Red Dirt Rocker

by Jody French

  Not wanting to waste any more time on relationship drama, I turn my focus to the Tiger marching band and spot Sophie right away. I stand and wave my arms in all directions, trying to get her attention. Sophie sees me. She waves back. Her broadening smile illuminates the band bleachers. I survey the height of the fence and decide I’m going to hop over it as soon as the game is over—I’m going to make a path straight for Sophie.

  I turn my concentration back to the very close game; I yell until my veins pop in my temples as the opposing team runs the ball down to our ten yard line. The score is still tied, twenty-seven to twenty-seven. I begin to bite the jagged cuticles on my nails.

  “COME ON TIGERS! HOLD EM’!” I wail. I stand up and stomp my feet on the clanging metal bleachers. I feel completely helpless. Trying to encourage my teammates from the stands is frustrating. I’d give anything to be on the field blocking.

  Relief comes over me as the Tigers’ defense makes a crucial tackle on the fourth down, stopping our rival’s forward progress. The football is set sailing with a thud as it’s punted. Now it’s up to the Tigers to get the ball over the goal line. The time clock is ticking relentlessly, with only two minutes left to go in the game. My stomach is in knots.

  On the field, my team huddles for their final time-out. I know D.J.’s best decision is a pass to the end zone to Kyle. The other team’s defensive coverage of the receivers had gotten weak due to an injury during the last play. D.J. appears to be distracted by Heather and the smiles and waves she’s directing toward me in the stands. I can see that he’s fuming. He’s certainly not giving the game the attention it needs, especially on the critical last downs at hand.

  I can see the formation D.J. has called. It looks like he’s going try to go for a quarterback keeper. I know D.J. well enough to sense he wants full credit for scoring the winning touchdown. It’s clear, even from here in the stands, that there’s now an “I” in team, as far as D.J. is concerned.

  Two quick plays later, the Tigers aren’t gaining much ground. D.J. still refuses to throw the ball to Kyle, even though he’s been wide open near the goal line. I have a sneaking suspicion he won’t let Kyle have the ball because Kyle’s my best friend. I’m sure D.J. is still holding a grudge because of Kyle’s cut down after Box tackled me. Instead of an athletic leader, D.J. has become a manipulative dictator.

  D.J. reluctantly hands the ball off to his running back, but the defensive line is too beefy. The play is squelched after only a gain of a yard. The Tigers now have the ball on the fifteen-yard line. Dad and I scream until we’re blue in the face for D.J. to pass Kyle the ball. I can see Kyle screaming at D.J., too.

  The Tigers huddle for their last time-out. D.J. opens his mouth and rebels, the steam from the cold night air puffing out of his mouth. He looks like a mad, fire-breathing dragon. Even D.J.'s dull-witted friend Box shakes his head in agreement with Kyle. I can hear the burly center snorting at him to pass Kyle the ball. It doesn’t matter what the team or coaches want at this point—D.J.’s mind is made up.

  "Sixteen on two…sixteen on two!" D.J. commands. He ignores the coach’s orders as the team reluctantly breaks from the huddle before a delay of game penalty is called. It’s too late for anyone to dispute the call as D.J. belts out, "Sixteen…sixteen…hut, hut!!”

  Helmets crack as the spent linemen begin to block for D.J., who selfishly holds onto the ball. He finds a small rabbit hole and breaks from the crumbling line of scrimmage. He sprints, dodging the first defender, but a solid-as-a-rock linebacker on the opposing team nearly picks D.J. up and throws him down. The violent crack is audible into the top seats of the stands. The football sails out of D.J.’s hands before he hits the frigid, hard, unforgiving turf.

  We all hold our breath collectively as the pigskin pops out of D.J.’s flailing arms. The entire home bleachers have all but chalked the game up as a loss. The most important game of the past eight years comes to a bitter close. We all gasp and begin to exhale in unison in gut wrenching disappointment.

  The rickety scoreboard clock ticks off the last three seconds of the game without mercy. There’s no way to stop it. Three…two…one…and, lo and behold, out of the crowd of grass-stained jerseys, Kyle leaps into the air and secures the barreling football. He lands with both feet churning like the Road Runner and turns for the goal line, four treacherous yards away.

