Muckers

by Sandra Neil Wallace

  “Up by one, boss,” Wynn says.

  “Ah, so you’re left protectin’ the lead. No matter. We’re good with numbers, we O’Sullivans. Ten drinks to Bisbee, three eight-hour shifts gets you forty dollars, but a seven-an’-oh record got me half a grand. It’s all numbers. Hours, games, wages. Me. You. Bobby. I got ten more years in the hole. What did he end up bein’? A ten-digit roll call in the marines. Win me that cockfight,” he blubbers. “Squeeze out them numbers and win.”

  “You can have your numbers, Alastar.” It’s not natural to call him Pop anymore, the way he treats me. Or how a father ought to feel about his son.

  I cradle the Cup like a football, not too tender, more like a solid hold with just enough room to give. Then I use my other arm as a block and find an opening.

  He staggers toward me but I push him away. “I think they took her to Bisbee today,” he says, landing on his wobbly knees.

  I see a break in the tent. I lunge, stepping on his hand, and he lets out a howling scream. I keep sprinting, over bodies and bloodshot faces, until I land in the ring. I jump over the bloodied birds and out of the tent, where I can finally breathe.

  “See ya in Bisbee!” He laughs. They all do. “He’s a real cracker that one, isn’t he?” I hear him bellow. “Broke my feckin’ thumb.”

  * * *

  I sprint up Main. She can’t be gone. They told me that I had a week before they took them all to Bisbee.

  I’m beat up from the game but I know my legs can go faster up this hill. They have to go faster.

  The misty air’s cold up top and a crisp slice shivers down my throat, cutting into my ribs. Still, I force my legs to pump higher, ignoring the sting, until the incline stops me at Company Ridge. The Yavapai Cup weighs twenty pounds, but it’s another limb as far as I’m concerned. And she ought to see it.

  I earned it. Not like a stupid bet. How long does that last? This is for always. After he’s gone and I’m gone and she’s gone, but not yet. Make him wrong about that, too.

  I reach the landing of the hospital. Someone turned on the light above the door, but when? My heart’s tumbling and just about ready to rush through my skin. But the hospital’s dark inside and it’s cold and hollow.

  I feel my way around the stairwell, anxious for a whisper or a moan. Even a desperate sigh to prove him wrong.

  I suck back sweat and phlegm, stumbling, not wanting to be the only one gasping for breath. I smell coffee. Slightly burnt, but a pot’s been on sometime today. My forehead hits the wall so I know I can’t climb any higher. I turn right, into the moon’s milky stillness streaming through the window above the corridor, and run to her room.

  “Maw!” I call into the silence. I push the door open, my eyes searching for the bed, her silhouette.

  She’s there. Lying in it. Thank God, she’s there.

  “Maw,” I whisper, kneeling beside her. I reach for her hand, then bury my wet face in her shoulder.

  “I did it, Maw.” I show her the trophy, resting it on the bed. “I won it. We’re champions. The very last ones.”

  There’s a whinny in her throat and her eyes sparkle then search, diving and darting about like a nervous bird, frantically probing my face. She’s about to know me. Her cheeks turn pink and then the glint comes. The glint of recognition. She squeezes my hand, then the whinny gets stronger and her mouth opens.

  “Bah-bee!” she calls out.

  She’s glowing. Happier than I’ve seen her in years, beaming up at me, and won’t let go of my hand. She’s so happy thinking I’m Bobby that I have to smile. I reach for his letters, giving her one to take hold of, and wrestle my fingers free. Then I take the Cup, hugging it close to my chest, and follow the purple shaft of light out the door.

  SPECIAL CHAMPIONSHIP EDITION

  Muckers Upset Phoenix Before Record Crowd

  Ending the football season in a blaze of glory, the Hatley Muckers hoisted themselves to the top of the heap in the entire state Saturday by upsetting heavily favored Phoenix United, 19–17, before a mud-soaked crowd. An estimated 1,600 watched amazed as the Mighty Mites cut their rugged opponents down to size to win the Yavapai Cup.

