War and Watermelon

by Rich Wallace

  We might as well sit here together.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 6:

  The Mini-Backfield

  Our second game is a rare away one at night. It’s at Hudson City, which has a lighted field like ours.

  On the bus ride over, the cheerleaders go through all the players’ names. I brace for my own: “Rah rah Brody Winslow!” I don’t think half the cheerleaders even know who I am. I’m not sure any of them do. At least they act like they don’t if I pass them in the hallway at school.

  Not that I care that much. They’re kind of stuck-up. But I seem pretty much invisible to girls on the whole. Except maybe Diane. I’m not invisible to her, but I don’t know if I’m just a humorous guy who sits next to her in school or somebody she could get interested in.

  Tony nudges me when he hears Stephie doing the cheer for my name. I elbow him back harder. She’s going out with Lorenzo, apparently.

  Most of the guys are staring out the windows or at the back of the seats in front of them. Very intense. We heard that Hudson City won big last week. Much bigger than our one-point squeaker. So everybody’s quietly getting psyched up.

  We’ll be kicking off to start the game, so I trot over to the opposite sideline and bounce up and down a few times. Hudson City’s in red jerseys and black helmets. You can see the Empire State Building across the river from the field and the high-rises of Jersey City a little ways down the river on this side.

  The Hudson City guy across from me is a lot bigger than I am. Mitchell kicks off and I angle away from the sideline, waiting for Sarnoski to pass me. Two Hudson City players move to block him, and I dart past them all and get over to where I’m supposed to be.

  I do a perfect box-and-in, but the action is on the other side of the field. Looks like Tony got in on the tackle.

  I run to our sideline and join him in front of the bench.

  “Totally nailed the guy,” Tony says, pulling off his helmet. He heads to the watercooler and gets a cupful. “Saved a touchdown.”

  Didn’t look that way to me. That whole side of the field was well covered. But let him think that if he wants to. It’s his first real contribution of the season.

  We get back on the field midway through the second quarter after Esposito dives into the end zone. The coaches kept him out of the scrimmages all week to make sure his ankle would heal, and he seems fine now.

  This time the returner comes straight up the middle. It’s tempting to head toward him, but my job is to protect the sideline. Good thing, too, because his teammates throw a couple of blocks and he turns my way. Sarnoski makes the initial hit, but the guy is still moving forward. I hesitate for a split second, remembering that penalty, but then I throw myself at his waist and wrap both arms around him. He goes down.

  My teammates are clapping and yelling as we run off. “Good coverage!” Coach Epstein calls, though not directly at me.

  We’re up 7–6 at the half—the exact same score as last week’s final. Looks like it’ll be too close again for me to get any playing time outside of the kickoffs.

  But Esposito scores again in the third quarter, and Ferrante scrambles around the end for a touchdown late in the fourth. Still, I’m surprised when Coach says, “Where’s that mini-backfield?”

  He waves me, Tony, and Salinardi over. “If we hold ’em here and get the ball back, you guys are going in,” he says. “Just run the ball and hold onto it. Basically, we’ll run out the clock.”

  I try to swallow, but my mouth has turned bone-dry. So I get a cup of water and hold it in there. Then I swallow it, but I’m so nervous it nearly comes back up.

  The opportunity comes with 1:19 remaining, after a Hudson City drive stalls at our forty.

  “They’ll be coming at you with everything they’ve got,” Coach Epstein tells us. “Hold on to that ball.”

  Salinardi is stuttering in the huddle. This game is probably out of reach, but a major screwup would make things dicey. “Umm . . . twenty . . . no, forty-three,” he says. “On two.”

  That’s a handoff to me.

  I put my hands on my knees and stare at Tony’s back. He’ll hit the hole first. All I want to do is gain a couple of yards and kill the clock. Nothing fancy.

  Tony lunges to the right. I follow him. But Salinardi pivots to the left. I stop cold. He wraps both arms around the ball and goes down hard.

  “What happened?” he says as we huddle up. “Forty-three is to the left!”

