Crackback (8 page)

Monday, I leave Halloran's class at the same time as Lucia. “How was your weekend?”

“Okay,” she says. “I heard the game didn't go well.”

“Worse than that.” I follow her, even though I usually go the other way.

“What happened?”

“I got burned and cost us the game.” I feel lighter after telling her, like I've made a confession.

“I'm sorry.” She looks at me with her green eyes and seems sympathetic. “I thought football was a team game.” She stops at her locker.

“It is, but sometimes you're out there on your own. If you make a mistake, everybody sees it.”

“Yeah.” She gets a physics book. She must be smart. “What do you have second period?” she asks.

“Consumer ed.” That doesn't sound so smart.

“I'm going upstairs. See you later, Miles.”

I like the way she added
Miles
to that. I let that echo in my head as I run to class.

At practice, Coach Norlander pulls me aside. “Coach Stahl wants to play some new guys,” Norlander
says in his high voice. “Keaton will practice at right corner with the starters. You need to switch jerseys.”

What? I can't believe it. I look at Stahl, who's watching. “Tell Coach Stahl I'm surprised he didn't have the guts to tell me.” I spit out my mouth guard, unsnap my helmet, and walk to the sideline. Sometimes a major change happens in such a simple way that you can't believe it. I'm not a starter. I've been starting since fourth grade. How can I not start?

Keaton hands me his white jersey. “Coach Norlander told me to switch with you.”

“Screw him.”

“Coach Stahl said—”

“Screw him, too.”

“Manning, Keaton, hurry up,” Stahl shouts.

I peel off my blue 42 like a layer of skin. Keaton grabs it and rushes to join the starters.

I throw his white jersey on the ground. I don't want a second-string jersey. Stahl didn't have the guts to tell me. The bastard.

“Four-three, cover one, man-to-man,” Zach yells to Keaton. Why's he helping him? I take my helmet off and set it on the ground.

What do I need to do to get my spot back? Stahl talks about bigger, stronger, faster. Keaton's a hard-core weight lifter. Is he on steroids, too? Is that what I've got to do?

“One-handed sideline catches, men.” Sam Hunter passes to a sophomore who tries to drag his toes like the pros.

“Out-of-bounds. Both feet weren't down,” Sam says.

“Yes, they were.”

“You were bobbling it. You didn't have possession when your toes were in.” Sam sees me watching. “Manning, you want to try?”

“No, I want to get back in.” I don't feel like part of the team standing here.

“Might be a long wait. It's boring watching.” Sam motions for me to join.

“No. I want my spot back.” I leave the white jersey on the ground and turn to the starters. Maybe Keaton will get hurt.

Mom's getting ready for aerobics class when I get home. I pick up a rubber band from the counter and wrap it around my wrist. “Bad news.”

“What?” She looks up from tying her shoes.

“I'm not starting. I lost my spot.”

“Oh, Miles, I'm sorry. Maybe it's temporary. Maybe you'll get it right back.” Mom doesn't understand football.

“I don't think so. Coach wants to try some new players. Guys who are good weight lifters.”

“What?”

“Coach Stahl likes guys who lift all the time.”

“Well, just do your best. Maybe Coach Stahl will change his mind. I know you feel bad, but don't get down on yourself.” She checks the clock. “I'm late. Be back in an hour.” She gives me a hug.

I snap the rubber band on my wrist. The person I'm not looking forward to telling is Dad. He's out in his garden digging rutabagas. I stand on the porch watching him set them in a burlap bag. I've got to tell him. I might as well do it now.

“I'm not starting.”

“What?” His mouth drops in disbelief.

“I'm not starting. Coach Stahl had Keaton take my blue jersey.”

“What did Stahl say?” He stabs the garden fork in the dirt.

“Nothing. He had Coach Norlander tell me.”

“That gutless coward. He's less on the ball than I thought. Did he make other changes?”

“Adams isn't punting.”

“So you and Adams are the scapegoats.” He shakes his head. “Stahl's coaching scared. When that starts, things go downhill fast.” Dad points his finger at me. “Do what's necessary to get your starting spot back.”

“Okay.” I could get up early and be the first one at
weight lifting. I could work harder and do more reps than anyone. I've still got that packet of D-Bol in my drawer. I could put on five pounds of muscle. That would show Stahl I was serious.

I'm sure Dad doesn't mean steroids, though. Guys didn't do that when he played. But he doesn't realize that our two best players, Tyson and Zach, are shooting up. Dad's got no idea how much high school's changed.

“Write this down,” Halloran says at the end of class. “Remember when we talked about your ancestors coming to this country? This is an extension of that. For Monday, talk with your parents, talk with your relatives, and build a family tree.”

