Legends of the North Cascades

by Jonathan Evison

  “I’ll tell you why the Division One scouts didn’t like him—besides the fact that he was 5’9" and played at a 1A school in Nowhere, Washington. They didn’t like what Dave Cartwright couldn’t do. Dave Cartwright couldn’t run a four-four forty, but he got good jumps, and he had great closing speed. He couldn’t jump three feet in the air. He didn’t have thirty-two-inch arms or ten-inch hands. What the scouts missed out on was that Cartwright had all of the intangibles, all the immeasurables, all the white-hot passion, and awareness, and instincts, and the will to play at any level.

  “It breaks my heart the way things went—I mean with him not pursuing junior college. His pride caught up to him, that’s part of it. If UW or Oregon had come calling, I’m betting everything would have ended differently. He never would have gone to Iraq. But when Dave Cartwright got something in his head, nobody was going to stop him.”

  Barely a Sniff

  Twenty-seven rushing touchdowns senior year. Twelve more through the air. Nearly three thousand all-purpose yards, not to mention over a hundred and twenty tackles and three interceptions at linebacker. First team all-league, second team all-state. Three consecutive 1A state titles. Two undefeated seasons. 3.4 GPA. Yet, barely a sniff from the recruiters, Division One or Two. Only three contacts senior season, and one visit (unofficial) from Coach Childress at Missouri S&T, a school that wasn’t even on Dave’s radar until the night Coach Childress showed up.

  Coach Childress happened to be in Everett for a funeral, which was probably the only reason he drove the sixty miles to V-Falls to watch the Vigilantes destroy Lundgren.

  It wasn’t hard spotting Childress beneath the bill of his Miners cap, standing at the chain link fence, the lone black visage amidst the two hundred or so people gathered that Friday evening under the lights to see their undefeated Vigilantes have their way with the lowly Tigers. Dave could feel Childress’s eyes on him for most of seventy-five snaps.

  Despite the weak competition, Dave did his best to impress. He ran for a pair of TDs, caught another, made a dozen or so tackles, and almost picked off a couple of balls in coverage.

  After the game, Coach Childress, bald beneath his green Miners cap, a fit and toned fifty-five, the slightest shadow of salt and pepper beard, a half-foot taller and fifteen years younger than Coach Prentice, caught up to Dave in the parking lot after the game.

  “Mr. Cartwright,” he said, catching Dave’s attention.

  “Oh, hey, hi,” said Dave.

  Childress extended a sturdy hand. “You looked really comfortable in coverage,” he said. “Especially on that third and three, midway through the third quarter—you showed good instincts.”

  “Thanks,” said Dave.

  “Or maybe it was just a lucky guess.”

  “No, sir.”

  “How’d you know to drop back into coverage, then?”

  “His eyes,” said Dave.

  “Whose eyes?”

  “The quarterback, Fulton. He telegraphed it—didn’t even check-down to the right side. It was obvious he was looking for the tight end in the seam.”

  “You could see over those linemen?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How tall are you, anyway?” he said, looking down on Dave.

  “5’11",” Dave lied, wishing he were still in cleats.

  “You still growing?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, that’s good,” he said. “You’ve got good vision. You ever play any free safety?”

  “No, sir.”

  “At your size, you ought to take some reps there. Think you’re fast enough to cover that much ground?”

  “Yessir, I do. But in my opinion, it’s not just about straight-line speed, sir. In the backfield, it’s that first step that’s most important, that break. Anticipating and committing to your target.”

  “Oh?” said coach Childress, genuinely delighted. “And how do you do that?”

  “Mostly I watch, sir, and I listen, and I get to know the schemes, and the route trees, and the spreads at the line of scrimmage and so forth. Then I look for tendencies.”

  Coach Childress smiled. “Student of the game, I like that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “What’s the biggest crowd you ever played for?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “Eight thousand?”

  “No, sir,” said Dave. “Not even close to that.”

  “That’s what Allgood-Bailey holds. Phelps County loves their Miners, let me tell you. Ever spent any time in Missouri?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Beautiful,” he said. “God’s country.”

  “I’d like to see it, sir,” said Dave.

  And Dave wasn’t lying, not even a little. From that moment in the parking lot forward, he’d just as soon have seen Phelps County as Palo Alto or Berkeley. Never mind that he’d never heard of Phelps County or Rolla, Missouri, before that night. He was already in love with them.

  Dave could hardly sleep that night. After meeting Coach Childress, Dave was ready to commit, Pac-10, Big Ten, and SEC be damned. All Dave needed was a chance to prove himself on a bigger stage, and to that end, playing for Coach Childress at Missouri S&T seemed like his deliverance. Dave was okay with being undersized. He’d always anticipated being the underdog at the next level. He understood that Vigilante Falls was a small place, that there were ten thousand bigger places out there in America, with bigger and faster guys than him, that played in tougher leagues, against stiffer competition. But Dave also understood that on a football field he had the ability to see things happen before they actually happened, and he possessed that rare ability to slow the game down. He also knew that he hated losing, and that those two qualities in tandem could make for something special, just as Coach Prentice had always taught him.

