A Quality of Light (17 page)

“The family tree,” I answered quickly, quietly.

“Finding anything?” my father asked.

“Branches,” I said. “Just branches.”

A
llen Begg and Chris Hollingshead started the trouble. They were townies from Walkerton who’d never associated much with farmers. Chris’s father ran a small mechanic shop, fixing small engines and doing odd welding work, and the Begg family had run the local laundromat and Sunoco station for years. Their families were third-generation Walkerton people, and for Allen and Chris the town was their undisputed territory, something claimed by virtue of the years they’d crawled, strolled, cycled and run through
its streets, shortcuts and pathways. Because both sets of parents had to work full time to make ends meet, they were used to a lack of supervision and the freedom to make their own decisions. By the time they reached Walkerton Secondary School they were rebels and were used to proving it. They’d grown up lean and tough from schoolyard fights and tussles after hockey games. Allen and Chris were a pair of alley cats on the prowl, stalking their territory, eyes keen for prey.

Every day in home room they huddled together whenever I’d walk in, snickering and pointing and making faces. Chris, the biggest of the two, would purposely stand in my way, glaring down the four inches in height that he had on me, fists on his hips, smirking. When I’d back away or step around him, they’d both imitate the sound of a chicken, to the laughter of our classmates. In the hallways they’d follow me, trying to trip me or knock the books out of my hands. I was fortunate that they were both enrolled in technical shops and I shared only home room and phys ed with them. Still, facing their derision first thing each morning was an ordeal, and having to play against them in the competitive atmosphere of gym class was the breeding ground for trouble.

Johnny and I had grown a few inches and put on about fifteen pounds each. Neither of us was very big but as we’d grown out of the bony adolescent phase, we’d become coordinated and lithe in our movements. Our baseball game was running at a higher level and we found most sports easy. The glee and abandon we’d discovered in baseball allowed us to relish other sports too. We were fast, strong from the farm work and energetic in our play. We’d become athletes.

At the start of the second week of high school we trooped into the gymnasium with Mr. Hughes to begin learning football. Johnny and I both favored black high-top sneakers, loose white T-shirts and baggy gym shorts for the freedom of movement. At that time everyone was wearing white Adidas running shoes and T-shirts emblazoned with cartoon characters or college crests and tighter, sleeker, colored gym shorts. Chris and Allen jumped right on us the first day.

“Hey, look. Welfare checks mustn’ta come in yet!” Allen said, buck teeth gaping.

“Yeah. Are those shorts or some kinda loin cloth?” Chris added to yowls of laughter from the class.

“Not this shit again,” Johnny murmured.

“Check the sneakers! Geek shoes. Bet you’d rather have yer moccasins, eh, Injun?” Allen whined.

“Hey, Al,” Chris said, elbowing his partner in the ribs and glaring at me. “Better keep your eyes on the football.”

“Why?” Allen asked.

“Because. I think the Injun figures it’s a turkey. He might try to eat it!”

“Nah. He’ll never catch it. How could he eat it?”

“Easy. He’ll sneak up on it. Injuns are always sneaking up on things.”

“I know what you mean. I have a bad case of Indian underwear right now.”

“What the hell is Indian underwear?”

“You know, the kind that keeps creeping up on you!”

Mr. Hughes whistled us into a circle and began explaining the proper motions for throwing a spiral. He tossed a few light passes to Ralphie, who was trying out for a lineman’s position on the school team. The passes settled into his big hands easily. After having us all line up and mime throwing for a few minutes, Mr. Hughes dumped a large bag of footballs in front of us. Then he asked us to get in groups of four to begin passing back and forth. Johnny and I headed towards Lenny and Ralphie, but Chris stepped in front of us.

“Hey, fellas. Wanna be in our group?” he asked, glaring down at us.

“Not particularly,” Johnny said, looking right up into the tall boy’s face.

“Why? Scared? Or are you afraid we throw too hard?” Allen asked.

“Neither,” Johnny said.

“Well, then? Come on,” Chris said, motioning us into a square.

“Don’t talk much, that Injun,” he said to Allen as we headed to our spots.

