I looked at Dad. He looked at me.
“I need structure, you know?” I said. “I love structure.”
“I know, Isaiah. But we should let this idea settle a little, discuss it.”
“Okay,” I said, but I’d sort of made up my mind already. Energy cannot be destroyed. It takes a new form. This was a form that used the rock I’d stacked for so many years and put me on a path that followed Grandpa John.
Too much, too fast? Maybe. Or maybe things come together perfectly every now and then, like when Dad made me get out of the car and go to freshman football practice instead of sending me back to Muscoda.
That night, after I explained what I was thinking to Mom and Grandma, I looked it up on my phone. Cornell has an ROTC program. The University of Wisconsin has one, too. The college in Bluffton does not.
I’d have to leave town if I was going to do ROTC.
Things were going to change for me.
My energy would take new form.
CHAPTER 40
OCTOBER 9: MY EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY
On Monday before the film session, I stood up and apologized to my teammates for my crappy behavior the week before. Most of them were a little confused. They thought I was injured. It didn’t occur to them that I’d abandoned them. But Twiggs and Riley knew. I knew. Coach Reynolds knew the whole of it. Still, Coach Reynolds said it was my decision to pull myself out of the starting lineup for Friday’s game against Prairie. My teammates have my back. I’ve been their captain for two years. They wanted me to captain against Prairie, anyway. I think I’m going to do it, captain, but not start. I feel like I need to be punished, but I also don’t want to let them down.
Even though it was only films on Monday, afterward I went to the gym with Riley and ran gassers until neither of us could run anymore, until we fell onto the wood floor on the edge of puking. “There’s my boy,” Riley said. “Welcome home.”
My head felt fine.
It did during contact practice tonight, too. I don’t feel any ill effects from the hit that cracked my bell. That doesn’t mean there isn’t damage, though. There might be. It worries me. It’s the reason I won’t play college football, even though I love this game so much, even though the rigors of this game probably saved me.
The truth is, kids die playing football. Thirteen did last year. Most of those deaths were related to heatstroke in hot parts of the country. But four kids died of what happened to me, a serious, brutal hit to the head. Four lives lost and I think about those parents and those little brothers and sisters who will miss that kid forever and ever and life will never be the same for them.
Here’s some more truth. Four million kids participated in some level of football in the US last year. That’s a giant city filled with American kids. How many of them got what I got from the game? How many of those kids were lost at some point but were saved by the rigors?
I don’t know.
If all continues to go well, I’m going to play on Friday. Why? Because. Remember? I wrote this thing and so I remember and I didn’t burn my green notebook and now I can’t stop reading this thing I wrote. I go over it again and again. The play happened during that game against Glendale, where Cornell’s Coach Conti came for a quarterback but found a strong safety, instead. . . .
The moon is a great, bright eyeball staring down from blackest space. Below, stadium lights make the colors vibrate. Yellow uprights. Green field. White away jerseys. Cardinal-and-gray home. The marching band warms up, one minute to halftime. The guys on the tenor drum sets pound a rhythm that bursts inside Isaiah’s chest. Boom. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Bada boom boom. Tick, tick, tick, tick . . .
This is it. Where he has belonged. Out on that green field with the eyeball looming, with the percussion exploding his chest.
He can’t help it. He looks up. He says, “Thank you.”
And then Isaiah locks in.
The quarterback shouts numbers. Isaiah checks out the action in the backfield. His opponent is faking a run play. Seriously. Pretending. “Be ready for pass. Be ready!” Isaiah cries.
Simultaneously, the opponent quarterback says, “Hut!”
No. No run. Isaiah nailed his call. The quarterback drops.
“Pass! Pass!” Isaiah shouts.
The slot receiver goes off the line slow, like he’s not even in the play. But suddenly, like the kid is hit with a bolt of electricity, he explodes forward. Tries to break out of the jail Isaiah built for him. And the kid does get behind Isaiah.
So Isaiah swivels, sprints after.
