by Jon Scieszka
I hear Rich’s voice in my head. “Faith.” I take a deep breath. I have faith—faith it will finally get dark, gratitude that our field doesn’t have lights.
“Hitter Mack,” Rich Saxon says to me a couple of nights ago at Hugo’s Little Store.
I recognize irony. “Scaredy-cat Saxon,” I say back. It’s after eleven p.m., and I’ve got an hour left in my shift at Hugo’s unless the bus is late, in which case I have until it gets here. Greyline Stage comes through every other night, usually before midnight, and Hugo likes to stay open in case some gluttonous passenger wants to load up on Snickers bars and corn chips and ice-cream sandwiches for the last three hours of the trip to Boise. Hugo says if you cater to flatlanders in the off-hours when they really need you, they’ll favor your establishment over others when they come back through on their summer weekenders into the sticks. I don’t bother to tell Hugo that if you’re riding the midnight Greyliner toward Boise in the fall, there’s a pretty good chance you don’t have the means for a summer weekender in the sticks, because he’s paying me a little under minimum wage and I’m saving every penny I can for my escape fifteen minutes after my high school graduation, which, if Mandy Roberts will let me look over her shoulder on the Latin test, should happen in about two and a half years.
“How you holdin’ up?” Rich says now.
“Okay, I guess. How about you?”
“Holdin’ up just fine,” Rich says.
I nod. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m talkin’ about football,” he says.
That doesn’t quite connect to my question. I can’t do anything for Rich Saxon in football.
“When I asked how you’re holdin’ up. I was talking about football.”
“Oh,” I say. “Got it. More like needing someone to hold me up, but I’ll live.”
“You know,” he says, “it’s all in your head.”
I nod.
“And here,” he says, thumping his fist against his chest.
I watch him over the counter. “Make a muscle,” I say.
“Scuse me?”
“Make a muscle.” I point to his right arm. “Pump up your biceps.”
He does, and a hardball appears above the crook of his elbow.
I roll up my sleeve and do the same. No hardball. “That’s not in my head, Rich. Yours either. It’s in your arm. Same with your other arm, same with your legs….”
“Size is not everything,” he says. “There’s—”
“Speed,” I say, “and coordination and quickness—which is not the same as speed—and desire and a certain Cro-Magnon outlook. Rich, I went into a tattoo parlor the other day, asked them for one of those barbed-wire jobs around my right arm? Guy said he’d throw in the other arm free.”
“That’s funny,” Rich says.
“And one calf.”
“That’s even funnier.”
“My talents are wasted on the gridiron.”
“I’m serious, man,” he says. “You don’t look like you’re having any fun out there. Football is supposed to be fun.”
“Lemme buy you a pop,” I tell him, feeling kinda special because Rich Saxon is talking to me like I’m one of the guys. “Take a seat over here in our ‘restaurant’ section.” The restaurant section of Hugo’s is a round metal table with four plastic chairs where most people only stop long enough to put mustard on their almost-meat hot dog.
“Gatorade,” he says, “but I’ll pay for it.”
“On me,” I say back. “That’s why Hugo pays me under minimum. He knows I rip him off to buy friends.” I toss Rich a Gatorade.
He twists the cap, guzzles half. “You believe in God?” he asks.
I busy myself stocking shelves close by the table. “I don’t know,” I say. “What’s the difference?”
“Jesus?”
“If you believe in God, I guess you believe in Jesus,” I say.
“Only if you’re a Christian,” he says. “I guess I’m just asking if you have faith.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to be honest, but I do. I mean, Rich Saxon is hanging out with me. That doesn’t happen.
I stop stocking the shelves and look him square in the eye. “Do you?”
“Keeps me going,” he says. “I dedicate everything I do to my savior.”
Man, could I use a savior. “No offense, Rich, but what does that mean?”
“It just means,” he says, “He’s given me His best and I want to give my best back.”
“So you don’t, like, ask Him to help us win or something, right? Or point to the sky when you score a TD?”
