Muckers (19 page)

“Mr. Mackenzie told me how much you enjoy my lemon meringue pie, so I baked you one.”

I can see her blushing and I say, “Thank you, ma’am.” She gingerly hands the pie over, like it could shatter into a million pieces, which would be fine by me—I’d just lap it up with a spoon.

“Now, make sure to eat it soon in case the meringue falls,” she says. “It’s true that we have to be more careful when we bake up here than those living down in Cottonville. But it should keep nicely in the Frigidaire until after you beat the Wolves … as per my note …” Mrs. Hollingworth’s voice
trails off as I put the pie in the refrigerator and leave her on the porch.

“Unless you’re not opposed to eating dessert
before
your dinner,” she calls, catching me break a hunk off the pie crust. “You
will
beat Cottonville, won’t you, Red?”

“We’ll sure try.”

“Good. Consider it a victory pie in advance, then,” she says, “on behalf of all the ladies on the hill.”

I wait until Mrs. Hollingworth gets to the cobblestones before taking a slice out of the pie. It’s good not having to worry about being hungry and to focus on beating those Wolves instead. Then I lick the bits of meringue off the wax paper and read what she wrote in the note.

* * *

The bleachers are meant for Hatley folk. There aren’t any for the opposing team and never have been. I think if they ever tried to sit on our benches they’d get shoved off. Leroy Piggett, the most obstinate resident of our town, would be the first to do it. And if it was a Wolf supporter who had the poor judgment to sit on our side, there might be a stone hurled at his head. Leroy smuggles them in with his picnic hamper, claiming he’s got such a whopper of an
appetite and that’s the reason the basket’s so burdensome. But everyone knows those aren’t sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, but nugget-shaped weapons as powerful as an angry fist.

Leroy collects his artillery after a hit, too. And dates them.
Bloody Nose Fight, 1940. Busted Kneecap, 1945
. The sheriff just laughs when he sees Leroy hobble up the hill, letting him pass through the gate without much of a look or even the seventy-five-cent admission. The others don’t make a fuss either. They’ve got rocks in their pockets and purses, too. And Mrs. Hollingworth and Mrs. Menary will tell you it’s to ease the arthritis.

That’s what Cottonville does to us.

We battle hard against every team, but it’s different with Cottonville. The blood between us is just plain bad.

Cruz says the line was drawn the minute they took our smelter away and hauled it down the mountain, putting up a town so flat and lifeless that it resembled the snobbish South. I don’t know how snobbish they really are, those Wolves and their low-lying brethren. We don’t speak to each other or walk on the same side of the street. I know they like fountains. There’s two in front of their country club.

We use our water for drinking. “Who pisses away water when you’re livin’ in a desert?” Pop likes to say. “Cottonville, dat’s who.”

Their effigy is coming up the side of the hill. A mock version of me on a broomstick is going up in flames and being flailed right and left by their captain, Gunnar Swensen. The Cottonville band is behind it, encouraging the image to burn. The rule is, it’s got to be extinguished by the time they get to the ticket taker, or they’ll have to pay admission for the dummy.

“Hey, whatcha got in those instruments?” Leroy hollers at their band. “Get that coal out of them tubas so we can really hear you play!”

That’s what Cottonville people fight back with—lumps of coal confiscated from the heaps used to fuel the smelter, tucking them in their socks and maybe even under those caps the band wears.

They’re marching across the field to the opponent’s side, which butts up against the mountain, so there’s not much room for more than their squad and a couple of coolers. You can fit maybe six, seven cars behind the end zone. They sit on the hoods.

Cruz is holding our effigy, with Beebe right behind him cheering. It isn’t quite so charred yet, and he made the face look more like their hot-tempered coach, Runt Studdard, who’s spitting on our field, his arms splayed over a good-sized paunch, and smirking with the Swensen brothers, though he barely reaches their shoulders.

They think we’re like vermin just because they see daylight, working above ground in the smelter when we’re digging underneath in the dark, or because we haul a bus across the slag. But I know every inch of this field and what it can do. I’ve worn it like a second skin. And this time I’ve got the plays etched in my mind. The what-ifs. We went through them a dozen times at practice.