  The opposing team grabs in vain at his un-tucked shirt-tail, but Kyle is able to shuck off two defenders as he closes in on the two-yard line.

  I’m on my feet, going crazy. I’m so pumped that I feel dizzy. "GO KYLE! GET IN THERE!" I scream, trying to will my buddy across the goal line.

  Kyle shakes off the last defensive player and, as the horn buzzes signifying the end of the game, he leaps into the end zone, hits the ground, and rolls twice.

  Kyle stands slowly and deliberately. He displays, for all to see, the football still secure in his gloved hands. My best friend has just scored the winning touchdown for the Tigers. My team has just won the coveted State Championship title!

  The Tiger fans go ballistic. I see purple dots and get a full-on head rush from screaming so loud. Megan's popcorn flies in every direction as she jumps up and down. Mom and Dad’s stadium seats fall backwards. Cowbells clank. The home side bleachers turn into celebration central. What a barn burner. The Tiger players and coaches are ecstatic.

  Everyone is elated—everyone, that is, except for D.J. He looks completely dejected. Instead of celebrating with his team, D.J. takes off his black scuffed helmet and walks around in a daze, like it’s the end of the world and he is the sole survivor. He appears to be all alone in a crowd of hundreds. His teammates are less than happy with him. Even his partner in crime, Sam the Box, gives D.J. the cold shoulder pad.

  They all know good and well that D.J.’s petty jealousy and big ego had almost cost them the most important game of the year—the most important game of their lifetime.

  Kyle, on the other hand, is the man of the hour. He looks like a steel orb in a pinball machine as he bounces randomly above the shoulders of his fellow football players. On the ground, he’s mauled with bear hugs and helmet slaps. My gridiron buddies and I are on top of the world!

  I scan the field, desperately looking for Sophie. The marching band is in the middle of the school fight song, and I can see her laughing from fifty yards away.

  I can barely wait to hug Sophie, but there’s one thing I have to take care of first. Turning to Mama, who’s still in full celebration mode, I ask for the KISS backstage pass that I had given to her at the airport. Mama gladly hands it over and we high-five over the victory.

  I race down the bleachers, and in one fell swoop, grab the top of the fence and sail over it in what I have to admit is a pretty cool, rock star-like move.

  "Fooorrest!" “I’m sooo glad you're back, doll!" Heather proclaims as D.J. lights upon us rapidly.

  "Let’s go, Heather," D.J. commands, his angry dragon breath still steaming out of his mouth.

  "Go jump in the lake," Heather snaps. "You almost cost us the game. What a loser!" she calls out as she turns her back on him.

  Heather reaches for my arm. “Forrest, you look amazing. I lovvvve the leather!” She coos, stroking my jacket. She’s ready to bask in the attention it will bring her as the pretty girl on the arm of the dude who rocked on the same stage as KISS.

  "Hey, Heather. This is for you," I declare, placing the KISS backstage pass around her neck. "You're gonna make a great groupie someday."

  "Are you kidding me? FORREST, GET BACK HERE!" Heather wails like a spoiled child. She realizes the gift is meant to mock her. She is suddenly at a loss for sarcastic words.

  "Hey, Heather, you have D.J.," I yell back over my shoulder as I start to jog to the middle of the field. "You two deserve each other!" I add, with a dismissive wave of my hand over my head.

  I can’t wait to congratulate my best friend for the game of his life. I run up behind Kyle and give him a “bro-slap” on his butt pads. He t
urns to face me and bursts out with laughter. "Oh, dude, Forrest…I thought that was your MAMA!" He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes my spent body.

  "Maaan…that was sooo wrong!" I protest. My numb brain is too tired to think of a comeback line. I can tell by the ornery grin on Kyle’s face that he’s thrilled to get me back for the Mrs. Smith comment from weeks ago. Tonight, all victories are his.

  "Congratulations, dude. What an epic game!" I exclaim as I exhale.

  "Thanks, man. You know you're part of this, too. You helped get us here, Forrest." Kyle assures.

  "Oh, I know, man. Right now you need to enjoy the glory. You deserve it, Kyle,” I return.

  "I hear you and your band killed it in Sweden, dude,” Kyle yells over the school fight song.

  "It was incredible! I'll tell ya all about it later. I gotta go say hi to someone."

  I’m distracted by Sophie waving her drumsticks at me. I can’t wait to see her pretty face up close and personal.

