Muckers

by Sandra Neil Wallace

  “We may not have a big fancy white Frigidaire, but we don’t go hungry, Ugly,” Cruz says. “You tell that shift boss—”

  “Just worry about your own performance, amigo. And I don’t need your food,” I say, giving that half burrito a fierce stare like it’s a vulture-pecked rat. The same way Mrs. Hollingworth and those ladies on Company Ridge looked at Maw when she turned.

  I remember when they first took Maw up the hill, the Hatley women would leave all sorts of things in our kitchen: buttermilk biscuits, spaghetti-and-meatball casseroles, chocolate cream pies with notes pinned to them. Like we couldn’t take care of ourselves. Like we were a bunch of lowlifes or eejits or something. That’s what Pop used to say. The gifts lasted two, maybe three months.

  I pretend like I’m just casually opening the fridge to see if there’s any eggs I might’ve missed. The ones from Mrs. Palermo’s chickens that I scramble up with the half-rotten cabbage heads I find behind Peila’s—if the burros haven’t gotten them first.

  There isn’t an egg in sight, just a few pickles in a jar.

  I know it’s stupid turning away food when I’m starving, but I don’t want anyone knowing how it is behind these walls and getting all righteous like Sims or judging what they don’t even know.

  “You tell that shift boss to stuff this fridge before he does anything else tonight, you hear me, Ugly? I know he eats plenty. I’ve seen him at the Copper Star with—” Cruz shuts his mouth in midsentence when he sees me glaring at him. Not that he’s about to tell me something I don’t already know.

  “Hear those Rim Valley players ain’t been anywhere near five thousand feet since last season,” Cruz says. “Hello, nosebleeds.”

  I don’t like it when Cruz changes the subject, especially after smarting off at me. And there won’t be any Copper Star for my father tonight. He’d rather work a double shift than watch me play.

  “I can’t wait to shred their knees and elbows into Hell’s Corner.”

  “Too dry for Hell’s Corner,” I snap back. “And they beat us last year, remember?”

  “That’s because the chalk line was wrong.”

  “You mean you slipped on your ass and never got the ball over in time, so you said the chalk line was wrong.”

  Cruz’s mouth is full, but by the look he’s giving, I’m thinking he’ll spit out what’s in it and tear a verbal strip into me. Then he grins. A few pieces of rice and beans fall out, so we both start laughing and he nearly chokes on the rest of the burrito. “Whoever made that call must’ve been born in Phoenix, no?” Cruz mumbles.

  “No,” I tell him. “Cottonville.”

  Cruz swallows before laughing this time. “They promised to go heavy on the markings for tonight, so they can’t make us lose.”

  It’s just like Cruz not to see that we might get beat tonight fair and square or how small we are. And it’s no use telling him any different. Cruz has never given a horse’s ass about the other teams or what people think. But he’s not the one throwing the ball. I am. And I’ve got to be pretty much perfect this year.

  Cruz doesn’t know much about Hell’s Corner anyway. Not the way Bobby did. He’d take me to the field on Sunday afternoons and teach me all about that northeasterly patch of ground. How it’s hiding the rocky elbows of a boulder embedded in the sand and that you need to set your spikes around the edges and dig so you won’t slip. It’s bad enough on dry days, but after a monsoon, Hell’s Corner can suck you deep into the mountain, twisting knees and ending seasons, not caring which team you’re on.

  “Rally sons of Hatley High. Sing her glory, sound her fame. Raise her Orange and Black!” Rabbit walks in singing our fight song, which Notre Dame stole off us, and wearing the token sweater Coach Hansen gave him for being such a good sport, writing those articles about us in the Pick & Shovel.

  “How’s traffic out there?” Cruz jokes.

  “I’d say you could shoot a cannon from here to the post office and you wouldn’t hit anybody,” Rabbit says.

  “They’re all at the field already?” I can’t believe it.

  “Last I heard was nearly five hundred,” Rabbit says. “My dad ran out of French loaf already. And Beebe’s not even in her cheerleader outfit yet. She had to ask Angie to help collect the two bits for admission just to keep up.”

