by David Klass
But there was Mr. Bamburger, and he was leaning over me a little too much, and he wasn’t being friendly. Well, he was being fake-friendly, you know what I mean? A smile that was really meant to be menacing, and a lot of slimy comments that were intended to mean exactly the opposite of what he said. “You’ve done such a good job writing about our teams,” he said. “You’ve made such a place for yourself here since coming to town. I know you have the best interests of the high school at heart.” Meaning, of course, you’re an outsider, you don’t belong, you don’t care about this place.
“I do have the best interests of the high school at heart, Mr. Bamburger,” I said. “And I think that those interests are always best served by transparency and honesty.”
And that was it. That was my whole measure of standing up for myself. I got that far, and then I folded.
And I am ashamed to admit it, but I folded because he threatened me. He didn’t even try to answer what I said about honesty, and you know why.
“Carla,” he said, same cruel meaning, same kind words, “you’re one of our most promising seniors, I don’t mind telling you. Just like I told your parents the other night, I just hate to see someone who ordinarily represents our school so well, someone I’ve been thinking of as a top candidate for the most selective colleges, make a bad mistake in judgment. Especially a very public bad mistake in judgment. I don’t want to believe that all this time I’ve been mistaken in my sense of who you are and how much you care about our school and our team. But you leave me no choice if you go on posting destructive stories just at the moment when we should all be sharing in what our team has accomplished. If you continue in any way to attack our players, or to suggest that our coaching staff does not have their best interests at heart, I am going to have to change my mind about you. And I would hate to do that.”
Or words to that effect. I think I have them pretty close to what he said, but I wasn’t taking notes or taping, so I wouldn’t claim it’s exact. Some phrases—“a very public bad mistake in judgment … you leave me no choice”—I know I have verbatim.
It was clear enough what he was saying, and what he was threatening: shut up, behave, stop arguing, or we will screw you over when it comes to college admissions. What could be more natural?
We sat there, looking at each other. I think that he knew he had won. Certainly, I knew he had won. But I didn’t want to let him off without making him say it.
“My blog is down,” I said. “My parents made me take it down. And I assume you’re telling me that I’m not allowed to write anything at all in the paper now.” I couldn’t resist adding, “You should look over the other sports reporters and see who you think is good enough to cover the championship games. Those are going to be the issues that everyone reads, you want to be sure the writing is okay. So that we can all share in what our team has accomplished.”
And we sat there looking at each other.
“How about this, Carla,” he said. “Take a voluntary break for a week, or maybe two. No writing at all. No articles, no blogs. And then, when you’ve cooled down and you’re willing to make the commitment that you won’t write anything that violates people’s privacy or that hurts the team, we’ll give you another chance. But even then I want to see everything you write before it goes up.”
I could have said no, of course. I could have walked proudly out of the room and risked my college future and taken him on. But I didn’t. I caved. I said okay. I said, “I’ll keep quiet this week, and if you let me next week, maybe I can write about the championship game.”
“We’ll see,” he said. “As long as you restrict yourself to football, that’s a possibility.”
So that’s the deal. I’m not writing anything this week for the paper, and I’m not posting anything on the blog. Just this private little diatribe for you.
But here’s the thing, Jerry, since there’s no one here but us—think about what it is that makes people afraid of words and stories.
Now, I’m not talking about secrets. Believe it or not, I can keep a secret. And I know that the truth can hurt. There are some truths I wouldn’t tell out loud—on the Web, I mean, where anyone might see them—some truths I might only tell in a private place, like this private e-mail. Here’s one: my dad is worried that the hospital might close, with all the budget cuts and the shifts in the health care rules. He worries a lot about reimbursement, and he worries a lot about what will happen to Kendall if the hospital closes or downsizes, especially now without the factory jobs. That’s what keeps him at work for hours and hours and hours, I think.
And here’s another, which might not surprise you since you picked up on some of the tensions in my family and broadcast them for the whole school to read: I think my parents will split up when I go away to college. It’s just a theory, based on a conversation fragment I overheard a year ago and then on the vibe I pick up from the two of them. Things got really, really tense about two years ago, and they were fighting a lot, and I know they saw a marriage counselor. (I wasn’t supposed to know that, but I’m a pretty good investigative reporter.) Then things got better, but it sort of felt different to me, not like they were really living together and being a couple, but like they had come to some kind of agreement so they could live together in the same house. And then I overheard them talking, and it was about me and how I was doing better. It was in their stupid language, my dad saying this is sustainable, my mom saying something about ROI—which means return on investment, in case you didn’t know—and which is business-talk nonsense, as far as I can tell.
Damn it. Now I’m starting to cry. This is why I like to write for a larger audience. Write for just one person and you turn inward and you get sentimental and your writing starts to suck. Sorry, Jerry.
Maybe I was just trying to prove to you that we all have our issues to deal with. And that we all have to ask ourselves whether our private issues are getting in the way of seeing things straight and telling the truth. Because I think maybe your own private issues—about having messed up and about this story you’re telling yourself about one more chance to make it right—I think all those things are getting in the way when you think about Danny and what happened to him and what might happen to him if he gets hurt again.
