was coming fast. I usually would have tried to get lower than him, to hit him hard and get a few extra yards with him riding on my back all the way to the ground. But this time I stayed high. I lowered my head just enough to meet his. We cracked head-on like two rams.
Boom!
He stumbled backward, and I spun off him and sprinted the thirty yards to the goal line. I let the ball drop out of my hands in the end zone, and before the whole team piled on top of me, I caught a glimpse of Darrel. He was wearing a big smile, and I looked at him, telling him,
Yes, I have what it takes. No one gave it to me, and no one is going to take it away.
right down the middle. By the time I hit the swarm of blue jerseys, I was running faster than I ever had before. Taco Bell cut in front of me to pick up one of their guys, and I shoved him right into the oncoming traffic. It was a good block, but there was someone else right behind him. I hit this tall kid at full speed and knocked him right onto his butt. Someone hit me from the side, but I stepped through it, then cut to the outside and straight-armed another blue jersey. I picked up speed, heading down the sideline right in front of our team. I could hear them screaming, I could see them jumping up and down. I could also see the kicker, the last man between me and the goal line. He had the angle on me and was coming fast. I usually would have tried to get lower than him, to hit him hard and get a few extra yards with him riding on my back all the way to the ground. But this time I stayed high. I lowered my head just enough to meet his. We cracked head-on like two rams.
Boom!
He stumbled backward, and I spun off him and sprinted the thirty yards to the goal line. I let the ball drop out of my hands in the end zone, and before the whole team piled on top of me, I caught a glimpse of Darrel. He was wearing a big smile, and I looked at him, telling him,
Yes, I have what it takes. No one gave it to me, and no one is going to take it away.
I stood by Heat while the defense took the field. It
took him a bit to say something to me, but he finally did.
took him a bit to say something to me, but he finally did.
“We been talkin' about it,” he said. “You got something to prove, maybe with your pop, maybe somethin' else. That's good. But you're not the only one.”
The next offensive series, Heat ran sixty yards in three carries. He was running like a fugitive, and it took at least three men to take him down each time. Bam called time-out on the seven yard line, and while Coach was jogging out onto the field, Bam grabbed us both by the face masks and smacked our heads together.
“What is it, huh?” he yelled at us. “What is it?”
“We got somethin' to prove,” Heat said. “Do you?”
Bam nodded his head.
“What's wrong?” Coach said when he got there. “Somebody hurt?”
“No,” Bam said. “I got two backs who are running like freight trains â¦
bam
â¦
bam!
Who do I give it to?”
bam
â¦
bam!
Who do I give it to?”
“Fake the sweep left and run the bootleg right,” he said. “The whole modern world will follow these two prophets and you'll be the lone sinner standing in the end zone.”
Bam smiled. It was his turn to prove something. He had never scored a touchdown, and the thought of it made his whole face light up. I pulled left, Heat
took the fake, and we headed for the goal line. Taco Bell pulled and went right, but Bam didn't need him. It was a long moment before anybody, including the referees, knew that Bam had scored. Bam was celebrating with Taco Bell and the refs were sorting out the pile on the other side of the field, trying to figure out who had the ball.
took the fake, and we headed for the goal line. Taco Bell pulled and went right, but Bam didn't need him. It was a long moment before anybody, including the referees, knew that Bam had scored. Bam was celebrating with Taco Bell and the refs were sorting out the pile on the other side of the field, trying to figure out who had the ball.
The other coach figured it out and threw his clipboard down and pointed at Bam. Bam just laughed and danced all the way back to our bench. Darrel picked him up when he got there and asked him how it felt.
“I don't ever want to feel anything else,” he said.
And we wouldn't, not that day. Spray Can had somethin' to prove too, so the other team never scored. Spray Can was everywhere. He gave us good field position and he got the rest of the defense fired up and sort of crazy like himself. We scored again in the third quarter after Bam hucked me a long pass and I brushed the sideline inside the ten trying to keep my balance. Then Heat pounded his way through the middle and all three of us had TDs. First time ever. When the game was over, we wanted to play another one. Coach was saying something about the Greeks but no one was listening, 'specially me. I was looking around to see if Pop was still there. I saw him earlier, kind of off by himself, leaning heavy on a cane Mom had bought him so he could get around better. But he must not
have stayed very long. When I couldn't find him, I walked off, away from the rest of the team. I wanted to be alone. I didn't feel a part of anything. I hadn't won for anybody but myself, and I wanted to keep it that way.
have stayed very long. When I couldn't find him, I walked off, away from the rest of the team. I wanted to be alone. I didn't feel a part of anything. I hadn't won for anybody but myself, and I wanted to keep it that way.
Other books
Double Dealing by Jayne Castle
Fortune's Son by Emery Lee
The Cat’s Eye Shell by Kate Forsyth
Anything for Profit 2: Nothing to Lose by Floyd, Justin Amen
A Saint on Death Row by Thomas Cahill
Being Teddy Roosevelt by Claudia Mills
F O U R by JASON
With Love and Quiches by Susan Axelrod
Mr. Ruins: A Thriller (Ruins Sonata Book 1) by Grist, Michael John
Hunting Lust (Orion the Hunter Part Three) by Chase, J.D.