War and Watermelon

by Rich Wallace

  Tony comes by around seven fifteen. “How was the beer?” I ask, knowing full well that he didn’t have any. He doesn’t have to shave yet, either.

  “I just said that for them.”

  “No kidding. I’m sure they were real impressed by your maturity.”

  My dad keeps a case of Rheingold in the old refrigerator in the cellar, so I have tried beer. It’s rancid, bitter stuff.

  “Still hot,” Tony says, wiping his face with his hand as we walk down the hill. Most of the town is way higher than the area where the swim club and the football field are. Route 17 is on the other side of those things, and from there the land is basically flat across Teterboro and all the way to the Hudson River and the city.

  The swim club is crowded: men home from work and families and a lot of teenagers. We throw our shirts and sneakers in the locker room and walk around the perimeter of the grounds, staying on the grass. The entire swim club is about the size of two football fields side by side, with a cement apron around the edge of the pool.

  The pool is shaped like a T—twenty-five meters long, with diving boards at the far end. There are fifteen-meter wings off the shallower end and a kiddie pool over to the side. (I know the measurements because I was on the swim team the past three summers, specializing in the breaststroke. I didn’t go out this year because of football.)

  We’ve got a blacktop basketball court over by the locker rooms and a big grass area behind the pool, fenced off from the highway. Janet and Patty are lying on their towels in the grass with a couple of older girls. Janet sees us coming and nudges Patty. Patty looks up quickly, then turns her head the other way, staying flat.

  Tony’s leading the way. He walks past, about ten feet from them, pretending he doesn’t see them. “Let’s go shoot some hoops,” he says to me, loud enough so they can hear.

  So we check out a basketball from the office. The court is empty, and it’s no secret why. The blacktop is about a thousand degrees.

  “No way I’m going barefoot on that,” I say. So we go to the locker room and put our sneakers back on. There’s a poster on the wall I didn’t notice before.

  END-OF-SUMMER SWIM CLUB DANCE

  Ages 13 to 18

  Thursday, August 28

  Music by The Electrons

  8–10:30 p.m.

  Free for Members. $1.50 Guests

  Tony reads the poster slowly. “How would they know how old we are?” he asks.

  “Our birth dates are on our membership cards.”

  “They won’t check every card.”

  “Maybe not.” But people know how old we are, whether it’s on the card or not. Like we could walk into a dance that’s mostly for high school kids and nobody would notice! We’d get thrown out on our butts.

  We play three games of O-U-T (I win twice) then ditch the basketball and head for the water.

  There are more people in the water than out, which is unusual, but the temperature is still over ninety degrees. They’ve closed off the diving boards so more people can swim in that area. We swim underwater across the shallow end and come up on the other side of the ropes.

  Tony spits out a huge stream of water and strokes over to the edge to get a look at Patty and Janet.

  “They see you?” I ask.

  “They’ve been looking right at us. They looked away when I caught them staring.”

  He’s dreaming. They’re in the group that has parties on the weekends and clusters together on the Boulevard after school. The ones in that group are our age, but the guys have muscles and attitudes. “They hang out with Stephie and Esposito and those people,” I say.

  “Not always. Besides, we could hang with that group if we wanted to.”

  No way. “Once you’re in that group, you’re in, and nobody else can penetrate.”

  “Things change in the summer,” Tony says. “Besides, here they come.”

  We hang on the wall and watch as they slowly walk all the way around to the far steps, tucking their hair under their racing caps as they go. Janet is in the same green two-piece she always wears, but Patty has a skimpier pinkish one I haven’t seen before, and she keeps pulling it down where it’s creeping up her cheeks.

  I keep staring until they dive in.

  They glide out toward the middle of the pool and I lose sight of them behind some adults. But I keep watching, and eventually Patty comes into view and looks right at us. She ducks under the water and comes up ten feet farther away, back turned.

  “Oh yeah, they’re real interested,” I say.