He gives me a Duh! look. “Why would I point to the sky? He knows where He is. No, man, I don’t ask Him for anything, especially when it comes to football. What kind of a god would care about a football game when people are starving?”
“An American God?”
“You really are funny,” Rich says. “Naw, I feel blessed, that’s all. So I give it back.”
Makes sense, I guess.
“No faith?” Rich asks again.
I start to say I have faith that telling God what I want just gives Him a list of things to make sure I don’t get, but I don’t want to sound like more of a wuss than I am. “Guess not,” I say.
“Not surprised,” he says. “I’ve been watching you on the field, hanging back, trying to stay under Coach’s radar. No confidence.”
“It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Only if you’re looking,” he says. “You sure aren’t the only guy out there trying to keep from getting hurt.”
I hold out my arms, look down at my scrawny body. “I’m not afraid to get hurt, Rich. I mean, I don’t like it, but I’ve been … well, trust me. I’m not afraid to get hurt.”
He sits forward. “What are you afraid of?”
I wonder why I feel like crying. “Laughter,” I say. “Of the blast of Coach’s whistle right before he yells ‘Again, Mack!’ Then the laughter.”
As if on cue the bell above the rickety door jangles and in walks Hector Mack. My old man.
There’s a fresh scratch down the side of his face and the faint smell of liquor on his breath—a deadly combination. His glare is trained at me as he takes the first few steps into the store, but he spots Rich and flips his charm switch, if you can call it that. “Rich Saxon!” he says. “How you doin’, buddy?”
Rich stands, puts out his hand. “I’m okay, Mr. Mack. How are you?”
Dad shoots a sideways glance at me, but … “Good. I’m good. You guys gonna be league champs this year?”
Rich smiles. “It’d be the first time this century,” he says. “But it’s possible, I guess.”
Dad gestures his head toward me. “Guess you won’t be gettin’ much help from Mr. Football here,” he says. “Worthless as a toothless pit bull.” He laughs, showing an equal number of existing and missing teeth. That passes for humor in Hector’s world.
Rich flinches. “Actually, I think he’ll do us a lot of good. He’s comin’ right along.”
“Shee … comin’ along to the end of the bench. He hasn’t even been in a game.”
“Not yet, maybe,” Rich says. “But he’ll see some action before the year’s over. An’ he’s got two more years. Lotta guys don’t play at first.”
“You was startin’ your freshman year.”
“Yeah, well, I was big for my age. And my parents held me back a year.”
Dad won’t be denied. He’s hacked off big time about something and not even the presence of a high school football hero is going to keep it down forever. In his soul he’s gotta disgrace me.
“You work hard at football,” he says. He’s talking to Rich, but looking at me.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“I can’t even get my little girl to do the dishes.” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“I told you, Hector, we practiced late. I had to get to work. I didn’t even dirty any.”
“Yeah, well, that got the ol’ lady on my butt.�
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I look at the scratch, probably smile. “I see that.”
Suddenly he has me by the front of the shirt. “You think that’s funny?” He draws back his hand. I unfocus and wait for the bang, only wishing Rich Saxon wouldn’t see this. I can take the hit….
Rich catches Dad’s arm in midswing, and Dad whirls, ready to go. But he must have the same thought I’ll have tomorrow standing at one end of the meat grinder, facing Rich on the other. Rich Saxon dwarfs my father.
“Get your hand off me! You can’t touch me!”
“You can’t touch him.” Rich’s voice is steady, calm.
“He’s my kid. I’ll touch ’im anytime I want to!”
Rich shakes his head. “You won’t touch him now.”
“Big football hero,” Dad says, releasing my shirt. “We’ll see about this. I got rights. I’m his damn parent.” He turns and storms out.
We stand, watching the door swing shut.
There’s no way to dress this up. I want to say I’m sorry he had to see that, but the words dry on my tongue before I can spit them out. Rich puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wow,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Listen, man, you wanna spend the night at my place? We have an extra room.”
“Naw, he’ll be asleep by the time I get home. Or in a coma if he goes back and messes with my mom. I won’t get the backlash from this until next time. Dumb as my old man is, he never forgets a slight.”
