Raiders Night (9 page)

School seemed different, the halls higher, wider, an echo chamber of jumbled sound. Usually he felt big in the halls, enjoying the way kids smiled up at him or looked away. Depending on his mood, he'd let his shoulders clear the way, bumping punks and jerk-offs and other jocks, or he'd twist and turn like a broken-field runner to avoid contact with smaller guys and girls. He liked playing humble hero. It made him feel even bigger, more in control.

He never bullied kids in school, like Ramp and his pals did. Once he even stopped a trash canning in the cafeteria, some football players having fun with a violin nerd. Got a lot of props from nonjocks for that. They never knew he did it because he thought it would be bad for the team. He had always felt he could do anything he wanted in the hall, but now suddenly he felt smaller, more prey
than hunter. Even the desks seemed bigger. Usually he had to angle himself into a tight fit. Today he had room, even for his long legs.

Modern American lit, French, biology, global economics rolled past. He heard nothing. In the fall semester, nobody called on football players unless they raised their hands. Pay the price in the spring.

He spotted Sarah before she saw him, in the cafeteria. He made sure he was looking the other way when she called, “Matt!” She was standing with the tall fat kid who sang in Select Chorus with her. Matt had been in a few classes with him, smart kid, nice enough, but fruity, not someone you talked to when other players were around.

Matt let the crowd take him around the corner and outside. He'd grab something at a food stand or skip lunch. What was there to say to her? What could she want to talk to him about?

He pulled his cap down, didn't look around much, got through the day. At practice, Pete said, “Trainer said Chris had a doctor's excuse for today, a doctor in the city.”

Practice was lifeless. The coaches were screaming. Ramp was running around pulling face masks and banging shoulder pads. But they couldn't start the engine. Coach Mac blew the whistle early and signaled Matt to follow him into his office. The froggy reporter was standing outside the door.

“I'm busy right now,” Coach Mac told him. He closed
the door and sagged into his desk chair. He pointed Matt to the couch. “That kid's a pest. Always looking for dirt. Must be practicing for the media. How the ribs feel?”

“Fine.”

“You're tough. Wish they were all as steady as you, Matt. So. We got a problem.” On the pause, Matt held his breath. “On offense.” Coach's eyes widened at Matt's exhalation. Not too cool. What does he know? “We can't let them double-team you. Tyrell's not enough. This Marin kid could make the difference, but I hate to say it, he needs a heart transplant. I don't think he's as sick as he says, and if he misses any more games and practices, it'll be too late. Got to stiffen him up. Can I count on you?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him. You're the captain.”

“Why me?” Did Coach know about Chris and Ramp?

“I think he'll listen to you. Calm him down. He needs to know how important this season is to the school, the town, how he can be part of a championship. How he has to put the team ahead of himself. I think his mother's part of the problem. No dad around, she's babying him. He's got to learn that a man does what it takes, that to get to the future you've got to get past the past. You understand what I'm saying?”

“I'll talk to him at practice tomorrow.”

“No practice tomorrow for you. Mr. Koslo is sending a car to pick you and Chris up after eighth period.”

“Skip practice?”

“You'll be his guests at Yankee Stadium.”

“A Yankee game?” Matt felt confused.

Coach Mac rolled his eyes. “You think I'd let you skip practice for a rap concert?”

“Why?”

“Give you and Mr. Koslo a chance to make Chris feel more comfortable here, get past any issues.” Coach stood up. “Need a permission slip from your parents. By the way, the Penn State scout told me he was impressed how you stopped that big horse.”

“Thought he didn't show.”

“Who told you that?” The phone rang. Coach picked it up and said, “Right with you,” and put a hand over the mouthpiece. “See the trainer before you go. Maybe she should wrap your ribs.”

Coach knows something, thought Matt. Doesn't want me to know how much. Maybe we can get past all this.

The reporter was still at the door when Matt came out of Coach Mac's office. He handed Matt a business card. Cool. A high school kid with a business card. “I'd like to interview you. Is there dissension on the team?”

“Gotta go now.” He kept moving.

“Something happen at camp? We could do this by e-mail.”

He waited until he turned the corner before he trash canned the card.

Something happen at camp? Word's out. But how much? Enough for the big booster to take us to a Yankee game.

The parking lot was nearly empty by the time he was done and dressed. The trainers had held a conference over his ribs, surprised at how the bruises had faded. He said he'd put something on it but didn't go into details. They told him to rub on some more and gave him some tape and gauze pads to cover it. He was thinking he'd never see any more of that magic stuff when he spotted Sarah's car parked next to his. She was standing at his door. No escape.

“Hi.” Like nothing happened. Well, nothing happened.

“Hi.”

