by Andy Behrens
“In real football, Pugh, people who lose focus can get hurt. You can’t play with indifference.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kevin.
“So I’ve gotta ask it again, Pugh.” The coach’s voice was oddly serene. “Why are you out here?”
“My dad wants me out here,” blurted Kevin.
He wasn’t sure it was wise to admit that, but it certainly felt good.
“Ah,” said Coach Z. “Well, yeah, you play like someone who’s out here because he has to be, not because he wants to be.”
“Ouch,” said Kevin. “But yeah. Have to be. There’s not much wanting.”
Okay, that felt awesome, too, he thought.
“What are we gonna do about this, Pugh?”
“Well, my plan was to just suffer quietly. I can’t quit.” Kevin fanned himself with his shirt.
“Pugh, you’re too young to spend all your time on things you don’t like.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Kevin.
Coach Z stopped walking.
“What are we going to do about this, Pugh?” Coach Z said again.
“Nothing,” said Kevin flatly. “I’m not allowed to quit.”
Coach Z sighed. “That’s admirable,” he said. “Really.” He lifted his Scherzer cap, ran a hand through his thinning hair, and then repositioned the hat. “Can I just level with you, Pugh? Just straight-out level with you?”
“Okay,” said Kevin.
“And you’ll keep it between us?”
“Sure,” replied Kevin.
“Pugh, I can’t keep losing. Every day in these games it’s the same thing: loss, loss, loss, loss, loss, loss. That’s all we do. We lose. And when Coach Glussman is up there in the bleachers, he’s not just evaluating you kids. He’s evaluating us, his coaches. And this is getting to be a problem, Pugh.” He exhaled disgustedly. “I was a shoo-in to be Scherzer’s offensive coordinator this year, until this camp started. And now we’ve scored exactly six points in six games—six games! And the teams are set for the duration of camp. And every kid has to play. And I’m stuck with …” He caught himself. “What I mean to say is that …”
“… you’re stuck with me.”
Coach Z stared at Kevin. “More or less, yes. The losing has to stop.”
“You could trade me to Coach Dombrowski’s team.”
“Oh, I’ve offered a trade,” said Coach Z, shaking his head.
“You did?” asked Kevin, slightly offended in spite of the circumstances.
“Actually, it was more of a gift. I tried to package you with Alex.”
“He’s our best player!”
“Yeah, but you were kind of the sticking point in negotiations, Pugh.”
Kevin shifted his feet. He looked down at his scuffed cleats, then back at his coach. “Sorry,” he said, simply and pathetically.
“One of two things needs to happen, Pugh, because there are careers at stake.” Coach Z placed his right hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Either you need to decide that you want this—that you actually want to be here, that you want to play well—or you need to tell your folks that football doesn’t interest you at all.”
“Well,” said Kevin, “honestly, that first thing probably won’t happen—I’m just being realistic, Coach Z. And the second thing can’t happen. No way. There would be serious long-term repercussions.”
His coach sighed. “Well,” he finally said, “the good news, at least for me, is that Coach Glussman won’t be here next week. He’ll be at an offensive clinic at Eastern Alabama Polytechnic Institute. Very prestigious. So we’ve got one week to light a fire under you, Pugh.” He smiled. “Or to convince you that your summer would be better spent elsewhere—and I can be very convincing when I need to be.”
And with that, Coach Z walked toward the parking lot.
Kevin stood still for a moment, wondering what sort of convincing Coach Z had in mind.
11
Kevin spent the weekend nervously fretting. Monday was going to involve pain—potentially serious pain. And shame. And the pain and shame would be followed by total exhaustion; then the cycle would repeat. There were six weeks of camp remaining. Kevin needed to endure if there was any hope of getting his dad to agree to agility classes. Or maybe he just needed to endure in order to prove something to Howie Pugh.
Either way, endurance seemed key … and the thought made Kevin miserable.
On Saturday, he and Zach spent the day doing what Maggie called “TV things” and Kevin called “the only things I’m good at.” Zach’s parents took them to Taste of Chicago that night, and Kevin inhaled two turkey legs, a small order of paella, a large order of shrimp stir-fry, cheese fries, and, for dessert, frozen cheesecake on a stick.
