War and Watermelon

by Rich Wallace

  For today, my side is the Bulls and the other is the Dogs. I step to the sideline to watch, next to Tony.

  It doesn’t take long for the Dogs to score.

  “Return team!” calls Coach Powell, who’s in charge of our side today.

  So I’m back on the field. I’m not usually on the return squad, but for this scrimmage I am. Me and Tony are midway back, on opposite sides.

  The kick is way short. It bounces between us and we run toward it. Tony scoops it up and collides with me, then turns upfield and is swamped by tacklers. The ball comes loose and Magrini falls on it.

  “Nice going,” Tony says to me as we jog off the field.

  “What?” He was the one who fumbled.

  “You knocked the ball out of my hands.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  By halftime it’s 33–0, so Coach Epstein makes Ferrante and Salinardi switch teams (and jerseys).

  Aside from the kickoffs—and there have been a lot of them—neither me nor Tony has seen any action.

  Technically we’re the third-string running backs, but I can guarantee that even if Esposito, Delcalzo, Mitchell, and Colaneri went down with injuries, the coaches would shuffle things around so we’d still be substitutes. They’d put Stephie Jungerman in before I ever started at tailback.

  Coach Powell finally sends us in for the start of the fourth quarter.

  Ferrante looks at me, then at Tony, then back at me. “Let’s try the forty-five pitch,” he says. “On one.”

  I line up behind Tony, hands on my knees, and try to resist looking at the space between the left tackle and end. I’ve never run this play to the left. Since it’s a pitchout, I’ll have to catch it on my weaker side.

  The gap is big and I dart through it. Tony slows a linebacker and I head toward the sideline, running like a scared rabbit. Esposito takes me down, but I gain at least six yards.

  Tony leaps and punches me in the shoulder. “Way to move!” he says.

  Tony gains about half a yard on the next play, and Ferrante seems hesitant in the huddle as we regroup. “Forty-six pitch,” he says slowly. “No, wait. . . . Okay, forty-six pitch. On two.”

  That’s Magrini’s side of the field, and he’s been making tackles for losses all afternoon. Ferrante steps back and waves us closer. “Hit the line fast,” he whispers to Tony. “I’ll be behind you.” He shifts his eyes to me. “Follow me.”

  Tony runs through the line and makes contact with the middle linebacker. I fake to the right and shift back as the secondary converges on us, taking two steps past the line and diving.

  They pile up on me, but I’m sure I have the first down, just short of midfield. The referee signals that I do.

  Ferrante claps his hands hard in the huddle. “We’re moving,” he says. “We’re marching.”

  But Tony gets only a yard on first down, and I can get only one more on second. Ferrante throws a long incompletion on third down and then gets sacked on fourth.

  Esposito goes forty-two yards for a touchdown a few plays later, and suddenly it’s 40–0.

  “That sure turned in a hurry,” Tony says, shaking his head.

  “We were in a groove,” I say. “We’ll get it back.”

  The score is meaningless. We need a drive. We keep it on the ground and start eating up yardage again: Tony for three, me for four. It’s basic stuff, handoffs up the middle.

  We cross midfield. Ferrante calls the pitchout again. I can see myself making a couple of moves, outrunning the secondary, and reaching the end zone. I can taste it.

  I take the pitch and dart past Lorenzo, but he sticks out a hand and pulls my arm back, causing me to bobble the ball. I duck to my right and hold on, but I’m forced to spin hard to regain my footing, and I get blindsided by a linebacker. The ball comes loose. I can’t find it. Neither can my teammates. Lorenzo dives on it and yells, “Mine!”

  “You gotta hold on to that ball!” Coach Powell says as I reach the sideline. “Fumbles kill football teams. They cost us games!”

  I stand by myself, keeping my helmet on so no one can see my eyes, and watch the minutes tick away on the clock. Salinardi leads a methodical drive down the field, and the game ends with them at the fifteen-yard line.