“That's a lot of work,” Strangler complains.

“Be as specific as possible. Birth dates, marriage dates, death dates. At a minimum, three generations—you, your parents, your grandparents. Some of you will be able to go further. The more you do, the more credit you get.”

After class, I see Lucia bending down at her locker putting papers in a folder. She adjusts the strap on her black bra. She looks good. “Do you know the information for your family tree?”

“Some of it.” She puts the folder away. “After the divorce, some branches are broken.” She says this softly.

I hadn't thought of that. How do you draw branches after a divorce? “Well, my mom had two brothers die,” I say. “That's a type of broken branch.”

“Really?” Lucia turns. “You must wonder what your uncles would have been like.”

“Yeah.” Though that's not something I've thought about.

“That must have been difficult for your mother.”

“Yeah.” That's not something I've thought about either. But if Lucia wants me to, I'll think about anything she suggests.

I stare out my bedroom window thinking about Lucia. What's she doing right now? Is she in her bedroom thinking of me? If I'm thinking of her and she's thinking of me, would we sense it? Would a feeling come over us at the same time?

I like talking with her, but I get so nervous. My mind darts around and she seems so calm. I jump from one topic to the next, rushing to fill the silence. She's such an interesting mix. She's shy and confident at the same time. Does she have a boyfriend at her old school, someone she sees on weekends? Probably. I don't think she'd go out with me.

Talking with Lucia about broken branches, though, felt different, like we had things in common. I don't usually talk about family stuff, but it felt natural with her.

Outside my window, the branches of the maple tree are bare. When the tree had leaves, most of the branches were hidden. Now it's bare branches until spring, when leaves appear and new branches on top start growing. Our family trees are the opposite, with the old ancestors on top and the new branches at the bottom.

Squirrels scramble in the yard collecting acorns beneath the oaks. People don't gather acorns, but they gather nuts
from other trees, like pecans. Who was the first person to make a pecan pie? How'd they think of that when everybody else was using apples or cherries? And why is it only pecan pie? I've never heard about walnut pie or cashew pie. Those would be good, too, wouldn't they? Maybe I should invent a recipe for walnut pie.

But being an inventor is a difficult job. If I were captured by aliens and taken to another planet to demonstrate our technology, I'd be worthless. I couldn't explain how a computer or a cell phone works. I couldn't explain something as simple as a zipper. It has two sets of teeth, but I don't know how you get them to close. A zipper is actually quite amazing.

Sometimes when I'm thinking about something like zippers, I wonder why and try to retrace my path. Zippers came from inventors, but how did I get to inventors? Oh yeah, walnut pie. Walnuts came from trees, which came from branches, which leads me back to Lucia.

I don't know if other people do this, and I'm not sure why I like it so much. Maybe because it's mine. It's my mind, and sometimes I like to watch it wander.

“Miles, time to eat.” Martha knocks on my door.

I still think walnut pie would be good, especially if it had that sweet goo pecan pie has.

“What were you doing?” Martha asks.

“Thinking about walnut pie.”

“You're weird.”

I've been reading Dad's moods for years, so when he sits down, I can tell he's angry. These are the times when it's best to lie low. Even Martha is quiet.

“Pass the carrots to your father, Miles,” Mom says.

Dad takes a bite of chicken and spits it out. “This is cold. How long has it been sitting around?”

“I can put it in the microwave for you,” Mom says.

“I hate microwave chicken. I'll eat it cold like I do most nights.”

We all know anybody who challenges him will get ripped to shreds, so we eat in silence. Dinner in our house is so often a disaster. Maybe we should call it quits and eat separately.

Finally, Martha tries. “This squash is delicious, Daddy.”

“Emmm,” Dad grunts. It's harder for him to get angry at her.

“What's bothering you, dear?” Mom asks.

“I'll tell you what's bothering me.” Dad sets his fork down. “The gasket plant is shutting down for two months. ‘Excess inventory,' they say. Management's been on them
to increase production, and now they say they've got too much. How many guys do you think are going to buy paint when they're not getting paid?”

“Maybe some of them will do some painting with their time off,” Mom says. “We'll manage for a couple of months.”

“A couple of months.” Dad slams his fist and the glasses shake. “I'm not worried about two months. Don't you see? This is what they want to do permanently. Shut down the plant. Send the jobs to China. What do you think is going to happen to this town if they close that plant? What do you think are the chances of a downtown paint store surviving?”

Mom doesn't answer and Dad raises his voice.

“I found out I need eighteen hundred bucks for the transmission because somebody doesn't know how to use a clutch.” He looks at Mom. She tried to teach me to use the stick shift on his car. I lurched around a few times before deciding that automatic was fine.

