by Andrea Cale
Maxine stopped writing and attempted to absorb his meaning with a squint of her eyes.
The veteran glanced quickly at his watch.
“You’ll see what I mean. Anyway, I’ve got to walk you over to meet our beloved sports editor. I believe you two are going to lunch. Don’t let him get to you, huh?”
Armed with the veteran’s support and in-depth knowledge, Maxine felt unusually confident stepping into her second big meeting of the day. But by the time she buckled herself in for her flight back to Syracuse a couple hours later, that confidence was gone. Over outrageously priced salads and a couple glasses of fancy white wine—one of which Maxine didn’t touch and the sports editor was happy to finish—the man with the bellowing voice had made clear to Maxine his Orange Bowl coverage expectations.
“Think of me as Coach Flash and you as JP before Syracuse’s last game,” the man had said. “I’m not exactly taking the sure bet in sending you to cover the Orange Bowl. I need to look like the genius and I need you to pull off the impossible, just like JP did. What do you think would’ve happened to JP’s playing time if he hadn’t pulled off the unimaginable in the last game?”
Maxine had quickly lost her appetite.
“Um, well, I guess he would’ve been benched,” she had said.
“Benched or cut from the team. Don’t make us both regret me taking a chance on you.”
On the flight home, Maxine’s stomach was just as tied up as it had been on the way down. She tried calming herself by replaying the veteran’s kind wisdom inside her head.
You know how the best political beat reporters don’t vote in government elections because they don’t want their participation to influence their news coverage?
The observation made Maxine think of Ed, the government reporter who had accompanied her on her only other work flight a decade ago. She wondered if all these years later, he still refrained from voting. She recalled the moment he shared that fact with her during their memorable dinner in Washington over fresh lobsters and conversation. Their working date a decade ago was far better than any she’d been on for pleasure since. Ed and Maxine had shared each other’s dreams and supported them. Their working dinner wasn’t even comparable to the working lunch she had just experienced. As challenging as it was proving to be, not even Maxine could humbly deny that she was living her professional dream now. She wondered if Ed had managed to accomplish the same and if he was experiencing the added stress that had come with it too.
Maxine closed her eyes and rested her head against the plane’s cushioned seat. She tried imagining what Ed might look like all these years later. She couldn’t picture him now or then and moved on to visualizing her upcoming date, a man with whom she had become acquainted through her online dating service, to the delight of her family and friends. Maxine was cautiously excited over meeting the man, who had listed hikes, movies, and football among his interests. He was much easier to picture than Ed, because his profile picture had resembled a headshot of George Clooney. She kept her eyes closed as she hoped the date would serve as a welcome distraction from the stress and pressure of her upcoming assignment.
A bit of turbulence shook her, and she opened her restless eyes. She finally recalled a vision of Ed a decade ago when a bump on their airplane ride had knocked a little drool out of the corner of his mouth. She felt a fluttering feeling in her stomach, and it wasn’t from the turbulence.
CHAPTER 28
HENRY
The Shy One
Henry tightly grasped his poem, written in his best handwriting on college-ruled paper, as his mother drove him the familiar route to school in the family sedan.
The young mom and waitress had closed the restaurant the night before. Henry glanced at her sitting behind the wheel and believed that despite being one of the most overworked parents around, she was by far the most beautiful mother of anyone at school. Like most of his thoughts, this was an observation that would be left unspoken. Henry had no idea what his father looked like, yet the quick glance at his mother on this morning made him realize that he must’ve gotten his unpopular looks from the man he didn’t know. He returned his gaze to his poem and read it over for the seventh time that day.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Misty asked.
“Homework.”
“Oh yeah? Anything good?”
“Um, I don’t know. Could we please turn the radio to WEEI?”
Misty flipped her silky dark hair and moved the dial to Boston’s Sports Radio Network. The voices speaking in fast tempos assured Henry that she had found the right one.
“And that is exactly why New England fans say In Belichick We Trust,” shouted a raspy voice through the car’s aging speakers.
“That was a play call from the Pats’ coach that will go down in history,” countered an equally coarse one. “Anyway, let’s change gears for a moment from bickering about our beloved New England Patriots and focus on the team people across the region are talking about around their water coolers this morning. I’m moving on to collegiate play now. How about those University of Boston Falcons, Danny?”
“How about ’em? Listen, Ron, you know I’ll be rooting for the local team as hard as anyone come game day, but I think it’s clear they have their hands full. Devin Madison has to face that mean offensive lineman called Whistler, who has the most sacks in the BCS. On top of it all, there is the X factor. The Orange and Navy’s star running back is out with injury, which could turn out to be a good or bad thing for our Falcons. The replacement, the five-foot, six-inch JP Hemmings, is coming off one hell of a great game. A lot of people don’t think he can repeat it. I wouldn’t sell him so short, though. That little guy is fast.”
“Yeah, Danny, but who has the drive to win? Don’t forget that Boston’s star quarterback’s grandfather, a defensive star himself back in the day, never made it to play in the Orange Bowl following an unexpected loss and a lucky decision not to go to the Coconut Grove after-party before the place burned to the ground. Devin Madison is hungry to give his family—and our local team—a win.”