  Tony slaps at the water and it splashes into my face. “Don’t you know anything about how girls work?” he asks. “They don’t throw themselves at you.” He lowers his voice. “Just keep playing it smooth, like I am.”

  “Real smooth,” I say.

  “Shut up. I know what I’m doing.” He starts swimming toward them, underwater. I stay back.

  When he pops up, I see Janet laugh. He spits water at her this time, and she splashes him back. Patty starts swimming toward the diving area.

  She swims right past me, as if she’s working out, but she turns her head and says, “Hi.” No emotion behind it or anything. Just “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say, but it perks up my interest. She had no reason to say anything to me. So when she stops at the end of the pool and treads water, I call over to her. “Feels good, huh?”

  She brightens just slightly and says, “Yep,” but she doesn’t look at me. She starts waving at Janet, who’s still with Tony, smiling and talking. “I’m getting out!” she yells.

  She climbs out right there and a whistle blows. You’re supposed to use the ladders or the steps. She looks over to the lifeguard station and frowns. The guard, who is almost directly above me, says, “You know better.”

  Patty lifts her shoulders and looks up at the guard, saying, “Sorry,” all insincere. But then she looks down at me and gives the faintest hint of a smile before walking away.

  Tony swims over to me about thirty seconds later. “You better practice dancing when you get home tonight, bro.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re taking them to that thing next week.”

  “What thing?”

  “The dance.”

  “Get out.”

  “I ain’t kidding. I mean, we’re not exactly taking them, but I convinced Janet to get Patty to sneak in. So we’ll be the only twelve-year-olds there. Who else are they gonna hang out with, right?”

  I look over toward Patty, but I can’t see her. She must be lying down. Tony must figure he’ll be with her, but it’s pretty obvious she can’t stand him.

  She said “Hi” to me though. Even said “Yep” about the water feeling good.

  What’s there to dancing anyway? You just move your arms up and down. I saw lots of that at Woodstock.

  I can handle it. I think.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 19:

  Bottom of the Fourteenth

  So the Mets have won four straight, but I’m not getting caught up in that anymore. They just let you down. The Padres are even worse than they are, so beating them four times isn’t saying much.

  We got chewed out by my father pretty good this weekend for staying out all night at the Woodstock concert, but even he had to admit we had no choice.

  “Of course, you could have chosen not to go,” he said. “But that would have taken some common sense, which you two seem to lack rather badly.”

  Hey, Dad, I was just along for the ride. And you told us it was okay. It was Mom who was against it.

  So I lie on my bed and listen to WMCA all evening. They play “Honky Tonk Women” every thirty-seven seconds.

  I’m not looking forward to summer ending. I’ve spent seven years at Euclid School around the corner; now I’ll have to walk another six blocks to Franklin. That school’s just for the seventh and eighth grades, so we’ll be the little kids again. Plus we’ll be joining up with the kids who went to Lincoln Elementary. I know a few of them from football and the swim club
, and they seem weird and dumber than the people on this side of town.

  I doze off and probably sleep for an hour before Ryan opens my door and turns the light on. “Spinning Wheel” is just ending, and Ryan says, “Switch to the Mets. You won’t believe this game!”

  So I turn the dial and hear Ralph Kiner saying, “Top of the fourteenth.”

  “Fourteenth inning?” I say.

  “Yeah. And it’s scoreless,” Ryan says. “Marichal has pitched every inning for the Giants.”

  “Who’s in for the Mets?”

  “McGraw. Gentry pitched the first ten.”

  I’ve never heard of such a thing. Thirteen innings without any runs? When I played Little League, people were scoring constantly.

  Ryan sits on the floor with his back against the wall, knees up. “The Mets are totally happening all of a sudden.”

  I shrug. They’ve flattened my enthusiasm too many times before. “Dad stop yelling at you?” I ask.

  He waves his hand sort of disgustedly. “He never really yelled. Just acted like I’m stupid and irresponsible.”

