by Andy Behrens
Kevin’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Soccer is played with a ball, Kevin,” Howie explained. “All sports involve balls. They can be kicked or thrown, doesn’t matter.”
Kevin stared at his dad for a moment, dumbfounded.
“So,” he said at last, “surfing is not a sport?”
“Negatory, Kev. It’s an exhibition,” Howie declared.
“How about fencing? Or bull-riding? Or ice-skating?”
“Nope, nope, and heck no. Ice-skating? C’mon, Kev. You’re gonna make me ill over here.” Kevin’s dad made wet smacking sounds as he chewed.
“What about hockey?” Kevin asked. “That has a puck.”
“Pucks are like the metric equivalent of balls. So yeah, that’s a sport.”
“How ’bout bingo? That involves balls.”
Howie lifted his head from his plate and spoke deliberately, as though explaining a fine point of law. “While all sports involve balls,” he said, “not all things involving balls are sports. Like with juggling and pin-ball and so forth. That’s an important distinction.”
Kevin pressed on, unsure why he was prolonging the argument. “What about fishing? That’s on ESPN all the time.”
“If one of the two sides doesn’t know it’s playing,” said Howie, “then it’s not a sport. And the fishes definitely don’t know what’s up. So no, not a sport.” More chewing.
Kevin stared at his father’s ruddy face. “So that’s it?” he finally said. “No interest in classes for Cromwell?”
His dad shrugged. “You’re not makin’ a good case here, Kev.”
“I’ve got twenty dollars from Grandma from my birthday. I can contribute.”
“It’s just that your history of follow-through is not so great,” said Howie, gesturing with his fork, yet not looking up from his plate. “I don’t want Cromwell coming to me and whining that you gave up after a month.”
“When’s the last time I quit something?” Kevin demanded, ignoring the idea of Cromwell telling anyone anything—and even if he could talk, dogs were loyal. That was the point.
Howie put down his fork.
“When’s the last time you tried something?”
Kevin stared at his dad.
“Well?” asked Howie, waving a forkless hand.
“I try things,” muttered Kevin unconvincingly.
“Listen,” said his dad, softening his tone. “In theory, I like the idea of you getting a little more activity. I really do. How ’bout we sign you up for a camp that involves actual human sports? Let’s start there.”
“But I thought we …”
“I made an appearance last Friday at the Scherzer High School football camp, and it would be perfect for you. I gave a nice little talk to the kids. They loved me.”
“Um, Dad, I’d rather …”
“The campers were all geeked up. It was sweet. I’m sure we could get you in, and I think it’s only two or three hundred bucks.”
“But the agility class is just …”
“Great counselors, too. And it’s close to home. You could bike.”
Kevin fidgeted. He could feel things taking an unwanted turn.
“Really, that’s not what …”
“Heck, sometimes you can even take the dog! Then everybody wins! The little guy can nap under the bleachers while you learn how to block the power sweep!”
“Dad, I don’t think … um … block the wha—?”
Howie was animated, bouncing slightly in his chair. “I’ll have your mother call the camp, get you registered!” He grinned at his son. “And if you stick with this thing, Kev, then we’ll revisit the little show with Cromwell and the pinwheels and the hoops. If he’s still interested.”
“It’s not really a show, exact—”
Howie stood, then swept around the table and gave Kevin a playful tap on the head.
“Gotta scoot, Kev.”
The door slammed. Kevin stared down at Cromwell. The dog’s face was covered in waffle bits.
“That seemed to go well,” sighed Kevin. “I thought I held my ground nicely.”
8
Kevin and his mom stood in line together at Carnival Foods. Maggie was purchasing cleaning products and frozen vegetables. Kevin was buying a bulk bag of gummy fish.
“So let’s talk about you playing football at Scherzer,” Maggie said in a voice that seemed unnecessarily loud.
Kevin lowered his head, but glanced toward the girl at the register. She was maybe sixteen—possibly seventeen, but no older. She wore sparkly earrings. Her name tag read ERIN.
“Paper or plastic?” asked Erin cheerily. She smiled at Maggie, then at Kevin.