  We were moving the ball. And just like last week, I fumbled it away.

  No way I’ll ever carry it again. No way I’ll get another chance.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 24

  Pains

  By Brody Winslow

  Fumble-itis

  Is like appendicitis

  It gets inside us

  And hurts

  MONDAY, AUGUST 25:

  Four Years of Basket-Weaving

  I sat around for the rest of the weekend and listened to the radio. Tony stopped by on Sunday, but I didn’t leave the house. No motivation.

  I just went through the motions at practice today, but nobody noticed. The coaches spent most of the time installing new plays—an end around reverse, a screen pass. I sat and watched. Maybe I should quit before the games start.

  If there’s any good news, it’s that the Mets have won nine out of ten. But there isn’t any good news as far as I’m concerned. Not after that fumble on Saturday.

  I woke up at three in the morning that night, sweating after dreaming that I was carrying a watermelon across the Sea of Tranquility, running as fast as I could as the rain poured down and lightning struck. I dropped the melon and kicked it as I tried to pick it up, and it rolled down a grassy hill faster than I could ever run in my life. When I turned back I was naked and sixty thousand people in football uniforms were calling me Sue and yelling at me to get off the football field. Forever.

  Then the people in football uniforms turned into Vietcong, and I watched helplessly as Ryan got gunned down, right in front of the stage and Arlo Guthrie.

  Sounds funny, huh? Try dreaming it. It isn’t.

  Here’s my new top five songs:• “Get Together” (The Youngbloods)

  • “Jean” (Oliver)

  • “This Girl Is a Woman Now” (Gary Puckett & The Union Gap)

  • “Sweet Caroline” (Neil Diamond)

  • “Tracy” (I don’t know who sings it; it’s new.)

  The bottom three:• “Little Woman” (Bobby Sherman)

  • “Sugar, Sugar” (The Archies)

  • “The Train” (1910 Fruitgum Company)

  I hear Ryan coming home from Shop-Rite. My parents went to bed an hour ago, so there shouldn’t be any arguing tonight. I pull on some shorts and walk downstairs.

  “What’s happening, brother?” he says. He’s got the refrigerator open and is fishing around for something to eat. He takes out a plate of roast beef from Sunday covered in foil, sniffs it, and puts it back. He opens the freezer and pulls out a Fudgsicle. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  He sits on the couch in the family room, and I take the love seat. We leave the light on in the kitchen but leave the family room dark.

  He sighs loudly, then takes a bite out of the fudge bar. “Tonight was a drag,” he says. “And why am I eating ice cream? I spent the past eight hours going in and out of a walk-in freezer. I practically have frostbite.”

  “Mets got rained out,” I say. “They play two tomorrow.”

  He nods. “They’re doing good,” he says, but he sounds distracted.

  My fudge bar starts to drip, so I put about half of it in my mouth and run to get a napkin. I bring him one, too.

  I’ve got that new song going through my head, and I’ve only heard it twice. Tracy . . . da da da da. Hmm. It’s catchy.

  We’re quiet for several minutes. I can’t remember any more words, but the few that I do keep running over and over in my mind.

  Ryan says, “Damn,” barely loud enough to hear.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “A little bummed out. . . . Sort of confused.”

  “Me, too.”

  He laughs lightly. “What are y
ou confused about?”

  “I don’t know. . . . You going to that dance Thursday?”

  He shakes his head. “Working till eleven every night this week.”

  “Oh.”

  “You thinking of going?” he asks.

  “Thinking, yeah.”

  “You should.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ryan is a great dancer, or at least an energetic one. A few years ago he stayed home from school one day because he was sick or something. And when I got home at lunchtime, he was dancing in the family room to an Elvis record, jumping up and down and swinging his arms and his head.