  I shut my eyes. I know that. But Tony went the wrong way and I stayed behind him. “My fault,” I say.

  He turns and looks at the clock. Hudson City called time-out as soon as he was tackled, so we’ve still got 1:08 left.

  “Thirty-three,” he says. “Tony. To the left. On two.”

  Tony scrambles forward and gets back to the original line of scrimmage. Hudson City calls its final time-out. It’s third-and-ten.

  Colaneri comes running onto the field, sending Tony off. “Coach says don’t pass,” he tells Salinardi. “Hand off to Brody.”

  “Okay,” Salinardi says. “Forty-four.”

  “Follow me,” Colaneri says, not looking at me. “We need yards.”

  The handoff is clean and I hug the ball. I get a nice block from Colaneri and churn through the line. I see daylight to my left, but it closes quickly, so I keep running straight and a linebacker hauls me down.

  “Nice run!” Colaneri says, yanking me to my feet. I look over at the sideline and see that I’m halfway between the sticks. So it’s fourth-and-five, but now the clock is running.

  “Let it go,” Colaneri says in the huddle. He’s taken over; Salinardi is just listening. “I’ll call time-out with about twenty seconds left. Then you just hand off to me. Game over.”

  So that should be it for me. I line up behind Colaneri, then run behind him as he charges into the line. He picks up seven. First down. The seconds tick off and we celebrate.

  “Great win!” Magrini says, running onto the field with his helmet held high.

  “Two-and-O, baby!” Ferrante yells. “Out of sight!”

  We’re rowdy all the way home. Somebody says something about going to Lovey’s for pizza. I hate pizza, but I figure we should walk down that way and hang out a while.

  Tony’s kind of angry. “Why’d he yank me out?” he asks. “I’d just made a huge gain.”

  The gain was two yards, but that is huge compared to a loss. “He had to get a message to Salinardi to keep the ball on the ground,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But he could have taken you out. You’re the one who messed up on the first play.”

  “That’s because I was following you.”

  “I was being a decoy,” he says.

  “That’s not how the play works.”

  He laughs. “I know. I forgot. But you shouldn’t have; you were getting the ball!”

  “Just as well,” I say. “There was no hole. Joey got clobbered.”

  Tony shrugs. The bus comes to a stop and we pile off.

  “You got money?” Tony asks.

  “I got a dollar in my sock.”

  “Buy me a soda at least?”

  “Sure.”

  We duck into the Garden State store and get two cans of 7UP. By the time we reach Lovey’s, it’s full. So we just stand outside—not exactly part of the scene, but not totally removed from it, either.

  I keep thinking about my run. First official carry of my career. Five yards. A statistic nobody can ever take away from me.

  We watch the constant stream of cars and buses for about twenty minutes, just sipping our 7UP and leaning against the front of the pizza place.

  “Had enough?” Tony asks.

  “Yeah.” I look into Lovey’s. Every table is full, most of them with football players and cheerleaders. They’re all laughing and eating.

  We head up the Boulevard toward home. The buildings are dark now except for Lovey’s, Chicken Delite, and the Limerick Tavern on the corner.

  We don’t say
much on the way home. But I’m thinking.

  So far so good, I suppose.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7

  What They’re Saying

  By Brody Winslow

  Dylan asks, “How many roads?”

  My dad sees a headband on a coward.

  The Youngbloods tell me, “Fear’s the way we die.”

  My brother sees misuse of power.

  My dad mentions King and Kennedy and Yogi.

  Sly sings he’s no better “and neither are you.”

  My brother says it’s time to make a difference.

  The Archies describe the loveliness of loving you.

  My mom says she’ll drive to Toronto.

  The Beatles hint of Paul so we’ll grieve for him.

  My brother could be a walrus, too.

  The cheerers chant rah rah; we believe ’em.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8:

  Like a John Tunis Novel

  Me and Ryan can’t even sit down, pacing back and forth in the family room. The Mets are clinging to a one-run lead over the Cubs, who’ve started slumping just as the Mets have caught fire. If the Mets can hold on to this one, they’ll be inches away from first place.