He looked at his feet.
“Paper,” said Maggie. “Thank you, dear.”
Two teenage girls entered the checkout line with diet sodas in their hands. They had ankle tattoos, beach bags, nose rings, and oversized sunglasses. They were giggling.
“Your father mentioned that you and he discussed football camp,” said Maggie, still in the crazy-loud voice. “Is that right, honey? Do you want to do football camp?”
No, he thought.
Erin scanned Kevin’s fish.
“Well, I could,” he said, still looking down.
“Don’t let your father force you into anything that you’d rather not …”
“You want these now?” asked Erin happily, extending the fish toward Kevin.
“Um, no,” he said. “Just in the bag is fine.”
Kevin shuffled his feet. The beach girls placed their sodas on the conveyor. Their giggling had quieted. Maggie continued.
“Because if you want to play football, terrific. But if you want to spend the summer in the basement doing your, um … TV things with Zachary, then that’s okay, too.” Maggie slid her debit card, then tapped at the keypad. “Whatever makes you happy. Just give me a yes or no, Kevin.”
Kevin’s mom looked up, smiling.
Erin smiled.
The beach girls smiled.
No, thought Kevin.
“Yeah, sure,” he said.
And so it came to pass that Kevin Pugh committed himself—insincerely, yet in the clearest possible terms—to football camp.
It began early on Monday morning. Howie wanted to drive his son to camp—he pleaded for the opportunity, in fact—but Kevin insisted that being dropped off by a local sports celebrity would draw unnecessary scrutiny and complicate his camp experience.
“I wouldn’t even have to get outta the car!” said Howie.
“You always get out of your car when you think you’ll be recognized!” said Kevin. “Everywhere. At tollbooths, in drive-thrus, every time you drop us off at school.”
“It’s true, hon,” said Maggie. “You do like to mingle.”
Howie shrugged, then stroked his mustache. “I can be anonymous.”
“Dad, you stink at anonymity. Your car has six Bears decals and a license plate that says PUGH 55. The horn plays ‘The Super Bowl Shuffle.’”
“I can remove some decals. They’re magnetic.”
Kevin eventually won the breakfast skirmish, but not until his mom argued forcibly on his behalf. It was perfectly clear that Howie enjoyed having a son who was engaged in something football-related. It was not so clear whether Howie was proud of his son or proud of himself.
“Okay, no pressure,” said Kevin, trudging gloomily toward Scherzer on his first day of camp. Cromwell bounced at his side. “Nooooo pressure.”
His feet scraped along the sidewalk as he moved. A pair of new cleats—a gift from Howie—hung over his shoulder. He spoke to his dog.
“Assurances have been made, Crom: no pads, no contact drills. Minimal chance of injury.”
The dog picked up a small, leafy branch, gave it a shake, and then discarded it.
“And the camp is for ages eight to twelve. I’m told that I’ll be a giant among boys.” He kicked a rock. “As opposed to a girlish liability among boys, which is my traditional role in P.E.”
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br /> Cromwell sniffed a fence, then a hydrant, then a series of flowering plants.
“It really might not be that bad,” continued Kevin. “Football is full of jobs that don’t require ball skills. Half the people on the field at any given time are just trying to get in someone else’s way. That seems like something I could …”
Kevin turned a corner and the field at Scherzer High School came into view.
“… do.”
Several dozen boys were zipping passes to one another. A group of coach-like people stood in a semicircle, watching. They all wore T-shirts with a crimson “S” (for Scherzer) and a cartoon bison (the Scherzer mascot). Cones were set up in neat rows, and tires had been arranged in zigzag patterns. Kevin was certain that he was at least five minutes early, but he suddenly felt late and lost … and possibly like leaving.
Cromwell, apparently feeling none of Kevin’s reluctance, broke free from Kevin’s loose grip and shot forward.
“You’d think I’d learn,” muttered Kevin, “but no.”
He ditched his cleats and sprinted after the dog, not quite matching Cromwell’s pace—the dog seemed to have gotten quicker as a result of all the recent activity. Cromwell scooted through a coach’s legs, his leash trailing. Kevin veered around the Scherzer coaches, then ducked to avoid footballs in flight. Cromwell hopped into one of the tires, then sprung up and landed in another.
