Under the Bridge (25 page)

“Holy shit,” Sid whispered as we stood on the second level looking down on the vert planted on the arena floor. The butterflies in the pit of my stomach turned into burrowing rats
.
Holy shit
was right. From above, the sweeping wooden surface of the U-shaped structure looked huge
.

I took a breath, staring at the skaters warming up below, dropping in, taking turns as the seats of the arena filled. “We should warm up, guys. It starts in an hour.”

Piper cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be scared, right? We can handle this, right? Why am I peeing my pants? Jesus, look at that.” He put his hands on the rail, bowing his head between them. “I’m going to puke, guys.”

I laughed. “We can handle—” Before I could finish, he did. All over the floor. Half-digested day-old deli sandwich minus lettuce splattered on his shoes. I stepped back as scores of people walking by gaped and gawked, disgust on their faces.

Piper wiped his mouth, sighing. “Better now.”

Sid, unperturbed, called for a cleanup on aisle five. I shook my head. “Dude …”

Piper smiled. “Got any gum?”

“Let’s go. Once the competition starts, we’ve each got one run. A minute and a half to pull every trick we know without screwing up and making fools of ourselves in front of the entire country.” We walked back to the hall circling the arena, past security at the entrance, and made our way to the floor. We stopped, looking up at the seats as they filled. I felt small. Minuscule. One run. Ninety seconds. One shot at making it.

Piper pointed up. “Hey, there’s my barf.”

I looked up, and a maintenance guy was dragging a mop back and forth. Off to the right, I noticed an ESPN camera crew setting up gear. The burrowing rats in my stomach became clawing tigers. “Come on. Take as many practice runs as you can, guys.”

We passed through the freestyle-trick area and climbed the stairs to the platform on top of the vert. I stood at the coping on the edge and looked down. Bigger than the Monster. Steeper. Pure fear hit me, my nerves frayed and sweat building on my brow.

The pros were gone now, their practice runs taken care of, and that left the vert for the amateurs. I looked across the bowl to the other side, and there, on the opposing platform, were Corey and his crew. He smiled, then laughed as he spread his arms wide, gesturing for me to go first.

Piper grumbled, “What a prick.”

I shook my head. “Don’t pay attention to him, Pipe. Just skate.”

Piper dropped his board to the deck. “You go first, chief. This was your grand idea.”

I didn’t bother telling him he was the one who brought it up first. I set my board down, adjusted my knee and elbow pads, balanced my tail on the coping, and, with a small prayer to the anti-humiliation gods, dropped in. And proceeded to slide out and burn my ass on the wood all the way down.

Corey and his crew, all but Stick, laughed. Once I stopped sliding, I grabbed my board and walked off, back up the stairs. My cheeks burned, and sweat poured from under my helmet as I reached the crew. Sid smirked. “Nice start, Tate, but we’re not sledding.”

I sighed, my eyes going to the seats. Three-quarters of them were filled. Thousands of people would be watching me. I closed my eyes. Come on, Tate. Ignore it. Just skate. Let it happen. I opened my eyes as Corey dropped in from the other side, carving a straight line, building incredible speed, coming up our side, doing a simple turn, and shooting back down. I swallowed. “The wood is slicker than the concrete, guys. Be careful.”

After Corey finished his run, Piper dropped in, wobbling a bit but keeping his wheels on the downside. He carved back and forth two times, then hit his first trick, nailing it with that shit-eating grin on his face that said he was in his groove. Sid actually laughed. “I thought we were doomed there for a minute with your grand entrance. At least one of us can stay upright.”

“Thanks, Sid.”

“At least Puke Boy kept his ass off the deck.”

When it was my turn again, I tailed off the coping and dropped in, this time ignoring everything except the feel of my board on the deck and the flow of my wheels rolling. Fast. Faster than I’d ever experienced on a vert. I hit a simple turn on the first run and then, back on our side, held my breath and pulled off an airwalk, landing it without a bump. There. You can do it, man. It’s just bigger. Faster. All the same but bigger.

I finished my last run with a trick that brought scattered applause from the preshow crowd, and felt a flush of excitement course through me. Sid and Pipe slapped me five, and Stick yelled out from across the vert, “Nice, Tate. Nice.”

I waved to him, and we spent the next thirty-five minutes taking turns getting used to the deck. Then a lady wearing a
STAFF
shirt waved us down. Warm-ups were over. I glanced at the digital clock under the big-screen monitor. Fifteen minutes until it started. The shakes came back. Fifteen minutes.

Our staging room was too small for us and Corey’s crew. The universe was too small for Corey, and within ten minutes, I knew there’d be a fistfight. Corey was at his finest, slinging barbs across the room, and Piper, so high on adrenaline his eyes were twittering, slung shit back at him with abandon. I stood. “I’m checking the show out. See ya.”

Sid was sprawled on the floor staring at the ceiling and Piper hashed back and forth with Corey as I left. I walked to the floor entrance, the music blaring and the crowd roaring as the pros came out for their introductions, pulling a couple of tricks each as the announcer hyped the crowd up.

I watched, and a moment later, Stick came up beside me and watched, too. He smiled. “Sort of a trip, huh?”

I nodded.

“Indy’s not competing.”

“No.”

He nodded. “He’s got style.”

“He’d eat it up here.”

Stick stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been watching you guys.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded again. “Yeah, and our crew is better than yours, even if Corey is full of crap.”

I smiled. “Looking for a fight?”

“No, I’m not, but we’re better.” He looked at me. “Without Indy backing you, we’ll win.”

I laughed. “Indy backing me? You’ve got that wrong. I’d be backing him.”

He shook his head. “You’re a better skater than any of us. Better than Indy. You just don’t know it.”

I stared out across the packed arena. “Yeah, right.”

