Last Man Out (9 page)

H
E
WAS
SCA
RED
,
NOT
THAT
he was going to admit that to Mike. But Mike had been right about one thing.

It
was
fun.

Maybe because it was scary.

“It's a competition, just like football,” Mike said. “But it's the kind of competition where it's you against yourself.”

“And gravity!” Tommy said.

“Well, there is that,” Mike said. “You get to be a wild man here, just without hitting anybody or anybody hitting you.”

“I'm just trying not to hit cement.”

Mike had told him to think of riding a skateboard like riding a bike.

“Uh, you can check me on this,” Tommy said, “but bikes have handles.”

“You still need strong legs and balance, and I've already played enough football with you to know that you've got both,” Mike said. “Just set yourself on the board the way you set yourself to make a tackle.”

Mike showed him how to use his toes and heels to guide the
board, and control it so he could make simple changes of direction. He showed Tommy how to get a good running start, dragging the back end of the board beside him, then jumping on.

“Baby steps,” Mike said. “You don't have to go fast at the start, just straight. And make sure you stay on.”

After Tommy lost his balance and ended up landing—
hard
—on his butt, he looked up at Mike and said, “You said I was competing against myself. But I feel like it's me against the board right now.”

“You're just starting to learn,” Mike said. “But you're getting the hang of it.”

“I'm getting skinned knees, is what I'm getting.”

But he
was
getting it. When he would get knocked down, he'd get right back up, the way he did in football. He lost track of time, not even checking his phone to see how close they were to the kickoff of the Pats game. He was just focused on one thing: getting better. Apparently it didn't matter which sport he was playing for that to be the case.

As Tommy kept picking up the basics, Mike started showing him a few harder moves, all while talking about famous skateboarders like Tony Hawk, who Mike said was like the Tom Brady of vertical skateboarders.

Tommy wasn't really picking up on all the technical expressions Mike was using about half-pipes and quarter-pipes and roll-ins. The main thing was, he felt himself improving as Mike started to dial things up for him, showing him how to use the walls on the lower part of the bowl, sending him down a small
flight of steps for the first time, finally telling him it was time to head down the smallest ramp and at least “sky” a little bit.

“I'm not ready,” Tommy said.

“An hour ago you weren't ready. Now you are.”

Tommy took a deep breath, felt himself picking up speed even on what he could see was the smallest ramp out there, took off, arms stretched out to the sides.

But he blew the landing, the board tilted to one side, and this time he skinned both an elbow and a knee. He got right back up, though, same as he would've on the football field.

The next time Tommy landed solidly. He let out a big ol' whoop.

Mike pointed at him, extending both of his index fingers, and said, “That's what I'm talkin' about!”

Tommy didn't try anything too fancy, but the more he practiced, the more confident he became. Soon he was able to control his speed and direction, doing his best to avoid falling off the board, not just because he was tired of skinning his elbows and knees, but because he was competing against himself now. Challenging himself the way Mike had challenged him to get on the board in the first place.

And the more he did it, the less afraid he got. There was still fear, especially when he was in the air. But he was coming to understand that fear was a part of the thrill.

“I think I could get to like this,” Tommy said when they both took a break. “But I can see how you need to be careful.”

“Who said anything about being careful?” Mike said, flashing
a smile. “You got potential, man. Can't worry about being
too
careful.”

Tommy knew he wasn't going to learn everything he wanted to learn in one day, not even close. But he was determined to learn as much as he could in one session.

Mike took him halfway up the hill, and showed him a basic twist, Mike jumping down off a little mound and landing in the grass. One time Mike lost his balance and fell, before quickly rolling back up to his feet.

Tommy said, “That would definitely
not
have ended well in the bowl.”

“It's why you practice,” Mike said. “They're not risks if you know what you're doing.”

“You've been doing this your whole life,” Tommy said. “I've been doing it for an hour.”

“Only one thing to do, then: Keep at it so you can keep up!”