Kevin dove at the leash, snatched it with his right hand, and reeled in his dog. He briefly thought that the incident had been contained—after all, when Cromwell broke loose at Paw Patch, he had left a path of devastation behind him.
Then Kevin heard a coach’s whistle. He quickly realized that balls were no longer flying through the air. The only sound was the snickering of other campers. Kevin sat on a tire, faced the group, and offered a small wave. He was nearly out of breath after his short sprint. Cromwell barked, and Kevin pressed the dog’s substantial rear to the ground and whispered, “Sit!”
Cromwell barked again.
“Nuh-uh,” said a voice from the crowd of campers. “No … way …”
Brad Ainsworth Jr. stepped forward. He brushed a lock of blond hair away from his eyes as he spun a football in his left hand.
Sure, thought Kevin. Of course.
“Hey, Bra—” he began to say.
“That’s Howie Pugh’s kid!” exclaimed Brad Junior. “The kickball star!”
A group of boys laughed as if they’d been trained to do it on cue. They stood behind Brad Junior like backup dancers. Kevin had a brief flashback to the moment the kickball had ricocheted off his face, but this was interrupted by another high-pitched tweet from a coach’s whistle.
“Bring it in, men!” called a dour middle-aged man. He had a Scherzer cap pulled low over his eyes. The whistle hung at the corner of his mouth.
As the various Scherzer-shirted campers snapped to attention and clustered around the coaches, Kevin stood up slowly and walked to a shaded bike rack, to which he attached Cromwell’s leash. He pulled a bowl from his backpack and filled it from his water bottle.
“Don’t budge, Crom.”
Yet another whistle pierced the air.
“Hustle it up, new meat!” barked the coach, clearly at Kevin.
“Dear God,” Kevin muttered, jogging toward the group.
“Hustle!” snapped the coach.
Kevin broke into a loping run and joined the group.
“Sir,” he said tentatively, “I dropped my cleats over by …”
“Hustle!” repeated the coach. “No excuses!”
Kevin ran his fastest—which wasn’t especially fast—and joined the outer fringe of the group of campers. He caught a glimpse of Brad Junior smirking.
When Kevin joined the flock, the coach addressed everyone.
“Gentlemen.” The coach paused for dramatic effect, as though he were speaking to soldiers on the eve of battle. “Last week was for drills. You threw, you ran, you caught, you kicked. You’ve hit tackling sleds and you—well, you haven’t done this stuff, new meat.”
The coach looked at Kevin, his eyes narrow and his mouth set in a straight line.
“But you’ve got a football pedigree, so I’m sure you’ll catch up.” The coach winked; then his eyes swept over the group. “Anyway, last week was for drills, and now we’re going to put that work to the test.” He clapped his hands. “We’re going to play some games.”
The campers cheered. Kevin cringed. The coach continued.
“We’ve already divided you kids into teams—eight-and nine-year-olds, you’ll go to the south practice field with Coach Gutierrez and Coach Kirkland. The rest of you will stick with us.”
He blew the whistle and the smallest, least intimidating campers broke away with the youngest, least intimidating coaches. This left the older kids with the angry whistler and two assistants.
The head coach looked at the remaining campers, then balled his right hand into a fist and pounded the logo on his chest.
“I love our mascot,” he declared. “Who here can tell me about bisons?”
The coach surveyed the faces before him, then focused on Kevin.
“New meat!”
Seriously, that’s the name we’re going with? thought Kevin.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“New meat, when I say ‘bisons,’ what do you think of?”
Kevin cleared his throat. The campers spun around to face him.
“Well, they’re a herd animal, first of all,” said Kevin, his voice barely audible. “And I’m pretty sure they’re plant eaters. And they were hunted to near extinction. And actually, I’m pretty sure the plural of ‘bison’ is just ‘bison.’ There’s no ‘s’ at the end, but …”
“Well, I think of toughness!” said the coach.