  But neither Coach Childress nor anyone else at Missouri S&T ever followed up with Dave. Looking back, that was the first domino to fall. It was tempting to curse the universe for making him 5’9", or for consigning his origins to the little backwater of V-Falls, where he could never distinguish himself to the larger world against “real competition.” But Dave never once cursed his fate, or his humble beginnings, for they were who he was, the forces that put the fire in his belly and the chip on his shoulder. Even after walking away from football, Dave felt lucky for having enjoyed the privilege of strapping on those pads, and excelling at the thing he loved to do more than anything in the world: to lose himself and find himself all at once, to know his role, and surrender himself to the larger cause, and, most importantly, to engage fully in the act of play, to embrace the concept of winning in a world that was mostly about losing. And to do it all in front of most everyone he’d ever known or loved, how could he consider himself anything but lucky? To make his people proud, to gratefully accept their adoration, even their financial contributions, to absorb their hopes vicariously, it was never anything to be taken for granted. No, it was something to accept gracefully, like his mom taught him, whether on the sidelines, in the hallway, or in the supermarket.

  Even through the quiet, unsure days of summer, when the calls and the letters didn’t come from colleges far or near, Dave knew he was lucky. Not that he wasn’t worried sick about his future. Not that the panic didn’t keep him up most nights. Not that he had any idea what he’d do with his life if opportunity never came knocking. Dave did his best to hide this anxiety from his mom and his little brother and Nadene, and her brother, Jerry, and Dave’s friends and teammates and boosters, and pretty much everybody but Coach Prentice.

  Coach Prentice was a rock through the dark days. Dave called him almost nightly through summer, even as the window was closing.

  “Still nothing from Coach Childress?”

  “Nothing new, I’m afraid. But this ain’t over, Dave.”

  “It feels over,” said Dave.

  “That’s no way to talk, boy.”

  “Coach, I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

  “Well,
I’m not done yet.”

  But that’s where the winning ended. Coach Prentice may have been the last person to ever believe in Dave. Then came fall, that dreadful, unimaginable season of dying light, and Dave, with no plans, still at home with his mom and his little brother, with no foreseeable future in Rolla, Missouri, or anywhere else. Not even in V-Falls, not so much as a job at the Texaco, or Vern’s, or washing dishes at Dale’s.

  Coach “Gordy” Prentice

  “I guess you could say I took on Davey’s collegiate prospects as a personal crusade. Hell, he was the most talented and coachable kid I’d had in eighteen years of coaching. That boy was a coach’s dream. Not only was he willing to do anything you asked him to, on or off the field, he was good at all of it. You didn’t have to tell him a thing but once, and he never made the same mistake twice. And he was always accountable, always taking responsibility for the team. No offense to Nate Tatterson, who wasn’t a bad quarterback, but Dave was the unquestioned leader of that team.

  “So, I kept putting in the calls: Boise State, Eastern Oregon, Tulsa. I wrote letters. I raved about Davey’s motor. I told them over and over, ignore the measurables, this kid is 5’9" going on seven feet. Look at the tape, I told them. Look at the awareness and the instincts. He’s got all the intangibles, I told them, all the qualities of a winner.

  “Damnit, it’s all my fault. I should have had him transfer to Hale after sophomore year. He could’ve lived with my sister in Lake City. Probably could have found plenty of folks to sponsor him. Then, we wouldn’t have had to hear all that ‘quality of opponent’ baloney—never mind that we beat ’em all 46–3.

  “But I was too damn worried about my own legacy. I let Davey down, and all these years later, I can’t say how sorry I am about that.”

  Grander Things

  Even before the fifty-five-minute drive, a sense of significance had attached itself to the recruitment meeting in Bellingham; a formality. This was bigger than football. This was about the rest of Dave’s life. The moment he walked through the glass door, and into the non-descript recruiting center, with its queasy overhead light, he sensed an intensity on the part of the recruiter who, with a slight limp, met him halfway across the foyer. The marine bore a certain respectful gravity epitomized by his dress blues, and his clean-shaven square jaw, which had not gone even the slightest bit jowly in spite of what Dave guessed to be his fifty years.

  As Dave sat down opposite the recruiter, Dave once again wished he were in cleats and a helmet.

  “Well, let’s not beat around the bush,” said the recruiter flatly. “What do you have to offer the United States Marine Corps, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “Well, sir. That’s what I’m here to find out. What I can tell you right off the bat is that I try to excel at whatever I do. And that I always give a hundred and ten percent.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, sir, because I feel like I’ve got a responsibility to try my hardest.”

  “Was your daddy a marine?”

  “No, sir.”

  Leaning back slightly, the recruiter reposed in his chair, considering Dave through steely gray eyes.

  “While we’re at it, tell me a little about your daddy,” he said.

  “Not much I can tell, sir. He left when I was three years old.”

  “Left who?”

  “My mother, and me, and my baby brother, I guess.”

  “Left where?”

  “Just left, sir,” said Dave. “In Idaho for a while. I’m not really sure.”

