by Tim Green
They rode for a time before Brock spoke again. “Dad? Did you ever think about . . . I don’t know, like . . . dating?”
“For you or me?” His father gave him a serious look and they both burst out laughing.
“You, Dad.”
His father took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know, buddy. It’d take a pretty amazing woman for me to be able to forget about your mom.”
“People do it, though, right?”
His dad nodded. “People do, but I don’t have to have a wife and you don’t have to have a mom for a normal life. One parent happens all the time.”
“I know.” Brock looked out the window.
He decided not to talk about his dad finding someone else anymore, but he couldn’t help wishing for it. His dad was right, a lot of kids only had one parent, but there was something about a mom. Brock barely remembered his real mom, and he thought having a second mom would be really nice, not just for him, but for his dad, especially if they were going to settle down.
10
During the drive from Maryland to Ohio, Brock’s dad told him what he knew about their new home. Brock wondered how he knew so much, but didn’t ask.
Calhoun, Ohio, was built on a hillside overlooking a bend in the Muskingum River. The less desirable part of the town spilled across the river into what people called the Flatlands. The Flatlands were where—a hundred years ago—the town’s factories had been built. Around the crumbling skeletons of those buildings, mashed together like garbage in a trash compactor, were the tiny homes used by factory workers of old. Today, those sagging neighborhoods housed the clerks from places like Walmart and Dollar General, the laborers in the newfound oil fields, and the folks who cleaned the office buildings for the lawyers, doctors, and engineers across the river.
“Where are we going to live?” Brock asked.
His father chuckled softly. “The wrong side of the river, I guess. I told you, money is going to be an issue with us. We’ll start out in the Flatlands and see if we can’t work our way up.”
“I’m fine with that.” Brock meant it too. He didn’t care where he lived. Having his dad around and not running off in the middle of the night for days on end would be enough for him to be happy. He wondered if it could really be true, then pushed that from his mind the way he had the face of the evil Russian, Boudantsev.
Hours later, when they pulled into town, the rain came down so hard on the car’s hood that it sounded like distant firecrackers. The stores on Main Street crouched under the dark sky. As they crossed over an old steel bridge, the muddy river below twisted and shivered under gusts of rain. While the charcoal-gray sky draped the surrounding hilltops with a frayed and dirty mist, the ruined factories crowded the riverbank like a row of giant rotten teeth. It was as ugly a place as Brock had ever seen.
“I bet it’s a lot prettier in the sunlight,” his father said, turning down a narrow street and passing a corner bar whose red neon light promised draft beer. They pulled into the tiny driveway of a narrow, pale-blue two-story house, jammed into a street packed with homes as close as candies in a box.
The sunny beach was a lifetime away. They unpacked the few things they’d acquired over the summer, climbing the unsteady steps of the front porch, then up the narrow stairs just inside the door. Brock had a tiny bedroom at the top of the stairs, his father the slightly bigger one in the back. They’d share the bathroom in between, with its old claw-foot tub and separate hot and cold faucets in the sink. The bathroom smelled like damp wood. Downstairs, a slumped and musty couch looked out the front window through a long diagonal crack. In the corner the bare cables for a TV lay like dead snakes. The kitchen was in the back, with a tipsy round table where they could eat. That was it. This was their house. It wasn’t much bigger than a double-decker storage container, but it was home.
Brock was tired. Even though all he’d done was ride in the car all day, after he ate a sandwich with his dad, he crawled right into his new bed. The rusty springs beneath the old striped mattress creaked and groaned as he settled in. He tried to sleep, but couldn’t, so he decided to read and turned on the light. The bed complained loudly as he tried to get comfortable with the pillow behind his back so he could sit up against the wall. He opened a paperback copy of Big Red but didn’t get very far before the book slipped from his hand, jarring him awake enough to shut off the light. The rain drummed the roof and pattered against the windows.
As Brock drifted off to sleep, his only thought was that this didn’t feel like home.