So like I said, what makes people afraid of words and stories? Why do newspapers get silenced, why do people get in trouble for what they say? Why would someone as powerful in his own little world as a high school principal need to take any notice at all of a smart-ass eighteen-year-old sports reporter? Because she was making up wild stories? Or because she was telling the truth? Which would be scarier, do you think, Jerry?
Very truly yours,
Carla
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Sorry
* * *
Hey Carla,
That’s really tough about Bamburger. You did the right thing. There’s no way you should let this endanger your college future. He’s trying to protect our football team and our season, but he shouldn’t have threatened you that way. I never thought of him as a bully.
I’m sorry if I wrote anything in my blog about your family that embarrassed you or upset them. You’ve been so open about them in your own blogs that I didn’t hold back. Maybe I should have. Also, the way you justified barging into Danny’s hospital room really pissed me off—you seemed to be saying that when it comes to writing the truth and posting it, anything goes. I guess I felt like if that was true for Danny’s medical condition, it should also be true for you and your family. I’ve learned a lesson—never blog when you’re furious.
The secrets you told me really blew me away. I’m very sorry to hear that about your parents. I hope you’re wrong. I thought they were both really smart and nice. I also hope you’re wrong about the hospital being in danger of closing. I’m not sure our town could recover from that one.
As for you and Bamburger, I’m sure if you wait a week, he will cool down and let
you cover the championship game. He must know you’re our ace sports reporter and have a large and loyal following. Till you get back, I’ll help out with the coverage and blog about this week and what the buildup to the Jamesville game is like for me. And I’ll try to put in a plug for you, whenever I can. Bamburger reads my blogs, so I’ll let him know that I think your voice is an important part of our season.
I also promise I’ll never write about anyone’s pretty flashing eyes again. Look, I wasn’t exactly asking you out, but I also completely get it if you have a thing about not dating quarterbacks. We’re an arrogant, controlling, headstrong bunch—even the ones who are trying desperately to be humble. But I’m hoping you and I can still be friends. It sounds like it may be a tough couple of weeks for you. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: What you can do to help
* * *
Hi Jerry,
Thanks for the message. You’re a nicer person than I am, which for right now might not be setting a very high bar. And you’re absolutely right that if anyone deserves to have her home and family described on a high school blog, that someone is me. I can protest, but that doesn’t make you wrong, just like you can protest, but that doesn’t make me wrong. See what a nice person I am, right back on my old soapbox.
Anyway, what you can do to help. Well, you can do what you said, cover the week, cover the game, and do it well, because I’ve invested a lot of my energy in the Kendall Kourier and its sports koverage, and I really do care, and it’s making me pretty crazy to sit out the climactic weeks of the season. And you can watch Danny really closely and make sure he’s okay, and be honest if you think he isn’t. And, of course, you can win the damn football game, okay?
GETTING READY FOR A CATFIGHT
Posted by user JERRY on November 27 at 9:54 p.m.
The banner went up over Main Street on Sunday night. I saw it first thing Monday morning—white letters on an orange background stretching from the Co-op to the bank and spelling out: GOOD LUCK, KENDALL TIGERS!
Walking to school, I noticed hand-lettered signs in a dozen shop windows: KENDALL PRIDE!, NOBODY BEATS OUR BOYS!, FRANK’S HARDWARE SALUTES NEXT STATE CHAMPS, KENDALL TIGERS EAT JAMESVILLE JAGUARS FOR BREAKFAST!
An epic catfight was coming, and our whole town was getting ready for it. I tried to ignore the hype and the hoopla and just go about my business, but it’s hard to ignore people hurrying out of stores to thump you on the back and wish you luck. A car screeched over to a stop near me on Broad Avenue, and a man I had never seen before ran out and pumped my hand. “Kick some butt, Friday. You’re way better than Ricks.”
Our home phone seemed to ring every few minutes. Sportswriters from papers I had never heard of wanted my opinion of Jamesville’s dual-threat quarterback, Joshua Ricks. “I’ve never seen him in action,” I told them. “I hear he’s terrific, and I’m looking forward to playing against him. Now I gotta do my homework.”
College coaches called to congratulate me on making the States. I hadn’t heard from some of them in a year—since the car crash—but now they wanted to chat again like old friends. Kendall fans who I barely knew called us up late in the evening to suggest passing plays. Dad finally turned off the ringer on our phone.
But I can’t turn the ringer off on my own central nervous system or unplug the current of electric excitement that I now carry around with me from when I first open my eyes in the morning till I fall asleep at night. It’s real. It’s here! Crunch time!
When I was booted off our team last year and at my lowest point, I fantasized about this moment. Once when I was doing community service, picking up trash, a blue van stopped near me and the window rolled down. “Downing, you scumbag!” a voice shouted. “You should be locked up!” As it drove away, I told myself not to shout back, but to wait and work hard and I would get my chance.
