»»•««
During the anthem, I asked Law, “Where is this superfine date you claimed you had?”
“She has something to do first. She’ll be here.” Law took his seat and patted the top of the empty chair to his left.
“Yeah. Right,” I said. When pigs fly south for the winter.
Principal Welch made a short speech saying how sports weren’t the “be all, end all” of the high school experience, but then he went on to say how important they were to the athletes, student body, teachers, administrators, and the community. To hear him tell it, every well-ordered society in the world owed its very existence to high school sports in general and football in particular.
Though the banquet was called the Branard High School Athletics Achievements and Award Banquet, everyone and their grandmother knew if it weren’t for football, we wouldn’t be having a banquet at all, much less one in a 2000-seat hall. Without football, the school might take five minutes between first and second lunch period to hand out photocopied letters of achievement to the participants in the insignificant sports.
Only last week, Law said he heard Coach Newcomb tell Abbie Klein, the girls’ volleyball coach, “I teach boys how to become men. You teach girls the same thing. You teach girls how to be manlier.”
“He actually said that. Those were his exact words. Can you believe it?”
I can, and I do believe it.
The principal then introduced the non-football coaches. “How about a round of applause for our basketball staff?” A ripple of polite but sparse clapping followed each of the introductions. Clearly, no one in the audience cared a whit about any sport that wasn’t football.
After introducing the assistant football coaches as a group, Principal Welch asked for all the past winners of the Bulldog Athlete of the Year Award to join him on stage. There was Walter Hale, the running back from last year; Brad Knepper, wide receiver from three years ago; and Keith Brighton, Lance’s linebacker brother from five years back. He introduced twenty-two in all, the oldest being a dried-up old prune named Homer Gibson, from the Class of 1492 or something.
Riotous applause broke out as Coach introduced each past winner.
“Now, fellow Bulldogs, we have a very special guest here today to introduce this year’s recipient of the award.” Welch paused, obviously for dramatic effect. “She’s the co-star of the Teentime Channel’s Natasha’s Secret series and the upcoming movie, The New New Girl. Please welcome Natalia Kaskova.”
In an instant, the hall erupted in cheers, whoops, wolf-whistles, and boisterous applause. Crossing from stage right to the podium in the center was the most striking girl I had ever seen. Large green eyes, shimmering red lips, long, sable-black hair, and as they say in polite society, “a perfectly proportioned” figure.
The crowd noise dropped to dead silence as she took the microphone from Mr. Welch. I had to smile as I watched even the old guys on the stage gawking at the teenage girl.
Make no mistake, Lisa was solidly in the smoking hot Crystal Red Corvette category, but this Natalia chick, standing there in her slinky gold designer dress, was every bit a Midas Gold Lamborghini Giallo. The tip-top model on the hot-car scale.
She said she was pleased to be there, and gave a little speech about how small towns were the backbone of America’s rich culture, but neither I, nor most of the audience, was paying much attention to her words. Our interest was being so pleasantly diverted by her physical attributes.
To no one’s surprise, Lance Brighton won the Athlete of the Year award. When Natalia called his name, aside from a few hoots from his posse, the applause wasn’t as enthusiastic as I expected. I didn’t know if it meant Lance wasn’t everyone’s fair-haired boy, or if it meant they were too busy leering at Natalia. Lance smiled at Natalia and whispered something in her ear. Her smile disappeared, but only for a moment. Lance raised the trophy over his head, widened his smile, and gave me a mock wink.
The one bright spot in the presentation came as Lance was leaving the platform. He looked over his shoulder toward Natalia for one for one last leer and ran nose-first into the wooden flagpole standing next to the center steps. The rest of the audience snickered a bit, but Law and I laughed aloud. My Dad cleared his throat in disapproval.
Principal Welch thanked Natalia for coming and reminded everyone to see her new movie when it hit the local theater. She beamed a dynamite smile and glided down the steps closest to our table.