  First place! This is the Mets we’re talking about.

  Top of the ninth. One out. Shea Stadium is rocking. I stuff a handful of pretzels into my mouth.

  “It’s late!” Mom yells from the top of the stairs.

  “This is the greatest baseball game ever!” Ryan calls back.

  “Brody needs to get to bed!”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Two more minutes!” I yell, hoping she’ll close her door and go to sleep. Koosman is two outs away from finishing this thing.

  He gets his thirteenth strikeout. Ryan throws out five quick punches, gritting his teeth. “Dig it!” he says.

  “Unreal.”

  “It’s almost ten o’clock!” Mom yells.

  I can’t even look. I walk out to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. There’s a pitcher of watery lemonade, a few slices of leftover bacon from this morning on a paper plate, and a half-eaten chicken breast. Plus all the stuff in jars, like olives and pickles and mustard.

  “It’s over!” Ryan yells. I sprint the eight feet to the family room, where Ryan is dancing around, punching at the air again.

  “I am stoked!” he says. “Seaver’s pitching tomorrow night and I’m off. We’re going!”

  “We’re going?”

  “You better believe we are. What time do you get done with football?”

  “About five thirty.”

  “I’ll pick you up at the field. You can change in the car.”

  “We’re really going?”

  “We’re going!”

  I can hear Dad walking down the stairs. “Where are you going?” he asks.

  Ryan is kneeling on the couch now, bouncing up and down. “Shea Stadium. Tomorrow night. I can use the car, right?”

  Dad tightens his mouth. Mom is right behind him, tying her bathrobe. “You want to take another trip?” she asks.

  “Just into the city,” Ryan replies. “We’d never make it in time on the bus. By the time he gets home from practice and gets changed . . .”

  “Can’t you go on a Saturday?” she asks. “I’ll make sandwiches.”

  “Mom, this game is huge. The Cubs. The Mets are a game and a half back and Seaver’s pitching. It’s like a John Tunis novel come to life.”

  She purses her lips and turns to Dad, but she doesn’t ask his opinion this time. “Brody has school the next morning.”

  “It’s my birthday!” Ryan says. “And we’ll be home by nine thirty. Ten at the absolute latest. He can sleep in the car on the way home.”

  “What about his homework?”

  I almost never bring homework home. “I’ll get it done between classes or at lunchtime,” I say. “Please, Mom. This is the biggest sporting event of my life. You know how bad the Mets have always been. The Yankees and the Giants stink, too.”

  “This is history!” Ryan says. “The worst team in sports is becoming the best.”

  Mom and Dad look at each other.

  “Haven’t you had enough ‘history’ lately?” Dad asks.

  “I brought him back safe from Woodstock,” Ryan says. “And this is a lot closer to home.”

  Mom folds her arms. “Brody is already up too late tonight. By tomorrow night he’d be a wreck.”

  “No way, Mom,” I say. “I’m up past midnight every night.”

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know. A while.”

  “You can’t sleep?”

  “I can sleep; I just don’t. I listen to the radio.”

  Ryan laughs. “Sugar, Sugar.”

  “What?” Mom looks at him like he’s speaking Italian.

  “Mom,” he says, “the man is getting in touch with his emotions.”

  “The man is only twelve.”

  “He’s an old twelve. I promise, Jenny will look out for him.”

  “And Skippy will, too, I suppose?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  Dad clears his throat again and looks directly at me. “Do you want to go, Jehosaphat, or are you being dragged along again so Ryan can justify another trip?”

  “I definitely want to go, Dad. I’ve never been to Shea, remember?” He’s threatened to take me several times, but it never happens. I can detect a trace of guilt in his eyes. Maybe he feels bad about yelling at Ryan the other night, too.

  “Okay,” he says, not even waiting for Mom to chime in. He points at Ryan. “Straight in and straight out. If you’re going to be one second later than ten o’clock, you find a pay phone and call us.”

  “You got it,” Ryan says.