“You forgot this.” She handed him a plastic bottle of the cream. “It really works, doesn't it?”

“Trainers thought so.”

“Your side feels better?”

“Yeah.”

“So, uh, there's going to be a concert next week at the county center, and the Select Chorus is performing. Can I save you a ticket?”

“I don't know. Extra practices.”

“Well, I sent you an e-mail yesterday, so if you—”

“Didn't see it. I deleted everything.”

“You've been getting them, too?” When he nodded,
she said, “It's a campaign. Amanda and the coven. Pretty gross.”

“Yeah. I better get going.” Some part of him wanted to stay with her, let her rub more cream on his ribs. He couldn't look her in the eye. She knew too much about him.

“Me, too. Gotta buy some touch-up for my car.”

“What happened?”

“Come look.”

The gouges on the driver's door of the Jetta were deep. Someone had carved an 80.

“Sorry.” Why did I say that? he thought. I didn't do it.

“If you don't mind,” she said, “I might just leave it.”

“Why would you leave it?”

She laughed as she opened her door. “Tell you next time.”

Chris said, “Thought they'd send at least a stretch Hummer for you, Matt.”

The driver was holding open the door of a black limousine. Kids pouring out of school slowed to watch them climb in. Matt sank into the leather seat and relaxed. He'd been uptight for twenty-four hours wondering how he was going to deal with the kid, and suddenly it looked okay. Chris seemed friendly enough; even some of his old cocky self was back. Once they started toward the city, he began opening the limo's cabinets, shelves with neatly stacked magazines and newspapers, CDs and videocassettes, a minibar with candy, nuts, soda, beer, and little bottles of wine and hard booze.

“Mr. Koslo says help yourself.” The driver's voice came over the intercom from the other side of the glass partition. “But no alcohol.”

“He knows me,” said Matt. That got a grin out of Chris. Matt pulled out a bottled water. Chris took a can of soda. “Yankee fan?”

“Mets,” said Chris. “When we lived in the city, my dad took me to Shea all the time. He knew Mike Piazza. I wore his jersey. Got an autographed bat.”

The kid was talking too fast and didn't make eye contact. He looked out the window. The limo turned onto the Palisades Parkway. The Hudson River glistened below them. It always surprised Matt how close New York was to Nearmont. The city had always scared him a little, even when he went in on a Friday night with the Back Pack to cruise downtown for girls. You could be free in the city, get lost in the city.

“So, who's this dude?” Chris waved his soda can around the limo.

“Mr. Koslo? You know the garden apartments in Ridgedale? The Knickerbocker Mall? He owns them. He played on the team back in like the seventies.” He knew more but that was enough. Rydek Catering had worked some of Koslo Real Estate's parties, and Dad had steamed over being treated like help by a guy who was third string when he was a starter. “Mr. Koslo's good for summer jobs.”

“If I'm still around.” Now the kid was staring at the river, but Matt could tell he wanted to talk. Do I? About what? That night? Right. But Coach gave me a job to do.

“You'll be around. Coach likes you.” He waited for Chris to turn his head. “But you got to show up at practice. You got to get past the past.”

“What?”

“To get to the future you got to get past the past.”

“Whatever you say.” He went back to the river. His voice was dull. “My mom doesn't like the area. We might go back to the city. Or out west.”

“That cool with you?”

“She's been having a hard time since my dad died.”

“Sorry about that.” He kept his voice neutral. If Chris wanted to lie about his dad, that was his business.

“Iraq.” He was suddenly glaring at Matt, as if daring him to challenge him.

“That was his Army duffel bag.” Matt's stomach tightened. Have I gone too far? He brought that duffel to camp. Matt could see Yankee Stadium up ahead.

“Yeah.” Chris nodded. The glare softened. Then he looked away. “Coach really likes me?”

“They were designing a new offense around you. Never did that for me.”

“Don't know if I can play yet. Still weak. Stomach is all fucked up.”

“Virus, right?”

“Saw a doctor in the city. Gave me some pills to help me chill. You ever do that?”

Matt laughed. “Ups, downs, whatever.” He decided to
risk a minefield walk. “You ever take anything to, like, build muscle?”

“Steroids? Some of the guys at Central were juicing. I was going to check it out this year, but…” He shrugged. “You?”

Matt nodded. “Something we could talk about if you decide to commit yourself to the program.” He felt like a salesman. A little sleazy, but it was his assignment. “Need you, man. Could be a helluva season. Have some fun. It's a great school for ballplayers. Town really supports the team. Girls.”

“You do pretty good in that department.” Chris grinned. “That cheerleader is some fox. Best-looking girl in school, I think. I saw her at your locker today.”