“I’ve heard the story, Ron. I just don’t think it’s going to be as easy of a win for the University of Boston as everyone is predicting.”
“I’d check your tires before you go for your donut run to Dunk’s later.”
“Oh, stop it. Well, it will be an exciting game to watch nonetheless. I know a lot of people scrambling to find tickets for this one. Let’s get back to the Pats now and give you the latest injury report, brought to you by New England Plumbing.”
Henry excitedly switched off the car radio and placed his poem in the safety of his backpack.
“You know, I would give anything to bring you to that game,” Misty said. “I wish my boss’s season tickets covered bowls too. I had the courage to ask him about it last night, you know. But I didn’t get the answer I was hoping for.”
“That’s OK, Mom. We’ll get to see the game one way or another.”
Misty pictured their boxy, outdated television set collecting dust at their apartment and nodded. At the very least, she hoped she’d get the day off to watch Henry’s favorite team on it with him.
As Misty drove her boy to school, Teach secured two friends on staff to step in as judges and decided to look to the top to fill the third spot.
“You can go in now,” the school secretary said. “I think the principal is off the phone.”
“Thanks, Miss Sally,” Teach said. “Your birthday flowers are still hanging in nicely, I see.”
The woman stood to adjust the floral arrangement as she motioned for Teach to move more quickly inside.
“Well, if it isn’t the Teach,” said a tall man in his fifties with a tidy but modest suit and a drive to make Brockton’s elementary school the best public school in Massachusetts. “What mess have you gotten yourself into now?”
“I need a favor.”
“Please, have a seat.”
Teach explained how he had given his students the ass
ignment of writing a couplet poem.
“And?”
“And I have a little contest going and wondered if you’d stop in this morning to help judge. I need an independent panel because there is a prize involved.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” the principal said. “What’s the prize?”
Teach hadn’t thought until now that giving away a pair of tickets to a major game on the southern end of the coast could pose a problem for the school. He felt instantly sick over the possibility of getting his kids’ hopes up.
“It’s very special, and the kids are already very excited,” Teach admitted. “A pair of tickets goes to the winning student and his or her parent to watch our local University of Boston Falcons play in the Orange Bowl.”
Fortunately for Teach, the principal was a man who cared more about kids’ learning than red tape.
“You know, I would’ve submitted a poem myself if it meant a chance at getting my wife and me into that game.”
The pair shared a laugh. Teach’s was filled with relief.
“So you’re OK with this? You’ll judge?”
“It’ll be my pleasure. I look forward to seeing the works of art that are about to come out of the woodwork for a prize like this. Just make sure you meet the winner’s parent in person before handing out the tickets. Otherwise, I think it’s great. You have my blessing. You’re a kind man, Teach.”
“Perfect. Thank you, sir. See you in my room in an hour then. I never thought I’d be encouraging you to come in and witness my teaching shenanigans. I’m usually dreading your popping in unannounced to observe.”
The principal had a soft spot for teachers who went the extra step for their students. His voice turned more serious in tone.
“You know, I like to learn from the best every once in a while.”
Teach nodded with appreciation and embarrassment before making his way up to his classroom to set the stage for the morning’s poetry readings.
When the morning bell tolled throughout the punch ball field, Henry and his classmates hustled inside their school building especially quickly. The upcoming contest created an air in Teach’s classroom that was similar to the kind that hung around whenever antsy kids waited to board buses on a field trip day. Even the kids’ parents were anxious to hear the results back at their homes, appointments, and offices.
Henry removed his practical brown snow boots and replaced them with a pair of stylish Converse sneakers that his mother had bought him recently on a shopping trip to the local department store, a place that attracted the waitress whenever she had an especially great week of tips. The kicks, as Misty called them, were what Henry considered his coolest pair of shoes. He hoped they would help erase his recent wardrobe blunder. He was nearly certain they wouldn’t. He wondered if the topic of his poem on this morning would earn him a new nickname, one even more embarrassing than “Polly Ester.” He was nearly certain it would. He would’ve settled for getting one of two predictions wrong.
“Let’s get started, everyone,” Teach called from the front of the room. “You probably noticed already that we have a couple of esteemed judges visiting us for the readings. Did everyone bid our art teacher, Miss Cummings, and our school nurse, Mr. Haynes, a good morning?”
“Good more-ning,” sang a handful of Teach’s most obedient students.
“Very good. Let’s not keep them waiting. Everyone in your seats now. We are expecting one last judge and a very prestigious one at that. Here he comes now. We have the pleasure of hosting Principal McMullen this morning. Thanks for coming in, sir. Please have a seat.”
Many of the students, including the ones who were frequent patrons of the principal’s office, looked uneasy upon the arrival of the tall man whose personality was an effective ratio of kind and tough.
“Before we get started, I should explain to our esteemed judges that there were only two expectations for this poetry assignment. The students were asked to write about something that mattered to them. They were also asked to write in couplets. Do we have any volunteers to present first?”
