Muckers

by Sandra Neil Wallace

  Rudy keeps looking at Coach sideways, tapping the bottle with the tip of his boot.

  “If you want to set foot on the field again, you’ll do it,” Coach warns him.

  Rudy finally snatches up the bottle and tosses it from hand to hand like he’s juggling. Then he throws it in the trash.

  Tony’s father waits until Rudy’s in front of him, then hollers, “¡Viva Mexico!” flailing the bell high above his head and ringing it like crazy until Rudy’s halfway up the hill. The mariachis start strumming those fat guitars they’re holding, and Mr. Casillas calls the girls up onstage.

  They’re all aiming to be Queen of the Fiesta, though I don’t know why the others even bother. Mrs. Rodriguez shows the girls where to stand—half of them are the phone operators she’s in charge of. But no one comes close to the kind of pretty that Angie is. When her name gets called and she comes up on that podium, I can hardly even breathe.

  “Uh-oh. You’re done for, aren’t you?” Coach whistles. “Just like when I first saw Eleanor. She was already engaged, but married me instead. Left that big ranch her folks had planned on us living on to come up here.” He’s taking Homer from me, but I can barely feel it. “She’s afraid of driving around these crazy turns,” he says, “but even more terrified of the burros. She’s so happy that I pulled through, she might even let Homer have one.”

  I’m not listening to what Coach is saying anymore. I can’t stop looking at Angie. Her hair blowing soft against those bare shoulders. The red-and-green paper flowers tucked behind her ear. And I think I’m a fool for thinking that she’d want me. Only there she is, up on the podium in a shiny white dress, smiling and waving at me like I’m Robert Mitchum, or someone just as famous who walked off the screen at the picture show.

  She’s still smiling when Mrs. Rodriguez takes hold of her arm and looks where Angie’s been looking; then that smile disappears with the wind.

  I look at Mrs. Rodriguez, then back at Angie, where my gaze finally stays. I don’t care if Mrs. Rodriguez is in charge of all the girls at the phone company—I can’t stop looking at Angie.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about this season,” Coach says. “There’s a whole lot of people in this town not wanting you to be with her, but I can see in your eyes that won’t stop you. Remember that when the papers keep saying you’ve got no business winning on the field.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Think how badly you want to. How badly you want her. And that you’ve got every right to both.”

  * * *

  I’m halfway into the Barrio; most of the neighborhood’s still in the Square celebrating, including Mr. V and Cruz, who hopped on that float with Tony after ditching his horn. Hoisted a few of his brothers and sisters up there, too.

  Me, I’m aiming for the bottom of the Gulch. I saw Angie walking home with that crown. Not the big sparkly one they put on the Fiesta Queen, but the smaller one—they called it a tiara when they gave it to her. She’s the queen’s assistant, though I don’t know if that’s just a way of saying if the queen drops dead or gets polio, the princess moves up to take her place.

  I step onto the Villanuevas’ porch and it creaks, so that’s taking another risk since I don’t know who else is home. But I’ll say I came to see Cruz if she doesn’t answer. There’s no reason for them to believe any different.

  I knock on the door and Angie opens it, but I get so nervous I ask for Cruz anyway. “You know darn well he isn’t here,” she says, letting me come in. She’s still wearing that crown but with a different dress now. They keep changing them on special days like this.

  “Who did you really come to see, Red?” she asks coyly.

  “I’m looking at her.”

  Angie smiles.

  “You should’ve won Fiesta Queen,” I tell her. “Not princess.”

  “You think so?” She blushes. “Sure, it would have been nice, but it doesn’t matter. And it wouldn’t change things. I’m still who I am.” Angie shrugs, then she slips her hand in mine. “I’m sorry they benched you,” she whispers.

  “That’s behind me now. Over and done with,” I tell her. “I’m playing Cottonville on Friday.”

  “So you’re different now?”

  “Not different, just confident.”

  Angie squeezes my hand and the little kids behind her start giggling.

  “Good thing they don’t know my name yet.”

  “Red!” the one without the diaper blurts out.