Beebe takes the effigy from Cruz and he points to the Cottonville fans, making a fist like he’s aiming to hurt somebody. And I know that can only ruin things, even give the Wolves a win.

“Damn gringos,” Cruz shouts, looking at the effigy of me propped up in a truck next to the Cottonville band.

“I’m a gringo,” I tell him.

“Yeah, but not a Cottonville gringo.”

Coach is yelling pretty hard just to get our attention, with Wallinger flailing his hands to get us over. The game hasn’t even started yet and already our spectators and theirs are taunting each other.

“I know you hate those guys across the field,” Coach says as we gather into a huddle.

“Worse than hate.” Cruz kicks at a loose piece of coal. “They’re loco.”

Alonzo musters a nervous laugh.

“That kind of thinking won’t get us a win,” Coach says. “You need to be wearing these uniforms a few more times, and I don’t want them getting so torn up and bloodied that we won’t recognize you. We need you.
All of you
.” Coach looks over at Melvin Sneep, who’s got his eyes closed and is biting his lower lip, then at Rudy—but those two won’t be playing much.

“Just play smart,” Coach says, grabbing Cruz’s shoulder. “That’s the best revenge, boys.
Winning
.” Coach shoots an index finger in the air. “Remember, those Wolves have next year. We don’t. You’re faster than they are. They lumber and seethe and want to hurt you. Don’t let them. You’ve got to outmaneuver their line.”

Tony focuses on the Swensens, butting shoulders on the other side of the field. They’re bigger than he is, only Tony’s wider and can throw his body as fast as a bullet, trapping you in his human gunnysack until there’s no way you can wriggle free.

We walk onto the field and a chunk of coal bounces off Cruz’s helmet. A bigger one lands near my foot. Cruz reaches down and picks up the chunk. “Told you they’re all loco,” he mumbles, tossing it off to the side.

First play and I’m coiled tight as a spring, connecting with Cruz, who’s like a rocket, sprinting past our chalk line for a touchdown, giving us the early lead. But it’s clear Cottonville’s out for revenge and aiming to hurt me. Next time we get the ball, the Swensen brothers—all three of them—walk onto the field. Lars, the oldest and biggest one, points a ruddy finger at me.

“What are they doing, putting all three of them in?” Tony says. “Lars never even plays when he gets that big and slow. Watch your back, Red,” he whispers. “Must be seven hundred pounds all together.”

They’re huge and angry and I don’t like how they’re looking at me. I hand off to Managlia and he runs. Then I’m down on the ground, my cheek cutting into the slag long after the ball has left me—tackled by a Swensen, though I don’t know which one. “That’s where you belong, Mucker. In the dirt or under it,” he spits at me, punching my gut. “Crawling around with all those worms.”

My ear stings. My pinky finger’s dangling limp and swollen.

“You okay, Red?” Cruz asks, helping me up. “I’ll get open quicker.”

But I get sacked two more times before we build up a 10–6 lead, and Tony’s left eye swells shut. The referee finally blows his whistle and slaps Cottonville with a penalty for unnecessary roughness.

“They’re cheating on every play,” Cruz yells as we gather in the end zone at the half. “We’re getting held, clipped, punched.”

“You’re letting them get to you,” Coach says, motioning for us to settle down.

Cruz won’t hear any of it and keeps shaking his head. “They think they’re better than us because they’re big and white and rich.”

“That’s what you believe,” Coach tells him. “And you’re wrong. The only way they can win is by throwing us off our game, and you’re letting them.” He punches at Cruz’s chest. “You’ve got to stop it—all of you—because we just can’t lose. Not even one game. If we do, the chance for the Cup is over. The only way we can get there is to go undefeated. Nobody’ll give a spot to a little prickly-ass mining team unless we win every game.”

My elbow’s bleeding. Before we walk onto the field, another ambulance crawls up near the bleachers.

“What do we need two ambulances for?” Alonzo asks.

“You’ll see.” Cruz snaps a nose guard to his helmet. Tony puts one on, too, right above his battered cheek. Cruz points at me to get one, and I don’t want it to be that kind of game, but it already is. Rough and bloody and littered with dirty plays.

“You can still bust your nose wearing that,” I tell Cruz.

“Yeah, but it won’t hurt as much.”