  The house behind our yard has a sloping driveway, and you can see straight across to it from the big picture windows in our family room. So I looked over there, and about eight kids—Jerry Ashenberg, Ramon Hernandez, at least two of the Foleys—were in the driveway laughing and pointing, probably more amazed than anything. Ryan waved and kept dancing. He didn’t care.

  I hear some thunder. That’s the pattern lately: hot all day, threats of rain late at night. Ryan wraps his ice-cream stick in the napkin and lies back, hanging his feet over the end of the couch.

  I don’t know how much to ask him. He’s always been the one I go to with problems, way more than I’d go to Mom or Dad. I know he’s troubled, but how much could I help him?

  “So, what are you confused about?” I ask.

  “Stuff. Turning eighteen, mostly.”

  “Yeah. . . . I know.”

  There’s another long silence. That’s okay; we’re thinking.

  “I mean, I want to go to college,” he says, “but eventually. Not because somebody almost literally has a gun to my head. If they’d end the frickin’ war, this wouldn’t be an issue. You know?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I mean, that’s some hell of a choice—go study economics or basket-weaving for four years, or get your head blown off in Southeast Asia. Nice priorities.”

  I swallow. I lie back, too.

  “It’s not even like we have a right to be there,” he says. “Frickin’ Nixon. Frickin’ war mongrel.”

  That’s the last thing we say for a while. I stare at the ceiling for five minutes. There’s more thunder and I can see a few streaks of lightning off in the distance. I shut my eyes.

  I should go upstairs. Turn on the radio and see if they’ll play that “Tracy” song again so I can get some of the lyrics down. Four words is all I’ve got.

  “See, you have to think for yourself,” Ryan says. “This ‘my country, right or wrong’ crap doesn’t make us better; it makes us stupid.”

  It sounds like he’s talking out loud to himself, but that isn’t like him. I guess he’s talking to both of us, testing out his theories. “Don’t follow the flock if they’re leading you over a cliff,” he says.

  “I hear you.” I have no idea what it’d be like to face the end of what I know. To get shipped halfway across the world and put myself in the direct path of somebody’s gun—a lot of people’s guns and bombs and grenades.

  Ryan nods off on the couch, and I just watch him snore. He’s fidgety in his sleep, and I don’t remember him ever being like that. We always used to sleep like babies here, safe in this house and in this town. I never even thought about being in danger before. I doubt he did either, at least not before this year. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a month.

  I won’t quit football. How could I wimp out of something like that when I compare it to what Ryan’s facing?

  And that dance, too. I’m going. I’ve been thinking about Patty, even though I try not to. Not about making out with her or showing off by walking along the Boulevard with her; just about that hint of a smile she shows me sometimes. Just that possibility that she likes me. I think she’s just shy.

  I could see it happening. We’re at the dance and she tells me she’s had a crush on me all summer. That she’s so excited to finally be alone with me.

  I could definitely see it happening.

  It’s almost starting to feel urgent.

  Urgent that I make something happen. Not with her, specifically, or on the football field or whatever. Just something. Something big.

  Because you never know when it’ll be too late. When you might eat your last hot dog, or get sent to Vietnam, or wake up and find out you’re dead.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 26:

  Pushing the Limit

  Five laps today, which is at least a mile. Me and Tony race to the front and get way ahead of everybody—they’re all either tired from scrimmaging or slow. But we cut the pace after one lap, running comfortably enough to talk but also fast enough so the coaches won’t yell at us.

  “You been working on your moves?” Tony asks.

  “What moves?” I haven’t touched the ball since that fumble.

  “For Thursday night.”

  “Oh.” I make a hard turn and cut through the end zone. “I know how to dance; I don’t have to practice.” That isn’t true at all, but I don’t plan to do any dancing anyway.

  “Not dance moves,” he says. “You know, after, when we’re walking them home.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Nobody said anything about walking them home. We don’t even know if they’ll show up. Or if any of us will get into the dance.

  We finish the second lap. A few of the linemen are just a short distance ahead of us, finishing their first.