“And Miles has college coming up in a couple of years.” He turns to me. “I thought last year when you started as a sophomore, you might have a shot at a football scholarship. That would have helped. Now you don't even play. They don't give scholarships to people who sit on the bench.”

Let it go. Let it go. Let it go,
I repeat to myself. I want to scream.

“There are other scholarships besides football,” Mom says. “Maybe Miles could get an academic scholarship.”

“Academic scholarship? What makes you think those are easy to get? You have to be smart, not just a smart-ass.”

“Michael,” Mom says sharply.

Martha's bent over her plate crying.

“What are you crying about?” he shouts.

“I can't stand this.”

“Then leave. Go to your room.”

Martha rushes away crying louder.

“I've had enough.” My plate's full, but I'm finished.

“Good. Get the hell out of here.”

Martha's facedown on her bed. “Here, take a Kleenex.” I hand her the box.

“I don't know why he's like that.” She sits up and blows her nose.

“I don't either.” I pat Martha's back as she lies down and squeezes her stuffed duck.

Downstairs Mom and Dad argue about money. I bite the nail on my left thumb. It's already short, but there's a piece sticking up. I bite it, peel it, and feel pain. I shouldn't
have done that, but the blood gives me something else to focus on.

Not starting is bad enough without Dad bringing up a scholarship. If football is so important to him, what do I count for if I'm not playing? If I'm not playing, why should I stay on the team? Maybe I should quit.

This used to be my room. There's a rough spot on the wall from the last time Dad hit me. He didn't hit me often, but I was so scared when he did. I must have been about eight, Martha's age. I can't even remember what I did wrong. I was lying on my bed and he stormed in. I was terrified. He swung his hand to hit me, and I pulled my knee back so hard that it hit the Sheetrock and went right through the wall. “You damn baby,” he hollered. “You screamed before you got hit.”

That hole reminded me of my fear. Dad didn't fix it for six months. I don't know why. Maybe it was a warning. I remember lying in bed, staring into that hole at the empty space between studs.

Dad and Mom are still arguing. What if they got divorced? What would it be like if he weren't here? Quieter. I try to imagine Dad living someplace else. How often would I see him?

“I hate it. I hate it. I hate it,” Martha says.

I rub her head. “I know. I do, too.”

“First defense at this end. First offense down there,” Stahl shouts. All the starters in their blue jerseys run to their positions. I walk to the sideline with the guys in white. Football used to be a chance to forget bad things at home. Now, it's bad here, too.

Keaton's at right corner. He makes mistakes, but Stahl keeps clapping. “Let's go, men. Gotta react.” How many mistakes does Keaton get? How bad does he have to screw up before I get my spot back?

Sam Hunter has a group around him. “Today's topic is electricity.” He jerks his body like he's electrocuted. “Generate some puns we can plug into.”

“Yeah, keep them current.”

“Even if you're dim.”

“There aren't many outlets for this type of humor.”

“I'm amped.”

“I'm burnt out.”

“You're not burnt out. You're AC/DC.”

I can't believe how fast these guys toss them out. Hunter sees me watching. “C'mon, Manning. Get grounded.”

I look back at the coaches. “What does Stahl say?”

“We're scrubs. He doesn't care. If they need a second string to beat up, he'll yell for us.”

I join the group and try to think of something about a lightbulb. “Manning, you're on,” Sam says.

“Watt?”

“What?” Sam looks confused.

“Watt?” Everybody gets it now. Some guys groan.

“Live wire.” Sam smiles.

“Second-string defense,” Coach Norlander calls. “We need eleven guys.”

Sam, me, and nine other guys rush onto the field. The goofing around is a way to pass time. Like me, these guys want to play.

“Twenty plays live.” Norlander scratches his butt. “Don't hit the quarterback. Everybody else, full contact.”

Sam is organizing guys into positions. “Miles, you've got your corner.”

“Yeah.” I run to my spot. It's a cool day with no wind, perfect to smash somebody.

“Ten plays. Straight up,” Norlander squeaks. “After that, you can mix in a few blitzes.”

Fox brings the offense to the line. “Down, set.” He's sounding more confident. “Hit.” He hands off to Monson on a dive. Sam, who's playing middle linebacker, grabs him and I plow my aggression into the pile.

“Three yards. Too much,” Sam says in the huddle. “Let's see if we can shut these guys down. Ready?”

“Break,” everybody hollers.

“Down, set, hit, hit.” The defense flies to the ball on a sweep. Bunkers, the wideout, moves the other way.

“Reverse.” I race to the line. Sam's pushed Bunkers so deep that by the time we pile on him, Coach Norlander is blowing his whistle.