His eyes met mine. “Corey’s skating after you. He’s the last skater.” He paused. “You’ve got one run, Tate, and you can beat him. You can take the Best Amateur Individual, and sponsors will be calling your number.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugged. “My own reasons, but you won’t see me skating with Corey or the Wheelhouse after this. I’m sick of his shit.”

“Looking for a new crew?”

“Maybe, but Corey is your competition tonight, because he’s good. Good enough to go pro. And he’s going to be pulling some monster shit.” He paused, raising his voice as the first pro skater took the vert to thunderous applause. He went on, “If you go light, he’ll beat you out. That’s all I wanted to say.” Then he slapped me on the shoulder and walked away.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” the announcer blared, “WE HAVE THREE LOCAL SPONSORED TEAMS OF SKATERS HERE WITH US TONIGHT, AND THEY’RE HERE TO SHOW YOU WHAT THEY HAVE!!!! PLEASE WELCOME TEAM WHEELHOUSE, TEAM HOLE IN THE WALL, AND TEAM
POST FALLS, FROM NEIGHBORING POST FALLS, IDAHO!!! LET THEM HEAR YOU, SPOKAAAANE!!!”

Piper yelled as he followed me up to the platform and the crowd went crazy, “I’m gonna puke again, man.”

I laughed, yelling back, “Just don’t get any on me.” It was so incredibly loud I could barely hear myself. Volbeat pounded the song “Thanks” over the speakers at our introduction, and as I reached the platform with the Post Falls team, I scanned the crowd, finding Indy, my parents, and Bill Badger in the section they’d told me to look in. Mitch the grom sat next to Badger. Everybody except my dad was standing, screaming their lungs out and waving to get my attention. I
smiled, waving back, and Mom put her hands over her mouth, which meant she was crying.

My eyes went over the rest of the crowd until I found Kimberly, holding up her
TATE BROOKS ROCKS
sign. Her parents were beside her, with her father standing and clapping and her mother sitting sullenly. I waved, smiling and laughing through my nervousness.

Then the announcer spoke again. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, EACH SKATER WILL HAVE ONE RUN TO PROVE JUST HOW GOOD SPOKANE SKATERS ARE!!! BUT WE HAVE A LITTLE SURPRISE FOR YOU HERE TONIGHT!!! SHOULD I TELL YOU WHAT IT IS?” The crowd roared and he went on. “FLYING GECKO SKATEBOARDS OUT OF MARINA DEL REY, CALIFORNIA, ONE OF THE PRIMO BOARD COMPANIES IN THE WORLD, IS OFFERING A FULL SPONSORSHIP TO THE INDIVIDUAL AMATEUR SKATE WINNER THIS EVENING!!!!”

My jaw dropped, and the claws in my stomach ripped me to shreds. No way. Pro. I could go pro tonight. No phone calls, no working my way up the circuit. Tonight. Dizziness swept over me as I realized what the stakes were, and I steadied myself. Pipe and Sid grinned ear to ear, waving to the crowd as the announcer introduced the first skater, Stick from the Wheelhouse.

With “Breadfan” from Metallica machine-gunning over the sound system, Stick dropped in and pulled his first trick, a rock-and-roll, then carved to the other side, pulled a
three-sixty frontside to thunderous approval from the crowd, barely hung on to a Stalefish, pulled a couple of minor filler tricks, gained speed two times through, and ended with a Switch Indy Air, pivoting, spinning, and landing it with ease. He was on his game.

Piper nodded to the beat as we watched, yelling in my ear, “
Stakes are high and so am I, got me a rock-and-roll band, it’s a free-for-all
. I’m next, mofo. Wish me luck.”

I laughed at his Ted Nugent lyrics, and as that song by the Nuge began—the song he’d picked for his run—he tailed in and went for it, wiping Stick all over the floor with a huge airwalk followed by a Stalefish seven-twenty finale. I hooted and hollered, caught up in the excitement as he shredded. The announcer blared props for Hole in the Wall, and I glanced up at Mom and Dad, who sat next to Badger. Badge smiled, holding up his arms and taking all the credit as he nodded his big fat head. I laughed, realizing I was having a blast. This was for me, I knew. I could get used to this.

On down the line they went, calling each name. Sid picked it up a notch even for him, although Piper’s run had been better. But at the last turn, Sid took a digger, sliding on his knees as the crowd quieted. Piper leaned toward me. “The Wheelhouse just won, dude. Post Falls boys aren’t that good, but that just screwed us.”

I took a deep breath, ignoring him. We could win. Just me and Corey were left, and if Corey fell, we might take it. I thought about what Stick told me. Monster shit. I had to do it. This wasn’t just about me and my future and what I wanted
so badly; it was about us. All of us. The crew. Indy. Cutter. Then the announcer said my name, the crowd cheered, and my favorite song by Volbeat, “Sad Man’s Tongue,” hammered the speakers and pumped me full of adrenalized electricity. This was it. I tailed on the coping and looked down.

I knew what I had to do. No filler tricks, keep my speed, and kill it. All monsters. One run, one chance. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, then dropped in when the first heavy guitar riff pounded the speakers.

I flew, and I forgot everything but the music smashing through me and my wheels flying. The crowd, the roar, my parents, Kimberly, Will—everything disappeared in a moment, and I knew I was meant for this. Meant to skate. Meant to carve and grind and fly and meant to be
good
at something. Strength burned through me as I hit the coping, driving straight into a huge airwalk right in front of Corey’s face.

I nailed it solid, crouching for speed, then hit the other side, spinning straight into the biggest three-sixty frontside rock-and-roll I’d ever done. In the distance I heard the crowd roar, and the moment my wheels hit the landing, I crouched again, straight as an arrow as I sped across and up the vert, launching into a mammoth varial five-forty.