The quarterback jacks the ball high into the air. Isaiah sprints. The ball must be reaching apex. Isaiah sprints. Must be falling, spiraling, nose down toward the slot receiver’s outstretched hands. Isaiah sprints.
Then he digs in deep.
Leaps.
And he grabs that damn ball a millisecond before the slot receiver can.
Gathers, tucks, rolls on the turf.
Comes to a stop. Breathes. There is silence. His sinuses drain.
The sound of the ocean comes. The sound of the wind ripping through ditches on the razor-backed ridges.
He leaps up, ball over his head . . .
The arms I leaped into when I got to the sideline were Twiggs’s and Riley’s. How many times had that exact scene played out over four years? So many. Twiggs and Riley also saved me.
So, I keep reading the passage, but I also called Coach Conti on Monday night and told him I’d had a serious concussion, and that, in truth, it wasn’t my first, and so had decided I couldn’t commit to playing football in college. He was disappointed, but said he understood. He said he hasn’t decided if he’ll let his own toddler son play when the time comes. “I can’t imagine where I’d be without football,” he told me. “Probably in jail for robbing cars back in my neighborhood. But I also can’t imagine signing Tyler’s permission slip.”
I think about Hannah. She didn’t play a dangerous sport. She was just a teenager doing what kids do, and the pickup truck got her anyway. Shouldn’t I do what I love, even if there are risks involved? No, I’ve made my decision about next year. But still, even with all its problems, we’re losing something big if we lose football.
We might be on the way to losing it. Participation in the sport is going down. And I’m losing football, for sure.
But energy cannot be destroyed. . . .
After practice tonight, I asked Twiggs and Riley to accompany me to Joey Derossi’s barn. Joey’s pickup wasn’t parked out there and he wasn’t in his trailer, which was good. He wasn’t in the barn, either, which was better. We had to work fast, because the sun goes down early in the valley and it’s getting darker and darker every day. But with three of us working, we managed to move the whole pile of rock from the Church of the Hills bell tower from outside the barn to inside the barn. Twiggs started stacking them at first, but I knew that wasn’t good. They all had to be on the ground so Joey could see their shapes, so he could see which ones fit together like a puzzle to build his Flugel Rock stage. We sorted them out by size and shape. About the time I was lifting the last small one up outside, Joey showed up. I could hear him shouting.
“Riggles? Twine? What the hell are you two doing in my damn barn?”
I entered carrying the rock.
“Riggles?” Riley said.
“Twine. That’s pretty funny,” Twiggs said.
“This is some heavy shit, man,” I said to Joey.
I placed the rock on the ground next to others of its size.
Joey shook his head, like he was trying to believe his eyes. He wasn’t smiling like usual.
“Got them moved in, at least,” I said. “I can help you pile them up for the stage when you need me to.”
Joey nodded. “Lots to work with, bro. I can get plenty done now you got all these rocks in here. Yeah, man. Plenty I can do.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m happy to help, though. Okay? I’m happy to lift all the shit.”
We stared at e
ach other for a few seconds.
Then that Joey Derossi smile spread across his face. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” he said. “But I love me some football players.”
“Isaiah loves you, too,” Twiggs said. “Maybe I love you? I don’t know yet.”
“Shut up, Twine,” Riley said.
We all went down to Steve’s Pizza, not for the traditional pregame dinner two days early, but to celebrate my birthday.
They toasted me with their Mountain Dews, and Joey’s root beer.
“Today,” I said, “I am a man. A man with a glass ass, just like the rest of you.”
“What the hell?” Twiggs asked.
“No, he’s right,” Joey said. “We all got a glass ass. Every one of us damn fools.”
Riggles and Twine were not convinced.
At 8 p.m., I was home. It was time for the traditional Dairy Queen Oreo ice cream birthday cake. What was left of my family, including Grace, sang me “Happy Birthday.” Mom cried through the whole half-hour affair. Maybe wept softly is the right word? She didn’t sob, anyway.