11
Brock woke early, threw on some sweatpants and a T-shirt, and wandered down the hall. His father lay with an arm over his eyes, feet sticking out from the covers, and mouth wide open, snoring softly. Brock used the bathroom and tiptoed downstairs. There were two granola bars on the kitchen table along with three bottles of Gatorade from the drive. Brock ate a bar and sipped some orange Gatorade, then got up to explore their new home. There wasn’t much to see. A rickety set of stairs around the corner by the back door led down into a smelly stone basement. A rusty water heater stood next to a greasy furnace. Old and dusty cobwebs bearded the underside of the floor above.
“Disgusting,” Brock mumbled. He didn’t want to poke around, even though the old shelves were filled with hardware and interesting knickknacks from another age. He climbed up the stairs, then let himself out the back, down a broken set of concrete steps. The small patch of damp crabgrass hemmed in by rusty fence held nothing for him, so he circled the house, turning sideways to squeeze past their car. He stopped when he reached the cracked sidewalk. A huge puddle stretched from the edge of the grass into the middle of the road. He looked up and down the street. Broken and severely wounded cars hugged the curb and filled the other narrow driveways. The sky was nearly white and the glow beyond the nearest factory wall promised sunshine.
It wasn’t what he’d call pretty by any means, but it didn’t look as bad as it had last night. The small crisp breeze rustled through a thick coat of leaves on the maple tree across the street. The rain seemed to have washed away the worst of the grime. Last night he’d thought he was moving into a war zone.
The clank of changing bike gears got his attention. He turned to see a big kid coming up the street on a small ten-speed bike. He wore a football uniform, head to toe, including cleats and a helmet. His gold padded pants were stained with dirt, and the bright-green helmet matched his jersey with big gold numbers that read “72.” The bike wavered beneath the boy as if the equipment cost him his balance. Their eyes met as the kid steered past. The player looked back and the bike handle nicked the side mirror of an aging compact car. The handle spun, the bike tilted, and the hefty football player flew over the handlebars, crashing with a bang on the pavement below.
“Ouch!” The football player rolled onto his back and grabbed at his knee. “You dummy! What are you doing?”
Brock stepped out into the street, avoiding the puddle. “Why am I the dummy? You weren’t even watching where you were going. That’s my fault?”
“You just jump out at me like that?” The hefty football player sat up, then rolled to the side, gathering himself before lunging to his feet.
“What are you talking about? I just stood here,” Brock said.
“Oh man.” The player growled and reached for his fallen bike. “Look at this. You bent the doggone rim!”
“I just stood here!”
“Staring.”
“It’s my street as much as yours.” Brock stood his ground. He might not have as much bulk as this kid, but Brock was just as tall and more muscular if he had to bet.
The big kid waddled over to Brock, standing toe to toe and eye to eye.
“Yeah?” the kid said.
“Yeah.” Brock nodded his head, and a fire burned in his gut. Even though he knew this was no way to get started in a brand-new neighborhood, he couldn’t keep quiet. “What are you gonna do about it?”
12
The football player’s scowl faded. He ti
lted his head. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just bummed. I can’t be late for practice. I’m on the first team, but I won’t be if I’m late. You know what a hard case Coach is.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Coach Hewitt. The seventh-grade coach? Don’t tell me you didn’t play for him last year? With your size?”
“I’m not from around here. We came in last night.”
“Hey, I’m new too. Not last night. We moved here last winter. Matthew Koletsky. Mom calls me Mattie. Friends call me Mak ’cause on the football field, I’m like a Mack Truck, only I spell it M-A-K. That’s ’cause I’m Matthew Alexander Koletsky. Glad to meet you.” Mak’s smile lit his face and he seemed to have forgotten about his broken bike or being late. “I figured you were an eighth-grader at least. You’re huge.”
“Look at you.”
“Yeah, I’m bulky huge.” Mak patted his gut. “But you’re like Hulk huge.”