It was satisfying, but only in the moment. He was still dreading the week ahead.
On Sunday, Kevin decided to give Cromwell another workout. They began with a brisk run, but it soon became less than brisk, what with the 90-something-degree temperature.
And after six blocks, it became a walk …
Then a sticky, sluggish stroll …
And then Kevin and Cromwell reversed direction, slowed a little more, and plopped onto a bench at a bus stop. Cromwell panted. So did Kevin.
“This jogging stuff”—deep breath—“isn’t so easy, boy.” Kevin used his shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead. “At least in football”—deep breath—“I can take the occasional break.”
A Chicago Transit Authority bus creaked to a stop and Kevin stood up. Passengers exited, looking not nearly as dreadful and tired as Kevin felt. A young blond woman with a yoga mat visibly recoiled when she brushed a little too close to him. He stood there, sweaty and still slightly breathless, fishing in the various pockets of his cargo shorts for cash. Something on the bus hissed. Cromwell kept panting.
“No dogs, kid,” said the bus driver, a gruff woman who seemed, rather obviously, to be wearing a wig. The wig looked a lot like a yellow Pekinese.
“Oh, um … really? Because we’re not going far, I…”
“No dogs. Unless it’s a guide dog—which that ain’t—there’s no dogs on the bus.”
“I have an astigmatism,” said Kevin. “Very poor depth perception. Balls are always hit—”
The door shut and the bus pulled away. Kevin stood there, still absently patting his pockets.
“C’mon, Crom,” he said. “Let’s walk home. We can do this.”
The dog barked.
“Well, okay, I know you can do it. I need a little pep talk sometimes.”
They trudged home slowly.
Before going to bed that night, Kevin discovered that he—or rather, Cromwell—had received another e-mail from Elka Brandt.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sunday, June 27, 5:38 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Thank you for your interest in Paw Patch, Inc.
Dear Cromwell,
Hope you are well, you marvelous creature. When you speak to Kevin, please suggest a dog snack with glucosamine and chondroitin. For healthier hips and joints.
Elka
“O-kaaaay,” said Kevin, switching off his bedroom lights. “Thanks for the tip, dog e-mailer.”
Cromwell whined.
“Fine … maybe I could check the ingredients on your treats, boy.”
Kevin slept poorly that night. He dreamt that Coach Z was chasing him with weapons—knives, flaming arrows, catapults; he dreamt that Coach Z had captured Cromwell and forced him to run laps; he dreamt that Coach Z and Elka Brandt were battling, Jedi-style.
On Monday morning, Kevin’s alarm viciously blared at 7:45 a.m. He winced, then mumbled, then whacked the clock repeatedly with his fist, then jerked the cord free of the wall socket and threw the clock into the hallway.
“Good morning, sunshine!” called his mom, who happened to be rushing past.
“Sorry, Mom,” he managed, then yawned.
Kevin wiped the sleep from his eyes and prepared
to meet his doom. Breakfast was unsatisfying, and so was pre-camp TV. Maggie offered to drive Kevin to Scherzer, but he declined.
Where I go now, he thought, I must go alone.
The walk to camp was long, slow, and gray. The skies were dark. Rain was expected, but sadly, not enough to cancel football. Cromwell stayed home, due to the weather and a grooming appointment. Kevin groaned when Scherzer field came into view. Brad Junior was already there, and already surrounded by his groupies.
Kevin looked at the ground and noticed that he’d forgotten his cleats.
“Gee,” he said to himself. “Might not play my best today. Bummer.”
With Coach Glussman out of town, the assistants collaborated on a short introductory talk, then made the campers run the usual lap—and that’s when Coach Z’s method of convincing Kevin to quit began to reveal itself.
“Pugh!” he yelled, just as Kevin was finishing. “You call that running?! Because I call it lollygagging!”
Kevin said nothing.