  “Rah! Rah! For Hatley High!” Cruz wiggles his hips and whistles, following the curves of some imaginary gal with his hands, but I know it’s Beebe. “We’re not even there yet, Ugly. And already they’re dying to see us.”

  Rabbit hands us each a copy of the Pick & Shovel.

  “You wrote about the game already?” Cruz asks.

  “I wrote an essay about the game,” Rabbit says.

  “Good.” Cruz nods. “Keep writing essays and acting smart so you won’t get drafted when you turn nineteen come December. And don’t grow. They’re not looking for soldiers the size of eighth graders.”

  Rabbit ignores Cruz and gets out his notebook, drawing a line with his pencil to split up the page. “You nervous, Red?” he says. “ ’Cause it’s okay to be nervous. Gosh, if I was you I’d probably screw up the first play.”

  “You write about that and your fingers’ll be taped up for a year,” Cruz warns him.

  As if I didn’t know that I can’t screw up this year.

  I take the half burrito, kick the trash can open with my cleats, and shove it in, plate and all. I’m no charity case. And I don’t need anyone acting ornery—not Cruz, not Rabbit, not my pop. Or feeling sorry for me either. I’m the first-string quarterback for Hatley High. The second O’Sullivan to be one. Coach says I’ve even got the same arm as Bobby. That my skills are similar, only I’m shorter. And maybe even a little bit quicker. Not as strong, though, but just as accurate.

  We’ll find out by the end of the night.

  * * *

  7:00 P.M.

  It’s impossible to cut through the line of cars, the chrome grilles are bunched so close together they’re nearly touching. Not even Francisco can squeeze through on Paradiso. And the spots behind the goalposts are already taken, so I don’t know where the Rim Valley cars are going to park.

  Our bleachers are full, too, though kickoff’s an hour away. Even the drag-ons that can seat a couple hundred extra: pretty much old ladies and little kids spreading out blankets to save seats before climbing down to get ice cream. But mostly Mucker people standing with their arms folded, waiting for us to score.

  Rabbit’s sitting by the water jugs stuffing his face with a hunk of French loaf so I guess Mr. Palermo found some more bread. What I wouldn’t do for a piece of that right now. I haven’t eaten anything and Cruz was right, that was stupid. My head’s pounding inside like a tom-tom and my hands go all clammy, but my face is burning up and the sun isn’t helping.

  It’s barely starting to dip behind the mountain. Shafts of light are streaking onto the field and I have to cup my hands to see it from here, the outline of the miners’ hospital. Its clay-colored roof is shaded brown, but the rest is blurred together so I can’t make out stories or balconies or where Maw’s window is.

  Maw used to be the first one at these games, tying markers on the bleachers with her handkerchiefs—some black, some orange—and me hauling a hamper full of soda-bread sandwiches.

  People used to joke how Maw was a walking example of good ol’ Hatley High—a living mascot with her copper-colored hair and shiny black blouses covered in orange polka dots she’d special-ordered from Penney’s.

  I could pretty much starve to death and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference to Maw now.

  “He got his job back,” Nick Managlia says to me, all happy and pointing to his father leaning against the side of the bleachers.

  “That’s good,” I tell Nick, eyeing his dad. He’s lighting a cigarette and putting on a show, grinning and laughing like he could actually be proud of Nick. Only I know what he’s become. Him and Pop. But at least Nick’s father shows up for the games.

  A shadow darts by�
�it’s Cruz and he’s jerking his knees up high, sprinting from goalpost to midfield, giving the folks a performance. But I’ve got to save my strength. Besides, if I put a helmet on now, my head might bust right through.

  “Shake the thunder from the sky. Old Hatley High will win!” Beebe calls out, going over a yell in her shiny black skirt.

  Cruz doesn’t look up. He curls his lip instead, then trots backward, diving higher than he needs to in order to catch an easy pass. He must know I’m feeling skittish. He’s been taking handoffs from Marty Quesada, who’s second-string quarterback this year and will move over from halfback, I guess, if I really do screw up.

  I glance to Rim Valley’s side. Their quarterback’s beaten us before. And they lost a player to polio last year who’d be in the lineup right now, so I’m certain they’ll want to get even. They still blame the outbreak on our mountain air.