“Not quite.”
“For seventh-grade you are. Did you repeat a grade?”
“No.”
“Man, you gotta get to practice too. You could still be eligible for the first game. I mean, with your size, you could be first team too.”
Brock rumpled his brow. “First team?”
Mak huffed. “A starter. It’s a big thing around here to be first team. What’s your name?”
Brock hesitated. “Brock. Brock Barrette.”
“Is that your car?” Mak pointed with his thumb toward Brock’s driveway.
“My dad’s,” Brock said.
“I know that. Is he going to work or anything? Maybe he could drive me to the field. I’d make it on time and you could meet Coach and get signed up. My dad works nights, so I gotta ride my bike. Does your dad work nights? No, well not last night because you didn’t get in until last night. He didn’t go right to work, did he?” The more Mak talked, the faster he talked, and Brock had to digest his words before he could answer.
“My dad might be able to give you a ride, but I’m not a football player,” he said.
“Not . . .” Mak frowned. “You’re huge. You gotta play football.”
“I’ve thrown it around with my friends, but I never played in a league or anything. I played baseball. I’m a pitcher. A lefty.”
“Not in the fall, you’re not.” Mak shook his head violently. “This is Calhoun. There’s no baseball in the fall. I don’t think it’d be legal. That’s part of why we came here. It was here or Hensonville and my dad said, ‘Kid as big as you, we gotta go to Calhoun for the football program alone.’ Wish we lived on the right side of town, though.”
“What’s the right side?”
“Other side of the river.” Mak angled his head toward where Brock knew the bridge and the river were. “This is the Flatlands. Most of the guys on the first team tend to be from town. They start ’em young across the river. Age five, they’re playing in this fancy flag league. Costs a lot to join. Your parents gotta have some bank to travel around and afford the equipment. Hey, can you get your dad to drive us now? You think he’d mind?”
“No, my dad won’t mind.” Brock had no idea if his dad would mind or not. Everywhere they’d been before, him just meeting some kid on the street was unthinkable. Before, he’d always been careful to take things slow with people, make few friends, and never talk about his family life. This was different, though. They were here to stay. He’d only be the new kid until some other new kid came along.
So, he went around in the back of the house because the front door was locked, then, from the bottom of the stairs, called up. “Dad? You up?”
“I am now.” His father’s voice was scratchy, but he didn’t sound mad.
“Can we help my friend?”
“Friend? What are you talking about?”
Brock could tell by the thump from above that his father had gotten out of bed. “I just met him. He crashed his bike and he needs a ride or he’ll get bounced off the football first team.”
His father’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, hair wild from sleep. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’ll be right down.”
Brock went out the front door to wait. Mak had already dragged his ailing bike up into their driveway and leaned it against the side of the front porch. “Good?”
“He’s coming,” Brock said.
“Awesome. My goose was gonna be cooked.”
“You want to take that helmet off?”
“Nah. I gotta get used to it, you know? I slept in it last night. That’s commitment. That’s what my dad says. Commitment is one of the most important virtues of sports. My dad says ‘virtues’ is a fancy word, but you don’t have to be a fancy pants to talk fancy and—”
Thankfully, Brock’s dad came out jingling his keys and Mak stopped talking. Brock’s dad looked at the bike while Brock explained what happened and introduced him to Mak.
“Got a football game?” Brock’s dad surveyed Mak’s full equipment.
“Practice. Can’t be late. Coach Hewitt—I was just saying—he’s a hard case. Some people say a hard something else.” Mak patted his backside. “But my dad doesn’t go in for a garbage mouth.”
Brock’s dad gave Brock a look like he better be listening and Brock shrugged.
Mak kept talking. “That doesn’t mean he judges other people who talk like that. My uncle Mike. Whew. You should hear him talk.”
“We better go if you’re not gonna be late,” Brock’s dad said as he got into the car.
