Muckers (27 page)

Phoenix’s coach doesn’t seem to think so, or maybe he just doesn’t care. All he’s concerned about is our field. He’s going off about it to the newspapermen scribbling notes beside him on the sideline. And he sure likes to talk, tossing that fancy red-and-white scarf across his shoulder like he’s never met up with the cold before or felt the chill of an approaching winter.

I’m not sure what stung more, the newspaper calling us a bunch of ghosts or the fact that it might be true. I’m hoping there’ll be enough people left to fill our side of the bleachers, but I don’t really know for sure.

“Gonna need the blocking dummies to fill up our seats,” Tony says, dumping his helmet in the first row.

“What, the two we scrimmage with?”

“Leroy’s got his rocks,” Cruz says. “I bet he aims one right at the noggin of that smart-ass Phoenix coach.”

“We don’t need to kill them.” Tony fists up his hands. “Just pound them into the ground and beat ’em.”

The sun takes cover under a ring of patchy clouds and there’s no more warmth to give our freezing fingers, but Cruz and Tony start tossing the football anyway.

“Say, aren’t you the starting quarterback for the Muckers?” one of the reporters asks me. “How does it feel to be playing the winningest team in all of Arizona?”

“We haven’t played them yet.”

“And you weren’t expected to, were you? But beating Flagstaff, that’s what got you here,” he says, getting out a notebook.

“We’re here because we haven’t lost a game.”

Cruz and Tony keep eyeing us between throws, and I want him to get back to the Phoenix side, but he doesn’t.

“And your teammates,” he says, looking sheepishly at Cruz and Tony. “How do you communicate with the immigrant players like the Mexicans?”

Cruz fires the ball at the guy’s head, but I catch it before it hits him.

“Same as all the other players,” I say. “We talk.”

“So you know how to speak Spanish, then?”

Cruz smiles, coming up from behind. “Oh, he knows all the special words. Like
cabrón
.”

I turn pink.

“What did he just say?” the reporter asks.

“He just called you a dumbass,” Tony says with a laugh.

“When was the last time you were in the North, mister?” I ask. But he starts going on about Coach Hansen, wondering how Coach died, like he doesn’t read his own paper, or never heard of him before.

“You seem to be doing just fine without him,” he says.

Can you slug a reporter and still get to play? I wish I knew the rules on that one. “We’re doing fine because of him,” I say, then tell him I’ve got a game to get ready for and start throwing with Tony and Cruz.

We hear singing and cheering for Phoenix and watch a line of yellow buses winding past Hatley High, heading up to our field. And I’m not sure they built those bleachers big enough.

“I counted five,” Tony says. He goes over to the bench and tightens the tape on his fingers.

“So what?” Cruz lobs a pass at me. “That means five buses full of nosebleeds and frostbitten Southerners. There’s no
way they can handle things this high or this cold. They’ll be shivering so bad we won’t understand a word they’re saying.”

I take the football and cradle it under my arm. I don’t want to throw anymore, so I walk up a few rows to where Maw used to sit. If I could turn back time they’d all be here. Maw cheering two yards from the open pit, with smoke belching from that smelter, choking out the field. They’d be talking about
that
in the papers.

She’d be here, too … Angie … leaning by the columns of light, her soft brown eyes finding me, warming me, giving me strength. But I don’t have any of that and I can’t twist time around that way anymore.

“Here come the ghosts,” Tony says. He points to the line of cars and trucks snaking up the hill behind those Phoenix buses. Some are loaded two stories high, hauling tables, ladder-backs, and trunks tied into place with binder twine. The Heydorn kids are perched on top of their stove, yelling and waving at us. And I didn’t see this coming, either. They all should’ve been in Bisbee by now, and Ajo for sure, or at the very least getting out of town. But they’re heading up to the field to watch us play.

Phoenix’s coach isn’t smiling anymore. And I suppose if you didn’t know us, you’d be as surprised as he is, thinking there’s no point in even showing up. That we may as well hand P.U. the game and follow that caravan right out of Hatley. P.U., with their fancy new uniforms and big-league tradition—those are the kind of folks who win state championships, not mongrel runts like us who play in hand-me-downs. But it’s a funny thing about our town. We’re used to getting cut up. And the one thing we know how to do is fight. And if I don’t fight on that field this afternoon and win, we’ll be forgotten. The memory of Hatley gone for
good, too, with Coach and Maw and Bobby along with it. And that’s not how it’s going to be.

