by Andy Behrens
Kevin could not imagine Cromwell as either a wolf or a protector of anything, except possibly chew toys—and he’d give up a chew toy if you offered him something chicken-flavored or bacon-scented.
To Elka, dogs in tracksuits and handlers in matching outfits may have appeared silly. But they all seemed to be eyeing Kevin and Cromwell sharply, sizing them up, looking for weakness.
Kevin certainly had plenty of weakness to offer.
24
Elka checked them in, received all their race materials, and then mingled with various trainers and agility enthusiasts. Kevin tried to ignore the other dogs and their handlers as best he could, but Zach was not much help in this regard. He kept pointing out tough-looking animals and their intimidating owners.
Still, Kevin tried to keep his mind on Cromwell and the course—just the course.
Don’t even consider the competition, he told himself. They aren’t the obstacles. We don’t climb them. We don’t jump them. Don’t let them distract you.
Whenever Kevin was able to direct his focus away from the other dogs, it was soon redirected to the stands. The Midwest Kennel Club event apparently attracted a crowd of actual paying customers—not a large crowd by the arena’s standards, but large enough to fill much of the stadium’s first level.
And this audience—which Zach excitedly estimated to be three thousand or so people—did nothing for Kevin’s self-confidence. As soon as Elka strayed, Cromwell seemed to come unglued, too. The television crews certainly didn’t help.
“Come on!” said Zach. “A crowd is a good thing. I’ve heard athletes discuss this. They feed off the crowd’s energy. At least I think that’s what they say. So try feeding—that’s never been a problem for you before.”
“Funny stuff,” said Kevin, his eyes sweeping across the stands. “I don’t think I’m the feed-off-the-crowd sort of athlete. In fact, I don’t actually feel like I’m any kind of athlete.”
Zach rubbed Kevin’s shoulders vigorously, like a boxing trainer with a fighter.
“You are one-half of an award-winning dog agility machine, dude. And you’re not even the dog half. Cromwell does the tricks … what the heck can go wrong?”
Plenty, it turned out.
During their preliminary walk-through, all of Cromwell’s old problems returned. It was like their first week at Paw Patch all over again. The dog was leaping too soon from the ramps and the seesaw; he missed weave poles; he brushed against hurdles; and, of course, he whacked himself silly with the bottom of the suspended hoop.
From the edges of the course, competitors snickered as the unknown boy-and-dog combo botched pretty much every apparatus.
As Cromwell crossed the seesaw, Kevin slipped, flailed, and then landed facedown on the green turf. His belly hit the opposite end of the seesaw that Cromwell was on, catapulting the dog into a low trajectory.
The crowd of onlookers issued a collective “Ooooh!”
The dog bayed an abrupt “Rrooooo!”
Cromwell hit the turf rather gracefully, rolled a few times, then shook himself off and ran back to Kevin, drooling. Kevin didn’t want to pick his head up. His fall—and Cromwell’s flight—was shown in slow motion on the giant scoreboard suspended above the United Center floor.
And then it was shown again.
And again, even slower, this time focusing on Kevin’s pained expression.
Each time it was shown, the accompanying laughter seemed to grow louder.
Finally, the scoreboard switched to something else … Jody and Shasta. The girl was laughing, no doubt at the image she’d just seen of a stumbling, awkward Kevin Pugh. Or, as she had pronounced it, “Poo.”
But as her face appeared on the scoreboard, many in the crowd began to respectfully cheer. She switched from laughter to the too-polite, too-obnoxiously-sweet wave she’d delivered at Paw Patch. Kevin trudged off the course, his chin down, his feet shuffling slowly. It was unusually cold on the floor of the arena. The United Center was colossally large, full of echoes and vast distances. The atmosphere was disconcerting, really.
“That did not go well, Mr. Pugh,” said Elka as her protégé left the course.
“Oh really?” said Kevin sarcastically. “Hmm. Well, you’re the expert, I suppose. What clued you in? Was it the first time you saw the video of me falling, or the third?”
“This is not the best day for the dour, self-defeating Kevin Pugh to return,” Elka said quietly. “Nor for the wilder, undisciplined Cromwell.”