“You guys made it just in time.” Mak slid into the backseat. “Brock could get signed up today and play in the first game. He’d be able to get in enough practices. You gotta have ten. I got three already. Coach doesn’t like you to miss any. But you just moved in. He’s a hard case, but not unreasonable. My dad says that’s part of being a good coach.”
Brock’s dad looked in the rearview mirror. “You talk kind of fast, don’t you?”
“When I’m nervous.”
“We’ll get you there.” Brock’s dad backed out of the driveway.
Mak directed them over the bridge and through the center of town before taking a left and continuing through the treelined streets of fine homes until they reached a big brick school. They circled the school to the football fields out back. More than two dozen fully padded players already dotted the field in their gold pants and green helmets and jerseys.
Mak popped open the door. “Come on, Mr. Barrette. You got to meet Coach Hewitt and bring Brock. Coach will love him. Look how big he is.”
Mak took a quick breath and talked even faster. “We could play on the line together. We could open up holes in the line so big my grandmother could run through them. And my grandmother can barely walk. She hurt her hip. My uncle Mike promised to get the ice off her steps. But he didn’t. Well?”
Brock turned to his dad. “Can I?”
13
In Brock’s mind were all the other times he’d asked to do something and the answer had always been no. He knew his father said things would be different now, but the pattern was stamped so hard into his brain that when his dad said, “Yes,” he had to ask him to repeat himself. “What?”
“I said, sure. Why not?”
Brock took a deep breath and let it out slow, with a grin on his face.
“Nice,” Mak said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Coach. Being able to introduce someone new is an important skill. My dad says you gotta look everyone in the eye, though. Just introducing isn’t enough. That’s only half the battle. That’s what he says, anyway. My dad.”
They walked toward the goalpost, where Brock saw a man wearing green-and-gold Calhoun Fighting Crabs shorts and a T-shirt get down into a three-point stance and fire out at a blocking dummy one of Mak’s teammates tried to hold up. The coach pumped his short thick legs like dueling jackhammers. He drove the bag and the player holding it right through the back of the end zone, stopping only when the player tumbled to the grass with the big bag on top of h
im.
“Now that’s the way you drive a dummy,” the coach barked from one side of his mouth. He had a gray crew cut and a barrel chest, and stood no taller than Brock. The coach looked down on the fallen player with his hands on his hips. “Head up. Back flat. Legs never stop pumping.”
Mak stepped forward. “Coach, I got a new kid from my neighborhood, wants to play football.” Mak put a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “My bike broke and they gave me a ride.”
Coach turned. His blue eyes quickly absorbed Brock, then swept over to his dad before holding out a stubby-fingered hand that looked like a wedge of stone. Brock’s dad shook the coach’s hand and the veins in both men’s arms jumped in their skin.
“Pete Barrette.” Brock’s dad’s eyes met the coach’s eyes with equal intensity. Brock’s dad looked like a soldier poorly disguised in a regular person’s clothes. He was like a concrete post, upright and formidable.
“Dale Hewitt.” Coach broke off the handshake. “You got a big boy. Seventh-grader?”
“He is,” Brock’s dad said, nodding.
“Nice. You can never have too many linemen.”
“You should take a look at him for quarterback,” Brock’s dad said. “He’s got a heck of an arm.”
Brock glowed at the sound of his father’s praise.
Coach Hewitt snorted through his smile. “I can look, but I got a quarterback. Two, in fact.”
Brock’s dad shrugged. “Well, take a look and see what you think. What do I have to do to get him signed up?”
“Is he registered with the school? Physical, all that?”
“Did it all online last week,” Brock’s dad said. “His legal name is Robert, for the paperwork, but we call him Brock. It was Bob, but he didn’t like that so we called him B. Then, he started getting big and strong and it was B the Rock, then someone started calling him B-Rock, then Brock, and it stuck.”
Brock tried not to grin at his father’s story and he wondered if it was made up on the spot, or something his dad had thought about.