Most of all, I remember the judge delivering my sentence to a hushed courtroom. “Look around at the family and friends who have come today to support you,” she commanded. I did, and many of them looked away. “You have disappointed all of them,” she told me. “Find it in you to make them proud again.”
The moment is here now, in the palm of my right hand. I can feel it when I wake up and lie in bed watching the light dance on my trophy shelves. I can taste it when I eat my corn flakes. It sits on my shoulders as I walk the halls of our school and kids stare at me and whisper, or look away because they’re afraid to jinx me.
I can feel it when my mom kisses me on the forehead in the morning before heading off to work. I gave her such a hard time last year. Now I can make her proud.
And my dad, the last man I ever wanted to disappoint. There he is in his security guard’s uniform, reading the sports section before going to work, studying a long article about me and our team, soaking up the moment with proud eyes.
I can tell that Coach Shea feels the moment, too. He seems to have shed five years. His eyes are brighter, his step lighter, his growls more menacing, and his pep talks more inspiring. “Two games,” he told us before Saturday’s practice. “Five hours of football, total. But make no mistake—five hours that will define you for years to come.” His voice dropped lower. “I guarantee you’ll remember those five hours when you’re as old as I am. If you win the state championship, they’ll be a source of pride for you. If you lose, you’ll chew your hearts out about them, but you’ll never be able to go back and change the result. So let’s give everything we have, and maybe a little more.”
We practiced brutally hard this week and closed the workouts off to writers and townspeople and even to our own student assistants. Partly Coach Shea did this to tighten our sense of team closeness, but I also think he wants to make sure the strategies we prepare stay secret. Coach seems inclined to rest Danny on Friday, just as he did when I got my bell rung against Midland and he had me sit out a game. But not having Danny will give our offense some real challenges.
It’s not revealing any secrets to say that if we don’t have a deep threat, Jamesville’s defense will sit on our runs and stifle our short passing game. Luckily we’ve got Glenn Scott and Mike Magee, who both have the wheels to go long. I’ve been working with them on some funky deep routes, and if Jamesville tries to play us too tight, they’ll regret it.
Danny didn’t come to practice on Saturday or Sunday, and he skipped school on Monday to rest up and get checked out. But he showed up on Tuesday with the news that the docs have cleared him to play. Coach still didn’t let him put pads on, but it was great to have Danny back with us, pacing the sideline. Lots of guys asked him how he was feeling, and Danny answered with a smile and a line like “How do I look? Ready to rumble.”
He does look good—at least most of the time. I went over to his house on Tuesday after practice. We were hanging out, watching mixed martial arts, and Danny turned down the volume and glanced away from the screen.
“Chimes still ringing?” I asked.
He switched the set off, sat back, and covered his eyes with his hands. “The brightness of the screen bothers me a little,” he admitted. “But it’s getting better.”
I ran into Carla at school a few times, and we nodded and exchanged hellos. As you’ve probably noticed, she’s taking a little vacation from blogging, but I bet our number one sports reporter will do a great job of writing up our championship game. Since she’s followed our story all season, I can’t imagine winning the States and not having Carla describing exactly how it happened.
The local press, on the other hand, keeps cranking up the hype. Wednesday morning’s newspaper had a giant side-by-side profile of Ricks and me, with the headline: “Ricks and Downing: The Two Best Schoolboy QBs in Jersey Go Head-to-Head.” To illustrate the matchup, there were two big face shots of us positioned in such a way that we seemed to be glaring at each other.
I read it and then I put it aside and tried to forget it. I wasn’t cra
zy about being called a schoolboy, and I have to admit that Ricks is better looking than I am. But that’s not why I put it aside. It does something to you when your face is looking back at you from a giant picture in the newspaper. It’s dangerous to see yourself blown up, out of proportion. That’s the last thing I need this week. Remember that blue van, I keep telling myself. Think of that judge.
But it’s hard to stay humble after an event like the pep rally we had after football practice this afternoon. A thousand kids packed the gym, and there were speeches and a cheerleading performance, and our marching band played their lungs out. We tromped in from the field in our muddy uniforms and were introduced one by one, with roars from the crowd. When I stood, there was such an explosion of cheering that it felt like a giant wave had picked me up and was carrying me along.
After the pep rally, I was hanging with some of the guys when I glimpsed Carla zipping up her coat and slipping out the door. I ran to catch her, which wasn’t so easy because it was getting dark and for a girl who had had a recent knee operation she was moving pretty fast. “Hey, stranger,” I said, “did that pep rally have pep or what?”
She glanced at me, and I couldn’t tell if she was glad to see me or not. “Yeah, it was a real barn burner.”
“Who’s gonna write that rally up?” I asked.
“Chris McFee,” she told me. “And Sophie took pictures.” She lowered her head and tried to speed off into the shadows, but she was still limping a bit and I quickly caught up.
“Hey, could you slow down for a minute? I know my mom’s rehab works wonders, but it’s easier for me to keep up with Danny Rosewood.”
She gave me a little smile and slowed down. Our footsteps thudded on the cold sidewalk almost in unison. “I hear he’s been cleared to play,” she finally said.