  Angie pretends like she’s gonna paddle him but purposely misses. “If you stay much longer,” she says, “Mrs. Esperanza from next door will tell Papá. She’s such a snoop. I know why she doesn’t fix her shutters—so she can see into other people’s business.”

  “In a week I’ll be all business,” I say as she gently ushers me outside.

  “Sounds like Cottonville doesn’t have a chance,” Angie tells me before closing the door.

  MID-WEEK EDITION

  Rival Teams Set for Final Clash

  The Cottonville Wolves and Hatley Muckers battle in their annual matchup on Friday, with Hatley winning the draw for home field. Both teams are bitter rivals and undefeated this season.

  Roy “Runt” Studdard, Cottonville coach, says he’d be worried the confrontation could become a bloodbath, but says the Hatley players are too small. “My quarterback got his jaw wired a few years ago, but that was when their team had weight. I’m guessing they’ll have to play nice when you look at their size.”

  The game will be the last time the teams face off. Hatley High will close its doors at the end of the school year and is expected to merge with Cottonville next year.

  “What they don’t have in weight my boys make up for in toughness, speed and finesse,” Muckers coach Ben Hansen said. “Besides, it’s not a weight contest. It’s a test of grit and skill.”

  “It’ll be nice to play more teams with grass fields,” Coach Studdard said, on playing Hatley for the last time. “I know we got a slag field, too, but it doesn’t have 60 years of tailings. I don’t know what they put in the smelter back in those days, but razor blades wouldn’t be any different.”

  One Blast Too Many: Ernie’s All-Car Garage Slides into Gulch, p.2.

  WANT ADS

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  INTRODUCING : LEE FONG’S AMERICAN GRILL. Serving Real American Food. Today’s Special Calf Liver & Scrambled Egg 65¢. Jell-O. Apricot Pie. Coca-Cola 5¢.

  REASONABLE— ’45 Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Good condition. First $65 gets. Ernie’s All-Car Garage & Wrecking Yard.

  Chapter 16

  BAD BLOOD

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 22

  4:54 P.M.

  “FELIX O’SULLIVAN, I’VE BROUGHT SOMETHING to fatten you up,” Mrs. Hollingworth says, knocking on the wood framing of the screen three hours before the game. The last time I saw her anywhere near our house was a few months after they took Maw up the hill, so I don’t know what to say.

  “Mr. Mackenzie told me how much you enjoy my lemon meringue pie, so I baked you one.”

  I can see her blushing and I say, “Thank you, ma’am.” She gingerly hands the pie over, like it could shatter into a million pieces, which would be fine by me—I’d just lap it up with a spoon.

  “Now, make sure to eat it soon in case the meringue falls,” she says. “It’s true that we have to be more careful when we bake up here than those living down in Cottonville. But it should keep nicely in the Frigidaire until after you beat the Wolves … as per my note …” Mrs. Hollingworth’s voice trails off as I put the pie in the refrigerator and leave her on the porch.

  “Unless you’re not opposed to eating dessert before your dinner,” she calls, catching me break a hunk off the pie crust. “You will beat Cottonville, won’t you, Red?”

  “We’ll sure try.”

  “Good. Consider it a victory pie in advance, then,” sh
e says, “on behalf of all the ladies on the hill.”

  I wait until Mrs. Hollingworth gets to the cobblestones before taking a slice out of the pie. It’s good not having to worry about being hungry and to focus on beating those Wolves instead. Then I lick the bits of meringue off the wax paper and read what she wrote in the note.

  Dear Red,

  It would give us a great deal of pleasure if you knocked the stuffing out of cottonville one last time. So eat up and Fight! Fight! Fight! Ever since they took the smelter away from us, there’s been nothing but talk of country clubs, mile-high soufflés, and flat roads paved with macadam. But none of that matters if you can’t win.

  Yours Truly, Mrs. Reginald C. Hollingworth

  * * *

  The bleachers are meant for Hatley folk. There aren’t any for the opposing team and never have been. I think if they ever tried to sit on our benches they’d get shoved off. Leroy Piggett, the most obstinate resident of our town, would be the first to do it. And if it was a Wolf supporter who had the poor judgment to sit on our side, there might be a stone hurled at his head. Leroy smuggles them in with his picnic hamper, claiming he’s got such a whopper of an appetite and that’s the reason the basket’s so burdensome. But everyone knows those aren’t sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, but nugget-shaped weapons as powerful as an angry fist.