It was then that the most extraordinary thing happened. Instead of walking past our table and out the side door as I expected, she stopped and held out her hands to Law, who now stood beside his chair. The two grasped hands affectionately, and this absolute goddess leaned over and kissed Law on the cheek. In unison with every other person in the hall, I let out an audible gasp.
Wowzer, buddy. Touchdown.
Law pulled out the empty chair next to his, and Natalia sat down and gave Law’s arm an affectionate hug.
Principal Welch gave a spiel about how proud we all were of Lance and how he was a “real asset to the whole community.”
Kill me now.
When he came to the evening’s guest speaker, Tyler James, the applause was less than enthusiastic. Tyler was a Bulldog alum who had been an All-American running back in college and played three years in the pros with Detroit. I guess the poor guy didn’t know no one in the place wanted hear about how hard work and perseverance paid off in the long run. They came to hear about the glories of football through the decades and to see Lance Brighton’s name called as Athlete of the Year. Most of all, they wanted to hear who Coach Newcomb had picked to replace Lance as next season’s starting quarterback, Trent Goslin or Bret Porter.
Halfway through Tyler’s speech, Josh pushed his open program in front of me. Thinking he was in his usual pester-the-big-brother mode, I pushed it away. He rapped the back of my hand with his knuckles and pointed at the last page. I had forgotten Jamel’s comment when Natalia made her entrance.
“Next Year’s Varsity Football Roster” headed the page, and underneath by name, position, and year, all of next year’s players were listed. I followed Josh’s finger to a name on the list.
Nation, Jeff ……Running Back ……Sophomore
Needham, Paul ……Linebacker ……Junior
Nunez, Javier ……Punter/Kicker……Senior
Oldham, Wade……Defensive Back……Senior
Stefanac, Law……Defensive End……Senior
but no
Nelson, Todd ……Defensive End ……Senior
I pushed the program across the table to Law, tapping the area where my name should have been.
“Look at this.” My voice rose above that of the speaker and I immediately felt a multitude of stares on the back of my neck. This time they were not looking at the girl on Law’s arm. They were looking at the lunk sitting across from her, loudmouth me. I felt I had just been told a big joke that everyone else in the school already knew, and I was the punch line.
Dad noticed all our paper shuffling and took the program from my hand. He scoured the page and then bent across the table to say something to Brandon.
Brandon nodded and patted Dad’s arm as if to say, “Don’t worry. It will all work out, eventually.”
Mercifully, Tyler James’ speech only lasted twenty minutes. After some polite applause, Coach Newcomb stood, thanked James, and announced, “We had some great times this season. We had some outstanding games, some great plays, and some extraordinary efforts by a group of guys. Of course, the season didn’t end well. Had we kept our wits about us…” Here it comes. He couldn’t let it go, could he? “…we would have had another State Championship Banner. But that’s not what we’re here for tonight.”
He introduced the other sports’ head coaches, and one by one, the coaches presented engraved plaques to their respective MVPs and other top players. Marion Krane, a tall, skinny science teacher the kids called Ichabod, operated the computer projection system for the two large overh
ead screens, and after each coach’s presentation, he displayed video clips of the year’s highlights.
Mr. Krane had the perfect voice for narrating the clips. It was deep and melodious like a professional announcer on the radio. He’d say, “Here is Gwenn Jordon scoring her record-setting four-hundredth point for the Branard’s girls’ basketball team,” or, “Here we see Kyle Overton’s game-winning homerun against Victor Ridge in the District Baseball Finals.”
Law leaned across the table and said, “You see how they only show a clip or two from the other sports? Just wait until Coach Newcomb gets up there. They’ll show dozens.”
Law was right. When it came time for the football highlights, not only did they play dozens of clips, and from time to time, Coach Newcomb would interrupt Mr. Krane’s narration by telling him, “Marion, roll that one again, only in slow motion.” He’d then say things like, “Look at the block Jamel puts on the linebacker on this one,” or, “Watch how Lance avoids the sack and scrambles for a first down.”
