Little Brother of War (5 page)

Mr. Tubby called the teams to begin the game. Everything got real serious real fast. He threw the towa up into the air. Then the action started.

Again we ran back and forth across the field. Again the towa sailed through the air over and over. And again I felt an excitement I hadn't experienced doing anything else in my short life.

Two and a half hours zipped by in the blink of an eye. Our team managed to win this time, by two points. As before, the two teams got together to drink some water and talk about the game.

James and I had a couple of friendly jabs back and forth. Then Charley came over to speak to me.

“Good game, Randy,” he said.

“Thanks,” I responded. I finished one last gulp of water. “I need to talk to you,” I added.

“Sure, what about?”

“High school team sports,” I said.

“Okay,” Charley said. “Give me a minute to wrap things up with the team. Then we'll talk.”

After Charley said good-bye to the other team members and gathered up his stickball gear, he came back to me. We walked toward the front of the community center where his car was parked.

“What's going on?” Charley asked.

“My dad and older brother were these great sports heroes,” I began. “Baseball and football were their sports. Now the school principal and the coach expect me to follow in their footsteps. They expect me to help them win a state championship.”

“Your older brother was the one killed in Iraq, wasn't he?” Charley asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “That was him. My father has always pushed me to be like him. To be a football star or something.”

“And you aren't comfortable with that,” Charley guessed. “You have your own ideas about what you want to do. Is that it?

“Exactly. How did you know?”

“Because I've been there,” Charley said. “I had to deal with that sort of thing when I was younger.”

“The problem is,” I continued. “I've never been any good at sports. So it's a total surprise that I can play stickball. And I don't even know why I'm good at it. But I really like it.”

“And they don't offer it at Choctaw Central High School,” Charley said.

“Right. Next week Mr. Gilroy expects me to pick one of the team sports they have. All I want to do is play toli.”

We reached the parking lot and stood near Charley's car. My mom pulled into the parking lot and headed over to where we were standing.

“I understand the kind of pressure you're feeling,” Charley said. “I wasn't going to say anything yet, but I do have an offer for you.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“In January, my team will begin regular practices to get ready for the World Series of Stickball at next summer's Choctaw Fair. I'm short a player for that team. I think you could fill that spot.”

“Are you kidding me right now? It wouldn't be nice to tease me about this.”

“I'm dead serious, Randy. Of course, you need to improve your skills and build up your strength. But you've got all the makings of a great toli player.”

“That's awesome, but it still doesn't help me with my problem.”

“We'll work on that together, all right?”

“Okay, thanks,” I replied. My head was spinning a little. I couldn't believe I was actually wanted on a team. I was always the one who was picked last in gym.

I got into the car with Mom. On the ride home I told Mom what had just happened and asked for her help.

“I don't think now would be a good time to talk to your dad about this,” Mom said. “He just saw the doctor and got some medicine. It will take some time for him to start getting better.”

“What am I going to do in the meantime? I've got the principal and the coach pressuring me to pick a sport this coming week!”

“You could always choose one of their sports and start practicing,” Mom said. “When they see how bad you are, maybe they'll realize you aren't like your dad or your brother.”

“And Dad will have a fit when he finds out,” I answered. “I know he will. That's how he always deals with my failures.”

“Let me think this through,” she said.

Mom was quiet for a few minutes as we drove.

“I know that your dad will object to your playing stickball. First he'll say there's no
protective gear. No kneepads or shoulder pads. Even I have a problem with that. But more importantly, he'll say it's not a modern sport. It's something left over from the old Indian ways. These things are not relevant to today's life.”

“Why does that matter to him so much?” I asked. “What's wrong with the old ways?”

“The answer to that is kind of long,” Mom responded. “It might be best to hear it from him.”

I looked out the window for a while as we drove. The hills and trees of the countryside whizzed by. Something in my mind shifted at that moment. I decided I'd had enough.

“Okay, you know what?” I said. “I'm sixteen and I'm tired of people expecting me to be something or someone I'm not. When Dad gets home from work, I'm going to tell him how it is.”

“Good luck with that,” Mom said as we turned into our neighborhood.

For dinner that night Mom fixed Dad's favorite foods. We had fried catfish, black-eyed peas, okra, and cornbread. She even made a pecan pie. It all tasted great.

I knew she was trying to put him in a good mood. That way it might be easier for him to hear what I needed to tell him.

Dad finished his last bite of pie. Mom poured him a cup of coffee.

“Ned, Randy needs to tell you something,” Mom said to Dad as she put the coffee pot down. “And I want you to listen to him. It's important to him.” She sat down at the table.

Dad wiped pie from the corner of his mouth and sipped the coffee. He waited. My stomach tightened.

“Dad, I don't want to play football or baseball,” I blurted out.

“Oh, what do you want to play?” he asked. “Basketball? I hope it's not soccer. That's not even a real American sport.”

“Stickball,” I said.

“Say what?” Dad replied. He almost spit out a mouthful of coffee.

“Stickball. Toli.”

“You mean running around in your shorts behind the community center on Saturdays? That's not a real sport.”

“Actually it
is
a real sport, and I'm talking about playing on a team that will compete at the Choctaw Fair next summer.”

Dad slammed his fist down on the table. The plates and glasses shook. I almost jumped out of my seat. He stood up.

