by Andy Behrens
Or not.
“Fake!” screamed two of Kevin’s teammates.
“Pugh!” screamed Coach Z.
Brad spun, the ball still in his hands, and sprinted in Kevin’s direction.
“Move, Pugh!” implored Coach Z.
Kevin took a few choppy steps toward Brad Junior and noticed that his nemesis was still smiling. Briefly, Kevin became determined to catch him.
“Come here, you little weasel, Ainswo—!”
Brad made a subtle head fake toward the sideline, then planted his foot and cut toward the middle of the field. Kevin attempted to reverse course, but, cleatless and unskilled, he failed.
In fact, he failed fabulously.
Kevin’s feet slid to the right while the rest of his body went left. He felt himself lose contact with the ground—perhaps for a second or more—before face-planting with a thud.
He heard teammates and opponents groan, either in disappointment or in sympathy.
When he lifted his head and finished spitting all the dirt and grass from his mouth, he saw Brad Junior in the distance, high-stepping into the end zone.
A whistle blew.
9
Zach, I’m not discussing it,” snapped Kevin, speaking into the headset. “Ever.” His thumbs pounded away at a controller. His face was scrunched into a wrinkled, angry knot.
Up arrow … “A” button … left arrow … “A” … right arrow … “B” …
“Dude, it couldn’t have been that bad,” said Zach.
Kevin adjusted the microphone on his headset and spoke to Zach as they gamed.
“It was beyond bad, and I’m not discussing it.”
“What did you tell your parents?”
“That it was fine. And then I came down here. End of discussion.”
On-screen, a running back juked, stiff-armed a lineman, then sprinted up the sideline. A fake announcer declared this a spectacular move.
“Man,” Kevin said flatly, “where are your linebackers, Zach? What is this? Bring a safety up … do something. You can’t stop my run game.”
A defensive back veered onto the screen, finally taking down Kevin’s ball carrier.
“DUDE!” exclaimed Zach, his voice exploding through the earpiece and causing Kevin to duck his head reflexively. “That was, like, a game-saving tackle right there. That’s clutch.”
“Sure,” said Kevin. “Twenty yards later.”
Kevin scrolled through new plays.
“You seem to know what you’re doing in Madden,” said Zach. “How difficult could the transition to real foot—”
“Zach!” snapped Kevin. “Which part of ‘not discussing it ever’ was unclear?”
“Okay then, friend. Soooorrr-ry.”
Kevin chose a passing play.
“A” button … left arrow … “A” …
“What’s Cromwell doin’?” asked Zach.
“He’s doing as much to stop my powerhouse offense as you are, chump,” said Kevin. “Which is to say, he’s doing nothing.”
“Whatever.”
Kevin sipped an orange soda with his left hand, and kept his right on the controller.
“Actually,” he said, “Cromwell is sitting here on the couch, staring at me. At least I think he’s staring at me … I’m sort of afraid to check. We were supposed to have a long, obstacle-filled walk after football camp, but, well … things did not go well for me. Not that we’re discussing it.”
Cromwell’s ear twitched. Kevin noticed the movement and glanced at the dog.
“Aaaarrgh!” Kevin exclaimed into the headset. “He’s definitely staring at me. I just checked.”
“A” button … right arrow … left arrow … “X” …
“You’ve done him wrong, dude,” said Zach.
“Completion!” said Kevin. “And how ’bout you do a little more tackling and a little less judging?”
The game suddenly paused.
“Oh, come on …,” began Kevin.
“First of all,” said Zach, his voice raised, “that was hardly a judgment. It was more like a simple statement of fact. I think we both know that you’ve done him wrong.”
“I haven’t do—”
“You’ve done him wrong, Kev. C’mon. Don’t embarrass yourself by arguing the point. I know it, the dog knows it, that dog pirate-lady knows it … it’s well-known. You should totally be at Paw Patch, taking classes.”
“But my dad said we could maybe do those classes if I tried the foot—”
“You hate real football! Clearly. The fact that you’re so skilled at video game football is just one of life’s little ironies.”
