“This is the size. Put the helmets in a row on these shelves, beginning with the smaller ones and going to the bigger ones. Then you need to count all the helmets in the room and write the number on a sheet of paper. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chris stifled a grin. “Once you’re finished, find me so I can check your work. I don’t want Coach Nixon to come in here after practice and find that it’s been done wrong. I’ll be on the practice field.”
“I’ll be careful,” Jimmy promised.
Chris left, and Jimmy sat on the floor. He picked up a helmet and looked inside at the number but wasn’t sure if it was big or small. He set it down and turned over another helmet. It had a lower number, but from holding it in his hands he couldn’t tell whether it was bigger than the first helmet or not. Looking at a third helmet didn’t solve his problem. He sighed in frustration.
He picked up a fourth helmet. When he ran his hand over the top of the helmet, he could feel bumps caused by tiny pieces of plastic flying off as the result of head-to-head contact on the field. From his usual seat with Mama and Daddy in the stands, Jimmy rarely heard the sound of helmets striking each other. He unsnapped the chin strap and put the helmet on his head. The inside of the helmet smelled like the pair of old tennis shoes he wore when he helped Mama in the flower beds. When he shook his head, it rattled around inside the protective headgear.
This gave him an idea.
He took off the helmet and checked the number. He selected another helmet, put it on, and shook his head from side to side. The second helmet was much tighter against his ears. That meant it was smaller. He took off the helmet and looked at the number. He then checked the number of the larger helmet. The relationship between number and size was solved. As a discovery, it didn’t rival the Rosetta stone, but for Jimmy it unlocked the key to sorting football helmets.
He was sitting on the floor carefully placing the helmets in rows when he heard several football players enter the front part of the room.
“Close the door,” a voice said. “This makes me nervous.”
Jimmy heard the door click shut. He picked up another helmet and checked the number. It was one of the smaller ones.
“When will you have the money?” a second voice asked.
“Half before the game. The rest will be delivered by the snake man in the parking lot afterward,” a third voice responded.
“Snake man?” the first voice asked.
“A creepy guy with a snake tattoo on his arm who works for the bookie. He’s the person I have to talk to. I don’t know his real name.”
“How do we know this is on the level?” the first voice asked. “Nobody bets that much money on a high school football game.”
“You’re wrong. The bookie runs pools for guys who bet on more than one game. If they hit, he loses big; if not, he scoops up thousands. You should see his house. It’s a mansion. All he needs to do is beat the point spread in a couple of games. That way he can set the odds better than anyone else and sucker people in.”
“How do you know all this?” the first voice said.
“He gave Hal a summer job,” the third voice spoke.
Jimmy knew Hal Sharpton was the first-string quarterback. His picture appeared many times in the school yearbook, and Jimmy recognized him on the first day of practice.
“Yeah, all I had to do was pick up packages for him in Atlanta. He paid me twice what I made last year sweating all summer for the landscape company. Everything was in cash, no withholding or anything taken out for the government.”
Hal spoke, “Pete and I were part of this deal last year.”
Hal Sharpton’s best friend on and off the field was one of the running backs, Pete Gambrell.
Hal continued. “We were ahead in the Dake County game by five points and had the ball on our eight-yard line. All we had to do was grind out a couple of first downs and we would have won the game. It was a perfect setup. I fumbled the handoff on purpose and let a Dake County player take the ball away from me in the pileup. They scored and won the game. We each collected a thousand dollars.”
“What if Dake County wins without our help?”
“We collect anyway, but they don’t have a chance,” Pete said. “They lost their entire defensive line. The odds against them beating us are going to be through the roof. That’s probably why the bookie is willing to pay the extra thousand.”
“The three of us can’t guarantee a Dake County win,” the first voice said.
Jimmy had stopped sorting helmets to listen.
“We don’t have to. We can win the game and still collect the cash. Our job will be to make sure the score is closer than anyone expects. The day before the game, we’ll find out the spread. If Dake County wins, that’s great. According to the snake man, a Cattaloochie loss will mean bonus cash for us.”
