The Farewell Season

by Ann Herrick

  We had a couple minutes to study the board before Horton looked each of us on defense in the eye. "You may think you are good at your position. Maybe you are. Maybe not. Don't treat preseason as a lark. There'll be competition at every position." His eyebrows slanted down. "There will be a lot of pressure. You can't take any plays off. You'll have to work for everything."

  Silence.

  It wasn't as if all of us didn't know that everything Horton said was true. It was just something about the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes that made it brutal.

  After a couple seconds, Coach Pickett indicated it was time to head to the locker room, put on our helmets and shoes, and go outside. As I strapped on the green helmet I remembered looking at myself in the mirror the first time I ever put one on.

  I'd complained to Dad that I looked like a wimp with my baby face and my gold-blond hair curling out. I announced that I wanted to shave my head. Dad said that I might regret shaving my head, and, in any case, Mom would have a heart attack if I did. "Besides," he said, "it could work to your advantage."

  "Right," I muttered. "How?"

  "Your opponents will underestimate you."

  After I thought about that, I decided not to shave my head.

  ***

  I finished adjusting the strap to my helmet and hurried to join the guys. Moving as a unit, we thundered onto the field sounding like a herd of buffalo. Ordinarily, my heart would've been pounding with first-day excitement, but so far I didn't feel much of anything. Maybe it was the heat.

  We circled the field then lined up for stretches and calisthenics. As the defensive captain, Rolf joined Kyle, the offensive team captain, in leading the exercises. As usual, Rolf was vocal.

  "Okay, guys! C'mon. Let's go," he yelled, clapping his hands, which were as big and thick as sirloin steaks. "That's it. Good job. Yeah!"

  Most of the guys picked up Rolf's enthusiasm, but a couple rolled their eyes. Derek Davis shook his head and a half-sneer curled across his freckled face. I could see by his expression that he was itching to lob a few vocal volleys at Rolf, but he wouldn't as long as Coach Pickett was standing just off to the side.

  By the time we broke into smaller groups for drills, I was drenched with sweat. I headed to the sideline for water. Rolf was right behind me.

  As I replaced some of the water I'd sweated off, I saw that up in the covered stands a girl scribbling in a notebook was sitting next to Jamar. With a closer look, I could see it was Glynnie Alden. She was new at Crystal Lake High at the start of last year and had been in some of my classes, so I knew she was real smart.

  But she was one of those girls who was determinedly dowdy. For instance, her hair was bluntly chopped off at about chin length. It looked somewhere between light brown and dark blond, as if it couldn't quite decide what color to be. Same with her eyes—they were sort of gray, sort of blue. She wore old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. Plus, she didn't have much of a body, except for long legs that went up practically to her ear lobes.

  "Hey." Rolf nudged me. "I think Jamar's getting interviewed."

  "Yeah," I said. For the summer, Glynnie had been doing a column, "Youth Scene," for the Crystal Lake Recorder, the local, semi-weekly newspaper. I'd read her column a few times. It was pretty good, actually.

  "Hey! Did you two come to work out or gawk at spectators?" Coach Horton shouted at us.

  As Rolf and I trotted back on the field, I could feel the hairs on my neck stand up. It didn't bother most guys, but I never could stand teachers or coaches who used the sarcastic approach to get their point across.

  We started on the drills, and for a while it was okay. Horton prowled the sidelines, the whistle around his neck gleaming like a silver bullet in the sunlight. My body was on automatic pilot through stuff like hitting the bag, stripping the ball, and shuffle drills, but on the real drills my brain was not in gear. I kept messing up.

  "Hey! Nielsen. Wake up," Coach Horton snarled. "Eliminate mistakes! Get the job done!"

  Okay, I should expect to be called on it for not being with it mentally, but I had enough problems, and for some reason Coach Horton really bugged me. I muttered a few choice words under my breath.

  "What?" Coach Horton planted himself in front of me, his hands on his hips, his mouth tight.

  I was surprised at how much I wanted to hit the guy. But he was my coach. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands. "I said, 'Yes, sir.'"

  He let it go then, and I tried to concentrate. I guess it helped, because during the break-on-the-ball drill I managed to break to where the ball was every time.