* * *

Their uniforms are white. There’s barely a speck of red, except for the
PU
stuck square in the middle behind the angry face of a crazed coyote staring down on us as we line up on defense. Their star sprinter can clock 9.7 seconds for 100 yards. I read that in the paper, too.

He’s big. They all are. Must outweigh us by fifty pounds apiece. They blow through our line on the first two plays like they could annihilate the U of A right now and win the Salad Bowl.

Don’t buckle
, I keep thinking.
Got to settle down. Stop them on the next play
.

I dig my shoulder into my opponent’s and push hard, hearing Tony and Alonzo doing the same, but the Phoenix bench explodes into cheering. Their fullback has burst through the line and scored, with Rudy caught standing flat-footed.

The Phoenix coach looks smug on the sidelines, with his arms folded like it’s a rout. Somebody hands him a bag of peanuts when his kicker makes the conversion, and he starts laughing.

The game’s only two minutes old, and already it’s 7–0.

“I don’t like this,” Cruz says, glaring at Rudy. “We can’t let them get another or we’ll be in too deep.”

Then Diaz bobbles the kickoff and barely gets started before they tackle him deep in our end of the field.

“Muckers! Muckers!”
our side calls out. They’re kneeling on the hoods of their trucks and standing on the benches. Faye Miller and Samuel jump up and down in the front row, cheering like they don’t know the score.

First play and I hand off to Quesada, who makes it to the line of scrimmage but no farther. On second down, we don’t get anywhere either.

“We have to pass!” Cruz spits out the words at me in the huddle. “Stop calling runs; we’re getting nowhere.”

“Okay,” I say. “Then get open.”

The rush is quick and they’re barreling toward me from both sides. I spot Cruz racing up the field, but he gets cut off and Torres hasn’t made it through. That leaves Rudy on the wing. No choice but to get it to him or run. I throw it long and it should be an easy catch. All I can see before I get knocked to the slag is Rudy sidestepping to avoid getting pummeled. “Bye-bye, Hatley,” the lineman says as he climbs off me. “You and your rocky field.”

I ignore the jab and look up, hoping Rudy made the catch, but it looks like it slipped through his fingers. Now we’re forced to punt. Quesada drops into our end zone and gets off a good one, with P.U. setting up near midfield.

Their offensive eleven are fresh, not winded like we are; they rested the whole time we had possession. We go after them as hard as we can, but they keep hammering out big gains, not even bothering to pass. I get in on a couple of tackles and just end up slicing my shins. I glance over at our bench but it’s empty except for Tommy, the water boy. And Melvin. There isn’t a sub who can help us, and we’ll have to keep playing the whole game.

Finally, on third and four from our twelve-yard line, we catch a break. The quarterback rolls out and Casillas chases him, but he gets off a line-drive pass before Tony brings him down. Cruz leaps in front of the pass and intercepts it. He’s got an open field ahead of him as he races along the sideline.

I start sprinting, too, closing in on the only man who has
a shot at catching Cruz. I reach him at midfield and crash into him, blocking him out-of-bounds and setting Cruz free.

The Muckers fans start honking their horns and hollering. Mr. Mackenzie grips Tuffy’s shoulders as Cruz jumps up and smacks the goalpost.

“Are we in it? Oh, yeah!”
Beebe yells.
“Are we gonna win it? Hell, yeah!”
She bounds onto the field, tossing her black-and-orange pom-poms in the air, yelling the cheer right in front of our faces, and I’m pretty sure that’s illegal in the rule book. Francisco trots behind her on Paradiso, sprinkling the field with his holy water.

“You’re all a bunch of crazy hicks,” the Phoenix quarterback shouts. Cruz hoists Beebe up in the air and plants a kiss on her lips before she runs off the field. The refs hustle Francisco away.

“Damn wetback,” the guy I knocked down says, eyeing Cruz. “How can you play with the likes of them?”

We’ve got them
. I smile. Haven’t smiled in a while.
They’re intimidated. Scared, even. And on our field
.

Quesada misses the extra-point attempt, but maybe it won’t matter.

We have the momentum now, I can feel it. Things have shifted. The whole team seems to feel it, too.

We stop Phoenix on three straight plays after the kickoff. They’re still taunting us, calling us names. Stuff like greaser lover. That one made Rudy boiling mad and he grumbled that he wasn’t one. Which only fueled the rest of us.

They manage a field goal just before halftime. There’s a stiff wind and it’s a wobbly kick, setting the ball off course, but it trickles over the crossbar for three points. We’re trailing 10–6 at the half, but we all know we can win this game. As long as we get Rudy out of it.