  “You might as well try,” Tony says. “See if you can get anywhere with her. At least kiss her for a few seconds.”

  I’m not sure which one he means by “her.” Or where this great make-out scene might take place.

  “If nothing else, you gotta split her off from Patty for me,” he says. “Get me some alone time.”

  “So you’ll be with Patty, huh?”

  “Whataya think? I’m the one who set this thing up, so I get the . . . so I get Patty.”

  And I get Janet. Nothing wrong with her, but I’m seeing it differently. No way Patty likes Tony. I don’t know what she thinks of me, but all I see when she has to look at Tony is disgust.

  I start running a little faster now. He keeps up, but I can tell that he’s starting to breathe harder.

  “What I’m hoping to do is take them over to the Little League fields,” he says. The fields are adjacent to the swim club.

  “You planning to play baseball?” I intend it as a joke, but he just sneers.

  “Dugouts are nice and secluded, especially at night.” He holds up his right hand and makes some squeezing motions.

  I go faster and move five yards ahead of him. I’m not in the mood for his daydreaming.

  “Who you racing?” he says.

  I glance over my shoulder. “Come on.” And I turn the heat up even more.

  I can hear him panting now, trying to catch me. But I’m pulling away from him. After four laps he’s thirty yards behind, and I run the last one at full speed, lapping almost everybody else on the team.

  Nobody seems to notice, as usual.

  Tony doesn’t say anything after he joins me on the sideline, where I’m waiting for everybody else to finish. He’s got his hands on his knees and he coughs a couple of times. I could run five more laps.

  Coach yells at some of the linemen as they finish and try to sit down. “Walk it off!” he says. “We got too many people close to the limit. I don’t want any surprises on Saturday.”

  The weight limit for our division is 140 pounds, and I’d say at least three guys are pushing that. Anybody questionable gets weighed in front of the referees and coaches from both teams a half hour before the kickoff. If you’re over, you don’t play.

  “So we’ll be running all week,” Coach says as we huddle up. “East Rutherford is big, they’re fast, they’re tough, and they’re our rivals. Without total concentration, we’ll get our butts kicked.”

  Me and Tony walk off with Colaneri and Delcalzo. “We beat East Rutherford by three touchdowns last year,” Colaneri says when we’re out of earshot of the co
aches. “He’s just trying to psych us up.”

  “Hope it’s at least that much this year,” Tony says to me. “Otherwise we get no playing time.”

  “We get kickoffs,” I say.

  “Yeah, but that ain’t the same as running the ball.”

  I still have my helmet on, so I undo the chin strap and lift it off my head. I’m not so sure I want to be running the ball after that fumble last weekend. Imagine doing that in front of a Saturday night crowd at home.

  The steps at Corpus Christi are empty this time. We stop across the street and Tony looks up and down the Boulevard. Then he does it again.

  “We should wait,” he says.

  “What for?”

  He looks at me in disbelief. “We must be early. They’ll show.”

  “We’re actually later than usual,” I say. “All those laps.”

  “Then I guess we missed ’em.”

  “It’s not like they sit there waiting for us every day.”

  “Often enough,” he says.

  “Once. And that was probably a coincidence.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You don’t understand anything.”

  “No. You don’t.” I start walking home. He stays where he is.

  “Give it five minutes,” he says.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “So am I. But some things are bigger than that.”

  I stop walking and face him, fifteen feet away. “They aren’t here.”

  “They will be.”

  I sweep my hand toward the church steps. “So go ahead and wait. I’m leaving.” And I walk another ten feet.

  I look back and he’s still standing there with his mouth hanging open. I turn and start walking again. After two blocks I hear him running up behind me.

  “They didn’t show,” he says, as if that’s news.

  “No kidding.”

  “Must have got delayed somewhere,” he says. “I thought they’d be there.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “They wait there for us every day.”

  “Once,” I say again. “And who says they were waiting for us?”