  I jog over to Ricky Sanchez and get into position to take a snap, swinging my arm for an aerial to Pete Torres.

  “How you feelin’?” It comes from behind and stops me cold—Pop’s voice. You’re not supposed to be talking to anyone except the team once you’re on the field, so I keep throwing.

  “Your arm, I mean,” Pop says.

  It’s heavy as a jackhammer and throbbing. I weave it around the socket a few times and it begins to loosen by the fourth throw. He’s finally here, I’m thinking, to see what his other son can do. And I can’t help but smile when I turn to face Pop. He’s eyeing me like he would a pony at the races or one of those illegal cockfights he bets on behind the theater in the Cribs.

  “Tink you can win?” he says, tugging on his cap. Those brows are still thick with black from the mine and brooding over me as he crosses the sideline with his hands on his hips, making his belly flare out even more.

  My gut starts cramping up and I have to run. I race for our goalpost as fast as I can and make it just in time, heaving what little that’s left in my stomach into the open pit below.

  Coach Hansen’s yelling at us to hustle over and I don’t think anybody saw. My throat’s so dry I guzzle down all the water Tommy hands me in the huddle before Coach blows the whistle for us to come closer, fanning the air with the newspaper.

  “I’m sure you’ve all read what’s in here, about us being the lightest team in Arizona,” Coach says, “and maybe the history of the state.” Coach looks at some of the guys and they hunch over, feeling embarrassed, and start shrinking into themselves. Except for Cruz and Tony. “Well, the last time I checked, a newspaper’s never won a game.”

  “Damn right!” Cruz shouts, jumping on the spot.

  Coach crumples the paper into a ball. “Remember, this isn’t a weight contest, boys, it’s a football game. The pigskin can’t read. It only goes where you tell it, not some reporter.” Coach kicks the crumpled ball off the field and I didn’t think paper could go that far.

  Tony grins.

  “So you’re small,” Coach says. “That means you’re fast. Too fast for your opponent. And what you’ve got is all muscle or brawn. That’ll take the football as far as you want it to go.”

  The rest of the guys nod and start loosening up, but I’m too nervous to even try.

  Coach clears his throat and focuses on the slag. “You’ve got something else, too,” he says. “Take a good look around you, boys.” Coach tilts his head toward the bleachers, where Mr. Villanueva’s kneeling at the fifty-yard line, adjusting his tie and beaming like the Cheshire cat. Mr. Casillas, Tony’s father, is there, too, with his hair all shiny, and he’s wearing a starched shirt as if he’s going to church or a funeral instead of the sawmill.

  “You’re all they’ve got,” Coach says, eyeballing us one by one. “Torres, didn’t your father have to book off ten months ago just to watch you play tonight?”

  Pete digs the tip of his cleat into the gravel and nods.

  “See, they want to remember this game,” Coach says. “To savor it and take it home with them until the next one, because you know what they have in between?” Coach jerks his thumb at the open pit behind us. “Another week down there in a black hole, breaking their backs and coughing up ore dust.”

  Alonzo Cushman, the fat freshman who lost to the school bus, starts fidgeting, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “And you know what they’ve got next year?” Coach jabs Cushman’s shoulder, then circles the 0 in his number 60 with a fist. “Nothing.”

  I stare at the slag underneath my feet. It’s dry and hard and ripe for cutting.

  “This can make the difference.” Coach jerks at my throwing arm and hoists it in the air. “The O’Sullivan magic!”

  “Yeah!” Cruz springs up and down. The other guys slap me on the back.

  “Muckers! Muckers!” The bleachers are chanting for us.

  “Let’s give them what they paid for!” Coach yells.

  Torres starts clapping and we all do. Slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  “You think they came here to see Rim Valley shellac us?” Coach barks. He slaps our shoulders as we jog onto the field. “You’re Muckers,” he says. “What do Muckers do?”

  “Muckers fight!” we holler.

  “What do Muckers do?” Coach screams.

  “Muckers dig!” we roar back.

  I take my place near the end zone for the opening kickoff, trying not to let my nerves take over the heat of the chant. In my head I go through the plays Coach told me earlier, but I’m drawing a blank. I think I could throw up again, too, I’m so shaky.