Johnny and I exchanged glances as Chris tossed a soft pass diagonally into Allen’s hands. Allen promptly threw it back to him, and they played a private game of toss-and-catch while Johnny and I stood there watching, restless and embarrassed. They kept it up, ignoring us entirely and laughing, congratulating each other loudly on their passes and catches.

“Hey! We’re here too,” Johnny said loudly.

“What?” Allen said, feigning surprise.

“You guys wanna play? Oh, my goodness, Al, how could we be so rude? Let’s let the geeks play with us,” Chris said and whipped a hard, fast pass at Johnny’s chest. The ball was a blur, a straight bullet of a spiral. Johnny caught it lightly, fingers spread like a baseball glove, letting his hands slip back slightly to cushion the ball’s impact. Then he turned the ball over a few times and tossed a soft, easy spiral to me. He looked at Chris and grinned.

“Nice toss,” he said lightly. “Wobbly, but nice.”

Chris reddened. All the throwing we’d done with a baseball had strengthened the muscles needed to throw a football. Even though the motion was different, our arms were used to throwing. When I unleashed a blur of a spiral myself, it went right through Allen’s hands and caromed off his chest with a solid thud. We heard cackles of laughter from across the gym as Allen reddened and limped away to retrieve the ball. I felt a sudden sense of revenge that a part of me cherished. Johnny looked at me and grinned mischievously.

The drill became just that — we began to drill the ball at each other diagonally across our square. Chris threw at me and I threw at him, while Johnny and Allen squared off against each other. For all his height, Chris couldn’t match the speed and weight I was able to generate on each throw. Meanwhile, poor Allen was staggered time and time again by Johnny’s line-drive spirals. We could hear the resounding splat of leather on skin and bone as the townies struggled to hold onto our passes. For our part, we simply applied science to the game, cushioning each catch with a slight relaxing of the fingers and arms. We looked surprisingly casual compared to the disarray of Chris and Allen. Their arms grew tired quickly,
but ours were just getting nicely warmed up when Mr. Hughes whistled the drill to a close.

He instructed us on two pass routes. For a Y-out you ran ten yards straight up from the passer and then angled to the right five yards where the passer hit you with the ball. For a button-hook you again ran straight up from the passer, stopped, and turned abruptly to face him as the ball arrived in your hands. It looked simple enough and we were eager to try it. Chris and Allen were red in the face after our first drill and somewhat more silent than they had been at the start of the class. We moved outside to the football field and began the drill.

Never ones to slouch in games, Johnny fired a hard pass right into my hands on my first Y-out. As he moved out to run the same pattern, Allen wobbled a throw over his head. It looked uncatchable but Johnny leapt high into the air, grabbing the ball down with one hand and squeezing it to his chest with the other. Chris ran a gawky pattern, and I hit him in the shoulder with a bullet. He grabbed the wounded shoulder with his other hand, grimacing. Again the drill deteriorated into a test of wills and stamina. No one took it easy on anyone else, although Johnny and I both threw harder when we passed to the townies. We caught everything that was thrown our way. Allen and Chris were bruised from balls that bounced off wrists, forearms, shoulders, chests and foreheads, but they stubbornly refused to let on that Johnny and I were getting the best of them and we silently appreciated that. All of us were covered in sweat when Mr. Hughes whistled us in for the end of the class.

“Well done, boys,” he said. “Kane and Gebhardt, you guys might consider trying out for the Wolverines. We could use a couple of good players. You need to beef up, though.”

Chris and Allen glared at us. They never said a word while we showered and changed, disappearing before the rest of the class. Johnny and I basked in the accolades of our peers and agreed to show a few of them how we managed to get such tight spirals all the time. It seemed again that sports would melt the barriers away and I felt myself relaxing, believing that it was all going to pass. Chris and Allen were silent the next day in home room, but I began to notice them huddling with the seniors along the window ledge when we
passed by. I believed that they were finally letting up, trying to score points with the seniors instead of putting pressure on me.

In the second gym class of the week, Mr. Hughes whistled us in to divide us into teams of six for flag football. Johnny and I somehow made the same team and lined up across from a smug and volatile-looking duo of Allen Begg and Chris Hollingshead.