We get on the field and I glance around at the others. Diaz, Torres, and Managlia look pissed and way too angry for us to lose. On the sideline Coach is staring up at the sky, then over at the field. He smiles. He actually squats down low and smiles, taking in the bloodied faces, the referees gathering up the rocks and the coal, tossing them beyond the field so we can play. Then he looks at me and mouths the word “win.”

He’s right. We have to win this. And I’m not gonna let them take this away from us.

“Muckers! Muckers!”
the Hatley fans chant.

“Let’s get ’em,” I say as we line up. “First play.”

Lupe runs the kickoff back to our thirty and I call the same play we scored on earlier. Cruz runs a quick square-out to the flat, then breaks long.

I roll toward the sideline and Cruz runs it perfectly. He stiff-arms the lumbering Cottonville defender, sprinting past him, and my throw is right on target. Cruz doesn’t even break stride, hauling in the pass and running untouched to the end zone. The fans go wild. We race toward Cruz, whooping and jumping. And then we hear the referee’s whistle and see the yellow penalty flag back where Cruz caught the pass. “Offensive pass interference,” he says. “No touchdown.”

“That was stupid,” a Swensen laughs. “Guess you guys are breathing too much dust from our smelter.”

“Can’t play football inside a country club,” Tony says, giving the lineman a shove. “The ceiling’s too low.”

Cruz is arguing with the referee. Alonzo and Quesada hold him back but it’s too late. The referee tacks on an unsportsmanlike-conduct penalty. The taunts are deafening now, not just from the Cottonville fans but their players, too, with Runt Studdard yelling, “Get that wild man out of here!”

We huddle up and Tommy, the water boy, runs onto the field, handing us cups to drink. “Coach Hansen says stop taking the bait,” he tells Cruz. “Or he’ll pull you out of the game.”

I dig my finger into Cruz’s jersey. “You’ve got to settle down. That’s just what they want. For you to get kicked out. And us to lose this game.”

“We can’t end it that way,” Tony says. “As losers.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Cruz hollers at me.

“And neither do you.” We glare at each other until Tony gets between us.

“So who you gonna blame, Cruz, if we lose?” I shout. “The gringos? ’Cause I want this, same as you.”

“We all do.” Diaz nods. Then Torres.

“Hit ’em!” the angry mob screams.

More pieces of coal rain down on us.

Those penalties set us back almost to our chalk line—just a few yards away from the Cottonville supporters.

“Make ’em pay!” a woman in a Sunday hat shouts, raising her fists at us.

I find Torres twice but the passes go incomplete, so I scramble forward on third down, but only gain a couple of yards. Now we’re punting from the end zone, and they’ll be coming at us. Our lead is still only 10–6. I grab Quesada by the front of his jersey. “Boot it all the way to their country club,” I tell him. He’s got to send this punt farther than he’s ever kicked before.

His punt spins toward the sideline, low and short. Their return man scoops it up and barrels all the way to the fifteen-yard line. A Cottonville receiver makes a diving catch in the end zone on the next play, colliding with our linebacker, Rico Verdugo, who’s on the ground, knocked out by the impact.

The crowd gasps. For the first time in the game there’s silence. Verdugo should have been up by now, or at least moving. But he’s still lying on his back.

“Get up!” I yell.

“Fight it and get up!” Cruz says.

I don’t think Verdugo can move his neck. Coach sprints over, kneels beside him, and starts talking. But I can’t see Verdugo talking back. Coach calls for the ambulance.

“Is he moving?” Alonzo asks me.

“Not yet.”

“I don’t wanna be a Wolf next year,” he sniffs. “They’ll kill me, too. They already said so.”

“You’ll never be a Wolf,” Cruz says. “And they’ll never close the mine. Muckers don’t die. They just find more ore.”

Verdugo is being hauled away on a gurney. He lifts one arm slightly and we cheer. I don’t know why. It looks like this could be something bad.

Cottonville kicks the extra point to make things worse. Now they’re up 13–10.

“Time to shove that ball down their throats,” Cruz says in the huddle.

“Just play smart,” I tell him, “like Coach said.” The blood’s dried up in my ear, plugging some of the sound, but I know we can’t lose. Even if it means getting torn up some more.