  "Better," Coach Horton said in a tone that left me wondering whether or not the jerk was actually impressed.

  As drills continued I made an effort to be sharper mentally, and for the most part I succeeded. But emotionally, well, I still wasn't hyped up. I kept waiting for that tremor of excitement to hit me, but it didn't. Practice just felt like a lot of hard work. Where was the thrill of the start of a new season?

  It was hard to concentrate. I kept looking over to the sideline, half-expecting to see Dad on a quick break from work, checking out the team.

  It was hot. I was tired. I guzzled gallons of water just to keep going. Every time I trotted to the sidelines for water, I looked up at Jamar sitting in the stands and almost wished I were up there with him. Glynnie was still there, but I noticed she was doing more than talking to Jamar. She was watching practice and taking notes.

  Lars and Larry jogged over for some water. In the past I would have hung around and joked with them for a minute. But I moved off. I couldn't get into a joking mood.

  Ordinarily, Coach Picket would be prowling the field, checking on everything, stopping to pay particular attention to the kickers. He always emphasized that kicking was a vital part of the game. I noticed that while he occasionally wandered up and down the sideline, he spent most of his time on the bench. It was tough seeing him looking tired. Usually, he was so energetic. I got queasy just thinking about it. Nothing was the same at practice. Nothing.

  Finally, we were through with drills, but we still had to line up for wind sprints. Though he'd practiced as hard as anybody, harder probably, Rolf made sure he was out in front on each and every sprint. I knew it was because he was a team captain. He took that job seriously. He had to be tired, but he knew no one would want to hear him yelling encouragement if he was giving only a half-assed effort.

  I was soaked with sweat. Every part of my body, including some I forgot existed, was dead-tired. Even with Rolf leading the way, I was ready to collapse.

  Finally, Coach Pickett yelled, "One more minute! Everybody's tired. Drive yourselves. That's it. Okay, five seconds … four … three … two … one. Good job!"

  I finished in about the middle of what had turned into an extremely straggly line. My lungs burned. Sweat rained down my face. And it was only morning practice. It'd be worse in the afternoon.

  There was a mad rush for water, then we all lined up for warming down, where we tapered off by slowing down and doing light exercise. Kyle and Rolf led the way. Rolf's big round cheeks were shining red, but he still had that grin of enthusiasm on his face. In spite of my exhaustion, I felt a small smile ripple across my own mouth.

  After the last stretch, we formed our traditional circle and shouted, "V-I-K-I-N-G-S," followed by one loud, simultaneous clap. Morning practice was over.

  "Whew! Some workout," Rolf said as we headed toward the locker room. He wiped sweat off his forehead, but a look of satisfaction shone in his eyes.

  "Yeah, it was—"

  Derek Davis butted in. "Hey, Dude," he said with a twisted smile on his face. "What's with the rah-rah crap? You running for office or something?"

  I wanted to pulverize Davis. Rolf could, if he wanted to. Or he could mouth off right back of him. But he wouldn't. That just wasn't his way. Instead, he forced a big grin and said, "Yeah, I'm running for Dictator-for-Life. Do I get your vote?"

  A bunch of the guys laughed, myself inclu
ded.

  For a second, Derek stared, a scowl of confusion on his face. Then he mumbled a selection of swear words and stomped off.

  Still, he'd achieved his goal, curbing Rolf's enthusiasm. Rolf wanted to please everybody, and had a tough time accepting the fact that there are some guys you can't please no matter what. He needed to be more thick-skinned. I felt the anger rising in my throat just thinking about a jerk like Davis trying to bait Rolf.

  "Excuse me."

  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  "What?" I snapped.

  "Hi …." Glynnie offered a white, even smile. "Could I interview you? For my column?"

  I shrugged.

  "Don't worry, I'm not a muckraker." She let out a small laugh.

  "Look. Write what you want. I never read my press."

  Glynnie's big, gray-blue eyes widened slightly behind her horn-rimmed glasses, and for a second a look of disappointment crossed her face. "Whatever."

  Then it was her turn to shrug before she whirled around and headed toward the parking lot.

  As I started to trot away, I blinked hard to fight off tears of frustration. Jamar was injured. Rolf was putting too much pressure on himself. I was unfocused and snapping at an innocent girl just trying to do her job.