  “Acted?” I remember Dad saying those things pretty directly.

  He strokes his chin, where the soft, thin hairs are about a half-inch long and curling under, and lets out a sigh. We listen to the game for a couple of minutes before he speaks again. “Big changes coming, Brody.”

  “A pinch hitter?”

  He laughs. “In the world.” He takes a sheet of paper out of his pocket; it’s the flyer we picked up at the concert. “We’ve had it with this war, the establishment—everything. Woodstock was just the start.”

  “What can you do about it?”

  “Stick it to ’em,” he says. “Protest.”

  Dad pushes the door open; Ryan didn’t shut it tight like I always do. He steps into the room but doesn’t say anything.

  Ryan ignores him. “Our brothers are dying over there, Brody. Forty thousand dead, and Nixon would double that if he had his way.”

  Dad clears his throat. He and Ryan look at each other, not exactly glaring, but not too friendly, either.

  “Ryan,” Dad says, “you are so full of crap it’s coming out your ears.”

  “It’s an unjust war, Dad.”

  “It’s our war,” he says sharply.

  Ryan shakes his head and looks at the ceiling.

  McGraw has retired the Giants, so it’s still scoreless going into the bottom of the fourteenth.

  Dad picks up a stack of baseball cards from my dresser and looks at the top one. “It’ll be your war if you don’t smarten up,” he says.

  Ryan will turn eighteen on September 9. Mom’s been worried sick. He’ll be eligible for the draft.

  “You didn’t go,” Ryan says, staring at the radio.

  “I’m forty-two years old, bub.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Dad got excused from military service. Asthma or something like that; the heart trouble came later. He sets down the cards and stares at Ryan. “College students get deferments.”

  “I’ll go to Canada.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s a great answer. Freeze your nuts off in an igloo when you could be getting an education.”

  We went to Canada a couple of summers ago for the World’s Fair: Expo 67 in Montreal. It wasn’t cold at all. Then again, it was the middle of the summer. We pitched a tent in a giant field in the city with a thousand other tents and trailers. Everything was wet and the entire area smelled from the portable toilets.

  “The war is immoral,” Ryan says.

  “You’re so full of—”

  “You said that already.”

  “Yeah, well you never listen anyway.” Dad sits on the edge of my bed and looks at the radio. The Mets already have one out, but Agee is up. Marichal is still pitching.

  Dad turns to me. “So what’s your excuse, Lucifire?”

  “For what?”

  “For living.” He’s joking around now. That’s his way—cut into Ryan, then try to take the pressure off through me.

  I start to speak, but the radio catches our attention. “Well hit and deep. This could be—that ball is gone! Tommie Agee with a walk-off homer in the bottom of the fourteenth, and the Mets win their fifth in a row!”

  “Amazing!” Dad says, standing up.

  Ryan raises a fist. “Freaking out!”

  “Who are these guys?” Dad says, grinning broadly. “It can’t be our Mets.” He holds out one palm and Ryan slaps it, then Ryan holds out his own palm for Dad.

  “We gotta get to a game,” Ryan says. “No more talking about it. We gotta go.”

  “Well . . . we’ll see,” Dad says. “Where’s a schedule?”

  I go over to my dresser and take a schedule out of the top drawer. “They got a few more home games, then a long road trip,” I say. “They’ll be in California until September.”

  Dad slowly rolls his head from side to side. “Brody will be in school by then,” he says. “But there’s always the radio and TV.”

  “Can’t we say maybe in September we’ll go?” Ryan says.

  “Maybe. But not likely.”

  “Of course, by then they might lose ten in a row,” I say.

  Dad laughs. “I got a good feeling this season, buddy. Agee, Seaver, Koosman—these guys are the real thing.” He raises his voice and it gets kind of squeaky. “That ball is gone!”

  He leaves a few seconds later—whistling “Meet the Mets”—and Ryan pushes the door shut. He looks at me and shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “What was that all about?” he whispers.