“Twelve-yard loss.” Sam is clapping. “Good call, Man.”

This is what I've missed. Being with the guys, smashing the running back, stopping the offense from gaining a yard.

“Ten plays, the offense has nine yards. Throw in the twelve-yard loss and we're plus three,” Sam says in the huddle. “Four-three, cover two. Now we can blitz. Miles, come off the edge.”

Fox looks over the line and I move off the receiver and act casual. Sam jumps back and forth like he's blitzing, so Fox concentrates on him. “Down, set, hit.” Fox tries a hard count to flush us out, but I stay back. “Hit.”

I burst forward. Nobody picks me up. I'm in Fox's face before he sets to throw.

“Don't hit the quarterback.” Norlander's waving his hands over his head like he's drowning. “Monson, you've got to pick up the blitz.”

Sam's even more excited. “Beautiful, Man, beautiful. The timing, the angle, the color.” Sam makes it sound like a painting.

“Watt?” I say, and he starts laughing.

“Huddle up,” Sam calls. “Four-three, cover one. Play this straight. They're looking for a blitz. Watch the screen or the draw.”

Sam's got good football smarts. Why isn't he starting? He's thinking about what the offense will do. He's making adjustments. Maybe that's his problem. Maybe he's thinking too much. Maybe Stahl doesn't consider him a reactor.

“Down, set, hit.” Monson takes the draw, but nobody's fooled. Sam and the linemen shut it down for no gain.

“One more play,” Norlander yells. “Everybody go all out.”

“Norlander's setting us up.” Sam's thinking out loud in the huddle. “Watch the reverse. Watch the bomb. Play it straight. Five-three, cover three. Ready?”

“Break.” We've been flying around hammering everything. I love this game. I'm not quitting. I'm not giving Stahl that satisfaction.

Over by the soccer field, someone with dark hair and a purple fleece is leaning against the fence. Looks like Lucia, but she wouldn't be out here.

“Down, set, hit.” Brooksy races off the line, pauses on a hitch, and takes off for the post. I'm on him like a shadow. I've seen this play before. I look back and Monson's sprinting to the sideline.

“Middle, middle,” I yell to the safety and race toward Monson. Fox spins to throw. I leap for the ball, pick it off, and race the other way.

“Pick,” Sam shouts. “Block somebody.” He smashes into Tyson and they sprawl on the grass.

I run hard up the sideline behind other blocks. One guy to beat. Fox. I fake inside and he pauses. I break back outside and shove a stiff arm into his neck. He reaches for me but can't hold on.

I run all the way to first defense so Stahl sees. He ducks down pretending he's diagramming a play. I hold the ball over my head while Sam and the guys go nuts.

“Second defense outscores first offense,” Sam shouts loud enough for Stahl to hear. “Manning's the Man.”

One play to lessen the sting of that touchdown back in Twin Falls. As I jog back, I look over at the fence again. No one's there. Am I starting to imagine her?

Wednesday night, I get out my family tree pages. I start with the information Drew gave me and organize the branches. I draw lines to connect people,
but I don't have all the names and dates. I remember to leave room for Mom's two brothers who died.

What's Lucia doing right now? Sometimes I imagine there's a movie of my life. How would what I'm doing look? What if Lucia were watching?

I need to call Drew for help. “Hi, Stephen. Is Drew there?”

“This is Drew. Hello, Miles.” I screwed it up again. “Good to hear from you.” He's not mad that I haven't called, like I said I would. “I see on the Internet that the team's having troubles.”

“Yeah, and I lost my starting spot.”

“What happened?”

I tell Drew the story. He listens and says, “That doesn't sound fair.”

It's not and that's what I want to hear.

“I've been watching quite a lot of football myself,” Drew says. “Stephen's a Patriots fan and he gets tickets through work. We've been to every home game. I'm learning the language. Blitz. Stunt. Trap. Crackback.”

“You got it, Drew.” I pace around the porch as we talk. “Drew, I need to build a family tree for history class. Can you help?”

“Sure, Miles. I've got one up on my Web site. All the information is there for our side of the family.”

“Excellent. My teacher wants us to include birth and death dates. Are those listed?”

“Yes, for everybody,” Drew says.

“Including your brothers?” I think about the boys who would now be my uncles.

“Yes, they're part of the family.”

“I'm sorry they died.” I'm surprised to hear myself say this.

“I'm sorry, too.” Drew's voice gets softer. “I think it affected all of us.”

“I'll call again, Drew, not just when I need help with homework.”

“Do that, Miles. One more thing, talk with your mom. She has some information that you need.”

“Okay, Drew.” I'm confused as I hang up. I thought Drew said all the information was there. Why do I need to talk to Mom?