  It wasn’t the breaks that won it for the Mucker eleven, though they took full advantage of the few they created, somehow finding traction on the muddy field. Nor was it because the Coyotes let down. P.U. looked and was formidable with their rugged line and powerful backs. It was heads-up, inspired football that was the deciding factor in the game.

  It was the cool passing of Felix O’Sullivan, the sticky fingers and quick breaking of Cruz Villanueva and Lupe Diaz. It was the hard charging of the whole Muckers forward wall, including unknown junior Melvin Sneep—who had never seen first-string action before, in a game that frequently saw All-State guard Tony Casillas breaking through to spill a play before it started.

  O’Sullivan scored the decisive touchdown on the game’s final play, charging into pay dirt after catapulting over the entire Phoenix team from the two-yard line. In winning the game, the Muckers have won the admiration and respect of the entire state.

  WANT ADS

  FOR SALE—1940 Ford Deluxe. Never driven past Cottonville. Call Cruz at Copper Star.

  WANTED—Sewing of all types. Buttonholes a specialty. Hand- or machine-made. Mrs. Ben Hansen. E.C. Apartments. Phone 133-H.

  HOUSE FOR SALE—Everything in it. Move in next week or haul away. A. O’Sullivan. The Hogback. 869-H.

  FREE PIANO—Situated under a tarpaulin on the sidewalk of Upper Main. Kindly use care when moving. Go softly on the middle C, harder on the soft pedal when playing.

  Chapter 28

  AFTER

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 22

  5:07 A.M.

  THE CHEVY ISN’T MUCH. IT’S been under a tarp most of the year because of all his drunk-driving infractions. I pretended to be asleep last night when he came into my room and put the keys on the washstand. I know how to treat this old car. That if you bring it back real gentle till the needle hits fifty, it won’t give up on you.

  I turn off the engine, gliding it under the oak on top of Gulch Lane, and take the duffel bag with me.

  It won’t be easy to hide because of the moonlight, but I figure I’ve got an hour of stillness. The night animals are done feeding—they’ve already taken cover—and it’s much too cold for any belly crawler to venture out and hunt.

  I crouch low, inching through the switchgrass, but by the time I reach the Villanuevas’ house my Levis are all wet—the Barrio’s covered in mud.

  I come to the shanty from behind, dipping under the broken shutters so the moon’s glow won’t cast a shadow and wake up Cruz. Then I suck in my breath—there can’t be more than two feet between us—and tread lightly onto the porch. What I’m holding belongs to him, not in that trophy case collecting rust. I take the letter from my boot and put it on our Northern Crown trophy. Then I rest the ’41 trophy that Manny and Bobby won next to it, looking at that kicker a last time before walking away.

  I’m shaking—it’s already winter cold—and I hope Cruz won’t be sore. It’s just that I couldn’t think of any other way of doing this that didn’t involve me staying.

  The moon is hanging low above the open pit. There’s a good amount of blue around it instead of the usual gray, now that the blasting’s stopped. It’s strange not seeing any lights or digging down there. Just a ring of dew lining the ledge where they left the dozer. Even the wind passes it by, and when the breeze finally reaches me, I’ve made it to the cemetery. I start to breathe normal again.

  Bobby’s empty coffin is buried several yards away in a spot that’s all wrong. Father Pierre chose it and it’s the farthest you could be from the football field, on a cliff without any shelter.

  I look for some high growth that might give Bobby relief from the wind and the heat and the cold (at least the memory of him, locked up in this memento I’m holding). Just a spot—not a big one—where there’s cover. He never had that on the island. You couldn’t even build a decent
foxhole on Iwo Jima. It’s time for him to come home and I think this spot would suit him just fine.

  There’s enough dirt between a chalky white monument and a thornbush with a clear shot of the field. They call it a crucifixion tree, and its thorns are growing in all directions along branches too thick to give in to the wind. The limestone ledge of the headstone has a chunky silver heart on it—a milagro. It’s the same color as the Eagle Scout medal and has a ribbon around it, too. The heart isn’t shiny but has a weighty presence to it, like if you cupped it in your palms, it would feel solid and ripe as stone fruit. There are wings on either side of it and I like that, too. And the heart puffed out to bursting with little suns all over it. I suppose it’s to thank a patron saint for making a prayer or some sort of wish—maybe even a miracle—come true.

