Jasper Dash and the Flame-Pits of Delaware (4 page)

But I'm sure you're not interested in that.

You're interested in the big match.

Ah, the sports novel. There is nothing I love so much as a good sports novel. Never mind that my own memory of sports is limited to rope burn and dodgeball bruises. Never mind that the height of my own athletic “participation” in middle school was having my shorts pulled down in front of the girls while being forced to leap around and sing 1983's hit “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

I guess, at this point, I should give you some statistics. Isn't that how it goes in sports novels? You know, I tell you that some make-believe “Ricky” ran a 4.8-minute mile or that some imaginary junior quarterback named Chuck
or Vat or Del Rosco completed 61.4 percent of his passes with five touchdowns and only two interceptions, and suddenly, like magic, you're all whipped up in the thrill of the game—you can almost
taste
the orange slices, the sweat, the blood, and the refreshing tang of Lime-Chili Blast Glacier-Ade.

So here we go. The “stats” for the Pelt Varsity Stare-Eyes team were as follows:

Wow. I have absolutely no idea what those numbers mean, but I feel like I just ran a morning of wind sprints.

Coach Meyers, the town eye doctor, posted these stats on the locker-room wall in front of the team, except that on his copy, the letters got smaller and smaller toward the bottom of the chart.

“Can you read the line at the bottom of the chart, Frank?” Coach Meyers barked. “Can you read it?”

“
M
…
I
…
N
…”

“It's
your name
, Frank! Your name is at the bottom of the list. You know who stays at the bottom? Catfish, Frank. Catfish stay at the bottom. They eat muck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I want to see some hustle out there. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Coach Meyers turned and slapped up another list. It stuck to the blackboard. It was the team from Delaware. “The Delaware team,” he said. “Easy to beat? No.
Non. Nein
.
Nyet
, my friends. They are multiple-time state champions. They are fierce and hectic as tigers. Let's go over a few strategic points.” With his pointer, he rapped on the list of stats.

Jasper sat, dressed now in his regular uniform, preparing mentally for the big game. He
wished he were wearing his hydraulic, cushionized Stare-Eyes suit. He was astonished his team members hadn't thought it was as top-gun as he had. Still, despite their chaffing, he was determined to play his best game, to work with his fellow players, to stare, to win. He listened intently to Coach Meyers talk about each of the Delaware team's players.

“All of you will get to stare twice this match. Once in each half. You'll all have two chances—unless you all lose your first round, all eight of you, in which case there won't even be a second round.” The coach knocked the board next to a name. “Delaware's Number Four, Garret Squarmus. Lester Imai, you'll be facing him in the first round. Keep cool. He does a thing with his eyebrows that makes everyone crack up. When he does it, Imai, I don't want to see you so much as purse your lips.”

“Is it really funny, sir?” asked Lester. “Or is it just cheap humor?”

“Imai,
is this a laughing matter? Can you
just tell me: Do I bust my butt with you ladies every day of the week because this is a laughing matter?
”

Lester quivered and shrank. “No, sir.”

“That's right, Lester.
THERE IS NO HUMOR IN THIS GAME BUT THE VITREOUS HUMOR. Got it?
”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now: George Wurst, Delaware's Number Two. Brinsley, you're going up against him first round. I checked his medical records: wears contacts. Use that against him.” Coach Meyers tapped another name. “Jaggy Funkstein. Number Seven. Astigmatism in his left eye, and the right one can wander. Be on your guard. Don't get led astray. Are you listening, girls, or are you too busy combing your dolls' hair? Huh? Are you too busy wearing dresses and having tea parties with your pandas for a little
life-and-death thing we call Stare-Eyes
?”

There was an embarrassed silence. The concrete walls of the locker room boomed with the coach's voice. A faucet dripped in the bathroom.

Jasper wished the coach wouldn't be so harsh with the team; it was making his heart sink. He did not like one bit all the jokes about girls because girls were just not like that, and it felt like Coach Meyers was making fun of Lily and Katie and his mother and every other woman he knew. Jasper believed in winning but even more in sportsmanship. He believed that people would do their best if you just pointed out to them that they were on the side of right and goodness. He imagined sports of the future, which would be played out beneath the oceans of the world by people in finned helmets who would act as chivalrous as knights of yore.

Jasper could tell that Coach Meyers was only being mean to the team because he was scared. The Delaware team had them all frightened. The Delaware team's intimidation tactics just made Jasper more determined to win fairly, squarely, and overwhelmingly. He wanted to see Choate Brinsley and Lester Imai and all the rest of them triumph.

But the Pelt team all sat, sagging, on their benches.

Choate raised his hand, and Coach Meyers called on him. “I just met these guys,” said Choate. “Just now. We're dead.”