It was no surprise to me that all the clips he had Krane roll twice were either Lance, the quarterback’s, or those of Jamel. Not one clip of any of my six record-breaking sacks. Not to brag, but considering I didn’t transfer in until half the season was over, one would think, if not a clip, I would have at least deserved a mention. But in Bulldog football, it’s all about “What have you’ve done for us lately?”
Coach gestured the crowd onto its feet as a still picture displayed the football team assembled in front of the school’s Bulldog sculpture—a picture I wasn’t in and one I never knew they took.
Mr. Krane interrupted the cheering with his booming voice reverberating through the speaker system. “Please, please, we have one more clip. One everyone will be very interested to see.”
An obviously puzzled Coach Newcomb asked, “Marion, what’s this about?”
“Just watch, Randy. You’re gonna love this.”
Coach Newcomb stepped to one side of the podium and gave Mr. Krane a cursory nod.
Dad twisted around in his seat and reached across the back of Josh’s chair. He tapped my shoulder and leaned toward me. He spoke in a non-whisper whisper so loud they had to hear him all the way up on the dais. “They wouldn’t have even won the District Championship if it wasn’t for you.”
I cringed. Although I appreciated Dad’s out-of-character display of support, he must have forgotten about Law. Had I not been around, Law would have been the one to start in my place. I mouthed, “Law is my back-up.”
It was Dad’s turn to cringe.
The screens lit up, and the familiar parallel white stripes across a field of green came into focus, but instead of the snarling maroon bulldog head on an emblazoned yellow sunburst superimposed in the top right corner of the screen, another emblem came into focus, a green background with a fierce gold lion appearing to leap off the screen.
I recognized the icon almost immediately. It was the West Cleary High School mascot, and the clip on the two big screens was of West Cleary’s offense lining up on the Bulldog’s eleven-yard line. My heart stopped. Ol’ meek and mild Mr. Krane was showing The Play. What a sadist! I wanted to disappear under the table.
What if Law’s and my recreation of the event was wrong? It could happen. Heaven knew we’d been wrong plenty of times before. What if my mind was blotting out the truth? What if the clip showed it really was me holding on to the blocker’s jersey?
As the play unfolded on the screen, in real time, it was hard to see who did what, but the sound track clicked on at the exact moment the official turned toward the Lion sideline and the directional microphone.
“Holding on the defense, number eighty-three.”
That was me, eighty-three. And to think, I requested that number special. I called it “Lucky Eighty-three.” It doesn’t seem so lucky now.
The auditorium instantly broke out in boos, jeers, and catcalls. I looked to the podium and Coach Newcomb. He was grinning, as they say, from ear to ear.
Then came Mr. Krane’s voice. “Let’s slow it down a bit and lighten it up. As painful as it is, I think we need to see it. See it, and remember it. Learn from it.”
Everything in me wanted to charge the projection desk and beat Ichabod Krane to death with my own two fists. My sole restraint was the knowledge that attacking a teacher would not help my chances for a lighter sentence at my upcoming hearing. I understand judges tend to frown on felony assaults. They’re biased that way.
Never in my life had I experienced the mix of emotions surging through me at that moment, an unlikely blend of ire, fear, hope, and embarrassment. For weeks, I had been obsessed with seeing a clip of that one play, my one all-consuming desire. It had been the driving force behind the field-house break-in, and now, all I wanted was for it to disappear again.
I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder. Dad wasn’t a touchy-feely guy. Mom had been the nurturer in the family. Dad was the provider and the disciplinarian. Yet here he was, demonstrating yet another out-of-character response. I have to admit, I found it comforting.
Law, on the other hand, responded totally in character. He had scooted his chair away from the table and looked as though he was ready to tackle me if I made a move toward either the coach or Mr. Krane. Law was a good friend.
Krane started replaying the clip. The boos and jeers intensified. I watched as a bright circle highlighted me, good old eighty-three. This time, the clip ran in slow motion. My every move illuminated and reduced to a snail’s pace for all the world to see.