Tommy practiced in the grass for a few minutes, then went back down into the bowl, got back on the board, and came off the small ramp this time and managed to get himself turned around in the air so he was facing where Mike was standing when he came down. And totally nailed the landing this time. Now he was the one pointing at Mike and yelling,
“Oh yeah!”

“Don't want to burst your bubble,” Mike said. “But these ramps and roll-ins here don't even compare with the street parks you get in other places.”

“
Street
parks? Like in a real street?”

“No, but they want you to feel that way,” Mike said. “More
stairs, railings, even benches you fly over, with real half-pipes and quarter-pipes. This place here is like a baby pool. Like something out of the skateboarding dark ages.”

“Okay,” Tommy said. “What's next, the X Games?”

“Follow me,” Mike said.

They walked back up the hill and along the stream that ran through Wirth Park and spilled into the Charles River. Then they were winding around, and walking up another small hill, until Mike said, “Okay, we're here.”

They were standing next to an ancient-looking stone wall that must once have been part of the fort here, looking down at a steep, paved road that led to a wider road below, where Tommy saw a man and woman go by on their bikes.

Tommy turned to Mike, grinning.

“Let's do this,” Tommy said.

“Had a feeling you'd say that,” Mike said. “I wouldn't have brought you if I didn't think you could handle it.”

“Show me the way.”

No running start from up here. Mike just hopped on the Warrior board, crouching, arms out, picking up speed, a
lot
of speed, until he disappeared around a curve near the bottom. He reemerged on the biker's path, still on his board, which he now held over his head. Then he put it under his arm like it was a football and sprinted back up the hill.

When Mike got to him, Tommy was already reaching for the board.

“I got this,” Tommy said.

“Remember what we've been talking about all day.”

“Balance.”

“Exactly,” Mike said. “Don't look down at the board. Just look where you're going. There's nothing for you to be worried about.”

“Do I
look
worried?” Tommy said.

Mike grinned. “Just worry about landing on the board instead of on your butt.”

Tommy could feel the beat of his own heart, coming faster now, like it was about to explode. Maybe skiers in the Olympics felt this kind of excitement at the top of a mountain before they pushed off. It was like the feeling he got before a big third-down play on the goal line, when the game was on the line. But somehow it was even more than that. It was dangerous, too.

Tommy looked down the hill and knew something that made his heart beat even faster:

He was ready for it.

Tommy put the board down, gave himself a slight push, and headed down the hill. Watching Mike, Tommy had felt as if he hadn't really picked up speed until he'd gotten near the bottom of the hill. But Tommy felt like he was flying from the start, felt like he was in perfect balance, even as he could feel his heart trying to pound its way right out of his chest.

But then his dad had already told him he led with his heart.

Tommy Gallagher was doing that now as he came into the curve, leaning back on his heels a beat too late to get the board
turned properly, knowing he was going off the road, that he was staying to the right as he needed to go left, hitting a rock, feeling the board come out from under him.

Not leading with his heart anymore.

A little too much with his head this time.

H
E
STASHED
H
IS
BIKE
IN
the garage when he got home, but came around to the front door so he could go straight to his room without going through the kitchen. He wanted to avoid his mom for now. Her car was in the driveway, so he knew that she and Em were back from shopping.

He went running through the front hall, called out, “Hey, Mom, I'm back” as he headed up the stairs, and heard her yell back, “Hey, honey” from the kitchen.

He wanted to wash his face and get another look at his bruise before dealing with his mom. But first he opened up his laptop to get the latest info on the Pats game. He'd checked his phone before leaving Wirth Park and saw they'd been ahead 7–3 halfway through the first quarter. Now it was 14–3, with a minute left in the first quarter. Brady had just thrown a ten-yard touchdown pass to Gronk.

He went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The bruise was an angry-looking strawberry, no doubt, the kind you'd get on your leg or arm on a turf field. It just looked way worse when it was on your face, where you couldn't cover it up. Tommy knew
there was no way he would be able to hide it from his mom. But he told himself that if he could make it down that hill, he could look his mom in the eye and tell her what happened.

He washed his face with soap, felt the sting. There was some Neosporin in the cabinet and he spread a little over the bruise, enjoying the cool feel of the ointment. He knew he should get some ice on his wrist as soon as possible, but he'd worry about that later.