“But I’d like to make the play-offs,” the first voice answered. “To kill ourselves in practice and not have a good season is a waste of a lot of pain.”
“For which you’ll be well paid if you go along with us,” Pete said. “We don’t know whether you or Hal is going to be playing quarterback, so both of you have to be in on the deal. I told the snake man our situation, and that’s why he agreed to give each of us a thousand dollars. You’ll also be on defense, so that might help, but we can’t bring in anyone else. It’s too risky, and I don’t want to split the money. Even if you don’t mess up a single play, you’ll still get paid, so long as the score ends up on the right side of the spread. The extra cash sure came in handy for me last year, and I don’t want to miss out. Senior year is going to involve some expensive partying.”
“What about Max Cochran?” the first voice asked. “He must have thrown it fifty yards this afternoon.”
“He’s a freshman,” Hal responded. “He won’t even dress out with the varsity.”
“And it will just be one game?” the first voice asked.
“Would it matter?” Hal responded. “At a thousand dollars a week, I’m ready to turn pro.”
“You know I’m in,” the first voice said. “I just need to get used to the idea.”
“Good,” Hal said. “I’ll let him know. There’s no backing out.”
The boys left, and Jimmy returned to sorting the helmets. The mention of the snake man made him think about Jake Garner. Jimmy didn’t know Jake was interested in the football team.
COACH NIXON CANCELED THURSDAY AFTERNOON PRACTICE because all the coaches were attending a coaching clinic in Marietta. Jimmy was eating lunch alone in the kitchen when the phone rang. It was Daddy.
“Do you want to work at the office this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let me talk to your mama.”
Jimmy called to his mother, who took the phone, listened for a moment, then hung up.
“Do you want to ride your bike to Daddy’s office?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you sure you know the way?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you want me to follow you in the car and make sure you don’t get lost?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mama smiled. “We’ll leave in fifteen minutes.”
Jimmy went outside, played with Buster, gave him extra water, and put his bike next to Mama’s car.
“You lead the way,” Mama said as she came down the front steps. “Don’t worry about going too fast. I’m not in a hurry.”
Jimmy started down the driveway. It was the heat of the day, but the motion of the bike produced a gentle breeze. It was a good thing there weren’t any hills between the Mitchell house and the downtown area. Jimmy rolled along at an easy pace with Mama’s car always in sight in his rearview mirror. He stopped at every stop sign, honked his horn, and proceeded safely through the intersections. He passed the courthouse and waited patiently for traffic to clear before turning left onto the street where Daddy’s office was. He rolled up in triumph. Mama pulled in behind h
im. Jimmy wiped his sleeve across his forehead and walked back to Mama’s car.
“Good job,” she said through the open window. “If everyone obeyed the rules of the road as well as you do, there would be fewer accidents. Daddy can follow you home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bye. I love you,” Mama said.
“I love you,” Jimmy replied.
He went inside the office. Kate wasn’t at her desk, so he went to see Delores. The secretary was typing on her keyboard.
“Hello, Jimmy,” she said brightly. “Your daddy told me you were coming. He’s at the courthouse but should be back shortly. Let me show you fresh pictures of my babies.”
Delores showed him three photographs in small, clear plastic frames. Otto, Maureen, and Celine were each dressed up in red, white, and blue outfits: Otto had a little blue hat on his head, Maureen was wearing a star-studded vest, and Celine was decked out in a skirt made from multicolored ribbon.
“Aren’t these cute?” Delores asked. “It was in celebration of the Fourth of July.” Jimmy looked at the pictures and wondered what the cats thought about being dressed up in funny-looking clothes.
“Do you ever dress up Buster?”
“No, ma’am. He only wears his fur.”
Delores returned the pictures to their place.
“I’m going to be out of town for several days in a few weeks. You did such a good job with the cats at Christmas that I would like you to help again. Your daddy told me you used the money you earned to buy a used bicycle.”