  “I don’t know.” But I kind of do. Dad’s been riding Ryan hard all summer, but I know it’s because he’s worried about him. Every morning on the radio we hear about the bombings and the invasions while Dad eats his stale pound cake for breakfast. We all know the days before Ryan’s birthday are ticking like a time bomb. He hasn’t done anything about applying to college.

  We listen to the post-game, then I switch back to music. We catch the end of Stevie Wonder, then they play “Honky Tonk Women” again.

  “I’m getting a little tired of that one,” I say as it ends. Ryan gives a half smile and nods. He hasn’t said anything for a while, just sitting there. I don’t envy him.

  The Youngbloods come on. My favorite song this week.

  Come on people now

  Smile on your brother

  Everybody get together

  Try to love one another right now

  Vietnam. He could be there by Halloween.

  Hell, he could be dead by then.

  He wouldn’t be the first.

  And we all know it.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20:

  Straight at Me

  Ferrante’s calling signals as he looks over the helmets of the linemen, directly at me: the middle linebacker.

  Peter Sarnoski limped off the field a second ago, and Coach Epstein pointed to the first guy he saw on the sideline to take his place. It happened to be me.

  Ferrante slings a short pass over the middle, right toward me. The tight end is coming my way and he steps in front of me and catches the ball. I wrap my arms around his legs and another linebacker helps me finish the job.

  They’ll be working on me, that’s for sure—thinking I’m the weak spot. I brush some dirt off my thigh.

  I glance at the sideline. There are three or four people kneeling there who probably should be in here instead. Tough luck. I got it.

  Ferrante’s no dope. He calls that same pass route from the opposite side, and I see it coming but don’t have time to react. Eddie Lorenzo grabs the pass and tries to stiff-arm me, but I duck under and get hold of his leg. He drags me a few yards, but he goes down.

  I’ve made two tackles in two plays, but we’re backing up fast.

  Coach calls time and huddles up the defenders. “This is where tough guys toughen up!” he growls. “First and goal, backs to the wall. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Coach grabs my face mask and glares at me. Then h
e turns to Finken, who’s at middle guard. “They’re coming right at you two, and you know it!” he says. “Smashmouth football, right up the gut. Let’s stop ’em cold!”

  “Readeeeeee,” Ferrante calls, hunched over the line. “Ready, set . . . hut, hut.” He takes the snap and cradles the ball, lunging behind the center as Finken is shoved aside. I step into the gap and meet Ferrante head-on, standing him up just long enough for help to arrive and stop him for no gain.

  “They’re coming at you again, middle men,” Coach says. “What kind of candy are you made of?”

  I let out my breath hard. This isn’t so bad. It’s like playing in the lot up on Roosevelt Avenue. Only difference is the matching uniforms and the coaches.

  Come at me again. I’m ready.

  Ferrante drops back. Lorenzo’s in my face, reaching for the pass, but I duck under his shoulder and deflect the ball to the ground.

  My hand stings. I shake it. Lorenzo yells, “Pass interference,” but Coach waves him off and says, “Get back to the huddle, pansy.”

  These guys are big and quick and have a lot more experience than I do. They’re busting my chops on every play, expecting me to fail.

  Keep coming at me.

  Same play again? Lorenzo is running toward me like a freight train. I pivot, timing my hit so I’ll get there just as the ball does.

  But there’s no pass. Lorenzo comes up from under me with a brutal block. I see stars as his forearm meets my mouth, and I fall backward to the dirt.

  I lie there for a few seconds, in the end zone. Esposito is standing over me with the ball. He scored.

  Coach pushes Esposito aside and looks down at me. “You all right?” he asks.

  I sit up and spit out my mouth guard. I reach for my jaw and it feels okay, so I nod. But my fingers are bloody when I take them away. I can taste the blood, too, but just on the outside of my lip. No big deal.