Muckers (22 page)

“We’re gonna win,” I tell him, throwing the dummy over my shoulder.

Managlia doesn’t say anything.

“You coming?” I ask. “You’re still a Mucker.”

He holds the sling tighter against his stomach and looks out the window. “I’ll watch from here,” he whispers.

Coach blows his whistle and we group around him in the center of the field. He looks at Wallinger and hands him the clipboard, then Coach folds his arms firm around his chest.

“Rico Verdugo got out of the hospital today,” he says.

“Is he comin’ here?” Alonzo asks.

Coach smiles for a split second then shakes his head. “Verdugo’s out for the season. His football days are over and I’m sorry for that. But we still have ours. There’ll be some changes. Managlia’s out, too, with a dislocated shoulder.”

“I thought it was just a sprain,” Cruz says.

“Misdiagnosed. Torres moves from end to fullback. Rudy Kovacs moves up from second string. He’ll take over Torres’s position.”

None of us says anything. Tony keeps wrapping his fingers, then cuts off the end of the tape with his teeth. I never thought one of us would get too hurt to play. Now we only have one sub left. And the person who should’ve never made the team is going to play.

“Come on now, right side first,” Coach barks as Wallinger divides us up for the drills and Rudy puts on his gloves.

I strap the dummy onto its hinge for the one sub we have left—Melvin Sneep. I think Tommy, the water boy, could give it a better going-over. But if Rudy’s face was on it, there wouldn’t be anything left of it. The stuffing would be shredded pretty good, since we’d all take a shot. Rudy and his stupid gloves. He wears them on the field so he won’t have to touch any skin that’s darker than his. But there isn’t anybody on the team Rudy likes and the feeling runs both ways.

He takes his position, but as soon as Coach blows the whistle, Lupe Diaz switches with Cruz, who lunges into Rudy hard, tossing him to the ground.

“What’s the matter, can’t grip anything with those gloves?” Cruz says.

“Your days are numbered,” Rudy says. “We just shut down your mine.”

“Settle down, boys,” Coach tells us. “Practice just started.”

“Then get those wetbacks to lay off me,” Rudy shouts.

Cruz sucks in his breath. “What? You’d rather have a bo-hunk mow you down?”

“I won’t have that kind of talk on my field,” Coach yells. “We’re above all that.” Coach is eyeing Rudy, but Rudy won’t look up. “You’ve all chosen to be on this team, and we have the same goal: to win,” he says. “You can’t buy it or mine it. You have to earn it. And you can’t win it on your own. We need each other. The Slavs need the Mexicans, and the Mexicans need the Irish and the Italians, so we’re all equal, aren’t we? Now come on, let’s get set to do the drill on the left side.”

But Rudy won’t get into position. “You’re wrong, Coach,” he says. “We don’t swim with them and we don’t eat with them. And when this is all over, my father won’t let you anywhere near a white player. You’ll be lucky to be coaching at the Indian school up in Flag.”

We all aim for Rudy, who’s swinging at any of us before Coach gets in between yelling for us to stop. Rudy’s still thrashing and he butts heads with Coach. Both soar into the air like elk bucks sparring during a rut—Rudy’s helmet lashing Coach in the forehead. Coach lunges backward. His head bobs twice as he lands, then his body goes limp as a rag doll, his face moist and pale a few feet away from his cap.

My stomach freezes but I start to run, not waiting to see if Coach might be okay. The wind slaps my face, drowning out the yelling and screaming behind me as I sprint toward the icehouse to get to a phone. If the door’s locked I’ll smash open the window. I don’t care about my hand. But then Gibby walks out of the icehouse.

“Ambulance!” I scream.

He looks at me, puzzled.

“Call an ambulance!” I shout, louder this time. I run past him and head for the hill, refusing to let the elevation slow me down. When I finally hear the siren up top, I sprint even harder, picking off street after street. I have to get ahead of this day and what it might look like tomorrow. As I round the bend for Company Ridge, the pitch catches my stride, forcing me to push even more. I pump my arms harder, but I’m only punching at the wind. The last incline gnaws into my calves until, finally, it beats me, and I collapse on the side of the road.