  Leroy collects his artillery after a hit, too. And dates them. Bloody Nose Fight, 1940. Busted Kneecap, 1945. The sheriff just laughs when he sees Leroy hobble up the hill, letting him pass through the gate without much of a look or even the seventy-five-cent admission. The others don’t make a fuss either. They’ve got rocks in their pockets and purses, too. And Mrs. Hollingworth and Mrs. Menary will tell you it’s to ease the arthritis.

  That’s what Cottonville does to us.

  We battle hard against every team, but it’s different with Cottonville. The blood between us is just plain bad.

  Cruz says the line was drawn the minute they took our smelter away and hauled it down the mountain, putting up a town so flat and lifeless that it resembled the snobbish South. I don’t know how snobbish they really are, those Wolves and their low-lying brethren. We don’t speak to each other or walk on the same side of the street. I know they like fountains. There’s two in front of their country club.

  We use our water for drinking. “Who pisses away water when you’re livin’ in a desert?” Pop likes to say. “Cottonville, dat’s who.”

  Their effigy is coming up the side of the hill. A mock version of me on a broomstick is going up in flames and being flailed right and left by their captain, Gunnar Swensen. The Cottonville band is behind it, encouraging the image to burn. The rule is, it’s got to be extinguished by the time they get to the ticket taker, or they’ll have to pay admission for the dummy.

  “Hey, whatcha got in those instruments?” Leroy hollers at their band. “Get that coal out of them tubas so we can really hear you play!”

  That’s what Cottonville people fight back with—lumps of coal confiscated from the heaps used to fuel the smelter, tucking them in their socks and maybe even under those caps the band wears.

  They’re marching across the field to the opponent’s side, which butts up against the mountain, so there’s not much room for more than their squad and a couple of coolers. You can fit maybe six, seven cars behind the end zone. They sit on the hoods.

  Cruz is holding our effigy, with Beebe right behind him cheering. It isn’t quite so charred yet, and he made the face look more like their hot-tempered coach, Runt Studdard, who’s spitting on our field, his arms splayed over a good-sized paunch, and smirking with the Swensen brothers, though he barely reaches their shoulders.

  They think we’re like vermin just because they see daylight, working above ground in the smelter when we’re digging underneath in the dark, or because we haul a bus across the slag. But I know every inch of this field and what it can do. I’ve worn it like a second skin. And this time I’ve got the plays etched in my mind. The what-ifs. We went through them a dozen times at practice.

  Beebe takes the effigy from Cruz and he points to the Cottonville fans, making a fist like he’s aiming to hurt somebody. And I know that can only ruin things, even give the Wolves a win.

  “Damn gringos,” Cruz shouts, looking at the effigy of me propped up in a truck next to the Cottonville band.

  “I’m a gringo,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, but not a Cottonville gringo.”

  Coach is yelling pretty hard just to get our attention, with Wallinger flailing his hands to get us over. The game hasn’t even started yet and already our spectators and theirs are taunting each other.

  “I know you hate those guys across the field,” Coach says as we gather into a huddle.

  “Worse than hate.” Cruz kicks at a loose piece of coal. “They’re loco.”

  Alonzo musters a nervous laugh.

  “That kind of thinking won’t get us a win,” Coach says. “You need to be wearing these uniforms a few more times, and I don’t want them getting so torn up and bloodied that we won’t recognize you. We need you. All of you.” Coach looks over at Melvin Sneep, who’s got his eyes closed and is biting his lower lip, then at Rudy—but those two won’t be playing much.

  “Just play smart,” Coach says, grabbing Cruz’s shoulder. “That’s the best revenge, boys. Winning.” Coach shoots an index finger in the air. “Remember, those Wolves have next year. We don’t. You’re faster than they are. They lumber and seethe and want to hurt you. Don’t let them. You’ve got to outmaneuver their line.”