  “What about you?” said the recruiter. “Do you see yourself providing for children someday?”

  “Someday, yes, sir.”

  “But not right away?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You want to travel first, probably. See the world, accrue some experience, figure out a plan, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir. One thing I know is that I’d like to have a game plan in this life, sir.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “I believe in preparation, sir. I think a person ought to mind whatever might possibly be within his or her control, so as to better the chances of success.”

  “So, you’ve been preparing yourself to be a marine?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  The recruiter considered this information, as though it may or may not be significant.

  “Do you have a girlfriend? A wife?” he said.

  “A girlfriend,” said Dave.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Nadene, sir.”

  “What does Nadene think about you up and joining the US Marine Corps?”

  “To be honest, she doesn’t love the idea, sir. But when I explain the long game to her—”

  “The long game?”

  “Yes, sir, the benefits of enlisting.”

  “Mm,” he said. “The steady paychecks, eh? The reimbursements?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d like to own a home some day?”

  “Absolutely,” said Dave.

  Once again, the recruiter considered him with steely gray eyes.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What does the word responsibility mean to you, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “Well, generally speaking, sir, it means that you fulfill your commitments.”

  “And to whom or what are you committed?”

  “For starters, my mom, my little brother, Nadene.”

  “What about your country?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “And why is that?” said the recruiter, looking him in the eye.

  “Because I love America,” said Dave.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And why do you love America?”

  “Because it’s the greatest country on Earth, sir. Because in America you can be anything you want to be if you work hard enough.”

  “Anything?”

  “Well, I suppose almost anything,” said Dave.

  “And how can you serve America in return, Mr. Cartwright?”

  “However it asks me to, sir. Whatever my job is, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Mr. Cartwright, can you tell me about a time when you demonstrated leadership?”

  “Yes, sir, I can,” said Dave, thrilled at the opportunity to talk about the thing he loved most.

  “I played football in high school, sir, both sides of the ball. On defense, I played linebacker, sometimes end, depending on the opponent, and how we matched up. Either way, sir, it was my responsibility to set the defense on the fly, to delegate in the event of an audible, or a formation that was unfamiliar. It was up to me to tell the safety to drop back, or cheat in, or tell the linemen what to look for and so forth, based on what I was seeing.”

  The recruiter looked mildly impressed, nodding his square head twice.

  “So, you guessed?”

  “Not exactly guessed, sir. It was always an informed decision.”

  “And what if you were misinformed? What if you decided wrong?”

  “Well, sir, then you got beat. And it happened from time to time, but not very often, if you prepared.”

  The recruiter nodded his head gravely.

  “It’s an observable truth, Mr. Cartwright,” said the recruiter, “that sometimes you just get beat.”

  “Yes, sir. And when that happens, you learn from it. You don’t get caught off guard twice the same way. At least not if you play for Coach Prentice.”

  “You liked playing for this Coach Prentice?”

  “Yes, sir, I loved playing for him.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Well, sir, it wasn’t just that he was a great coach, he was a great man.”

  “Almost like a father,” said the recruiter.

  “Yes, sir. Now that you put it that way.”

  The recruiter silently appraised him for a moment.

  “So, no football scholarship?”

  “No, sir,” said Dave, feeling his face color.


  “Why not?”

  “Well, sir, they’re looking for bigger players is what it mostly amounts to.”

  “If you’re not good enough for college football, what makes you think you’re good enough to be a marine, son?”

  Dave was blushing harder than ever now.

  “With all due respect, sir, I believe I have some very good qualities to offer, beyond leadership.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like commitment, sir. And determination. What Coach Prentice calls grit.”

  “Grit, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s something,” said the recruiter.

  In the coming weeks and months, Dave came to know the recruiter as Sergeant Sanderson, with whom he met on four more occasions to talk, and once to work out, and once to play a game with little plastic chits marked by printed words such as “responsibility,” and “opportunity,” and “travel.” But the fact is, Dave’s enlistment was a foregone conclusion after the first interview, and maybe even before it. As it was with the Miners of Missouri S&T, so it was with the Marines.

  Dave was nothing if not decisive.

  What Dave remembers most about these meetings with Sergeant Sanderson was the weight and formality of them, the sense of legacy that surrounded the USMC, the quiet self-assurance of Sanderson himself, who, unlike Coach Childress, never once tried to wow Dave with the promise of heroism. The USMC was about grander things than football. It was historic. It was about building a solid foundation for life, about seeing the world, about finding a career, about buying a house, and someday starting a family.

  At the time, fresh out of options, and looking for a game plan, joining the marines didn’t seem like a Faustian bargain to Dave. On the contrary, it seemed like the most practical, honorable, and rewarding opportunity available to him at nineteen.

  The Otherness

  In the morning, Bella’s imagination was immediately back to work where it left off by the fire the previous night. She dreamed again of the great sheet of ice, stretching out forever, felt the grip of its frozen silence, felt the frigid air burning her lungs and nostrils, as the distant cries and whimpers of wolves sounded somewhere in the distance.