Just as Law and I had remembered, West Cleary’s right tackle ignored me and dove at the strong-side linebacker’s knees. The right guard drove his helmet into my chest and pushed me to the outside. I pushed left, then spun right, slipping by him. I had to loop back to the left a bit to avoid the Lions’ left tackle who was being pushed backward by Derick Toms. Both of my hands were in plain view. The banquet hall fell eerily quiet.
Without warning, Coach Newcomb flew down the steps from the platform yelling, “Shut that off. I said, shut that off.” He was heading straight for Ichabod Krane, but the blur of a figure in blue appeared, blocking the coach’s path. Did I really see my dad step in front of the coach, blocking his path to Mr. Krane and the computer? Dad was standing nose-to-nose with the coach, his right hand on Newcomb’s chest.
I had always thought of Coach Newcomb as a big man and my dad as just an average guy, but seeing Dad and the coach together, I realized my dad was a good two inches taller and every bit as fit.
The coach yelled over Dad’s shoulder to Mr. Krane, “I said to turn that thing off.”
“Shut up, Newcomb.” Did my dad just tell the coach to shut up?
This just kept getting weirder. Weirder, but a good weirder.
The clip abruptly stopped, then began to advance in super slow-mo. I watched myself on the big screen running after the ball-carrier but trailing him and his two blockers by twelve or so feet. The official reached to his back pocket and tossed the yellow flag into the air. It soared higher and higher as the trailing blocker fell to the ground, a player in a red jersey with a fistful of a West Cleary blocker’s white-and-green jersey in his hand.
The official pointed at the Branard player on the ground, and even in slow motion, you could read his lips. “Holding on the defense, number eighty-three.” He was plainly pointing at Jamel Crockett, number eighty-eight.
God bless Ichabod Krane.
There it was, on two screens in stop-action: me, with both hands still visible and still empty, and Jamel, on his knees, the tail of the blocker’s jersey still firmly grasped in his right hand.
The auditorium let out a collective gasp followed by a brief moment of eerie silence before breaking into a roar of chatter. Someone at the table directly behind me said what everyone had to be thinking. “Oh my gosh, the ref called out the wrong number.”
Yeah, people, like I’ve been trying to tell you. You’ve lynched an innocent man.
»»•««
I
knew Coaches Newcomb and Crockett would be too embarrassed to look me in the eye, but I did expect the other coaches, some of my teammates, or my ex-friends to say something. Not even one guy from the team stopped by our table to speak to me, and since Natalia was still with us at the table, I was doubly shocked.
I complained to Law. “I would have thought a couple of guys would have stopped by to say, ‘Sorry, dude,’ or ‘I’m glad that’s been cleared up.’ Something.”
“Don’t let it get to you. They’re scumbags, and too embarrassed to face you.” He shook his head and added, “As they ought to be.”
Brandon said, “I imagine it was such a shock that most people haven’t had time to process the evening’s revelation. I suspect it will take a little time, but I think most of them will come around.”
It hit me that they now had one more thing to be embarrassed about. The word around town was that I had broken into the coach’s office and destroyed the game disc. They now knew that wasn’t the case.
Dad suggested we hang around a few extra minutes. I guess he was hoping some people would drop by after they had time to “process” things, like Brandon said. The awkward moments of silence were interrupted by my brother changing the subject.
Josh asked what I was dying to ask. He began, “Natalie…”
“Natalia,” Dad quickly corrected.
“Sorry. Natalia, why are you here with Law? Are you his cousin or something?” The boy took the words right out of my mouth.
She laughed. “Larry and I are old friends from when we both lived in Ohio. We went from first grade through the eighth together. Larry was my first kiss.” She turned toward Law and smiled a soft smile. “Remember?”
Way to go, Lawman.
Law flashed a wide grin.
“Is that where you live now? Ohio?” asked Josh.
Law spoke up. “Natalia lives in Los Angeles now. She’s on TV.”
Half the Distance Page 24