  "I'll see ya in the locker room, dude," I promise Kyle.

  My heart swells with anticipation. I’m on a mission for a hug. I think to myself, How adorable Sophie looks in her band uniform, as I grab her up into my arms—"my little band geek!" Her clumsy, furry, band hat tips forward like it did at the pep assembly, almost covering her angel eyes. I hug her and the hat tilts back, giving me the perfect opportunity to sneak a first kiss. We hover several feet off the ground for a few seconds, before drifting like a falling feather back to earth.

  "What about Heather?" She asks, pushing me back. Sophie’s warm breath puffs delicately from her perfect mouth.

  "Sophie…I’m so sorry. I should’ve broken up with Heather weeks ago. She’s spoiled rotten, and definitely more suited to a guy like D.J.," I apologize. “Besides, I bet he’ll give her more compliments for her daily vanity list than I ever did.”

  We grin at each other and hug tightly one more time. I rub her shoulders to help her warm up. I feel my heart race through my button-down shirt as I draw the courage to ask her out. I still think it’s funny that I can play in front of thousands of people without stage fright, but hugging sweet Sophie makes me weak in the knees. I inhale, drawing the sharp night air deep into my lungs.

  "Sophie, would ya like to come over to my house and chill for awhile tonight? No big deal. My parents always order pizza, and we can just hang out or something?” I ask sheepishly, with travel-weary eyes. It’s becoming hard for me to separate reality from a dream at this point. I’m so jet lagged and emotionally spent. I sure don’t want to wake up now if this is a dream. Just stay asleep, Forrest, I think in my delirious mind.

  Sophie looks at me with her endearing sideways glance. “Only if we can watch movies and listen to music,” she returns slyly. She clasps her soft, cold hand in mine.

  "That's definitely a deal," I smile, nodding my head in relief. I can feel her hand warm quickly as we touch. I smile wider knowing now this isn’t just a dream. I don’t even need Jake here to pinch me!

  She wants to watch movies and listen to music! I marvel happily. Where has this amazing girl been all my life?

  Sophie and I start for the field house when I hear a familiar riff. It’s my band’s song, “Rocket,” blaring from the P.A. system above the home bleachers. I look back to the stands and see my mom and dad smiling. Their index fingers point in the air above their heads signifying the number one. I look back to Sophie with a puzzled expression.

  "Didn't your folks tell you, Forrest?" She asks, raising her voice above the song. “'Rocket' just made it to the top ten on the charts! Your sister Megan told me before the game. Your parents must’ve wanted to surprise you!”

  I grab my curls, pushing them away from my face. I’m simply stunned by the news. Our song is a bullet! I turn once again to the football field. My teammates are rocking out to my tune. Even cowboy Coach Bryan is jamming to the music with an imaginary air guitar. Knowing him though, it’s probably an “air banjo.”

  "Oh, man…this is amazing!” I exclaim.

  Standing on the fifty-yard line, I look up at the clear night sky full of tiny, brilliant stars. I take a deep breath and say a silent prayer of thanks. A wonderful family, great friends, a girl who understands me, and a hit song. What more could a teenage boy ask for?

  Answer…NOTHING!

  The stadium is empty, except for Janitor Hank, who is sweeping up the empty popcorn boxes and sticky Coke cups. Mini orange and black plastic pom-poms lie strewn like beached jellyfish in the deserted bleachers.

  The Tigers have won the coveted State Championship game, with a too-close-for-comfort score of thirty-three to twenty-seven. The students and town folk have taken their celebration to the local Pizza Hut, Snack Shack, and in true small town fashion, the Quick Trip parking lot. The red necks are wild tonight.

  The assistant coach stays behind to lock up the field house, and a handful of marching band students are turning in their uniforms. The stadium lights still burn bright over the empty bleachers, hypnotizing the army of moths that swarm around the glaring globes.

  Late as usual, Jake, Randy and Cody walk together through the abandoned ticket booth. The three exhausted rockers make their way to the chain link fence that encircles the quiet, empty football field. Jake holds two bags of Taco Bell, Randy carries sodas and candy bars, and Cody sports a giant, orange, very conspicuous "number one" foam finger.