  So much for my big-deal, long-awaited, awesome senior season.

  Chapter Three

  "Hey, Rolf," I found myself saying. "I … I'll catch up with you in the locker room."

  Rolf nodded. He didn't question why I was suddenly veering off toward the parking lot.

  I decided being unfocused was bad enough. I didn't have to be a jerk too. I trotted over to where Glynnie was just starting to ride away on her bike. I called after her, "How about after I shower?"

  She didn't turn around. Maybe she didn't hear me. Maybe it was just as well if she didn't.

  I noticed a group of band members strolling over the grassy knoll next to the school. In the middle of a knot of girls was Hedy. She'd witnessed the whole scene. Hedy elbowed Jenny Lund, and then the entire cluster of girls started pointing and whispering.

  I looked off in the opposite direction, totally pretending I'd been trying to catch the attention of someone other than Glynnie then hurried off to the locker room. I figured I'd given Hedy and her friends enough to talk about.

  Inside, the locker room was all steam and the sound of hissing water. There was little talk—not even Derek Davis ragging on someone. We were too exhausted to do anything but stand and let streams of water wash our hours of sweat down the drain.

  After we toweled off and dressed, I plopped my aching body into Rolf's truck. We rode along in silence, both seriously wiped out. As we rounded a bend in the road, I saw Glynnie up ahead.

  "Hey," Rolf said. "Isn't that Glynnie Alden? Weren't you talking to her and Jamar? What'd she want?"

  "Nothing."

  "Um. I could pull over, and, uh, we could invite her to lunch. You know Kirstin would love to have one more mouth to feed."

  "I don't need to have lunch with Glynnie Alden. I don't need to have lunch with any female to whom I'm not related. I don't need—"

  "Okay, okay. It was just a thought!"

  "Hmmph." I crossed my arms over my chest and scrunched way down in my seat as we rode past Glynnie.

  We pulled into the driveway at my house, and before we even made it to the door Glynnie whizzed by on her bike. She looked goofy in her round glasses and bike helmet, but she'd made excellent time. Must have been her long legs.

  Once inside the kitchen, first thing Rolf tried to snitch a slice of tomato from a salad sitting on the counter next to a bowl of red grapes.

  "Cut that out!" Kirstin playfully slapped Rolf's hand. She had an easy relationship with him. She'd known him all her life and he was like another big brother to her—except he never gave her any grief. When she was little, I don't know how many times I heard her say, "Why can't you be like Rolf? He's nice!"

  When we sat down to lunch, Rolf and I were like a plague of grasshoppers, devouring everything put in front of us. I was kind of glad Rolf was there. Dad used to come home for lunch during summer football practice. Rolf being there helped distract me from his absence.

  "Man," Rolf said as he heaped his plate with a third helping of everything. "This is great!"

  Kirstin beamed.

  "I thought you might have one more mouth to feed," Rolf said, "but Eric didn't—"

  "Eff it, Rolf, give it a rest!" I slammed my hand on the table.

  "Eric!" Kirstin glared at me. "You know what Dad said about using the F word."

  "One, I didn't use the F word." I ground out the words through clenched teeth. "Two … Dad's not here!"

  "Hey, are we gonna eat or argue about vocabulary?" Rolf said, always eager to smooth things over. He stuck a fork into a huge piece of meatcake on his plate and answered his own question. "I'm here to eat."

  I was too beat to get into it more with Kirstin, so I mumbled something about eating.

  Kirstin ignored me by fussing over Rolf, and within a few minutes all was cool again, at least on the surface.

  After we wiped out the meatcakes, salad and grapes, Kirstin announced, "Time for dessert!"

  "Dessert?" Rolf clutched his stomach as if he couldn't eat another bite.

  Kirstin knew better, of course. She disappeared into the pantry for a minute, returning with a small plate of butter logs, rosettes and spritz cookies.

  "Hey!" I said. "I thought those were off limits until the Fair."

  "I made them," Kirstin said. "I can use a few for company if I want."

  I snorted. Rolf was hardly company, but Kirstin seemed to get some sort of thrill out of feeding him. Of course, he always vacuumed his plate clean, especially when the food was good, and I had to admit Kirstin's was.