Kevin was silent, except for the tapping of his fingers on the armrest of the couch. He didn’t look at his dog.
“Cromwell is a natural at that agility stuff, Kev,” Zach continued. “He’s like the LeBron James of, um … obstacle courses for dogs. He’s got crazy game. You need to get Cromwell in those little races. He could totally win.” Zach paused. “Dude, I bet he would get sponsors! He could wear little doggie sweaters with corporate logos! You’d be ri—”
“All right, your point is made. You win. I’m a terrible person. Cromwell is a victim of my self-defeating worldview. And I stink at football. Again: you win. Now can we please get back to the ga—?”
“No!” yelped Zach. Kevin cringed, pulling the earpiece away from his head. “No, I don’t think we can get back just yet,” said Zach. “This isn’t about me winning.” He paused. “It’s about Cromwell.”
Kevin sighed.
“I hear you.”
Cromwell whined, then sunk his head into the couch.
“If I were you,” said Zach, “I’d quit football. I’d just sign up my pouty dog for agility classes. Elka said he was ‘brilliant.’”
“Actually, she said ‘breel-yoont.’ Like she was a vampire.” Kevin glugged more orange soda.
“Get your dog in those classes, Kev,” said Zach with unusual conviction. “He loved it.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten that he nearly destroyed the course. Not in a good way, as in, ‘Oh, that was killer … you totally destroyed the course, bro.’ But real destruction. Like with wrecking balls and heavy equipment.”
The dog whined again, then seemed to harrumph.
“Sorry, Cromwell,” said Kevin softly, reaching a hand out to stroke the dog’s fur. But he still couldn’t look at Cromwell.
Zach pressed on.
“Is this the relationship you want to have with your dog, Kevin? Really? Simmering guilt?”
They remained silent for several seconds.
“Um … what?” Kevin finally said. “Where’d you get that?”
“Heard it from a lady on Tyra. A family therapist. Very insightful.”
“You watch Ty—”
“Just stop,” said Zach. “It’s possible that I’ve said too much.”
Kevin sighed. “No,” he said. “You’re right.” Kevin turned to face Cromwell, who was, in fact, still looking up at him with deep, dark, sorrowful dog eyes. “Really, you’re right. I should take those classes. It couldn’t hurt. He’s my best nonhuman friend, and he doesn’t ask for much.”
Another series of noises from Cromwell.
“There are, however, two problems,” added Kevin.
“You’re too lazy and TV-obsessed?”
“No, I don’t really view that as a problem. It’s more of a life choice.”
“So what are the problems?” asked Zach.
Cromwell crept forward slightly on his paws.
“Number one, the agility classes conflict with the camp-that-must-not-be-named. I don’t see any way around that.”
“Dude, quit the camp.”
“I can’t quit. Because then my dad would call me a quitter—and he’d be right.”
“No, it’s not like that. This is a different sort of quitting, because you never actually wanted to do it. This is more like a belated no.”
Kevin snorted. “There’s a distinction that woul
d be lost on Howie Pugh.”
“Then fake an injury.”
“Fake an injury that disqualifies me from football, but not dog agility?”
“Oh, right,” groaned Zach. “Well, what’s problem number two?”
“Money,” said Kevin. “Last time I asked, I was shot down. I’m not interested in soliciting again. Dad wants Cromwell to, like, fetch things. Do tricks. Juggle stuff with his paws, bark on command … whatever it is trained dogs do. He didn’t seem interested in agility contests. I don’t think he sees the corporate sponsorship potential the way you do, Zach.”
“I do have vision. Don’t you have any money, dude?”
“I’m not exactly a saver. All birthday and holiday funds generally get spent at 7-Eleven. Or they’re converted into gaming gear. You know this.”
“Right …,” said Zach softly. “Maybe Elka offers scholarships?”
“For deserving but needy dogs, to dodge tiny windmills? Doubt it.”
There was a lull, during which Kevin almost suggested they un-pause the game. But then Zach cleared his throat forcefully: “I’ll pay for Cromwell’s classes.”