“Everyone take another lap!” continued Coach Z. “And please encourage Mr. Pugh to take this one seriously.”
And so they all ran again.
When passing Kevin, most of the campers took the opportunity to insult him, and everyone urged him to hustle.
“Okay, men!” shouted Coach Dombrowski when Kevin finished the lap. “Let’s play!”
Kevin began limping toward the field, completely drained.
“Hustle, Pugh!” yelled Coach Z.
Kevin broke into a trot. His coach soon ran alongside him.
“Have you had a chance to think about the conversation we had last week, Pugh?”
“Coach,” said Kevin, “I still can’t quit.”
“Didn’t I give you another option?”
“Well … I can’t promise that I’ll start enjoying myself, either. There’s no fire.”
The coach eyed him for a moment. “Then it’s going to be a long summer for both of us, Pugh.”
Coach Z sprinted ahead, blew a whistle—though not quite with the authority of Coach Glussman—and huddled quickly with Alex before the first game.
Alex walked away from their conversation nodding, then jogged over to Kevin.
“Coach wants you inside,” he said.
“Um … okay,” Kevin said. “It’s supposed to rain today, so I guess that’s cool. But I think the school is locked. Is there a key? What am I suppo—”
“No, Kev,” said Alex. “On the line. On defense. He wants you on the inside of the line. Over the center.”
“Right, sure.” Kevin nodded. “Of course. Got it.”
“Just do your best,” said Alex.
Coach Z whistled again, and Kevin’s team began to arrange itself on the field. A light rain began to fall. Alex stood a few steps behind Kevin at linebacker. Brad Junior huddled with his team just a few feet away, whispering instructions. Kevin stood directly over the ball. He stretched, then hopped in place. Kevin was jittery, despite the fact that no one expected him to do anything.
When the opposing team approached the line, Brad Junior winked at Kevin.
“Hey, Pugh,” he chirped. “Did you say hey to your sister for me?”
Brad smiled.
“Sure did, champ,” said Kevin. “She wanted me to tell you that you’re a flaming bag of …”
“Down!” screamed Brad Junior, still smiling.
Kevin glared.
“Set!”
Brad’s linemen were frozen in place, statue-still. None of them seemed particularly concerned with Kevin.
“Hut …”
Kevin continued his hopping. The rain fell harder.
“Hut!”
The ball was snapped to Brad, who darted to his right.
“Run! Run!” yelled Alex.
Kevin wasn’t sure if that comment was directed at him or not, but he took off in pursuit of Brad just in case. None of the blockers chose to interfere with Kevin, which wasn’t unusual.
Brad sprinted toward the sideline, but Alex cut him off. The quarterback turned upfield, flashed Kevin yet another smile, then danced around an attempted flag-pull … and scampered toward the end zone.
Several defensive players chased him, but Brad had a sizeable lead.
Well, that didn’t take long, thought Kevin.
“Pugh!” screamed Coach Z from the sideline. “Don’t give up on the play!”
Kevin did not.
He dipped his head and ran as hard as he could, although Brad was clearly pulling away. The quarterback crossed the goal line well of Kevin and the rest of the defense. Coach Z blew his whistle and raised his arms, signaling a touchdown. Only then did Kevin stop running.
Or rather, only then did he try to stop.
In the rain and without cleats, Kevin found that stopping himself was more difficult than stopping Brad. He slid along the wet grass like a skater on a sheet of ice. After three yards, he began to yell.
“AAAAAHH!”
He waved his arms, but nothing slowed his momentum.
“AAAAAAAAAHHHH!”
Brad Junior was directly in front of Kevin, but his back was turned. Brad was holding the ball aloft in the end zone, and seemed to be considering his touchdown dance options.
“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!”
Kevin’s eyes widened as he neared Brad. He crossed the five-yard line … the four-… the three-…
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”
Brad spun around—not in reaction to the noise, but as part of the TD celebration—just as Kevin crossed the goal line.
In the milliseconds before they collided, Kevin saw Brad’s expression change from delight to terror.
WHOOOMP!