Right after Dad, Grandma, and Grace left, Mom kissed me on the forehead. “I’m sorry I’m a mess,” she said. “I just love you. And I can’t believe everything that’s happened. I feel so lucky you’re here with me right now, Isaiah.”
And then later, 10 p.m., which happens to be my bedtime, there was a knock on my window. I pulled back my curtain and looked out. Grace stood there bathed in the light of my room. I pulled open the window
“Can I give you a birthday kiss?” she asked.
“But you love me like a sister,” I said.
“Shut up, man,” she said.
We met around the back of the house. We sat down on the stoop behind the kitchen. The garage door I’d broken lay in the yard nearby.
“Joey Derossi is going to help me fix that,” I said.
“That’s good. He’s good.”
“Yeah,” I said.
She reached and grabbed my hand. “You think we’re done with the craziness?” she asked. “I’m so tired of craziness.”
“I hope so. I don’t know. Pickup trucks are out there driving around in the country all the time.”
“Pleasant thought.”
“I’m going to do my best, though.”
“Me, too.”
“Did Grandma tell you?” I asked.
“What?”
“I think I’m going to join the military. I mean, do college, too. But go military like Grandpa John did.”
Grace nodded quick. “Yeah. Yeah. She did mention that this morning. I can see that for you. I think that’s good.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Grace tilted her head down, gave a half smile, whispered, “What do you mean?”
“Next year. When I’m gone.”
“Dude, I’m going to go to school. And, I’ll put my head down, work, save up all kinds of money, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll have something good to come home to if you don’t get killed.”
“Ha!”
“I’m just kidding, man. I’m going to school, though. We’ll see what happens. You know I’m going to be running some business, somewhere, at some point.”
“Dairy Queen,” I said.
“I don’t know about that,” Grace said.
“Okay.”
But what if, right? Sure, I could die or Grace could die or her energy could take a different form and she could blow out of this town just like I’m going to. What’s stopping Grace from doing great things all over this world? She’s so smart and tough and perfect.
But what if? Who’s to say? That pickup truck could blow by a second too late to hit me and I’ll be home. Grandma Gin could ask me to come home. Grandma Gin could ask Grace to come home to take over the business. What if?
“Your mind is whirring so fast I can hear it,” Grace said.
“It is. It really is.”
“Be quiet. Kiss me. We’re both adults.”
I leaned into Grace. Breathed her. It was a really good kiss.
It lasted so long, I thought I could hear little bells chiming in the wind. Those bells. Again and again.
Listen to me.
Please?
Energy cannot be killed. It cannot be destroyed. It only changes form.
We’re going to be okay.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Ben Rosenthal and Katherine Tegen for giving me this opportunity. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate it. Thanks, always, to my amazing agent, Jim McCarthy, who has guided me through ten books. Thank you to my partner, Steph, for making me laugh until I’m exhausted. Thank you to my kids, who are all grown up. When I started writing YA, you were tiny. Now you’re dang big and old and smart. I’m just astounded by you and so proud of you. Thank you to my mom for insisting I read, insisting I go outside to play, and insisting we watch the Green Bay Packers every weekend of the football season during my childhood. One of my steady joys in life now is calling you during halftime to discuss what’s going on in the game.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo credit Katherine Warde
GEOFF HERBACH is the author of the award-winning Stupid Fast series and Hooper. His books have been given the Cybils Award for Best Young Adult Fiction and the Minnesota Book Award, selected for the Junior Library Guild, and listed among the year’s best by the American Library Association, the American Booksellers Association, and many state library associations. In the past, he produced radio comedy shows and toured rock clubs telling weird stories. Geoff teaches creative writing at Minnesota State University, Mankato. You can find him online at www.geoffherbach.com.
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COPYRIGHT
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
CRACKING THE BELL. Copyright © 2019 by Geoff Herbach. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover photography © 2019 by Lauren Marek
Cover design by Joel Tippie
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019938848
Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-245316-7
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-245314-3
1920212223PC/LSCH10987654321
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