Rich pulls his letter jacket off the back of the plastic chair. “Sure? I can drop you by your house to get some stuff.”
“I’m sure. Got it covered.”
That’s how I lose friends. I mean, all things considered, I could get along okay. People think I’m funny sometimes. I make sure I never invite anyone home, and figure out a way to always wear clean clothes. But there are 867 people in this town and sooner or later anybody who considers being my friend sees either Mom or Dad go after me. It’s a crazy thing about humans—being treated bad makes them hate you.
I drop into my three-point stance once more as Rich walks back toward Coach, take a deep breath, and get ready for a long afternoon. Coach smacks Rich with the ball again, and sucks air, ready to blast that whistle. Rich looks past my face mask one more time, and I guess he’s not satisfied, ’cause he puts his hand up once more. “Time.”
Coach has about had it. Even for Rich Saxon.
Rich hands him the ball again, walks toward me, motions me up.
“Man,” I say, “just lemme get this over with.”
“I’m lookin’ in your eyes, Mack; I don’t see it, man. You got faith?”
I shake my head. “Got no faith, Rich.”
“Gotta have faith. Not in God. In yourself. When you hear that whistle, you come at me with everything you got, hear me?”
“I hear you, Rich.”
“I mean it.” He grabs my face mask. “Look at me.”
What am I gonna do? He’s got my face mask. I look at him.
“Everything you’ve got. Right below my numbers. Shoulder first, and wrap me up like you’re holding on to a life buoy in a hurricane.”
“Shoulder first. Life buoy,” I say.
“Faith,” he says.
“Shoulder,” I say again. “Life buoy.”
The whistle blasts and Rich explodes at me, knees high, legs pumping like pistons. And I give him everything I’ve got. I’m running low, staring right at his waistline. In the distance I hear a guttural growl, realize just before impact it’s coming out of me.
A light explodes in my head; all feeling drains from my extremities. My arms try to wrap him up, but they are disconnected from my brain. I open my eyes in time to see his legs churning on past, close them again, and wait for sensation to return. And the whistle.
Precious few acts of kindness have been directed my way in my lifetime, so few I bet I remember them all. I don’t say that to get sympathy or pity; it’s just fact. But none like this. In the same second Rich runs me over, he stops on a dime, whirls, and hurdles my near-lifeless body back to Coach in time to snatch the whistle from between his lips. “Pound for pound,” he says, “that’s the hardest I’ve ever been hit.” He nods toward me. “How ’bout it, Coach? My buddy Mack’s done with this drill for the day.”
Coach stares at me. His whistle blasts. “Next up!”
THE CHOICE
BY JAMES BROWN
I was in seventh grade when I first saw Bill Bradley playing basketball on our television in the basement. I didn’t know it then, but watching him would influence the path of my life.
In some ways, I was lucky to see him at all. We didn’t watch much television in our modest home in Washington, DC. My father worked two jobs and stayed busy supporting us, and my mother the homemaker made sure that we understood that we needed to work hard to be successful in life.
We needed to work hard on our school studies, needed to work hard around the house, and we simply needed to work hard and excellently at whatever we did. I certainly carried that work ethic over to sports, which I loved.
I was not an overnight success in sports. I had a lot of potential but had to work diligently in sharpening the fundamentals to become a good player, not ever thinking about stardom. Before high school, I made my basketball team in eighth grade, not because I was a great player, but because I was a good listener and the coach loved the fact that I paid attention and he knew I was going to be a hard worker. I was a role player even then. I did my part to make the rest of the team better.
Unfortunately for me, my role in those days was to set a good example of being a good listener and being coachable—but nothing that I did on the court. In fact, on the day when we were introduced to the student body, we dribbled down the court to make a layup … and I blew the uncontested layup. I still remember the gymnasium full of my peers, laughing. I was looking for a place to hide. Not the way you play it out in your fantasies. At least, not the way that I did.
