Boomtown

by Nowen N. Particular

  By morning, Boomtown looked like a dripping wet sponge left overnight in a sink full of dirty water. Everyone came out of hiding to start cleaning up the mess, picking up the garbage, rounding up cows and sheep and horses that had gotten loose, propping up fences and signs that had fallen over. They worked and worked without stopping all the way up until 3:00 p.m. At that very second, everyone dropped what they were doing, jumped in their tractors and trucks and horse carts, and headed for Stickville. It was game time! A local flood, forest fire, earthquake, or Armageddon wouldn’t stop the fans from supporting their team.

  We hopped in the car and drove out to the field. The highway was washed away in several places and road crews had built makeshift detours, but like everyone else they had abandoned their shovels in order to make the game on time. In spite of the bad road conditions, we found enough dry back roads and made it to the stadium early enough for Ruth to join her cheerleading squad for warm-up. We made our way through the gates to the bleachers and got our first glimpse of the football field.

  It was a swamp. There were large, standing pools of water on the grass, and one of the end zones was completely under water. A flock of ducks swam around the field, and there were frogs croaking among the fallen leaves and branches. The Stickville Slugs and the Ainogold Giants were already on the field making matters worse, churning the grass into a muddy, mucky, slimy mess.

  “Look, Dad,” Sarah said pointing. “The mud is moving.”

  Jonny added, “There’s a head! With antennas! Eew, gross!” I stared at a blob of mud and watched as it crawled across the ground. Mixed in with the mud were hundreds and thousands of slugs. They were in the grass. They were on the benches. They were all over the bleachers. Everywhere you looked, there were slugs—big ones, small ones, long ones—leaving a trace work of silver slime trails everywhere they went. The heavy rains had driven them out of their hiding places. It looked like every last slug in Okanogan County had showed up for the game. What a sticky, icky mess!

  In spite of the conditions, the stands were soon filled to capacity with supporters for both teams. The Giants were decked out in bright red and green and gold; it looked like Christmas on the other side of the field. Our side looked like yesterday’s lunch. We were dressed in the school col-ors: muddy brown and slimy green. Even the school mascot wore the colors, a teenage kid dressed in a slug costume. He looked like a rotten hotdog with antennas and legs.

  Of course, we had the weather to go along with it. The sky was overcast and dark; it was miserable and cold and windy and the slugs kept crawling over our shoes. The playing field got muddier and sloppier and nastier. The fans couldn’t have been happier. One man sitting next to us shouted with excitement, “This is perfect Slug-playing weather! We got a fighting chance—Go Slugs! ”

  We watched as the referees gathered both teams and their captains in the middle of the field. They flipped a coin and promptly lost it in the mud. After three more tries, it finally came up heads. The Slugs would be first to receive the kickoff.

  The advantage hardly seemed to matter. The Giants were easily twice as big and strong as the poor Slugs. They had better equipment, better players, more practice, smarter coaches, faster runners, better blockers, fancier plays. It promised to be yet another humiliating defeat.

  It didn’t take long to see what the Slugs were up against. When the Giants lined up for the kickoff, they kicked the ball and it bounced and skidded through the water. The Slugs slipped and slid and crawled through the mud until they finally reached the ball. Four of them fell on it and got all tangled together. When they finally sorted out their arms and legs, they couldn’t decide who should carry the ball, which really didn’t matter because by then the Giants descended on them like a gold and white cloud. The Slugs got squished under their massive bodies.

  It went from bad to worse. The Slugs ran three plays and lost fifteen yards. Then the kicker slipped on the mud and kicked the ball into the bleachers. It was worse than I ever imagined, but the man sitting next to me said, “This is fantastic! This has to be the best they’ve ever played!” The Slug fans were going wild.

  It was time for the Giants to carry the ball. As they lined up for the first play, a hush fell over the crowd. You could hear the cheerleaders chanting, “Slugs. Slugs. Slugs! ”

  We saw it happen from the bleachers, like a slow-motion ballet. The center hiked the ball. The Giant quarterback took the ball in his hands. He stepped back to throw. The slippery mud-covered ball squirted through his fingers and flopped on the ground. A Slug player tripped over his shoes and fell on it.

  “Did you see that, Dad? Fumble recovery! The Slugs got the ball! That’s probably the first fumble recovery in Slug football history!”

  The Slug fans were going nuts. The bleachers rumbled with their stomping feet and their flag waving kicked up a small breeze. The cheerleaders led them in a group cheer. Everyone stood up and did the Slug Wave. They shouted, “EEEEEEEW! EEEEEEEW! It’s the Slugs!”

  Ruth led the crowd in a cheer: “It’s better to be gross than to be good! Go SLUGS! ”

  And go they did. By some miracle, as the first half continued, the Slugs rose to the occasion. Somehow, they fell down at just the right moment and tripped the Giants. If that didn’t happen, the Giants slipped on the mud or dropped the slimy ball or stumbled over each other. Instead of blocking, players were picking slugs off their uniforms. As the game continued, the football field was transformed into a grimy, slimy, gooey, sloppy, disgusting mess. By half-time, neither team had scored a point. By the final whistle, it hadn’t changed. The game was tied: 0 to 0!

  Slug fans shouted and screamed and ran around in circles and waved their flags and did the Slug Dance. Slime Dogs (hotdogs dripping in relish) and Slug Slush (shaved ice with lime flavoring) sold like crazy. Everyone was talking and laughing and cheering and giving each other high fives. As far as the Slug fans were concerned, their team had already won simply because they hadn’t lost.

  Then both teams returned to the field, and tension began to mount. Was it possible? Could the Slugs actually win in sudden-death overtime? Would the Giants lose to the worst football team in the history of high school sports? Maybe so. It seemed that no matter what they tried, the first overtime ended with the score still tied. Same with the second. Then the third.

  By the time the whistle for the fourth overtime blew, a light rain had begun to fall. Darkness descended over the field and the lights winked on, glistening on the puddles of water and off the backs of the slugs as they crawled through the mud. It was dreamlike as the teams took the field for the fourth and final time.

  The Giants had the ball on their own twenty-yard line, eighty yards from the end zone and victory. The quarterback took the snap and handed off to his running back. Four more Giants immediately surrounded the running back; together they formed a five-man wedge. The wedge was able to keep the running back on his feet as they bullied their way through the mud and the Slug defenders. They covered more than thirty yards before the stunned Slugs managed to drag the five players to the ground.

  Jonny said, “They’ve come up with a new strategy. If one guy can’t run down the field, maybe five can do it.”

  We watched as the Giants tried it again. Twenty more yards. Then a third time. Fifteen more. The coach of the Slugs called an emergency time-out, yelling at his players and waving his arms.

  “I got an idea, Dad!” Jonny said, jumping up from the bleachers and running down to the sidelines.

  “Jonny! Get back here!” I tried to grab his sleeve, but he was already gone.

  He squeezed his way between the quarterback and the coach. There was some animated discussion and then the referee’s whistle. The squad broke up and headed back onto the field. The coach slapped Jonny on the shoulder, and he ran back to his seat.

  “What did you say to him?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  On the very next play, the Giants pulled the same trick. They surrounded the ball carrie
r with a wedge and pushed forward, but as soon as they did, the entire defensive line of the Slugs fell flat on the ground. When the Giants trampled over the top of them, the Slugs reached up and grabbed their legs. The wedge collapsed in a Giants heap with the ball carrier in the middle, like a Slug sandwich drenched in mud sauce. They stopped them once. Twice. Three times.

  “You see, Dad? It’s the one thing the Slugs are good at—falling down.”

  The Giants found themselves stranded on the ten-yard line, down to their very last play. At that distance they couldn’t possibly miss the kick. They broke from the huddle, lined up for the field goal, and hiked the ball.

  “Ten! Fourteen! Six! Hut, hut, hut!” The center hiked the ball to the holder, slugs flying in every direction. The holder threw up his hands to guard himself from the sticky missiles. The football squirted past him out onto the open field. Loose ball!

  The Slugs scrambled forward, sliding and stumbling and squirming toward the ball. This would be their only chance. Out in front of them lay a wide-open field. All they had to do was get to the ball, hold on to it, slog their way through the mud, and reach the end zone. Unfortunately, the Giants’ placekicker reached the ball first.

  He scooped it up, turned around, and looked for someone—anyone—to whom he could throw the ball. Near the goal line, he caught a glimpse of one of his teammates jumping and waving his arms. There! He released the ball just as he disappeared under a pile of muddy Slugs.

  The football wobbled up into the air like a rubber chicken with a broken wing; it had just enough strength to reach the receiver. At the very same moment, Ruth and her cheerleading squad were completing their favorite cheer. They threw their pom-poms in the air and flopped on the ground in a squirming pile. Ruth’s pom-pom sailed into the air, over the heads of the other cheerleaders, over the sideline, and right on top of the Giants player’s head! The slippery pom-pom landed on his helmet and covered his eyes at the same exact second the football was reaching his outstretched hands.

  The player was instantly blinded. The football bounced off the top of his helmet and plopped right into the arms of one of the Slug players. He stood there staring at it. He’d played in twenty games, but in all that time he’d never even touched the ball. He didn’t know what to do with it.

  The coach yelled, “Run!” He just stood there. The players on the bench yelled, “Run!” He looked down at the ball. The cheerleaders yelled, “Run!” He turned toward the end zone. The crowd yelled, “Run!” His legs began to move.

  The boy’s name was Waldo Wainwright, number 35, a name and number that would go down in the annals of Slug football history. It was the day a Slug slipped and tripped and squirmed ninety-seven yards untouched into his own team’s end zone. It was the day the Giants lost to the worst high school football team in history. It was the day the wind and the rain and the earth and the slugs came together and helped lead our team to victory! We cried for joy when we saw that big, clumsy teenager trip and slip and squish and slide his way down the field and collapse under the goal-post. We cheered when the referee blew the final whistle.

  The game was over. The Slugs had won 6–0!

  The next day we held a parade down Main Street in Stickville. Waldo Wainwright and our two conquering heroes, Ruth and Jonny Button, rode in the lead car, hailed by thousands of loyal Slug fans. They waved brown and silver flags. They ate Slime Dogs and Slug Slush. They released a thousand brown balloons into the air. Mayor Touissaint of Stickville made a speech. They even proposed making the day an annual holiday in honor of the amazing victory.

  Everyone gathered together in the streets and sang Stickville High School’s fight song:

  In a state, in a valley, in a town so very small,

  Is a place you will find the oddest school of all.

  A place where the slimiest of all God’s creatures crawl.

  The home of the Slugs; we’re the Slug capital!

  They make their presence known with a bright and silver trail.

  Silently they move, over hump and hill and dale.

  Nothing ever stops them; their progress cannot fail.

  That’s why we love Slugs! The Slug is what we hail!

  Finally, around ten o’clock that night, the crowds began to disperse and we made our way home. The next morning, Waldo, Ruth, and Jonny’s picture appeared on the front page of the Stickville Times under the caption: “Three Local Teenagers Make History.” The headline read: SLUGS SLIME THE GIANTS.

  As I drank my morning coffee and gazed at their smiling faces in the picture, I was never so proud of my clever son and my wonderful daughter, who gained notoriety in such an unusual and unexpected way. It was the proudest day of my life.

  Except maybe at the Homecoming Dance a few weeks later, when Ruth was named the Slug Queen. That was pretty special too.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Amazing Chang

  The weather soon turned to crisp autumn air and falling leaves. As the weather changed, so did the fortunes of the Slugs. They lost their next three consecutive games by scores of 97-0 and 76-0 and then the rematch against the Giants, 112-0. Not that it mattered. The conversation in every store in Boomtown was about the Slugs’ “winning season,” with friendly wagers on how long the next losing streak would last. The odds pointed toward another forty years, but serious optimists were betting the Slugs would win another game sometime in the next decade.

  Janice and I had other concerns. Jonny wasn’t his normal rambunctious self. It was shortly after Halloween when Janice came to me and said, “Does Jonny seem tired to you lately? I don’t think he’s been sleeping well.”