The whole point of flag football is to score touchdowns. It’s primarily a passing game: once the receiver catches the ball and begins running, the defense attempts to ground the ball by tearing off one of two cloth strips, or flags, attached to a belt around the receiver’s waist. Play continues from the point where the defense drops the flag. The game is designed for little or no physical contact. Which is why it surprised everyone when Chris flattened me at the line of scrimmage with a two-handed straight arm to the chest just as the ball was snapped. It was a hard shot. I felt the air rush out of my lungs and as I hit the ground, I saw twinkles of light in front of my eyes. The world spun sickeningly, slowly beneath me. I could hear Allen’s wild cackle and then Chris’s face spun into focus above me. He was leering at me and laughing.

“Josh! Josh! Are you okay?” Johnny was shaking me by the shoulders and peering into my eyes.

Mr. Hughes dropped into focus beside him. He cupped my head lightly with one big hand and brushed my forehead with the other. “Kane? Joshua? Are you okay?” he asked, looking relieved when I nodded limply and struggled weakly to get up. “Wait just a minute, lad. Take it easy for a second. What happened here?” he asked, looking around at the circle of faces above me.

No one said a word. Johnny looked at me, nodded slowly and then turned a slit-eyed gaze at Allen and Chris, who stood there with smug smiles on their faces. They looked back at him and then down at me. Chris shrugged his shoulders innocently and Allen offered an exaggerated expression of surprise, shrugged as well and moved away. The rest of the class shifted uneasily from foot to foot as Mr. Hughes peered at them one by one, awaiting an answer. When he didn’t get one, he helped me slowly to my feet, checked me one last time and called us into a circle.

“Okay. Now I don’t know what happened here but it better not happen again. We’re here to have fun. Any more incidents like this and the people responsible will answer to me. No contact, grab the flags, play fair. Kane? You okay?”

I was leaning on Johnny’s shoulder while my head cleared. I nodded. Mr. Hughes looked at me hard for a moment, then tossed the football to me and motioned us to carry on with our game. As we split into our groups, Allen spit at my feet and grinned at me impishly.

“Tough game, eh, Injun?” he said and spat again, narrowly missing my sneaker.

“Stay away from my area, Chief! Next time you’ll stay down!” Chris said, fist in front of his chest.

Johnny looked at them both with a steely glare. As we gathered around him for a huddle, he looked at me and winked. “You go quarterback, Josh. Hit me ten yards out coming across in front. Then watch!” he said.

The ball was snapped and I stepped back four steps to pass. I saw Johnny make a ninety-degree cut ten yards upfield and speed parallel to me with Allen in hot pursuit. I hit him with a feathery little pass at his waist and as he dropped his hands to gather it in, he stopped abruptly, jamming his feet down hard and leaning backwards slightly. Allen barreled right into him at full speed and the collision sent Johnny sprawling forward while Allen folded limp as a wet rag to the ground. Chris ran up and shoved Johnny roughly.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, red in the face.

“First down,” Johnny said calmly, flipping me the football.

We gathered for a huddle as Chris bent over to help Allen to his feet and help him back into the defensive zone. The faces of our teammates were agog in admiration for the effects of Johnny’s play. He looked at me and grinned, wiping a little sweat off his brow. “Now, let’s embarrass ’em with speed! Josh, go out five yards, fake a button-hook, then take off straight up the sideline. I’ll hit you with a bomb!” he said and clapped his hands in enthusiasm.

With the snap of the ball I drove hard straight at Chris, who back-pedaled furiously, sneering into my face all the while. At five
yards I planted my feet hard, turned a perfect button-hook and as Chris tried to step in front of me, I whirled and took off as fast as I could up the sideline. He swore loudly trying to catch me but I was too far ahead and too fast. Johnny’s high bomb of a pass settled into my arms like a butterfly about thirty yards out and I scored easily with Chris lurching along behind me. He leaned over with his hands on his knees, panting for breath and swearing between gasps. I trotted past, aglow with the satisfaction of scoring and the sweet taste of revenge. I dropped the ball wordlessly at Chris’s feet. Our teammates celebrated loudly, tousling my hair and slapping Johnny on the back. When I looked back, Allen and Chris were watching us, whispering back and forth.