  The pigskin comes flying at us. It’s spinning toward Lupe Diaz. He scoops it up and cuts toward the sideline, dodging an Elk tackler and heading upfield.

  The kicker’s racing for Lupe but doesn’t see me coming. The one thing I can always do is run. I focus on his number, then throw myself at his legs and knock him flat. He’s gasping and bucking and spitting out chunks of black slag. I let him go and hop up to see that Lupe nearly made it to midfield. The guy I just blocked gets to his knees and wipes some blood off his arm. I don’t notice that I cut up my elbow, too, until the blood trickles onto my knees, and I’m glad. I feel good again. Familiar. Now that I’ve had the nervousness ripped out of me.

  “Nice block, Ugly.” Cruz slaps the side of my helmet.

  We huddle up and I remember to keep it simple, that my first call’s an easy handoff to Cruz, but he’s so primed he barrels forward for seven yards. We get six more on second down, and within three minutes Cruz is diving over the goal line and hitting pay dirt.

  Coach smacks a fist into his palm after the touchdown. I look out at the bleachers but the faces go fuzzy with all that clapping and hollering and me feeling so weak. Then I see Angie leaning by a lamppost and smiling at me like it’s Christmas Eve and I must be Santa Claus who just flew in from the North Pole. The shift horn blasts, scaring the living daylights out of the Rim Valley players, and we both smile, knowing the night watchman’s caught wind of the touchdown and is telling the entire valley about it.

  A little kid tugs on Angie’s skirt and shows her the money in his fist. She puts it in the cashbox and his mother points to the field. The kid starts jumping up and down all excited and looks at me like I’ve done something special. Faye Miller—that’s who the boy’s mother is. Cheering like she did when she was Bobby’s girl. Before she moved to Grasshopper Flats a couple months after Bobby shipped out.

  “Turn on the lights … ites … ites!” The boom from the referee’s voice echoes from the megaphone as the tiger moths gather, hovering above the lampposts. I suck back some water, watching the stars come out, covering the sky with shiny specks of white. And it doesn’t seem like we need the lights at all. That we could play in the dark underneath the stars and be just fine. Except I’m way past hungry.

  Second quarter and Rim Valley toughens up on defense. They manage to score, so we’re tied 7–7 at halftime.

  Late in the third quarter we’re driving toward another score. I call for a handoff then glance over at Cruz.
By the look on his face I know he’s here—that Pop’s back. Probably to make sure he wins his bet now that we’re tied. I wonder who he’s rooting for. He always played Bobby to win. With me, I’m not so sure.

  What did I just call? Sanchez snaps the ball and I pivot to the right, expecting Lupe to take the handoff. But Managlia’s there instead. The ball hits him in the thigh and rolls to the ground. I dive for it, but a Rim Valley guard shoves me back and pounces on the ball.

  “What was that?” Lupe shouts. “You called twenty-four!”

  I know he’s right. I shake my head then punch my thigh, knowing that I really did screw up.

  The game’s still tied in the fourth quarter and we’re running out of time. I’ve only thrown four passes the entire game, but we’ve got no choice now.

  “Just hurry up and win this thing so they can shut off the lights!” Coach is acting kind of screwy on the sideline and squinting pretty badly.

  I take the snap and drop back, scanning the field, reminding myself to settle down. That we just can’t lose on opening night. Torres is clear near the Rim Valley sideline, right where the ground stays firm so he can get enough traction. The blood pumps back into my arm and I throw a bullet in his direction. He grabs it on the run and, with an open field ahead, sprints toward the goal line. A defensive back finally knocks him out-of-bounds, but he’s five yards from pay dirt.

  I know I’m racing down the field and I can hear the crowd calling out for me, but the game’s gone into slow motion, I’m feeling so weak.

  We huddle up and I go by body recognition, faking a handoff to Lupe and pitching the ball to who I think is Managlia. He cracks through the line and breaks a tackle, rolling across the white stripe for the score. We’re in the lead and I’m happy, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I can’t get off my knees. Somebody hoists me up by the shoulders and drags me off the field.

  “Just hold on, Ugly.” It’s Cruz, splashing water in my face. Telling me Quesada’s conversion kick is good. That we won.