  Tony focuses on the Swensens, butting shoulders on the other side of the field. They’re bigger than he is, only Tony’s wider and can throw his body as fast as a bullet, trapping you in his human gunnysack until there’s no way you can wriggle free.

  We walk onto the field and a chunk of coal bounces off Cruz’s helmet. A bigger one lands near my foot. Cruz reaches down and picks up the chunk. “Told you they’re all loco,” he mumbles, tossing it off to the side.

  First play and I’m coiled tight as a spring, connecting with Cruz, who’s like a rocket, sprinting past our chalk line for a touchdown, giving us the early lead. But it’s clear Cottonville’s out for revenge and aiming to hurt me. Next time we get the ball, the Swensen brothers—all three of them—walk onto the field. Lars, the oldest and biggest one, points a ruddy finger at me.

  “What are they doing, putting all three of them in?” Tony says. “Lars never even plays when he gets that big and slow. Watch your back, Red,” he whispers. “Must be seven hundred pounds all together.”

  They’re huge and angry and I don’t like how they’re looking at me. I hand off to Managlia and he runs. Then I’m down on the ground, my cheek cutting into the slag long after the ball has left me—tackled by a Swensen, though I don’t know which one. “That’s where you belong, Mucker. In the dirt or under it,” he spits at me, punching my gut. “Crawling around with all those worms.”

  My ear stings. My pinky finger’s dangling limp and swollen.

  “You okay, Red?” Cruz asks, helping me up. “I’ll get open quicker.”

  But I get sacked two more times before we build up a 10–6 lead, and Tony’s left eye swells shut. The referee finally blows his whistle and slaps Cottonville with a penalty for unnecessary roughness.

  “They’re cheating on every play,” Cruz yells as we gather in the end zone at the half. “We’re getting held, clipped, punched.”

  “You’re letting them get to you,” Coach says, motioning for us to settle down.

  Cruz won’t hear any of it and keeps shaking his head. “They think they’re better than us because they’re big and white and rich.”

  “That’s what you believe,” Coach tells him. “And you’re wrong. The only way they can win is by throwing us off our game, and you’re letting them.” He punches at Cruz’s chest. “You’ve got to stop it—all of you—because we just can’t lose. Not even one game. If we do, the chance for the Cup is over. The
only way we can get there is to go undefeated. Nobody’ll give a spot to a little prickly-ass mining team unless we win every game.”

  My elbow’s bleeding. Before we walk onto the field, another ambulance crawls up near the bleachers.

  “What do we need two ambulances for?” Alonzo asks.

  “You’ll see.” Cruz snaps a nose guard to his helmet. Tony puts one on, too, right above his battered cheek. Cruz points at me to get one, and I don’t want it to be that kind of game, but it already is. Rough and bloody and littered with dirty plays.

  “You can still bust your nose wearing that,” I tell Cruz.

  “Yeah, but it won’t hurt as much.”

  We get on the field and I glance around at the others. Diaz, Torres, and Managlia look pissed and way too angry for us to lose. On the sideline Coach is staring up at the sky, then over at the field. He smiles. He actually squats down low and smiles, taking in the bloodied faces, the referees gathering up the rocks and the coal, tossing them beyond the field so we can play. Then he looks at me and mouths the word “win.”

  He’s right. We have to win this. And I’m not gonna let them take this away from us.

  “Muckers! Muckers!” the Hatley fans chant.

  “Let’s get ’em,” I say as we line up. “First play.”

  Lupe runs the kickoff back to our thirty and I call the same play we scored on earlier. Cruz runs a quick square-out to the flat, then breaks long.

  I roll toward the sideline and Cruz runs it perfectly. He stiff-arms the lumbering Cottonville defender, sprinting past him, and my throw is right on target. Cruz doesn’t even break stride, hauling in the pass and running untouched to the end zone. The fans go wild. We race toward Cruz, whooping and jumping. And then we hear the referee’s whistle and see the yellow penalty flag back where Cruz caught the pass. “Offensive pass interference,” he says. “No touchdown.”