“Right,” said Kevin, nodding like a bobblehead. “Toughness, sir.”
“I think of endurance and fearlessness and toughness.” The whistler paused. “Gentlemen, in football and in life …”
The coach then drifted into a practiced speech that was clearly intended to be inspirational and fiery. Kevin found it crushingly dull. He turned inward, embarrassed and bored. After a few minutes of lecturing, the coach said something—Kevin missed the particulars—that caused the entire group to woof like dogs. Cromwell joined the chorus. Kevin did not.
“Okay, men, take a lap!” declared the coach.
Everyone dashed for the track that surrounded the main field at Scherzer. Kevin lagged behind … and never caught up. He finished dead last, approximately forty yards behind an asthmatic ten-year-old. This brought more unwelcome calls of “Hustle!” and “C’mon, new meat!” Sweat stung Kevin’s eyes. He was breathing hard, but all he’d really done was run a warm-up lap (badly).
The campers were soon divided into their teams. An assistant coach draped his arm around Kevin as they crossed the field.
“Glad you joined us, Pugh. I’m Coach Zalenski. You can call me Coach Z—everyone does. And that”—he gestured toward the whistler—“is Coach Hayden Glussman, one of the most successful coaches in Public League football. You’re not allowed to call him Coach G. No one does.”
Coach Z extended his hand for a fist pound, and Kevin obliged.
“Sorry I blew that whole bison-are-tough thing.”
“No problem, Pugh. You were very thorough in your response, I’ll give you that.”
“So we’re playing games already?” asked Kevin. “I mean … it’s my first day. And I was led to believe this was a no-contact sort of camp.”
Coach Z eyed him suspiciously as they walked.
“I’m assuming you’d prefer to go full pads, full contact. But no, Pugh, we’re not allowed to hit here. It’s an insurance thing. We play flag football.”
He handed Kevin a grimy belt that presumably used to be white, but had turned the exact color of chicken nuggets. Two long yellow strips were affixed to the belt with Velcro. These were the flags. Coach Z bent low and whispered in Kevin’s ear.
; “If a little incidental contact occurs, Pugh, we’re not gonna call a penalty.”
“You know,” began Kevin, “I actually dropped my cleats over …”
But Coach Z had already sprinted off, and he’d swatted Kevin on the backside as he did. Butt-slapping was definitely not one of Kevin’s favorite sports traditions.
Within minutes, and with zero instruction, Kevin was standing on the football field at Scherzer High School, preparing to play defense. Alex Cribbs, a sixth grader, was yelling at him.
“End, Pugh!” He motioned toward the ball.
“End what?” said Kevin, raising his hands. “I wasn’t even doing any—”
“Defensive end, Pugh! Play defensive end—on the line! Over there!”
Alex shoved him to an appropriate spot, then drifted back several feet.
Kevin stood flat-footed while his teammates crouched, waiting for the play to begin. Coach Z clapped. Coach Glussman stood halfway up the bleachers, his arms folded across his chest. The whistle was in his mouth just in case someone needed to hustle.
Brad Ainsworth Jr. seemed to have command of the opposing team’s offense. The team huddled around him, then clapped in unison, then approached the ball. Kevin’s teammates all struck serious-looking football poses, some bent at the waist, others kneeling.
“Trips left, trips left!” screamed Alex. This startled Kevin. Alex raced over to the left side and continued to scream.
Brad Junior stood at quarterback, a few feet behind the ball.
“Down!” Alex yelled, although nothing happened.
“Set!” Still nothing.
Kevin stood there, half amused and half terrified. Everyone else on the defensive line squatted low.
“Lightning, lightning!”
But again, nothing happened. Brad eyed Kevin, then broke into a smile.
“Scram eight-five-eight!” barked Alex.
Still no movement.
“Pugh!” called Coach Z. “Puuuuugh!”
Kevin turned toward the sideline and saw the coach gesturing, but he had no idea what was being signaled.
“Hut, hut!” yelled Brad.
Suddenly everything moved—except Kevin. Linemen were rushing, receivers were sprinting, Alex was chasing, and Brad Junior was pitching the ball to a running back.