Kevin knew that much was true, but he wasn’t sure how to make either of them go away. He decided to walk off his nerves, if possible. But as he circled the arena, the walk only reminded him of the presence of other people—many other people.
“Almost showtime,” said Zach when Kevin returned. Zach was nervously tapping a foot and looking into the faces of the crowd. “You know, I might have underestimated the size of the audi—”
“Okay, shut up,” snapped Kevin. “Not helpful, dude. Not in any way helpful.”
“Sor-ry,” said Zach. “Just a little uptight, I guess.”
Kevin flashed a very ticked-off look.
“Not for any, um … particular reason,” said Zach. “Certainly not because of, um … that warm-up. Which really wasn’t so ba—”
“Okay, really. Shut”—Kevin held his right hand in front of his mouth and made a zipping motion—“up. There will be no more talking among Team Cromwell. None. Total silence. This has not been one of your better pep talks, so let’s just cut our losses.”
Zach slouched into one of the folding chairs that ringed the course. Kevin sat down next to him and waited quietly. He watched as Elka shared one of those odd, indecipherable conversations with his dog, lifting his ears, whispering secrets to Cromwell that were apparently quite reassuring. The dog panted happily.
At that moment, Kevin needed some reassurance himself, and Zach clearly wasn’t going to provide it. None of the voices in Kevin’s head were especially positive:
“Kev didn’t really seem too confident about his chances” … “Of course you were both technically horrible” … “These people don’t have you wearing costumes, right, Kev?” … “I had not imagined that Cromwell could be ready for an event of this magnitude” …
A summer’s worth of discouragement drifted through Kevin’s mind. He tried thinking of the little motivational phrases that his dad was always offering Izzy, but he kept mixing them together in a stew of total sports gibberish: “Give 110 percent of want it more to the next level of gut-check time to get no respect …”
“WELCOME!” said a booming public-address voice, jarring Kevin from his self-obsession. From floor level, the voice sounded as if it belonged to some evil cartoon super-villain. Kevin fussed, but Cromwell remained stone-still.
“The Midwest Kennel Club is pleased to welcome you to its thirty-third annual agility championships, here at the United Center!” The crowd of thousands roared, then stood for the national anthem.
Dogs soon began racing through the course … fast.
It was clear that whatever spaz/speed advantage Cromwell enjoyed at Paw Patch was more than matched here among the region’s very best dogs. Cromwell, with Elka lightly stroking his head, appeared at ease—for the moment. Yet as each new dog raced through the event with another sub-50-second time, Kevin felt less confident and more panicky. He couldn’t tune out the words of discouragement and dismissal floating in his head.
The dogs kept coming, and they were all, it seemed, spectacular. Elka applauded each one. Few penalties were enforced, and all the dogs, regardless of breed or handler, seemed to be stars.
Not surprisingly, given their usual lack of luck, Kevin and Cromwell were going to have to wait through every performance before they would get their opportunity—or, as seemed more accurate, their comeuppance. They were scheduled to go last. As new times were posted—0:00:48.600 … 0:00:49.700 … 0:00:46.100—Kevin saw just how far from ready he and Cromwell were for this. Elka’s original ins
tinct about them had been correct.
He looked into the stands and saw the faces of the dog enthusiasts, then assessed the crowd of animals and handlers.
Dad’s totally right, thought Kevin. This is a silly event made up by a bunch of losers who are just too lame to compete in real sports—and I’m not even good enough for it.
After twenty-nine other pairs had performed, Jody’s and Shasta’s names were announced.
Cheers arose and cameras flashed throughout the arena.
The reigning champs smiled at the crowd. Then, as they reached the starter’s line, they struck a dead-serious pose.
“She certainly is a single-minded little person,” said Elka.
“Freak show,” said Zach.
“Cold-blooded assassin,” said Kevin, the first words he’d uttered in perhaps an hour. He shook his head.
“Mr. Pugh,” began Elka, “you are not to concern yourself …”
“… with the other handlers and their dogs. Right. Gotcha. Hadn’t given ’em a thought.”