“Keep it up,” Wallinger says, clapping his hands as soon as we get to the sideline. His voice is raspy and breathless, but we’re the ones who’ve been playing hard on both ends. “You’re giving it your all,” he tacks on. Then he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Except Rudy,” Cruz snaps, shaking his head. It’s dripping with sweat and he’s breathing heavy—we all are—too winded to take the water Tommy’s offering us.

Tony walks over and faces Rudy. “I’ve had enough of you not trying.” Tony puffs the words out at him, then jabs his fist into Rudy’s chest. “And you can’t touch me or my father,” he says. “We’re in lumber, not mining.”

And I know what I have to do in order to win this game. “Take Rudy out,” I tell Wallinger. “He hasn’t got any fight.”

“Rudy’s no Mucker,” Cruz echoes, folding his arms. “He’s a frickin’ Judas.”

“You can’t win without me.” Rudy smirks. “I’m all you got.”

“No you’re not.” It’s Melvin’s voice, high and squeaky like Rabbit’s was when we were kids. He pokes his head in between Tony and Cruz and looks up at me all innocent, just like that lamb.

Rudy laughs.

“He’s fresh, not winded like us, that’s for sure,” Lupe admits. He looks at Rudy. “If Rudy’s in, then count me out.”

Alonzo rests his elbows on top of Melvin’s head. “He may be the size of half a man, but that’s more than what Rudy’s got on the field,” he says. “I don’t know where I’m gonna be next year, but I’m not sharing the field with Rudy anymore.”

Wallinger keeps looking at Rudy, then back at Melvin. “You better get out there,” he finally says.

Tommy hands Melvin a helmet.

“You’re all loco,” Rudy shouts, heading for the bench. “I’ll have the best seat in the house when you choke.”

Melvin smiles and runs for the field.

“Wait!” Cruz takes the nose guard off his helmet. He straps it onto Melvin’s.

“Am I gonna die?” Melvin asks.

“We’re all gonna die someday,” Cruz says, “but not before we win.”

“Remember—keep your eyes open,” I tell Melvin as we line up. “Focus on the player with the ball. That’s all you’ve gotta do. And don’t let him get past you. You’re just as tough as they are.”

They call an easy fake and their star sprinter takes off like a rocket. Melvin jumps in the air, arms flailing, trying to stop him and getting mowed down like the rest of us.

“Nice try,” I say to him. “Didn’t know you could jump that high.”

“Fight, Coyotes, fight!”
the Phoenix majorettes yell, kicking up their calfskin boots to the beat of a dozen drummers.
“Break right through that line!”

But we finally stop them.

“I can beat who’s covering me every time,” Cruz says as soon as we get possession. “We need to pass more.”

“Whenever I drop back I get sacked or stomped on,” I tell him. “Tony, Alonzo, you’ve got to hold them another second or two so I can throw a long pass.”

I haven’t connected with anything but a few short passes, so maybe we can catch them off guard.

I take the snap and hear the linemen stagger, the defenders groaning as they collide, then the butting of helmets as I drop straight back and search for Cruz. I catch a glimpse of his orange-and-black jersey a half step ahead of the defender.
He’s pivoting left but I know Cruz. He’s heading the other way and I send the ball there, watching it sail before I’m hit hard, landing face-first in the slag. I roll, scrambling to my knees, and hear the bleachers roar.
Our bleachers
. Cruz has the ball and he’s past midfield. No way he’ll get caught.

I should save my strength, but I can’t help it. I race all the way up the field and grab Cruz after the touchdown, rubbing the top of his helmet.

“Told ya I’d get open. Think their Anglos know what that means?” he says, pointing to the scoreboard. “It’s how we spell ‘touchdown’ in Hatley.”

This time Quesada’s extra-point kick is good and we take the lead. First time in the game. We’re up 13–10.

I look across at the red-faced Phoenix coach. I guess that’s what the paper means by hopping mad. He’s got his defensive players huddled up around him on the sideline, chewing them out for getting burned like that.

They keep grinding out gains on every play. Nothing fancy. No passing. They take their time doing it, too, intent on eating up the clock and leaving us spent. It’s grueling. I focus on that coyote, grunting my displeasure at him. But he shows us his teeth for eighteen plays, those ears pinned back like he might be rabid and could tear a decent chunk out of us. He does. They score, and Phoenix regains the lead, 17–13.