Brad was like a mosquito on the windshield of a speeding truck. When the pair hit the ground, Kevin heard a small expulsion of air from Brad, followed by a crunch. Every player on the field gasped.
“Pugh!” yelled Coach Z, running toward the scene of the collision.
Brad’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged at first. His nose was bleeding. He spat a tooth—or a significant piece of tooth—at Kevin.
Coach Z reached the fallen players.
“Puuu …!”
He looked at Brad.
“… eeeeeeew. Yuck!”
Kevin picked himself up and brushed wet grass off his T-shirt.
“Um … my bad,” he said.
Brad spat a little more. After several seconds, he sat up and regained his voice.
“Thtupid Pugh never thtopped! He thmashed right inta me!” Tears ran down Brad’s face as he lisped. “I think I broke my nothe! And my mouth! I’m thpitting a tooth!”
Coach Z handed Brad a yellow penalty flag and told him to hold it to his nose.
“Try to relax, Ainsworth. It was an accident. Kevin tried to stop, but he was …”
“No I didn’t,” said Kevin flatly.
A powerful idea had hit him—nothing quite as powerful as what had just hit Brad, but powerful nonetheless.
“What?” asked Coach Z. “Kevin, I saw the whole thing. You tried to stop, but since it was raining, you …”
“No,” said Kevin firmly. “I did not try to stop.”
He and Coach Z exchanged a long look.
“I tried to hit Brad. And I did it.”
Kevin pounded his chest, because that’s something he’d seen NFL players do.
“Then that’th gotta be a penalty!” cried Brad, spitting a little more.
Coach Z continued to stare at Kevin, puzzled.
“Oh, it’s more than a penalty, buddy,” said Kevin. “I should probably get kicked out of camp. Expulsion is the only thing for a rule-breaker like me.”
“Yeah!” yelled Brad, pressing the penalty flag to his face. “Thuthpended!”
“Yeah,” said Coach Z softly, his eyes still locked on Kevin, clearly beginning to understand his plan. “Maybe this does call for discipline.”
Kevin nodded at his coach.
“Dithipline!” wailed Brad. “Dithipliiiiiiinnn
ne!” Tears continued to flow.
The rain above slowed, and sunlight broke through the clouds.
12
When Kevin’s parents were told of the incident, they clearly had a difficult time processing the details. That evening, Howie, Maggie, and Kevin sat around the kitchen table, listening to Coach Z on speaker-phone.
“I’m sorry,” said Kevin’s mom, “but you’re saying that Kevin—my Kevin—actually broke the nose of another boy?”
“And a tooth,” said Kevin quietly.
“That’s correct, Mrs. Pugh,” said Coach Z.
“And it was the Ainsworth kid’s nose, eh?” asked Howie, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes, sir,” said Coach Z.
Howie nodded. Maggie swatted him on the arm.
“We’re mortified, Coach,” she said. “We don’t want anyone’s nose broken. We feel terrible for poor Bradley.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Howie studied his son from across the table.
That’s right, Kevin thought. I’m a baaaaad dude.
Maggie continued.
“And your recommendation, Coach Zalenski, is that Kevin should not be allowed to return to camp?”
“For the safety of the other children,” said Coach Z. “And so that he can learn that his actions will have consequences.”
Kevin could barely hide his grin.
Maggie repeated Coach Z’s words slowly.
“For … the … safety …”
“… of the other children,” said the coach. “That’s right. He really needs to control that temper. Manage the competitive drive. Kevin’s not tiny.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Howie, a hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth.
“You’ll be fully refunded, of course.”
Despite several minutes of negotiation, Maggie couldn’t get Kevin’s punishment reduced. She offered multi-week suspensions and elaborate apologies. She offered Howie’s unlimited camp services, too, but Coach Z wouldn’t budge.
Well played sir, thought Kevin. Hold your ground, Coach.
Expulsion was the perfect resolution. And because of Howie’s relative amazement at his son’s new aggressiveness, Kevin escaped serious punishment at home. His parents called the Ainsworths to discuss the incident, and Kevin and Brad Junior were required to speak:
