“That it is, Patrice,” Katelynn responded, her brilliant smile automatically turning solemn. “As you saw in that piece, estimates for what the football was to bring to the Diabetes Association ranged anywhere from five thousand to ten thousand dollars. This is a significant blow to their efforts.”
“Well, we’ll all just have to turn out tomorrow and support them despite this,” Patrice said, turning in her seat. “How about the weather, Jay? Are we going to get a break from this dust and wind? Tomorrow won’t be anything like that awful dust storm from yesterday, will it?”
“Do you think, if we do have another dust storm tomorrow, they’ll cancel the run?” I asked Frank, trying not to sound hopeful.
“No way,” he said. “If they started canceling things because of dust storms, we’d never have things at all.”
Sad but true. The day before had been one of those free microdermabrasion days.
“Who do you think has the ball?” he asked me.
“Oh, I have no idea,” I said.
“I think it’s Team Dean.”
It took me a minute to remember what Frank was talking about, but back when Garrett was playing for the Red Raiders, there had been a lot of talk about a rivalry between him and another local guy. If what I remembered was correct, Garrett and Levi Dean had both tried out for the Red Raiders, but Dean didn’t make it. The next semester he transferred schools and made the team there, and ended up being one of their star running backs. Every time Garrett made a mistake or the Raiders lost a game, the speculation would start up again that the coach had made the wrong choice between the two players. Then Garrett would make a brilliant play and the tide would shift back in his favor. People all over town were wearing Team Dean and Team Garrett shirts. I met this girl in a bar one time who had “Team Garrett” tattooed over her breast. Even for football-fanatical West Texas, that seemed a bit much.
I had been drinking quite a bit back then so my memory was fuzzy, but what Frank said reminded me of something. “Was there some rumor that Garrett had cheated or bribed his way onto the team? Or something…” It seemed like there was something beyond just a regular football rivalry.
“Yeah, that was a bunch of smoke. What I heard was that Dean had tried to bribe his way onto the team, and the team still wouldn’t have him. Then he started the rumor about Garrett doing the same thing. I mean, between the two of them, who had the money to be making bribes? Back then, I mean.”
I was perplexed. “I don’t know. Who had the money?”
“Dean had more money than Garrett ever dreamed about, until Garrett made the NFL. The Deans have that big cattle ranch between here and Idalou. The wind museum – his family donated the land for that, and his mom is on the board of directors. And now his daddy’s bought him the Taco John’s so he’ll have something to keep him out of his hair.”
Two things there needed comment, and I wasn’t sure which to focus on first. Priorities surface at times like these. “Taco John’s? Really? The son owns that now?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“And they own the Wind Museum, too? That’s weird. That’s where the race is tomorrow. And the silent auction and gala.”
“See? Team Dean.”
“But why would they do that? Host the event there if they’re big rivals?”
Frank shrugged, stretching to place his empty plate on the coffee table, then settled back into his chair with a groan. “Burying the hatchet, I guess. Friend of mine works out there sometimes taking care of the grounds, and he said they were all excited about the party. He said he made a crack to the wife about them all being friends now – Garrett and the Dean family – and she got kind of snippy and said they wanted to finally put all those idiotic rumors to rest. So maybe that’s why they did it.”
“But then…why steal the football?”
“How do I know? It just seems kind of suspicious to me.”
It did seem suspicious. I picked up my phone and called Bobby, one of the detectives on the Lubbock Police Department. Bobby and I had grown up in the same small town although he was a few years older than me. For at least seven years of my childhood I’d been sure we would marry someday, if only he would ever notice me. He finally noticed me a lot after he became a cop and I kept getting in trouble with the law.
“Bobby, did you know that the guy who owns the Wind Museum is the father of Garrett West’s old football rival? And the Wind Museum is where Garrett’s football was stolen.”
“I actually did know that, Salem,” he said, in a much more pleasant voice than he usually reserves for talking to me. “I also know that cats don’t like baths and crap rolls downhill.” Except he didn’t say ‘crap.’ “Is there anything else obvious and completely useless you need to bring to my attention?”
“Geez, grump.” I carried our plates back to the kitchen and dug around in the bag until I found the last half bread stick. “I just thought I’d make sure you were aware.”
“I’ve been aware of nothing else for the past –” He paused. “—past 23 hours. Believe me, we’ve checked out the Dean family.”
“All their land? And the Wind Museum? Taco John’s? They own Taco John’s now, too.”
Bobby was talking to someone else now, though, and ignoring me. He gave a low growl, muttered something, and then came back on the phone. “Salem? You still there?”
“Still here.”
“Sorry, you would think we were looking for the frigging Magna Carta or something. But yes, Salem, we know all about the Dean family’s many property holdings.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“I would love for you to be helpful. As soon as you have anything helpful to share, you call me back.”
And after I had pledged my undying devotion to him all through seventh grade!
After my Tour of Tuscany, the last thing that should have been on my mind was food, but since, if I didn’t think of food, I thought of the Mud, Sweat and Tears run…”
“I haven’t been to Taco John’s in months,” I said when I sat back down on the sofa.
“I’m there at least once a week,” Frank said. Because of course he did. Frank had the kind of metabolism that let him eat whatever he wanted and he still looked like a refugee.
“Chicken enchiladas?” I asked, wistful. I did love me some chicken enchiladas, with sour cream and green chilis. Lots of cheese…
“I get the Touchdown Platter now, since the new guy took over.”
“Touchdown Platter?”
“Yeah. It’s a tortilla stack with a fried egg on top. You have to ask for the two-point conversion for that, though.”
“That actually sounds abhorrent,” I said.
Frank nodded. “Absolutely,” he said, but I think he just didn’t know what abhorrent meant.
I expected to be up for hours worrying about the run, but the carbs worked their somnorific magic in knocking me out. I did wake up in the middle of the night, but I think it was mostly my sub-conscious remembering that I had leftover fettuccini in the fridge. At any rate, I ate it by the light of the microwave and went immediately back to sleep.
The carbs were sitting heavily in my mid-section when I drove toward the parking lot for the Wind Museum the next morning. I tried to tell myself that I was like a jet that was fully-loaded with fuel. Yes, I felt heavy, but as soon as I started burning that off as energy, my body would become an efficient machine.
Trisha and I met up in the parking lot, which was a good thing because once we got down toward the starting line, things went to complete pandemonium. I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that every person in Lubbock County and their far-flung relatives would be competing in this event.
“They’re starting people in groups of two hundred, they have so many,” Trisha said. She handed me a terry cloth headband. “I picked this up for you at the sign-in table.”
“This is crazy,” I said, looking around at the tumult. Trash strewn everywhere. Women in tutus over their r
unning tights. Guys in football jerseys and jeans. “Wait. Are all these people running?”
“No, some of them are holdovers from last night, looking for that football.” She adjusted her headband. “Oh, you probably didn’t know. The woman who runs the Wind Museum? She’s Levi Dean’s mother.”
“I actually did know that.” I tried to pin my racing bib on my shirt. “Also, he owns Taco John’s. Home of the Two-Point Conversion,” I threw in, just to let her know I wasn’t completely clueless.
“Right. Anyway, there was a rumor that the ball was hidden somewhere on the grounds, so there were guys up here all night long, drinking and roaming the hills, looking for it. Garrett West offered a $5,000 reward for its return, no questions asked.”
A horn blared just then, and my heart leapt. “That’s group C,” Trisha said. “Come on, let’s get in line. Just two more groups before us.”
Nerves started dancing around in my stomach, and they and the carbs weren’t getting along too well. I put a hand on my mid-section and looked around uneasily, half-heartedly stretching because that’s what everyone else appeared to be doing. I was enormously relieved to see a group of girls who were (not to be rude) on the chubby side. Not as chubby as I was, but chubby enough that I felt a little kinship. Maybe I could keep up with them. They weren’t as svelte and fierce-looking as the majority of the runners. Probably they were like me, not die-hard athletes, just here to have fun.
Fun.
The air horn blew and I almost screamed.
And that was how I ended up on top of the wall at the Mud, Sweat and Tears run. Trisha ran off and left me. All the other not-skinny girls I had hoped to keep up with went off and left me. I made it through the muddy ditch (slipping in the mud and splashing it into my hair almost immediately) through the tires (I only fell once) and across a field that really should have been checked for prairie dog holes. I even made it under the ground crawl and didn’t snag on anything, so I decided to try not to think about what it looked like from the sidelines. Those people on the sidelines, I realized, were not running this race, and I was. So I was already a winner. At least, that’s what Christy had told me.
But Maniac Mountain. It didn’t look that tall until I was right up to it and realized I had to get my very heavy body up there. Then it looked like an actual mountain.
The wooden wall curved up from the ground, gradually at first, but then the incline got steep toward the top. Ropes stretched from the top of the wall and were anchored to the ground. The best tactic was, I had read on the MST website, was to get enough of a running start that you could make it up at least 75 percent of the way before you had to start using the ropes to help pull you up. “He who hesitates on this one is most definitely going to be taking a second shot at it.”
“You can do it!”
“Go! Go! Go!”
“You’re a beast! You’re a maniac! Show that mountain who’s boss!”
I wanted to scream at all of them to shut up and leave me alone. Instead, I launched myself at the wall with all my strength and grabbed the rope. It burned in my hand, but I hung on and heaved. I planted my feet hard against the wall and focused on pulling myself up as fast as I could.
Beside me, a man shot over the wall like he was vaulting over a fire plug. He made a smallish grunt of effort and was on the other side.
Christy had told us often in spin class that our legs were stronger than our arms. I must have been building up some serious thigh muscles, because although my hands kept slipping backward, I was able to plant my feet on the wall and then slowly inch my way up. I was so excited to be making progress that I was almost vertical – with my feet over my head – that I realized perhaps this was not the best strategy. I clung with all my might to the rope, my legs rigid and my feet planted hard against the wall. They were now probably eighteen inches above my head.
What now? I clutched the rope and studied the situation, but the blood was beginning to rush to my head. I reached out and clamped one hand higher on the rope and tugged, but my sweaty palms just slid. I reached and clamped again. I slid again.
I stopped, panting hard.
The “encouragers” went into a fever pitch. “You can do it! Pull!”
I pulled. I went nowhere.
“Pull! Don’t give up! Don’t let go!”
My arms were screaming louder than the crowd. But I did as instructed. I hung on, then took a deep breath, screaming back with the effort and crab-walked my legs up the wall. If I could get one leg over, maybe I could leverage it and hoist the rest of my body up. I concentrated on my left side, reaching for the top of the wall like my life depended on it.
My ankle bonked against the top of the wall. I could feel it! Energized, I pulled with strength I didn’t think I had left and stretched out my leg, pushing against the top of the wall with my calf and scooching my body up centimeter by centimeter.
Finally, my knee was over and I hooked it there like a drowning woman clinging to a life raft.
It was so awkward. I flailed there, hanging upside down like a turtle stuck on its back. One full body sit-up away from victory.
I could feel the blood collecting in my face, and strained with all my might to lift my torso. My muscles were shaking and I was fairly sure I was going to faint.
That’s what you think every time you take a spin class, a voice in my head said. Suck it up, cupcake. You’re a friggin’ inspiration.
In a second, I thought. Just a second for a breather.
I let myself fall back against the wall, breathing heavily and trying to orient myself. Christy had told me every class since the beginning of January that my legs were strong, they could handle this. And I’d been working them, so they must be stronger now. So surely I could use my left leg and my abs and pull myself upright and over the wall. Surely.
With a deep breath and a mighty heave, I lunged upward with everything I had.
The heave, upon reflection, might possibly have been too mighty. My head and torso surged up. The momentum made my butt bounce, hard, against the wall. The wall bounce knocked loose the hold I had with my knees.
As if in slow motion, I saw my legs fly over my head, felt myself somersault backward into the air.
My right leg caught the brunt of my entire weight, and I felt my ankle twist under me. Pain shot like a knife up my shin and down my foot.
“Oh no!” the crowd gasped as one. Actually, I think the “Oh no!” came from me, but I did hear several gasps from the crowd.
Several people rushed me at once. I sat in the mud gripping my ankle and doing my very best not to burst into tears. It was possibly the worst time to remember that I hadn’t shaved my legs that morning.
“I’m okay!” I shouted, putting up a hand to ward them off. I tried to stand. Pain shot through my ankle and I fell back down with a cry.
I didn’t want people touching my prickly legs, but there didn’t seem to be much I could do to stop them. A guy with spiky brown hair held my foot in his lap and turned it while the next batch of contestants poured over Maniac Mountain like a waterfall.
“How does this feel?”
“Awful,” I said. “But I’m okay.”
“How about this?” He turned it gently the other way.
“Still awful. It’s all awful. Can I get a pass on this obstacle?”
“Honey, you’re getting a pass on the entire thing.” He pulled a roll of gauze from the toolbox at his side and began wrapping my ankle. “I’m going to call one of the volunteers. His name is Tyler. Tyler is going to drive you up to the parking lot, and then we’ll get someone to take you to the ER and have it x-rayed.”
X-rays!? “That’s not necessary,” I said. “I just need to rest it.”
“Sorry, official Mud Sweat and Tears rules – all injuries will be seen by a professional. That was part of the Official Terms and Conditions you signed.”
Which I had not read, of course. I was American, after all.
He left me on the grass and turned to s
peak into a walkie-talkie. “Entrant down by Maniac Mountain. “ He waited a couple of beats and said, “I know. But go ahead and send Tyler to come get her.”
While I watched, a kid who looked to be around seven scaled the wall.
The guy turned back to me. “Just sit tight for a few minutes, okay? Tyler will be here with a golf cart in just a few minutes.”
I shrugged. “I had pretty much blocked out the day for this, so I have nowhere else to be.” But it got to be kind of soul-crushing after about ten minutes, sitting there with a bandaged ankle while everyone and their dog easily climbed Maniac Mountain.
I needed sympathy, and I had wisely left my phone locked in my car. “Can I borrow your phone?”
“Sure,” he said, handing me his phone while he picked up the walkie-talkie again. “Where’s Tyler with my cart?”
I dialed Viv’s number. “You’re not going to believe what happened to me.”
“What did you do, sprain your ankle?”
“Yes!” I said. “That’s exactly what I did.”
“Bless your heart,” she said flatly. “You poor thing.”
“No, really. I really did.”
“I’ve already ordered flowers and balloons to be sent to your trailer.” Then she cackled.
“Viv, I’m serious though. I’m sitting beside Maniac Mountain waiting for some guy in a golf cart to take me back up to the medical tent.”
“You must be putting on one heck of a show.”
The guy with the walkie talkie was starting to get agitated. He stood with one fist on his waist and held the walkie talkie in the other. “Well, what’s he doing?” He listened to a crackly voice I couldn’t understand and then jabbed at the button with his thumb. “I know what he’s doing – he’s looking for that damn football, isn’t he?”
That got my attention. The football.
Viv was saying something about how lucky I was to be getting a chance to off-road on the golf cart. “Hang on,” I said.
Mud, Sweat, and Tears Page 2