In fact, before I ever became serious about my basketball, my first love was baseball. I’ve got a picture of me playing Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) baseball when I was fifteen years old. The picture captures me perfectly at that time: long and lanky, my uniform hanging off me, the unique nose that is undeniably mine.
I looked like a human coat hanger, skinny and pointy.
I hit a lot of home runs in the CYO play-offs that summer, and Morgan Wootten, a famous basketball coach from DeMatha Catholic High School in Hyattsville, Maryland, was in attendance. He was there to see a pitcher on our team, a blond-haired guy named Steve Garrett who threw really hard and was headed to DeMatha for ninth grade the next year. Steve was a great three-sport athlete in football, baseball, and basketball and, to cap it all off, was also a good student. Coach was there to watch three games in the play-offs. And as I recall, Steve threw a perfect game, a one-hitter, and a no-hitter. No wonder Coach Wootten felt pretty good about the decision to have Steve attend DeMatha. After the weekend, when Steve’s leverage with DeMatha couldn’t have been any higher, Steve brought Coach Wootten over to meet me. “Coach, this is our left fielder, James Brown.” Coach greeted me and asked if I played basketball also since I was such a big kid. I did, I told him. “I scored one point last season for my eighth-grade team.”
Coach Wootten nodded. “I’ll talk with the baseball coach for you,” he said. He obviously didn’t have any need for me on the basketball court.
Coach Wootten did talk to the baseball coach, and I was accepted. My parents were ecstatic, as DeMatha is a private school that would require a financial sacrifice but provide the academic foundation my parents preached was important. Although it was in Maryland, it was located only a few miles outside of DC. Before I arrived at DeMatha, though, I attended a summer basketball camp with Coach Wootten because I knew I needed help with my skills to progress on the basketball court—I still wanted to play basketball. I took everything he said to heart about sharpening my skills, so much that I quit playing baseball and focused ex
clusively on basketball from that time forward.
I think my dad might have been a little disappointed, but he never did anything but encourage me. Family legend maintains that my father stood over my crib with my uncle admiring my right arm and dreaming of the day when I would be an ace pitcher. I hated to disappoint him, but I realized that, even during that summer of hitting home run upon home run in CYO baseball, I had no future in the game. Steve Garrett and his heat-seeking missile of a fastball helped me to quickly come to that realization. And to make matters worse, he had a big, sharp-breaking curveball! I vividly remember standing in the batter’s box during an intrasquad game, watching him throw to me the pitches I’ve seen him throw to opposing batters so many times. He threw me a breaking ball—I read the spin of the pitch coming out of his hand and knew it was a curveball. As usual, he started the pitch inside, coming at the hitter—in this case, me. I was talking myself through it after seeing that spin. It’s gonna break. Wait for it. It’s about to break. It’s gonna break. Isn’t it going to break? Is it going to break? IT’S NOT GOING TO BREAK! my brain screamed as I hit the dirt, skinny arms and legs flying in every direction.
Sure enough, it broke over the plate for a strike.
That’s when I realized I didn’t have the courage to stand in the batter’s box as I got bigger and guys started throwing harder and harder. Steve and his breaking ball—they conspired to get me out of the game.
So I soaked up every pearl of wisdom during Coach Wootten’s summer camp, every drill he taught, every axiom he conveyed. I used to joke that the rich tan you see me sporting now is the result of me working relentlessly on my basketball game outdoors for three or four hours a day in the blazing hot sun. My becoming one of the best leapers in the District of Columbia was in some part genetics, but mostly because I went berserk on the exercises (toe raises) that I had been told would improve my jumping ability—and they did.
Four years after seeing Bill Bradley for the first time, my own recruitment in college basketball came in 1969. It was three years after the college basketball game that caused a seismic shift on the collegiate landscape: the 1966 National Championship game in which underdog Texas Western and their all-black starting five beat the powerhouse University of Kentucky and their all-white starting five. It seems hard to imagine now that a game like that really happened, but it did. By the time I came along, all schools were recruiting players regardless of their color—even Kentucky offered me a scholarship.