As he passed Em's room, he gave the closed door a quick rap with his knuckle.

“You in there?” he said.

“No.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

“You're not funny.”

“Sometimes I am,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Not as funny as you think you are. And, no, you can't come in.”

“How was shopping?”

“Mom shopped.”

She was giving him nothing to work with.

“Good times,” Tommy said to himself, and headed downstairs. He stopped in the living room long enough to see Brady driving the Pats again, now three minutes into the second quarter.

He was in the kitchen when he heard his mom's voice from behind him.

“You and Mike have fun?” she said.

“Mad fun,” he said.

Then he turned around, and she got a look at him.

“Thomas Gallagher!” she said.

She pointed at him and said, “I can't wait to hear what kind of fun caused
that
.”

He said he fell off Mike's skateboard.

“You didn't mention that you were going skateboarding.”

“I didn't know the deal until we got to Wirth Park.”

She got close to him so she could inspect his face, looking like she was searching for clues. When she touched the bruise with her finger, he couldn't help himself and winced, even as he tried to tell her that it wasn't nearly as bad as it looked.

“So you were skateboarding in that bowl next to the tennis courts?”

“At first,” he said.

“What does that mean,
at first
?”

“I actually fell off on this little hill.”

“A hill,” she said. “You were skateboarding down a hill even though you never wanted to skateboard in your life.”

“Mom, it was fine. I'm fine.”

“Please tell me you were at least wearing a helmet.”

He knew there wasn't any point in lying, because Tommy wasn't a liar. He'd made a rookie mistake skateboarding today. But he wasn't a liar.

“I was not,” he said. “But I wasn't doing anything crazy. I could just as easily have fallen off the board in that bowl. I just lost my balance for a second, is all.”

She stared into his eyes. “How hard did you hit that hard head of yours?”

“It wasn't that hard, Mom, I promise. I got my arm out in time to break the fall.”

“Gee,” she said. “There's good news. You could've
only
broken your arm instead of your skull. Do you have a headache?”

He grinned. “Because of all these questions?”

“You're not funny.”

“Funny, Em just told me the same thing.”

“Thomas, I want to know if your head hurts,” she said. “Because if it does, I'm going to call the doctor.”

“Mom, my head does not hurt. And you do not need to call the doctor. I get hit harder in football games than I did when I fell off that stupid board.”

“Stupid is a good word,” she said. “And don't remind me about the hits you take in football games. If you're going to get back on a skateboard, no more skateboarding without a helmet. It would make about as much sense as playing football without one.”

“Agreed,” Tommy said.

“I worry enough about head wounds in football, as much as you hear about them these days. You promise that you're okay?”

“Huh?”
he said, exaggerating to make it seem like he was confused, playing around with her. “I didn't understand the question.”

“Now you're being aggressively not funny. Concussions are no joke.”

“Not even a little bit funny?”

“You promise you'll tell me if your head starts to hurt?”

“I promise,” he said. “Mom, I really did have fun today, even if I fell off that one time. I didn't realize how cool skateboarding is.”

“As long as you protect your head, you can have all the fun you want.”

Tommy thought they'd talked enough about head injuries and decided to change the subject. “How was shopping with Em?” he said.

“It went about as well as your last skateboard jump.”

“That bad, for real?”

“It was like I was marching her into one detention room after another.”

Tommy said, “She acts like her whole life is detention right now. Keeping herself all cooped up alone in her own room.”

“You're right.”

She smiled.

“But you'd rather watch the Pats than talk anymore with your old mom, I'm guessing.”

“No offense, but kind of,” he said. “I missed most of the start of the game.”

“None taken. Have at it.”

“Thanks,” he said. “And, Mom? I promise I'm fine.”

“Okay,” she said. “Grilled chicken sandwiches for dinner. Me on the grill.”

He noticed her smile had disappeared. Grilling had always been Dad's job. A dad thing. They both knew it.

Tommy said, “Maybe I should start learning how?”

“How about tonight?”