Cromwell seemed to be watching the overhead scoreboard rather intently.
Jody and Shasta were like a special ops team. They moved at inhuman speed and with ruthless efficiency, wasting no steps. The dog barely seemed to make contact with any surfaces; it soared gracefully over each impediment. The girl made no unnecessary movements whatsoever.
She might be a two-faced little cretin, thought Kevin, but she’s kind of a badass dog handler.
Ramp, hurdle, tunnel, hurdle, wall, tube, table, weave, seesaw, hoop … finished.
The digital clock flashed 0:00:40.100.
The crowd exploded.
“Yeesh!” said Zach.
Elka stood and clapped.
“And that is a new Midwest Kennel Club record!” bellowed the P.A. announcer.
Cromwell turned his head and studied his owner.
In a quick, decisive motion, Kevin Pugh slipped the leash onto his dog’s collar and got to his feet.
“Come on, Cromwell,” he said. “We’re outta here.”
25
Elka and Zach pursued Kevin down the long gray arena corridor and up the short flight of stairs that led to Madison Street. Zach tugged at Kevin’s arm, begging him to turn around. But Kevin shrugged him off like a gnat and stomped ahead. Cromwell whimpered, clearly not pleased to have moved so far away from the agility course.
“Do something, Ms. Brandt!” yelled Zach. “You can’t just let this chucklehead break up Team Cromwell! Not like this, not now! I have plans for us! Merchandi—!”
“Zachary,” she said, “the chucklehead may do as he pleases. I have never once forced a pupil onto a course, and I will not do it today.”
Kevin stopped near the Michael Jordan statue at the arena’s east entrance and looked back at Elka.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. I’m sorry, Zach; I’m sorry, Cromwell; and I’m sorry, Elka.” He looked at the ground. “I thought I was ready for … no, I thought I wanted this, but …”
“But you do not?” asked Elka.
Kevin was silent.
“Of course he wants it!” shouted Zach. “He’s trained for weeks! Like, really trained! Eating icky food, exercising, practicing, more exercise, more practicing … and for what? To give up? When he gets to the highest level of competi—!”
“This isn’t even the highest level, dude. There’s always another level. You win the Midwest, you go to the nationals…. You win the nationals, you go to the internationals…. You win those, you go to the interplanetary…. it doesn’t end. It never ends!”
“Until today,” said Zach angrily.
“Until today,” said Kevin flatly.
“You wish to go home, then, Mr. Pugh?”
“Yeah,” said Kevin, looking away. Cromwell whimpered again.
“And you are sure?”
“I’m rarely this sure of anything.”
Zach stomped back toward the arena’s entrance. “I’ll catch the bus,” he muttered.
“C’mon, dude,” called Kevin. “Do you even have money for the bus?”
“I was the financier!” shouted Zach. “Of course I have money for the bus.”
Kevin noticed Elka smiling at Zach, just for an instant. And then her expression flattened.
“So shall we go?” she asked.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
Cromwell took several steps toward Zach, whining a bit more, and Kevin scooped his dog up into his arms. He felt a great rush of guilt, knowing that his dog shared none of his reservations. “Sorry, boy,” he said. “I really am.” There was no licking. Just staring. “It was all fun while it lasted, Cromwell—really fun. You were awesome. The best. But we’ve done all we …”
Suddenly Kevin heard the familiar tones of “The Super Bowl Shuffle” via car horn.
Kevin’s head snapped up as the Pughs’ Tahoe screeched to a halt mere feet from the Jordan statue. Izzy hopped out through a rear window without opening the door.
Ignoring her mother’s yelling, she raced toward Kevin and Cromwell, hugged them, and chirped, “Whashup, bro?” She cracked her gum.
Kevin simply stared.
Howie and Maggie exited the SUV with looks of grave concern on their faces.
“Did we miss it?” Howie asked Elka. “We couldn’t have missed it! I just called! I said, ‘Hey, did the Pugh kid go yet?’ They said, ‘No, he’s up in fifteen or twenty minutes.’ I said, ‘That’s grea—’”
“What are you guys doing here?” Kevin asked incredulously.