  "Hey, I just noticed the time," Rolf said. "I've gotta go soon. I have to help pack tubes into boxes this afternoon."

  Rolf's family owns a seed and plant nursery. A lot of the business is mail order, so they have to grow some plants in tubes in order to ship them.

  Kirstin reached across the table and gripped Rolf's arm. "Why don't I go with you? I could help … and I need some plant food anyway."

  "Rolf doesn't need you hanging around," I said. "How would you get home? Mom's got the car and who knows when she'll be back."

  "No problem," Rolf said. "I'll bring Kirstin home when I pick you up for practice."

  "Yeah," Kirstin said. "You can stay home and watch the store just as easily as I can."

  "Hey, I'm really beat—"

  "Who isn't?" Kirstin jumped up from the table. "I've got to feed the goldfish. C'mon, Rolf. You can watch while Eric cleans up."

  "I said I'm tired."

  "I've got a few minutes," Rolf said. "It won't take long to clean up."

  "Well, if you'd rather wash dishes than help me feed the fish …." Kirstin said.

  "I'll help you feed the fish another time, Kirstin." Rolf started scraping plates.

  "Promise?" Kirstin tilted her head to one side.

  "Promise."

  "Okay, then." Kirstin smiled on her way out.

  "Kirstin gets away with murder," I griped, bugged that Mom wasn't around to let me off the hook. "You and I are both wiped out, and you've got a ton of work ahead of you at the nursery."

  "No big deal," Rolf said. "I clean up at home all the time. Besides, Kirstin did all the cooking. That's a lot of work."

  "Mmmph," I muttered as I wiped spills off the kitchen table. Sometimes Rolf was just too easy-going for his own good—and mine.

  About the time Rolf and I were done cleaning up, Kirstin came back inside.

  "We're outta here." Rolf placed his hand on Kirstin's back and guided her toward the front door. "See you at three, Eric."

  "Don't forget to listen for the buzzer!" Kirstin shouted on her way out the door.

  Right on cue, the buzzer sounded.

  I stepped into the shop just as a smiling, gray-haired couple walked in. I noticed the out-of
-state plates on their car and thought, Oh, great, a couple of browsers. They could be here for an hour! "Looking for anything in particular?" I asked hopefully.

  The woman looked at me kind of doubtfully. No one expects a guy my age to know anything about antiques. "Well … as a matter of fact, I'm looking for kitchen glassware from the depression years. Not the dishes, mind you. The kitchen glassware."

  "We have lots of kitchen glassware," I said. "Several pieces, lots of colors." I ticked them off on my fingers. "Amber, Blue Chalaine, Clambroth, Green Jadite—"

  "Yes!" The woman exclaimed. "That's what I collect—the Green Jadite."

  "Let me show you what we have." I crooked a finger, indicating that she should follow me, and led her past crowded tables and shelves to an old wall hutch loaded with kitchen glassware.

  The woman gasped. "Harold, you should see this. I've never seen so much Jadite kitchen glassware!"

  "Mmmm, hmmm," Harold said. He was busy picking through a box of old tools.

  "Oh, my." The woman held up each piece, checking the price, feeling the edges for flaws. Then she came to a vinegar cruet. She ran her fingers across the word, Vinegar. "The letters are so clear. Even the stopper is in excellent condition."

  I thought I'd racked up a $150 sale, but she put down the cruet and picked up a wedge-shaped refrigerator dish that cost only forty bucks.

  "This piece is in excellent condition," she said.

  "Yes, m'am." Just buy the darned thing so I can get out of here.

  "The vinegar cruet is so lovely." She let out a small sigh. "Decisions, decisions."

  "They're both fine pieces and at very good prices." I sounded like my mother. I was hoping she'd quit thinking and buy both. I wasn't handing her a load of bull. I'd been helping out in the shop for years and knew Mom's prices were fair.

  "You know, I can't decide. I guess I'll just have buy them both!"

  "Yes, ma'am." I said in my best business-like voice. "Is there anything else I could show you?"

  "Oh, no, thank you. I think I've spent enough!"

  "Okay. That'll be $190." I rang up the sale on the antique brass cash register. Nothing too modern for Mom, especially in her shop. I guess I should be glad we had electricity and running water. I pulled out some old newspapers to wrap the purchases.