The ambulance passes me, throwing a halo of crimson over the darkening hillside as Hap drives it to the field. And I hope that siren’s still going when they come back up the hill.

MID-WEEK EDITION

Mine to Close October 17, Workers Notified by E.C
.

Permanent termination of mining and smelting at Hatley and Cottonville was announced Tuesday morning by the Eureka Copper Mining Company. Notices posted at the smelter and mine read: “To employees: the company regrets to announce that due to the depletion of the ore reserves, all smelting and mining operations at Hatley and Cottonville will permanently terminate October 17, 1950.”

No figures were released by the company, but it is estimated that 500 employees will be affected. Some are being offered similar jobs at other E.C. operations. Though closing of
the mine had not been unexpected, definite setting of the date did not come easy to many veteran workers. Transferred or otherwise, it won’t be pleasant to be uprooted from the place they have long known as home. Some have records of 35 years or more, dating back to the boom days.

WANT ADS

HOUSES FOR SALE
—Bid for purchase of nine houses located in Hatley to be accepted at Eureka Copper offices, care of H. W. Elton, by 10 a.m. October 30. Bids may be made on any one house or entire group. Successful bidders agree to raze, tear down, or remove said houses from their present sites within 45 days of contract.

COME & LISTEN
—Selling a portable, mechanical phonograph with 15 popular & western records. $14. Contact Tuffy Briggs. Miners’ Hospital.

REAL PEARLS
—Nicest pearl necklace you’ll ever see. Must sell by end of the month. Call Red O’Sullivan. 869-H.

Ritz Theater Closed Until Further Notice. Buddy Ritz Missing in Korea
.

I
’
M NOT THE ONLY ONE
when I get to the field at midnight—there’s Cruz and Tony standing around Mr. Mackenzie in T-shirts and shorts same as me, their football shoes already laced. Alonzo Cushman, Lupe Diaz, Ricky Sanchez, and Marty Quesada are here, too. Pretty much most of the team. Except for Rudy and Wallinger.

“I called you all here,” Mr. Mackenzie says—he’s wearing a miner’s helmet and the carbide lamp shines over us like bursts from a meteor shower—“because I know you can keep quiet about what we’re about to do.”

“Where’s Wallinger?” Cruz asks.

“He’s in Prescott for a job interview I arranged,” Mr. Mackenzie says. “He’ll be back tomorrow afternoon in time for practice. He’s still the interim coach while Coach Hansen’s recuperating in the hospital.”

“Hank Wallinger can’t help you win.” It’s Pete Zolnich talking. He’s been sitting in the bleachers where there’s no
light. We all turn and watch him come over. “Wallinger’s from Cottonville, and he’s as selfish as they come,” Zolnich sniffs, turning on his carbide lamp.

“Peter’s able to be here with us because, well, we’ve decided to take matters into our own hands,” Mr. Mac explains. “So Sheriff Doddy has issued a special dispensation for him to be released from jail until the football season’s over.”

“Since it’s an emergency.” Zolnich smiles. “The sheriff was a Mucker in twenty-four, too, when we won the Northern title against Flagstaff, like you’re gonna, though I wish Sims could be here, too.”

“The English teacher?” Tony asks.

Zolnich shakes his head. “Not that whiny nut. His father.”

“Tuffy Briggs will be keeping time during the drills,” Mr. Mackenzie says.

Cruz’s brother Manny comes out from behind the bleachers, still looking fit and towering over Tuffy’s wheelchair, which he’s pushing onto the field, and I haven’t seen Tuffy come out of the miners’ hospital since Maw’s been there.

“That’s right.” Tuffy holds up the stopwatch he had tucked in his wheelchair.

“But there’s no train to race at this hour,” Tony says.

“You won’t be racing the train,” Mr. Mackenzie says. “You’ll be racing against yourselves.”

Zolnich starts taking out helmets from a net bag and lines them up on the field. “You want to win, don’t you?” he says.

“But the town’s dying,” Melvin Sneep murmurs.