“Deal,” he said. “After the game.”

She reached over and mussed his hair, and he left the kitchen.

As soon as he got into the room, the Patriots kicked a field
goal. During the commercials Tommy ran back up to his room, grabbed his laptop, and made it back down to the couch before the next kickoff.

He searched “skateboard” and “warrior” on Google. He clicked on a site that sold skateboards and the first board he saw was called the “Warrior.” Thirty-one inches. The product description talked about “double kick,” which meant nothing to him. The board looked very cool, a lot like Mike's, only it was blue. He read the rest of the product description, about concave decks and ABEC-5 bearings and riser pads with cushions. Again: totally lost. Tommy would have to ask Mike later if he thought this was the right board for him.

He had enough birthday money left to pay the $44.95 for the board. If he got his mom's permission to buy it.

The Warrior. Too cool, he thought.

It was what he'd always wanted to be on a football field. A warrior.

This board was made for him.

He went back to watching the Patriots, who'd recovered a fumble and were driving again. He alternated between watching the game and checking out other boards online, some more expensive than the Warrior, some less expensive. Then, during commercials, he watched skateboard videos on YouTube and checked out guys not just flying through the air and twisting their bodies and landing cleanly, but also explaining what they'd done in a language Tommy knew he was going to have to learn.

One thing he'd already learned today?

Maybe there was more to look forward to on weekends than
just football. Of course he still couldn't wait until next Saturday's game against Newton. Tommy Gallagher would always have his eyes on the next football game.

But now he couldn't wait to get back to Wirth Park, maybe on his own board next time.

When he went back to watching the game, he tested his wrist, rotating it one way and then the other, even flipping it forward, like he was throwing a ball. It was still sore, no doubt. Just not as bad as he'd expected, even without ice.

Those rides, though, they'd still been worth it. He did hurt a little, couldn't lie to himself about that. But for today, he wasn't hurting inside the way he had been every day since his dad died.

• • •

His mom allowed him to order the skateboard on her credit card. He went upstairs, came down with the cash for the board, but she told him to keep it. “I want to pay,” Tommy said. His mom said that it was her gift to him, on one condition.

He asked what the condition was.

She said that they were going right down to Sports Authority in Watertown to buy him a helmet and pads.

“What did they used to say on that television show?” she said. “Deal or no deal?”

“Deal,” he said.

When he tried on a helmet in the store and checked himself out in a mirror, he said, “I look like a crash dummy.”

“Don't care,” she said. “Dumb is not wearing a helmet in a dangerous sport.”

“It's not dangerous if you know what you're doing,” Tommy said.

He knew as soon as he said it that it was something his dad used to say to her all the time. One more echo.

He'd wanted to pay a little extra and get two-day shipping on the new skateboard. His mom said that's where she was drawing the line, it was a waste of money, they were going for the free shipping and he could wait until next week.

“Patience,” his mom said in the car on their way back from Sports Authority.

“Not my strong suit.”

“Boy,” she said, “I didn't see
that
coming.”

“I'm just trying to stay busy.”

She nodded. “We all need that right now.”

“Skateboarding takes my mind off stuff,” he said. “Like the way I played last week for example.”

He still hated the way he'd let himself down, let his teammates and coach down. So he'd spent the week in practice working harder than ever on fundamentals, on being in the right place at the right time. Playing hard but smart. There hadn't been a single time in scrimmages when he'd come close to a late hit. He blitzed when Coach told him to blitz and dropped back into coverage when that was his job.

More than anything, though, he kept focusing on the two most important things he needed to do during the next game against the Newton Chargers: be a great player and an even better teammate.

When he told that to Greck after Thursday's practice, Greck said, “You're already both of those things, you idiot. Why don't you add a third goal for Saturday?”

“What?”

“Not being so hard on yourself.”

His wrist was still sore from his fall at Wirth Park; he'd felt it all week in practice when a ball carrier would land on it. And he still felt the burn sometimes when his helmet would get turned a little sideways and rub up against the side of his face.

But one thing hadn't changed in the last week: He was going to do anything he could to make up for last week's loss.