“We’re here to see the big dog show!” said Maggie. Everyone stared at her. “I mean the agility competition,” she said quickly. “Not a dog show, which is something very different.”
A United Center security guard approached and began to speak.
“Sir, I’m afraid you can’t park your car here, not by the … oh, dang! You’re Howie Pugh, ain’t you?”
An autograph and two pictures later, they were legally parked.
“So you blew off Izzy’s game?” Kevin asked.
“We skunked ’em,” Izzy said, hopping up and down and removing the wad of gum. “Mercy rule. Ten-nothin’, Team Illinois beats Team Wisconsin. It was a rout. Fifteen minutes, tops. Slaughter rule invoked. Game over.”
Cromwell licked Izzy’s hand.
“That’s, um … that’s cool that your team mercied ’em, I guess.”
“Not her team,” said Maggie. “Izzy actually mercied them.”
“Nine goals,” said Kevin’s sister, raising her hand slightly. “One assist. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom …,” she said, making a series of phantom kicks. “A great team effort. We skipped the trophy thing—who needs another?—and hit the road.”
Izzy smiled.
“Dad,” said Kevin, “this really isn’t necessary. I mean …”
“I thought you’d be happy we were here,” said Howie.
Kevin was, actually. He was delighted, in fact. He was also standing outside with the dog in his arms, headed to Elka’s car.
The trainer smiled at him.
“Is there something you would perhaps like to say to your family, Kevin?” she asked.
But he was dumbfounded.
“I think maybe I should start,” said Howie, leaning a hand against the base of the statue. “And I should start by saying that I was an idiot, Kev. And a baby.” He paused. “I was an idiot-baby, basically.” He rubbed his hands together, appearing to search for words. “If I’m gonna teach you anything about commitment and effort, you need to know that I’m completely committed to you. Win or lose. Football or … um … dog.” He shuffled his feet. “Look, we want you to find what you love, and then do it—really do it. If you and Cromwell are as great as we hear, we’d all love to watch you.”
Howie looked at his son earnestly.
“And if you’re not as great as everyone says, that’s okay, too. It’s not important where you finish. All that matters is what you give.”
Kevin stared at his fathe
r, stunned.
“Um … thanks,” he finally said. “W-we give, um … a lot.”
Cromwell whimpered again.
“So did we miss it?” asked Maggie. “Because your father really did call, and they really did say …”
“Oh, no,” said Kevin. “You’re totally on time. We were just, um …”
“A pep talk,” said Elka, discreetly tucking her car keys back into her bag. “I always insist on a quick outdoor pep talk before Kevin takes the course.”
“Yeah?” asked Howie, eyeing Elka.
“A Paw Patch tradition,” she said.
“And you just missed the pep talk, Dad,” said Kevin. “Sorry.”
“Let me tell ya, Kev,” said Howie, with a fiery look in his eye, “I’ve heard pep talks from the best of the pep-talkers. I’ve been in the presence of motivational geniuses. Gifted orators. I once saw my defensive coordinator take a machete to a life-sized mannequin that was dressed like a Lions quarterback.”
Kevin saw Elka’s eyes widen.
“Yeah,” Howie said, “that story doesn’t always go over well in the retelling. People hear ‘machete’ and they just assume it was gross. But it was really very stirring. Very little gore. Men wept.”
“Had to be there, I guess,” said Kevin.
“That’s my point!” continued his dad, “You gotta be there, Kev! Like you and Cromwell are here.” Howie pointed at the arena. “This is no practice field, Kev. It’s the UC. You only get to compete in a building like this if you put the work in. Getting here is the big thing.” He paused. “It’s not the minutes on the course we’ll be cheering for, kid. It’s the hours of work we didn’t see. No matter where you finish, you’ve really impressed us.”
“And we’re proud,” said Maggie.
Howie smiled.
“Yes we are,” he added. “And I’ve always thought that if you work like a dog in practi … oh, no offense intended there, Cromwell. It’s an expression. If you work hard in practice, then the games are nothin’. They’re like a party.”
He gripped Kevin’s shoulders.
“This is the fun part,” Howie said. “You ready, Kev?”