“You never die if you win,” Manny says. “And if you win this time, it’ll make going under in that big hole bearable.” He points to the open pit. “No matter where the mine is you get transferred to.”

“That’s why we can’t lose,” I say.

“No way we’ll lose,” Cruz says. Tony and the others agree.

“We’ll show you how to win,” Zolnich says. “Like we did against those Flagstaff Warriors.”

“Slag and rocks weren’t enough,” Mr. Mackenzie adds. “You need the endurance of a miner. Ready, Tuffy?”

Manny wheels Tuffy to the edge of the pit.

“Follow me, boys,” Mr. Mackenzie says.

“Are we getting thrown into the pit?” Melvin asks.

“We want you to be stronger to win, not dead,” Zolnich tells him. “You need to build strength to beat the Warriors. They’re twice the size of you.”

“Now take a helmet,” Mr. Mackenzie tells us, and I realize those aren’t football helmets on the ground, but miner hard hats like the one he’s wearing.

“We’re going down there?” Alonzo asks.

“Might as well get used to it,” Lupe says. “For when we get to Ajo. Nobody’s fitter than a hard-rock miner.”

“Coach Hansen trained us on these ledges,” Manny says. “So that we’d be strong enough to play both ends once we got to Flag.”

“Took it right out of Coach Kerr’s playbook from twenty-four,” Tuffy says. “It worked.”

“Go single file running down the ledges, then sprint back up once you get to the bottom,” Mr. Mackenzie explains. “And make sure your light’s on. After three nights of this you’ll be faster on the way up, I can assure you.” He eyes Melvin. “That’s the goal anyhow. Who wants to go first?”

I put on my helmet. “I will.”

“You’ve never been down there before, Ugly,” Cruz says. “Sure you don’t want me to go first?”

“Not this time.”

“I’ll be right behind you, then.”

Manny makes his way down and says he’ll meet us at the bottom.

“How do we stop ourselves from slipping?” Melvin asks.

“If it can hold a hundred-ton shovel, it’ll hold you,” Zolnich says. “Just don’t look into the pit, and stay on the wall side. Now get going.”

I run into the darkness with nothing but a narrow beam from my lamp to show me the wall. The ledges are hard-packed and not too steep, but Melvin’s right: the footing’s slippery and it’s hard to get a toehold, especially once the first ledge quits. The only way to the next one is by sidestepping into a sharp slide down a path that’s a vertical drop.

Nobody’s saying anything behind me as we go deeper, trying to miss the unseen divots that could trip us up, hidden in a surface no wider than a pickup truck, and there’s no sign of Manny up ahead.

“Keep your knees up high,” Cruz shouts, nearly clipping my heels. He seems to know what it’s like down here pretty well, running sideways—even off the slopes—and could overtake me if he wanted to.

I run down another ledge, snatching a glimpse skyward to where we came from. But I can’t see Mr. Mackenzie or Tuffy or Zolnich, and it seems impossible to make your way out of here when you’re in this deep, like being trapped inside a box made of stone with the lid barely open—just enough to see the stars and how far away they are from down here.

I catch sight of the burning pyres of ore to my left down below as I slide into the final ledge, where the air thins out—though that doesn’t make any sense—collecting in the middle of the pit like a smoke signal. It’s sour and stronger than the sulfur that hits us by the time it gets to the school after a blast, and I don’t know how Pop’s done this all these years.
Some of the guys start coughing and I try not to breathe it in, but I’m winded and it stings going down.

“The last ledge gives out in ten paces,” Cruz says.

He’s smiling at me from above like he’s enjoying seeing me sweating and feeling trapped. Cruz never seems to feel that way.

Then another voice calls out, “First time you’ve ever been down here, huh, kid?” I see the carbide light before I can make out who it is as I hit the bottom of the pit. I thought we’d be alone somehow, with just Manny waiting for us when we got here, but there’s a crew of about a dozen miners, eyes wider than ringtails’ and lined with soot, looking at me, grinning. They start clapping, then somebody yells, “Good goin’, Red. Your pop never thought you’d be down here.”