  “I’ll make sandwiches anyway,” Mom says softly. She gives me a hard look. “You bring a jacket. It can get cold very quickly this time of year.”

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9:

  Everyday People

  Coach gathers us after the wind sprints for a pep talk. Everybody’s gasping for breath except me. I can’t even stand still, stepping from foot to foot and wishing he would finish. Ryan, Skippy, and Jenny are already waiting in the parking lot.

  “So don’t be getting big heads just because you’ve won a couple of games,” Coach is saying. He picks at a side tooth with his thumbnail. “Over-confidence is a killer. You go into a game thinking you’re a big deal and you’ll come out with a loss, feeling like a bunch of crapheads. . . . So we’ll see you on the field tomorrow, ready to work.”

  I sprint across the field and up the hill into the parking lot, then climb into the backseat next to Skippy. There’s a Mets pennant on the seat.

  Ryan reaches over and holds out a hand for me to slap. “Brody boy! You ready for this?”

  “You kidding? I couldn’t think of anything else all day.”

  I turn and watch the other players walking slowly off the field. Tony’s by himself.

  We drive up to the Boulevard and turn right.

  “Which way you going?” I ask.

  “Skippy forgot his wallet,” Ryan says. “So we gotta stop there.”

  Skippy lives on the other side of town, so that’ll cost us some time. But we ought to get to Shea in about forty minutes. It’s around quarter to six now. Game time is 7:05.

  We pass Corpus Christi and I see Patty and Janet on the steps. Waiting for somebody? I wonder.

  I pull my jersey and shoulder pads over my head, then untie my sneakers. My T-shirt is soaked, but there’s a fresh one and a pair of dungarees in a paper Shop-Rite bag, plus a sweatshirt with a hood.

  Jenny looks back and smiles. “I won’t watch,” she says.

  So I yank off the football pants and the cup and put the dungarees on in a hurry.

  “Whoa,” Skippy says. “Those socks stink.”

  I peel one off and smell it. It’s wet and ripe, but there aren’t any fresh ones in the bag. So I ball them up, stick them inside my helmet, and put my bare feet back in my sneakers.
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br />   “You think we’ll get good tickets?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Ryan answers. “We’ll probably be in the upper deck, but all the seats at Shea are good. It’ll be packed, I can tell you that much.”

  Ryan keeps the station wagon running while we wait in front of Skippy’s house. Something else must be going on in there, because he’s gone for fifteen minutes.

  “Look what Jenny got me for my birthday,” Ryan says, handing a record album over the seat.

  It’s Stand! Sly and the Family Stone.

  “Cool,” I say. I’ve been hearing some of this on the radio lately, like “Everyday People.”

  Skippy finally comes back with a cigarette between his lips and a can of soda. “What a hassle,” he says, frowning toward his house.

  “Your old man home?” Ryan asks.

  “Home and wasted,” he says. “Wanted me to wash his car. Tonight. Can you believe that?”

  “What’d you say?” Jenny asks.

  “I said to wash his own stupid car. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  It’s way after six by the time we get on Route 80, heading toward the George Washington Bridge. Traffic is heavy. “We’ll make it,” Ryan says. “We can catch the first inning on the radio if we have to.”

  “So, Brody,” Jenny says, leaning partway over the seat, “you hear about tomorrow night?”

  “No.”

  Jenny always treats me like I’m an equal, like I’m part of the gang. She’s the kind of girlfriend I’d want to have if I ever got one.

  “We’re going to a war protest,” she says.

  “In town?”

  “In our town? You kidding?” She laughs. “Up in Syracuse. At my cousin’s college.”

  “Oh. You off again tomorrow, Ryan?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “I’m off for real tonight. Tomorrow I’m calling in sick.”

  “Again?”

  He fake-coughs. “You get a lot of bronchitis in that stupid freezer.”

  “It’s gonna be so great,” Jenny says. “Very peaceful. A bunch of people are just getting together in front of the student center and reading the names of the war dead and holding candles. It’s basically a vigil to get the military recruiters off the campus. We’ll be there until sunrise.”