“With what?” Kevin blurted into the headset. “World of Warcraft gold? I don’t think Elka is interested, frankly. She doesn’t strike me as a particularly dedicated gamer.”
“No, with my $3,806.16.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have $3,806.16. Years of birthday money, change squirreled away, unused hot lunch funds.” He paused. “It’s in the bank. There’s around fifteen hundred dollars in checking. The rest is a little less liquid, but it’s earning interest.”
“So you’re a saver,” said Kevin.
“When do I ever have to buy anything for myself? I’m indulged, dude. But yeah, I do tend to hoard things, and I’d like to help Cromwell.”
“No, I can’t let …” Kevin paused. “What the heck am I saying, of course I can let you pay. Heck, yeah.” Kevin exhaled loudly. “If Cromwell ever takes classes, you’re paying. Better you than Howie Pugh. Not sure when I could pay you back, though. Maybe after college.”
“No need.”
Kevin looked at Cromwell, who looked back at him.
“Sorry, Zach, bad connection. Cromwell and I thought we heard you say that I wouldn’t have to pay you back.” He jiggled the headset for effect. “You know these classes are a couple hundred bucks, right?”
“Right. I don’t need to be paid back.”
“Wait a sec. How can you be cheap and indulged all your life, then just hand out large sums of money for dog tuition? That’s really how you want to spend your freakishly large savings?”
“I’m investing in Cromwell, I’m not loaning. We talked about this in social studies.”
“Cromwell does not pay dividends, Zach.”
“I’m like his manager. No, I’m like the corporation—or the shareholders or whatever they are—that owns the Cubs. It’s a long-term investment. I’ll cover expenses, and I’ll profit when Cromwell wins agility contests.”
Kevin guffawed. Zach did not.
Cromwell perked up further, licking Kevin’s hand.
“O-kaaaay,” said Kevin. “Perhaps someday you’ll buy a dog and his handler.”
“We’ll have to discuss your role, actually, Kev. I’m not seeing you as the han—”
“Oh, no. If you’re supporting Cromwell financially, I’m in—and I mean, I’m really in. I’m subjecting myself to Elka. I’m the handler, period. There shall be no rift between me and Cromwell, even if we fail. And we’re doomed to fail.” He sipped more soda. “That would be the deal.”
He heard Zach giggling.
“What?”
“Then I’d own you, dude. Like an employee. When I say break time, it’s break time. When I say work, you work.”
Zach un-paused the game.
“Game on,” he said.
Up arrow … “B” button … up arrow …
Kevin’s receiver was chugging toward the end zone.
“Has your dad not found it odd that you’re a total master at virtual football, and uninterested in actual football?”
“He can’t tell one video game from another. They’re all just a version of Mario to Howie Pugh.”
“Good game, Mario.”
Up arrow … “X” button … left arrow … up …
“I think you’ll like working for me, Kev. You’ll find that I’m a firm but generous employer, willing to accept your in—”
Kevin re-paused the game.
“I should take Cromwell for a walk—a brisk walk. A lazy man’s run. Continue the informal training, just in case.”
Zach sighed. “A nice step. But you should register Cromwell at Paw Patch, dude.”
“I can’t quit real football, Zach. No way. My dad would destroy me. And you don’t own me yet.”
Kevin removed the headset, set down the controller, and clapped his hands. Cromwell leapt—well, half leapt and half tumbled—from the couch.
Kevin shuffled toward the basement steps. Cromwell bounded up the stairs happily, if crazily.
“Dad would totally destroy me,” Kevin repeated, looking at his dog, but maybe speaking to himself.
10
On Wednesday morning, Kevin accepted a ride to camp from his mom, though he refused to be transported in the heavily decorated Bears SUV. As they entered the circular drive at Scherzer’s front entrance, Kevin said, “Don’t even stop, Mom. Just slow the car down. I’ll roll out.”
“But I want to meet this coach of yours,” his mom protested.
“I do not need my mom talking to my football coach.”
“Oh, Kevin, it’s totally normal. I’m an active, concerned parent. I want to …”
“Mom, you’re Mrs. Howie Pugh. I’m the awkward son of Howie Pugh. There’s waaaay too much Pughness already.”