  With Bobby it wasn’t about miracles. He did things. Earned things like that medal and the Northern Crown. Now I’ve earned something, too, and it’s time to start thinking about after. That’s not getting too far ahead. I know I can’t stay. And the mountain’s already given me plenty.

  There’s a rustle in the grass behind me, so I turn and see Francisco standing there.

  “You need a shovel,” he says.

  He’s got one in his hand and tells me to take it. The handle’s warm and my chilled fingers loosen. The soil is moist, too, and gives way without a struggle. Francisco’s praying while I dig, and it’s as proper a burial as you can get, I suppose, with him being a minister, self-ordained.

  I tuck the cigar box with Bobby’s Eagle Scout medal in the hole while Francisco’s got his eyes shut, murmuring things in Spanish. I haven’t a clue what he’s saying until he gets to the corazón part. I know that means “heart,” but it’s more than that, beyond the simple beating of it. I think it’s one of those words that get lost in translation, because whenever a Mexican says it, they get all weepy or quit talking and start clearing their throat, the way Francisco’s doing now.

  I think about all the people in my life—the ones who are lost to me, like Bobby and Coach; those I’m not sure about, with Maw living inside her head and Pop broken and hard as those rocks in the mines; and the ones I consider real family, Cruz and Rabbit. I know I’ll see them again. Angie, too.

  Francisco waits until I’ve covered the box with sandy loam. He spits on his hands and shows me what’s between them: a seed, then points to the paradise trees behind us angling over his rugged garage, makes a cross in the dirt, and buries the seed in the crux with his thumb.

  Taking hold of my shoulder, Francisco tucks a photograph in my shirt pocket. I don’t have much time, but I let him lead me to his trees. He opens the gate and I follow as he scurries past the garage.

  Paradiso nuzzles up to me. I keep stroking the burro’s neck, since I don’t know what to say—the sight before me is so remarkable. Even though it’s barely dawn, I know what I’m seeing is real.

  He did it. Francisco built a church. Not just a miniature version of something you hope to build someday, but a real church. Thousands upon thousands of dynamite boxes that we’d cut up for him as kids make up the walls, a steeple, and a nave.

  Francisco smiles and points to the sky. He tells me he’s going to get an airplane, fill it with seeds, and shake them loose over Hatley so the mountain can become green again. I watch him standing against the horizon, his fedora over his corazón and his eyes closed, head raised to the sky as the dawn breaks. Praying. Maybe even for me.

  * * *

  The sun’s holding steady above the horizon and playing tricks on the dewy macadam. It’ll be like that for another hour, I’d imagine, till I pass Oak Creek. Cruz will have read the letter by then and found the money that I’d saved for Bobby’s pew. That Ford Deluxe doesn’t belong to anyone except Cruz. The money will make sure he keeps it.

  The H is gone from my rearview mirror. It hung there for a long time. Now there’s nothing but green, a hundred miles of it stretching out in front of me across the horizon to Flagstaff. That’s where I’m headed. I’ll be staying with the Mackenzies while I figure things out—start thinking about the future. I’ve got options. Maybe I’ll finish school up there. Maybe someday I’ll coach.

  The ponderosas are so thick in Flagstaff that the sun can barely get through them. I bet it’s the same green in Antrim. And maybe in Hatley someday, a dozen years from now, after those paradise seeds take hold. I guess people can start over. Shed their skin. Even a snake gets a shot at it every year.

  I stop the Chevy on a wide spot of dirt beside the road and take out the picture Francisco gave me. It’s of Faye Miller sitting in the Gulch with her boy when he was a baby. He’s wearing a baptism dress and is holding Francisco’s wand like it’s a rattle. But the best part is what’s written on the other side: July 18, 1943. The Baptism of Samuel Robert O’Sullivan.

  I should have known the first time I saw him. He’s got Bobby’s smile and that forehead with all those freckles. Our freckles.