  The three boys had gone to the practice barn to unload their gear, and lit into an impromptu jam session. They’re still jet-lagged from the time change between Sweden and the United States and, par for the course, the clueless rockers are late for the Ball once again.

  “Duuude…where’s the game, man?” Jake asks, as he wipes his greasy long hair away from his face.

  “I think I saw an episode of The Twilight Zone where somethin’ like this happened…only it was in an old, creepy house, and not at a football field,” Randy whispers eerily.

  "Oh, man….I think we missed the whole thing. I guess Forrest was right—we did finally miss the boat!” declares Cody, as if he’s in deep philosophical thought.

  “But hey, at least we have snacks!" Randy calls out enthusiastically as he tears into a king size Butterfinger candy bar.

  As they ponder their existence in the universe, the three confused rockers hear giggles echoing behind them. They turn toward the band room door to see a trio of gangly girls filing out toward them on the sidewalk. Instrument cases in hand, each of them sport a classic band-geek, puff-painted t-shirt.

  The three young ladies walk toward the boys. Jake can see that the tallest of the three cuties has a KISS backstage pass hanging around her neck. It’s the sacrificial pass that Heather had thrown down onto the sidelines in a temper tantrum. It’s now a souvenir that will surely be treasured by the clarinet player forever.

  Jake and Randy look at the bright-eyed girls and flash them the rock sign, while Cody holds up the big orange number one foam finger. The three marching band members return the rock sign, and grin widely at the boys, exposing a variety of braces and retainers.

  "Duuuuude!” the rockers exclaim in unison. They high-five each other—Cody’s giant foam finger whacks Randy right in the eye.

  The two groups of teens couldn’t have been more different, but as they sit together under the goal post and begin to talk, they’re all pleasantly surprised to see just how much they have in common. The boys share their Taco Bell, candy bars and sodas. The diverse group of teens swaps stories about their favorite music videos, rock bands and live concerts.

  The glaring stadium lights snap off, and the moth army retreats, but the group of music enthusiasts stay and talk for over an hour. Jake even asks one of the girls, named Parker, out for the following Saturday night. She accepts with a blush. They decide on a concert and Taco Bell—a/k/a teen Nirvana.

  It’s on this night that each and every one of the deliriously tired members of Cellar Door Is Gone fully realize—BAND GIRLS ROCK!!

  The week after the State Champio
nship game, the boys and I all pitch in and buy Coach Bryan a brand new black felt cowboy hat. I also give Coach a baseball cap with the words “ROCK IT BIG ORANGE!” blazed in flaming letters. Coach says he’ll wear it for the kick-off game next season if I’ll work on writing a country song. I say it’s a deal, and he squeezes my hand in a vice grip as we shake on it.

  Heather and D.J. have officially started dating. She gets to ride in his pimped out Honda every day, and he gives her at least one compliment every hour. Their favorite activity is to sit at the mall food court eating Chinese food as they make fun of all the “losers.” I was right. They are absolutely made for each other.

  My band is set to leave for a two-week, East Coast radio tour, and we’re going to be cruising in style. The record label has rented a tour bus for us, complete with X-box, satellite and a full kitchen. Randy is stoked for the “meals on wheels.”

  Kyle has been recruited by the Oklahoma Sooners. My dad is super excited, and purchased season tickets. When we’re not traveling with the band, we’ll be able to go watch Kyle play. I’m still going to miss my best bud, but I know he’ll always be just a phone call away.

  Megan has secured the honor of Valedictorian of her senior class, and received a scholarship to The University of Oklahoma, as well. Mom and Dad are so proud of her, and yes, so am I. Megan’s also dating some “mystery dude.” She’s gone out with him a few times in the past couple of weeks on the down low. I’m protective of my sis and really want to meet the guy, but Megan seems particularly happy with him, so I’ll just have to wait and see.

  Today is Thanksgiving. My family and I have always helped out with our local church, delivering Thanksgiving meals to the shut-ins, the elderly, and anyone else who is in need. This year is no exception. I’m in awe as I survey at least eight hundred meals in plastic Wal-Mart bags stacked along the walls, waiting to be delivered. The delectable smell of succulent turkey and warm pumpkin pie waft through the air. It makes my mouth water. There will be plenty to eat later this afternoon at Aunt Carmen’s, where my family will gather for our massive Thanksgiving feast.