“Havali’l fahmwee pwy, Gev!” said Izzy from the back, through a mouthful of gum.
“I do have family pride, Iz!” said an exasperated Kevin. “I’m actually protecting the family name by keeping a low profile at camp.” He turned to face her. “This might shock you, but I didn’t exactly dominate on Monday.”
She popped a bubble, then peeled a thin film of grape gum from her cheek.
“Gividime,” she said.
“I’m trying to give it time. That’s why I need Mom to chill.”
“You kids put all this pressure on yourselves,” said Maggie, shaking her head.
Izzy withdrew the wad of gum from her mouth. “I do not put pressure on myself,” she said. “Pressure worries about me.”
“Of course, dear,” said Maggie. She stopped the car, but made no move to get out.
“Mom,” said Kevin, “please swear that you won’t introduce yourself to the coaches.” He looked toward the field, where campers had begun to assemble. “You’ll notice there are no other moms.”
“Okay, Kevin. I swear that I won’t be a responsible parent who gets to know the people who instruct her children.” She gave him a serious look. “But just for you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” said Kevin, opening the door. He walked slowly toward the coaches.
“Get ’em, Kev!” shouted Izzy.
Kevin waved.
I’ll be lucky to survive ’em, he thought.
Kevin walked on, his cleats clicking against the pavement—there was no way he was going to risk going cleatless again. He still held on to a dim hope that perhaps his lack of proper footwear was the reason he’d been so awful on Monday.
But it turned out that no, the footwear was not a major factor.
Today was equally bad.
During the warm-up lap, Kevin was again beaten by the asthmatic. His flag team lost 35–0 and 41–6, and most of the scoring plays seemed designed to expose his immobility, his ignorance, or both. Coach Z began the day enthusiastically, but by noon he was sullen, responding to campers only with grunts.
Friday was no picnic, either. Kevin’s team lost 28–0 and 37–0, and the longer they
played, the more Kevin loafed. Brad Junior unveiled a series of touchdown celebration dances. And it had been miserably hot all week. The heat had transformed Kevin into a sweat-soaked, sagging, un-fun kid by noon.
After the final whistle and the final lap, Kevin started plodding toward the bike rack to unhitch his dog. The rest of the campers walked off the field in groups, talking, high-fiving. Kevin walked off slowly, alone, muttering.
He felt a hand slap his back. This, he thought, must have been disgusting for the owner of the hand—Kevin’s shirt was drenched.
“Hey, bro,” said Brad Junior, jogging slowly and smirking blatantly. “Nice work today.”
“Go away, little Brad,” said Kevin. “Shoo.”
Junior laughed. In the distance, so did his gaggle of friends.
“C’mon, Pugh. Don’t be like that.” He jogged a few more steps. “Say hi to your sister for me, okay? She’s kind of a hottie.”
He laughed again, as did his associates.
“Eww, little Brad,” said Kevin. “And no.”
He would have tried to chase down Junior for that comment, but a week of camp had proven definitively that Kevin couldn’t catch him. Or anyone else.
“Pugh, how did your sister end up with all the athletic—”
“That’s enough, Ainsworth,” said Coach Z, who was suddenly walking behind Kevin. “We’ll see you on Monday.”
“But, coach, I was jus—”
“Good-bye, Ainsworth,” said Coach Z sternly. Brad Junior jogged back to his friends.
“Thanks, Coach,” Kevin said quietly.
“Sure, kid.” Coach Z walked at Kevin’s side, keeping his pace. “Hot out here, eh?”
Kevin shrugged. “Guess so,” he said glumly.
“Can I ask you something, Pugh?”
Kevin shrugged again. “Okay.”
“Why are you out here, exactly?”
Involuntarily, Kevin laughed. He quickly decided that was not an appropriate response.
“To, um … well, to learn certain fundamentals of, um … football.”
“Really?” asked Coach Z. “Because your dog seems more interested in what we’re doing than you do.”
Kevin saw Cromwell sitting attentively in the shade. This time he said nothing in response. Coach Z continued.