Henry loved his poem. He was confident in the work. Out of habit, though, he avoided raising his hand. He avoided making eye contact with the panel too.
“Patsy, thank you,” said Teach. “Please, do us the honor of kicking off our poetry readings.”
The principal’s attendance bottled up some of the kids’ sniggers on this morning. The room felt nervously still.
“OK, so my poem is about my cat. The title is ‘My Cat.’”
“Very well, Patsy. Go on, please.”
“My favorite pet is not a rat;
My favorite pet is a cat.
She likes to sit on the window;
I did not name her Glen-dow.
The end.’”
“Ah-ha. That is a couplet, indeed. Thank you, Patsy. And may I ask? What is your cat’s name? You left me intrigued.”
“Her name is Kitty.”
“Of course. Thank you, Patsy. Who’s next?”
Henry watched the best punch ball player in the school raise his hand.
“Taylor! You’re up!”
“My poem is about my Nintendo DS.”
“Off you go.”
“The Nintendo DS is something I like to play;
It’s something I could do all day.
The new Mario games are really cool.
They make my little brother want to drool.”
“He’s not allowed to play yet,” Taylor quickly added.
“I see. Well, you are a lucky boy then, aren’t you?”
Teach continued calling on the students one by one, until both the kids and judges began growing anxious for the readings to finish, and only Oscar and Henry were left to read theirs.
“Oscar. Without further ado, would you please read us your poem?”
The boy wiggled in his seat and brought smiles to the judges’ faces. Oscar’s looks may not have been popular among any of the classmates except Henry, but his adorable cheeks that plumped up when he smiled seemed to touch the hearts of the entire school’s staff.
Oscar held up his piece of paper with oversized cursive handwriting and began to read.
“My favorite dinner is chicken parm;
It doesn’t have to come from the farm.
I could eat it every night
Let’s go Falcons, fight, fight, fight!”
As the novelty of the principal’s presence began wearing off, a few kids forgot to stifle their guffaws.
Henry winced at his best friend’s choice of food for a topic. Oscar’s last line, though, about the University of Boston Falcons football team made Henry wish he had thought to write about the sport for his own poem. It would’ve been a clever topic and a less embarrassing subject than the one he was about to be asked to read about in front of his harshest critics, he thought.
“Your piece had nice rhythm, Oscar. Thank you.”
As the trio of judges grew leery over how they would pick a winner from the pieces of sixth-grade work that were similar in quality, Teach smiled and realized that he had unknowingly saved the student with the most potential for last.
“Henry.”
The shy boy looked at each of the judges and felt in that moment as though time froze. He wondered if the staff would feel sorry for him if the cool kids laughed him out of the room. He wondered if there was still time to bail. He contemplated telling a white lie and claiming he hadn’t had time to finish the assignment.
“Henry. Off you go, please.”
The obedient boy took a long breath and obeyed.
He read each word loudly, clearly, and from the heart. When he finished, he looked at the faces of the judges. He couldn’t interpret their matching looks, but they displayed anything but pity. Henry met eyes briefly with his teacher, whose grin revealed that the boy made him proud.
Teach expected great things, but even he was speechless. Oscar smiled and immediately stood up in appreciation. The two prettiest girls in the class joi
ned Oscar in a standing ovation. The boy who had given Henry the nickname of “Polly Ester” didn’t stand, but he managed to clap quietly at his desk with many others. The boy felt sheepish toward Henry in that moment, even though he didn’t quite comprehend why.
For the first time all school year, the unthinkable happened for the shy boy; he felt like he fit in. He achieved what he had failed to accomplish every school morning on the punch ball field. He had just hit a home run.
Henry beamed for a few minutes, but just like an unproductive football player who had an unexpected play of the game, the boy’s glory faded throughout the day as, very gradually, his newfound fans’ ways turned back to normal. By afternoon recess, Henry was picked last for punch ball as several kids screamed “Easy out.” The shy boy punched the ball straight to the third baseman, who was singing “Polly Ester.”
The morning’s events, however, did not fade as quickly on Teach. As the final school bell rang and the kids gathered their things, he called Henry over to talk as the others hustled out of the room to their afternoon play dates, sports practices, and video games.
“So, where did you learn to write like that?”
Henry looked down at his new sneakers and shrugged his already slouched shoulders.
“I dunno,” said the boy quietly. “I guess it just comes from inside.”
Teach couldn’t help but notice that the boy touched the area of his heart as he offered his simple explanation.
“Huh, well, I thought your poem was very cool, and I look forward to the judges’ selection tomorrow,” said Teach. “Good luck!”
“Thanks,” Henry said, before running off to meet the elderly woman in his life who had unknowingly served as the topic of his poem.
Upon entering the family car, Henry nearly had the courage to tell his grandmother about his exceptional day, but her rough coughing fit paused his words. By the time she recovered, he lost the guts.
“So wait until I tell you about my day,” the woman said once she caught her breath. “I have an observation on life that will knock your sneakers off.”