“Yes, ma’am. I rode it all the way from my house today.”
“Great, I appreciate you agreeing to help me. It takes a load off my mind when I don’t have to worry about my babies.”
Jimmy was puzzled, not sure how or when he’d agreed to take care of the cats.
“There is a file to be sorted on the conference room table,” she said. “Your daddy may have something else for you to do when he gets back.”
Jimmy began sorting the papers. There was an air-conditioning vent over the table, and he cooled off in a couple of minutes. When he finished, he went to Daddy’s office, but Daddy wasn’t there. Delores was talking on the phone, so Jimmy returned to the conference room. In one corner was a small table where he kept his legal pad and the dictation unit. Jimmy hadn’t written anything on the legal pad, but he remained fascinated by the different sound of his voice on the tape recorder. He pressed the record button and began to talk. He played with it for several minutes until Daddy returned.
“I saw your bike outside,” Daddy said. “Any problems riding over here?”
“No, sir.”
“It will be nice when you can ride to and from the office by yourself. Do you want to put the bike in my car or ride it home after work?”
“I’d like to ride.”
“Come with me. I need your help carrying some boxes from my car, and you can tell me about football practice.”
Jimmy told about the morning’s practice as they made two trips from the car to the office.
“Has Coach Nixon spit on you yet?” Daddy asked.
“No, sir, but it would be worse if Coach Bolton did it.”
“Does he still chew Red Man tobacco?”
“I don’t know, but there is an Indian on the little bag he carries in his back pocket.”
“That’s the same brand his father used when he worked for the sheriff’s department. You could always tell his car because it had a brown streak down the side.”
AFTER FRIDAY AFTERNOON’S FOOTBALL PRACTICE, JIMMY ATE a snack and went directly to bed. He wasn’t tired, but he knew from experience that if he didn’t force himself to take a nap, he wouldn’t have a chance staying awake all night while fishing with Grandpa at Webb’s Pond. Jimmy had accompanied Grandpa to the annual carp fishing contest longer than he could remember. Grandpa had pictures of Jimmy, barely old enough to hold a pole, standing on the bank, hoping to catch a whopper.
Grandpa was the best fisherman in Piney Grove and had several dead fish hanging on the wall in his garage to prove it. Grandma didn’t allow any part of a fish inside the house except meat to cook in the frying pan, so one side of the garage became home to a stringer of trophy-size, largemouth bass. Lined up in a neat row, the fish were glued to boards with their mouths open. Jimmy’s favorite was chasing a lure positioned by the taxidermist in front of its gaping mouth. Once Grandpa let Jimmy shine a light into the fish’s mouth. It was as empty as a cardboard box.
Grandpa used a small boat to fish the lakes of western Georgia and eastern Alabama. He usually went with a friend, either someone who had worked with him at Georgia Power or a buddy from Piney Grove. Many times he’d invited Jimmy to join him, but Jimmy wouldn’t go onto the water, and no amount of argument or encouragement could change his mind. He limited his fishing with Grandpa to times when he could sit on a bank with the red clay firmly beneath his chair and the water at a safe distance in front of his feet. Carp fishing suited him best.
No carp swam across the wall of Grandpa’s garage. These bottom-feeders weren’t pretty to look at or good to eat, so carp lacked appeal to most fishermen. However, the men who fished Webb’s Pond believed that convincing a thirty-pounder to suck a hook into its mouth as it vacuumed the bottom of the pond was the ultimate fishing challenge.
Jimmy was peacefully snoozing when Mama came into his room, sat on the bed, and gently shook his shoulder.
“It’s six thirty,” she said. “Your grandpa will be here in about thirty minutes to pick you up.”
Jimmy rolled over and forced his eyes open.
“He’s going to let me ride my bike.” He yawned. “He’ll follow me in the truck like you did the other day when I went to Daddy’s office.”
It was slightly over four miles from the Mitchell house to Webb’s Pond. The roads weren’t busy, but bicycle traffic wasn’t common. Mama looked at the clock on his nightstand.