Coach Meyers swore and kicked the trash can. “Brinsley! I don't want to hear that! I kicked the trash can just now, but I was picturing you! Because right now you're sitting on us like we're a sleep-sofa! And you're eating nachos! Making yourself even heavier! Do you get it, Brinsley? You are sitting on our heads with your negativity! Do you get that solitary thought through your pretty little head?”

The team captain nodded in shame, but when the coach turned around to strike the blackboard again, Choate mouthed to his teammates,
“We're dead.”

“Okay. Number Three. Keep an eye out for—” The coach stopped. He had glanced at his watch. “There's no time, boys. No time to go on. We got to get out there.” He turned to his players. “You're gonna do a great job. Right now. There is nothing between you and victory but your own fears. And airborne grit.
So I want you to head out there and kick some butt. Okay?”

There was no answering yell of “Okay” like usual. No one shouted, “Yes, sir!” and threw their eye-spritzer up into the air. They all just sat in a line on the bench, slumped left or right, their knees and shins near the floor.

But it was time.

One by one, they got up and filed out into the gym for the match of their lives.

Now is when the sports novel really picks up: the description of the match. This is the exciting part where I get to tell you every little detail of what happens on the court. Sit back and relax, my friends, because when we're talking about Stare-Eyes, you're in for a wild ride.

Lily leaned forward as the teams filed out onto the gym floor. There was whooping and catcalls.

Lily noticed, though, that the Pelt players already looked whipped and uneasy. They stared at the ground, and their mouths were grim. Most people in the stands didn't seem to notice. The cheerleaders made a pyramid and then, one by one, threw themselves off the top.
They hopped up and down and shouted slogans like, “That fist you felt? The punch of Pelt!” But the team didn't match their excitement.

Lily caught Jasper's eye. For a brief second, he smiled to see her sitting there watching—and then his look of utter seriousness returned.

The teams lined up on their benches. The Delaware team did not look worried or excited. Their eyes were vacant.

Oscar Lopez was the first man up, matched against Delaware's #8. The two walked out onto the mats. They sat in plastic chairs facing each other. The crowd was going wild. The ref strolled between the two and measured the distance between their foreheads with a regulation pole. Oscar closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

The ref retracted the pole, stepped back, and blew his whistle.

Like a shot, nothing happened.

The two stared intensely at each other. Delaware's #8 had slack cheeks. He breathed wetly. He did not move his hands.

Lopez licked his lips. He settled more firmly into the chair.

It wasn't long before people saw him twitching. He was trying not to blink. Something had caught in his eye. His mother screamed encouragement. She offered him pies. Lily crossed her fingers—she liked Oscar—he was in her earth science class.

But it was not his best round. His head jerked, and his eyes clenched closed, and Pelt had lost their first round to Delaware.

The next round didn't go any better. Lester Imai had a good start but ran into some trouble after forty seconds or so, due to Delaware #4's comic eyebrows—unusually bushy, ironic, and seductively friendly.

First, the left eyebrow quirked to the side—a sweet little sarcastic twitch as if to say,
“We're both friends here. It's just a game.”

Lester was prepared. Hard-faced. He didn't budge.

But then #4 began to draw his brows together. They touched, kissed, nestled like woolly worms.
It was so stupid, Lester couldn't resist laughing. And so he lost.

Round after round went this way. #7 startled Ted Lee with a grimace. Something in #5's nose made a comic, high-pitched whining noise every time he breathed, and it sent Zeb Barker into hysterical laughter. He lay clutching his gut on the mat as the crowd looked on with horror.

It was a rout.

Pelt was getting creamed by the jerkiest Stare-Eyes team in America.

Meanwhile, Katie stood outside in the bright sunlight. It was a little cold without her jacket. She sat down beside the steps, leaning her back against the concrete. Little brown birds gathered on the steps and fought over crumbs.

The door to the gym slammed open and shouting ricocheted out into the parking lot. Katie looked to see who was coming.

The Delaware Team Mom was smoking a cigarette and walking across the grass with a man in a brown blazer and a green necktie. They paused; Team Mom was emphasizing things with her cigarette. She said, “I'm a winner, Mr. Lecroix. I go for the gold. People bite gold to see if it's real. They bite it with their teeth. You savvy, Mr. L.?”

He nodded nervously.

“Smile more. Be a winner. Just this once.” She blew smoke off to the side. “You don't know what Team Delaware risked to get these artifacts to you,” she said. “Worth a pretty penny, I can tell you.”

“I have the money.”

“You better.”

“I'll,” he said nervously, “need, you know, to inspect them.”

“You got it.”

“I have my loupe.”

“I'll bet you do, Mr. Lecroix. Step into my office.” She gestured toward the van, spat nicotine on the grass, and said, “Huh. I spend so much time flexing my hands, they're like mittens of muscle. FYI.”