  I tuck the photograph in the kimono next to the Yavapai Cup with the pearls. The material’s red like Angie’s lips and not too shiny. Just perfect, actually. It’s a couple of hundred miles from Flagstaff to Ajo and it’s no place for someone who isn’t a miner, but that won’t stop me from seeing Angie.

  I get back on the road and head for those peaks. I just might climb them when I get to Flag. I’ll have plenty of time to go fishing, too. Catch me a trout. I know what I’ll do. I’ll eat it while I’m waiting for the sunset. I’ve never seen one from that side before. Then I’ll look in the opposite direction toward Hatley, and think of all the miracles that have already happened.

  Author’s Note

  WHILE THE FIRST YEAR OF the Korean War, and the Communist scare it ignited, are the backdrop of my novel, the story itself is inspired by Jerome, Arizona, a mountain town that was once a billion-dollar copper camp in the rugged north of the state a hundred years ago.

  You can still see the entire community defying gravity as you drive through it today. Looping past the gulches where the old-timers are buried below the hulking bones of a swimming pool built for “foreigners,” you first come to the old high school—its burnished copper doors now shuttered. Jerome High closed in 1951, the year the mines tapered off production, spurring a mass exodus that left the town practically deserted. But like the houses that seem impossibly placed up the thirty-degree incline of Cleopatra Hill, the people of Jerome seemed to defy logic, too. During that final year of decline, they accomplished an incredible sports victory.

  I first found out about the Muckers football team while living in Sedona, Arizona, about a twenty-minute drive from Jerome. I was working as an announcer for ESPN, covering the WNBA and the X Games, but the truth is, all I wanted to do was write.

  I’d been researching a different story about Jerome and had reached a dead end. Still, the town had a hold on me (once you visit you’ll see what I mean), and I think Alene Alder Rangel, archivist of the Jerome Historical Society at the time, felt sorry for me that morning as I sat staring at microfilm. She pointed to a cardboard box that had recently arrived and asked if I wanted to take a look. Inside were the typical memorabilia a historical society would kindly accept—things like yearbooks, school newspapers, and photographs of people picnicking in the Gulch eating watermelon a century ago. But then the letters tumbled out—dozens of them—addressed to Mr. Lewis McDonald, who was the longtime principal of Jerome High (and later, a Northern Arizona University administrator). It was Mr. McDonald’s request that these mementos be given to the historical society after his death. The precious notes—some handwritten, others typed from the bunks of battleships—were all from young men who had gone to Jerome High, and spanned nearly three decades’ worth of correspondence, beginning in the 1930s. (Nearly half of the 1950 Muckers starters served in the Korean War, which escalated and continued until 1953. All survived.)

  Flushed with excitement, yet not quite knowing what I would find, I photocopied everything in the box, then went home and read into the
night. By morning I’d learned what history books could never reveal: about separate swimming pools and young soldiers eager to share what they’d gone through. I connected the letters with faces in the yearbooks and became a witness to the anguish of forbidden love, final notes from those who would perish at Iwo Jima, and glimpses of Coach Homer Brown, writing from his sickbed about the head wounds that would later kill him.

  But what kept me up all these years was an article in Arizona Football—and likely the only one ever written about the Jerome Muckers’ incredible story. It described their valiant history and the football team’s final season, when they managed to win a title in herculean fashion without their longtime coach. This was my story.

  They were a ragtag team of diminutive players with a mountain of odds against them: the smallest team in the state, a football field made of slag instead of grass, and a coach who would die of his war wounds before the season even began.

  One of the few racially mixed teams in Arizona, the Jerome Muckers often played against high schools that were either all-black or all-white, but not Mexican and white like they were. Not only did the Muckers win the 1950 Northern Arizona Conference title, they went undefeated, trouncing teams from big cities like Phoenix and Flagstaff who were double their size. The remarkable feat earned the Muckers bragging rights for the mythic state championship. (Play-offs were not held back then, so the state title was determined by merit and led to plenty of arguments.)

  It was a spectacular story that never made national or even state headlines. Prejudice, under the guise of the Communist red scare, had seeped into every part of American society—including newsrooms.

  The story would have remained buried in the hearts of the few Mucker players who are still alive and scattered like tumbleweed across desert towns if I hadn’t opened that box.