  “I noticed. He seems to be eating a lot more too. Have you noticed that? Like we can’t keep anything in the refrigerator these days.”

  Janice had Jonny come into the kitchen. She put her hand on his forehead and looked down his throat. “Are you feeling all right? You’ve got bags under your eyes.”

  “I’m okay, Mom. I’ve had a lot of extra homework. I’ll go to bed early tonight, okay?”

  Now Janice was convinced something was wrong. Early to bed? Not Jonny! She got out the thermometer, checked his temperature, looked in his ears, and made him cough a few times.

  “I’m fine, really!”

  Considering all the food that was missing from the pan-try, we figured he had to be eating enough. It was probably just a growth spurt. Since he didn’t have any other symptoms, we decided he was okay and turned our minds to other things—like the situation at church.

  People were still talking about the day when Whiskers got loose. They wondered if Corine Beedle would ever come back. Two of our elders went out to see her, but she wouldn’t answer the door. I called on the phone a few times without success. I even sent three letters of apology. The mailman brought them back unopened. I finally decided to go on out to the Beedles’ farm to see if there was some way I could make amends.

  “You’re going with me,” I told Sarah.

  “Why?”

  “You know why. You’re going to apologize. You’re going to beg Mrs. Beedle for forgiveness.”

  “She oughta be thankin’ me. She doesn’t need that ol’ walker anymore.”

  “That isn’t the point, and you know it.”

  “Can we bring some brownies? Maybe that’d help.”

  “That would be very thoughtful.”

  “And I’ll make her a card. I’ll draw a picture of Whiskers on it.”

  “No Whiskers! But the card would be a good idea.”

  Sarah made a very nice card with a pink ribbon on it, and she promised to be good. We drove to the Beedles’ farm, parked the car, pushed open the gate, and walked up to the front door of the farmhouse. As we approached, Sarah pointed and whispered, “I saw Mrs. Beedle in the window, right over there.”

  “Don’t point, Sarah.” The curtains swung shut, and no one opened the door when I knocked. I kept at it for a few more minutes, but still no answer. Just as I stepped off the porch and was heading back to the
car, a man came around the corner from behind the house.

  “Howdy, there! Can I he’p you?”

  “Please. Are you Mr. Beedle? I’m the Reverend Button, from Boomtown Church.”

  “Sure, Reverend. I know who you are. ’Course, I didn’t recognize you at first, not without your three heads and the horns.”

  “What? Oh, is that what Corine told you? I don’t blame her, I guess. She’s still pretty upset?”

  “No more’n usual.” He put out his wrinkled hand, and I shook it. He looked to be about sixty-five or seventy years old, with a friendly smile, black horn-rimmed glasses, a wisp of graying hair, blue overalls, red flannel shirt, and cowboy boots. You could see he was a commodious sort of person, especially when he smiled. He had a pipe in his left hand that he used as a pointer when he talked.

  “And this here,” he asked, gesturing to Sarah, “would this be the little miracle worker? Sarah, ain’t it?”

  “That’s me!” she announced proudly.

  “Of course it is,” he said. “I heard all about you.”

  “You have?”

  “Sure ’nough. Healed my old lady, how ’bout that! What else can you do—raise the dead?”

  “I don’t think so. But I did bring some brownies.”

  “Well, that’s very neighborly of you, Miss Sarah. My name’s Paul. Beedle. Is that a card for Mrs. Beedle?”

  “Yes. I made it myself.”

  “It’s very pretty,” he said, accepting the card. “I’ll have to take it in to her, though. Don’t think she’ll be coming out. That ol’ woman is as stubborn as spinach stuck in your dentures. Never been able to get her to do nothin’ she don’t want to.”

  “Same as me,” Sarah admitted. “I rarely do what I’m told.”

  Mr. Beedle chuckled. “Well, I sure am grateful to you, young lady. Her mood ain’t improved any, but she shore is gettin’ around a whole lot better. I don’t trip over her walker no more. No more silly doctors neither.”