“It will be daylight until eight thirty. Are you sure that you’ll have enough time to get there before the sun goes down?”
Jimmy sat up on the edge of the bed and stretched his arms in the air.
“Yes, ma’am. Grandpa says it won’t be a problem.”
“You can do it only if you promise to get in the truck if it gets dark. I don’t want you riding a bicycle on a dark road.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mama stood up. “I packed several snacks: vanilla wafers with peanut butter, oatmeal cream pies, and bananas. And I bought something special for Grandpa to eat.”
“Beef jerky?” Jimmy asked.
Mama nodded.
Grandma had banned beef jerky following Grandpa’s heart attack, but Mama occasionally let Jimmy slip a spicy stick of the seasoned meat to the old man, who ate it with a satisfied grunt.
Jimmy quickly dressed and put his Ready Kilowatt hat on his head. This would be his first time to wear the cap at a fishing event, and the August contest at Webb’s was the Bassmaster Classic of local carp fishing.
Downstairs, Daddy was relaxed in a recliner reading a book. When he saw Jimmy, he reached in his pocket and handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
“Here’s your entry fee. Give it to Grandpa to keep safe for you.”
Mama came into the living room and gave Jimmy a brown lunch sack and small cooler. She’d written his name on the bag just like she did on the days he took his lunch to school.
“Jimmy wants to ride his bike,” she said. “Do you think they can get to the pond before dark?”
“Oh, yeah, but don’t try to ride home in the morning. You’ll be too tired.”
“Yes, sir.”
Daddy placed his book on the stand beside his chair.
“This might be your year to catch Moby Dick,” he said.
“I don’t think I could bring him in without help,” Jimmy replied.
Moby Dick, a forty-five-pound monster, was the undisputed king of the pond. He’d been caught several times but never during the big tournament. Identified
by a large scar that stretched from the corner of his mouth across golden scales covering his back, and a damaged tail fin, he remained a wily adversary. Grandpa had hooked him once and brought him close enough to the bank to make a positive identification before the big fish shook the hook from his mouth and slithered back into the dark depths of the pond. Jimmy had never seen him. A horn sounded.
“There he is,” Mama said. “Don’t make yourself stay awake if you get too sleepy. It’s okay if you take a nap.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jimmy gave Mama a hug and swung open the front door.
Sticking out the back of Grandpa’s truck were several very long fishing poles. Jimmy rolled his bike to the truck and handed Grandpa the fifty-dollar bill. Grandpa was wearing his Ready Kilowatt hat too.
“You’re official,” Grandpa said, slipping the bill into the front pocket of his shirt. “If you win first prize, what would you do with all that money?”
“How much money?”
“If enough people enter, there might be five hundred dollars for first prize, two hundred for second, and a hundred for third. The people who own the pond keep some of the money.”
Jimmy sat on his bike. “If it gets dark before we get to the pond, I have to put my bike in the back of the truck.”
“And walk the rest of the way?”
“No, sir. I’d ride with you.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Do you know the way to the pond?”
“I think so.”
Grandpa pointed out the window. “Get on the street in front of your house and ride that way until I tell you to turn.”
Jimmy took off on his bike. Grandpa followed close behind. Together they made up a miniature parade. A few cars passed them.
“Turn right at the next stop sign!” Grandpa yelled out the window.
Jimmy slowed to a stop and honked his horn. He turned right, and they left the city limits of Piney Grove. The road was covered with rough asphalt. A dog barked as they passed a farmhouse, but after a hot day in the sun, it didn’t give chase. Pine woods began to line the side of the road.
Webb’s Pond was located at the end of Webb’s Pond Road. Dusk began to creep across the sky as they slowed down and turned left. Grandpa flipped on the headlights of the truck and shone them on a large, hand-painted wooden sign that announced the date and place of the carp tournament. Included on the sign was the name of the previous year’s winner and the weight of the fish caught: Dusty Abernathy—28 lbs., 13 oz.
Jimmy Page 31