“Now see here, boy,” Dad boomed down at me. “I won't hear of it. That's not who we are as Choctaws any more. And it won't help you get into college anywhere.”

“Ned, calm down,” Mom interrupted. “You know the doctor said not to get excited.”

“Stay out of it, woman,” he demanded. “This is between the boy and me.” He looked
hard at her. Mom began clearing the dishes from the table.

“Stickball and those other things are part of the past,” Dad said. “They need to stay in the past where they belong. We're Americans and we play American sports.”

“But I'm not any good at those sports,” I explained. “There are plenty of Choctaws who still do the old things. They play stickball, make Indian crafts, and hold traditional dances.”

“And they'll never amount to anything important,” he argued. “They're quaint relics from bygone days.”

“Ned, you need to tell Randy why you believe that,” Mom said, putting a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. “He has a right to know why you think that way. All you do is bark at him!”

Just then a ringing came from the kitchen counter. The sound startled my dad. Mom quickly turned it off. She had set a timer to go off when it was time for Dad to take his medicine.

I think the ringing made Dad lose track of what he was saying. Or maybe it was because he got upset. He took a deep breath and looked around. It was like he suddenly realized where he was or what he was doing. He sat down.

Mom handed him a pill and a glass of water. He took the pill and drank the water. Then he looked back at me. His face seemed softer. His eyes weren't as angry.

“Times change,” he said in a calm voice. “People change. After World War II, in the 1940s, Indians all over the country were ready to begin living a modern life. To be like other Americans. The old ways seemed outdated.”

Dad stopped talking and rubbed the side of his head like it hurt.

“Maybe you should go lie down,” Mom said to him.

“I will in a minute,” he replied. “Let me finish this first.” He turned back to me.

“My father and grandfather tried to hold on to the old ways,” he continued. “They were stubborn men. They didn't want those things
to die out. But when I got to be a teenager, I didn't want anything to do with the old ways.”

“So you played baseball?” I asked.

“That's right,” Dad answered. “And it didn't come easy. I practiced hours every day so I'd get good at it. And my mother supported me in this all the way. She and I thought a lot alike.”

I looked at my mother. I was thankful she was trying to support me in my decision.

Dad closed his eyes and wrinkled up his forehead. He looked tired.

“Okay, that's enough for now,” Mom said. “Time to rest.” Dad seemed too worn out to object. Maybe the medicine was doing that. I wasn't sure. Mom got him up and headed him out of the kitchen.

“No stickball—no way,” he called out as he shuffled down the hall. “End of discussion.”

When my mother came back into the kitchen she said, “That didn't go well, did it?”

“It was terrible,” I said. “What am I going to do now?”

“I have an idea we could try,” Mom offered. “Want to hear it?”

“Of course,” I said. Hope was still alive, I thought.

“Next week I'll set up a meeting with your principal. I'll tell him I'm concerned about your grades. I'll tell him I don't want you spending time after school at sports practice. I want you to focus on schoolwork during your first year at high school.”

“Okay, I'm with you so far.”

“Now I wouldn't normally suggest this,” Mom continued almost in a whisper. “It's a bit of a lie.” She peeked down the hall to make sure the coast was clear. “I think you should continue playing stickball on Saturdays,” she said.

“Really? What about Dad?”

“I can tell Dad that the school wants you to focus on your schoolwork this year,” Mom said. “That they think you should hold off on playing any sports until your grades are better.”

“So we can blame each of them for me not playing a school sport. Sounds risky. Think it'll work?” I asked.

“Maybe, but there's a catch,” Mom said. “I
am
concerned about your grades. You
do
need to focus on schoolwork. So here's the deal. I'm willing to set this up for you as long as you promise to study harder and make better grades.”

“But I'm already doing the best I can,” I said.

“No, you're not,” Mom replied. “I know you can do better.”

“If you say so,” I finally said. “But I need some help with schoolwork.”

“The tribe has afternoon homework help at the community center. You'll spend every school-day afternoon there until your grades are up.”

“And I can play stickball?”

“And you can play stickball, at least for now,” Mom confirmed. We shook hands on the deal.

So for the rest of the fall semester I went to tutoring sessions at the community center after school. They helped me work on the subjects I was having trouble with. Math was at the top of the list, followed by science and reading. Did I leave anything out?

I decided to tell Jennifer I didn't have time to be anyone's boyfriend right now. I said I had too much on my plate. She took it hard for about five minutes. I guess she realized there was other boyfriend material out there. I kept on riding to and from school with her and her mother. But from then on I always sat in the back seat by myself.

On Saturdays I played stickball with Charley and the others. That put me at the community center six days a week. They got to know me pretty well around there.

But I think I got to be known a little
too
well.

A few days before Christmas, my family went to the yearly Christmas dinner held there. The gathering room was decked out with decorations made by Choctaw kids. The Christmas tree was covered with ornaments
created from all natural things. There were pinecones hanging from red ribbons and leaves that had been spray-painted gold. Strings of colored popcorn circled the branches.

After we finished eating, Santa Claus came into the room. He was immediately surrounded by a swarm of children. They all needed to tell him what they wanted for Christmas.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he said in a booming voice. “You children line up over there in the corner by the Christmas tree. You can tell Santa what you want for Christmas. But only if you've been good all year.” He laughed another loud laugh. The children all ran for the tree. Santa gathered up his big red bag.