Mandy still had his combination. Forgot to change it. What was in there? Mostly books. Most of his stuff was in his football locker in the field house. Thinking about having to deal with Chris had cleared out his mind for anything else. Hadn't checked e-mail last night.

“What was she was doing?”

“She had her posse around her.”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

“Uh-oh. Maybe she planted a bomb in there.”

“Could be.” He felt like talking. He thought of Sarah. Proud to wear No. 80 on her car door. “She was pissed I hooked up with somebody else while she was gone.”

“Use 'em and lose 'em, I say.”

The limo was pulling up to the stadium's VIP entrance. “You meet anybody you like yet?”

“Still looking around.”

“Make the starting team and they'll be looking for you.”

The driver gave them tickets, and ushers escorted them to box seats right behind the visitors' dugout. They could see the Yankee bench across the field. Players were kidding around, scratching themselves, finding their bats, and running out to hit. Pitchers were casually shagging flies in the outfield and talking to each other. A coach was slapping grounders at the infielders. The loudspeakers blared, and an elevated subway train rumbled just outside the ballpark.

Matt felt himself slipping sweetly into his old baseball dreams, imagining himself running across the green outfield where Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Reggie Jackson once ran. He'd seen them all on ESPN Classic. Seen himself.

“Used to play baseball,” he said. “Outfield.”

“Me, too.” Chris high-fived him. “Loved the game. Coach gave me a hard time, always on my case. Tried to change my swing.”

“At Bergen Central?” When the kid nodded, he asked, “That why you left?”

“Good a reason as any,” Chris snapped. He softened his voice. “So you really think we have a shot this season?”

“If we can get tight as a team,” said Matt.

“Get past the past.” It sounded sarcastic.

Ignore the attitude. “Yeah. Those guys pay the price, too.” They watched Jeter and A-Rod scamper in and out of the batting cage, lining ropes into the outfield. I'd like to be doing that, Matt thought. Had he made the wrong choice? About what? Was he really making the choices?

“Don't get any ideas now—you're football players.” Coach Dorman slipped into a seat behind them. “You get the limo and I get the bus and subway. That's the way it goes. C'mon—Mr. Koslo wants to say hello. He's not staying for the game.”

The skybox was bigger than Sarah's living room. It was filling up with men and women dressed for the office, everybody just a little sweaty and tired. He'd been to enough Rydek Catering gigs to spot a business party. Mr. Koslo moved around, shaking hands, making sure everybody had drinks. Are we business, too? At buffet tables, servers were placing slices of roast beef and turkey, scoops of pasta and salad, on white china plates. Pretty fancy, but the view of the field was so high and angled, you might as well watch one of the four TVs.

“Matt! Lookin' good.” Mr. Koslo clapped his shoulder. “And this must be Chris.” He steered them to the buffet table. “You boys get yourselves something to eat. I've got to say hello to a few people—then we can talk.”

Chris snatched a glass of wine off a passing tray and poured it into a water glass. Smooth move. He grinned
when he saw Matt watching him. Matt thought of doing it, too, but didn't want to look like a copycat. He popped a Vicodin and filled his plate. He found an empty seat in the front row of the skybox looking down on the field. The grounds crew was raking the infield.

“I could get used to this.” Dorman sat down with a loaded plate. He lowered his voice. “How's the kid doing?”

“Says he's okay.” He followed Dorman's line of sight across the room. Chris was listening to Mr. Koslo, who was steering him out of the skybox. Where were they going?

“Needy boy, has issues,” said Dorman. “We have to reach out, make him feel secure.”

“What kind of issues?” Matt was surprised to hear himself. He usually avoided getting into this kind of stuff.

“I shouldn't be telling you this, but since his father went away, his mother's been in real bad shape.” They stood for the national anthem. Matt had to lean close to hear Dorman. Went away? Did that mean he wasn't dead? Didn't Ramp say something about being in prison? “She's dumping her fears and anger on Chris. She's trying to convince him that something bad happened to him in training camp.

“She wants to stick it to the world right now, and Nearmont High's the easiest target. Poor Chris is torn between loyalty to his mom and loyalty to the team. He
feels pulled in both directions. We've got to let him know he's part of the team and we're behind him.”

Behind him. The words triggered an image that almost made Matt gag.

Mr. Koslo and Chris came back into the skybox and walked over to Matt. Dorman slipped away as they sat down.

“You know,” said Mr. Koslo, waving his wineglass around the skybox, “I'd trade all this in a New York minute to be back in a uni with you guys. Best time in my life.” He laughed. “Didn't know it then, of course, who does? Wanted to get out of high school into real life. But high school is as real as it gets. I wouldn't have all this if I hadn't learned to take it and dish it out when I was a Raider. They still do swirlies?”

“Not in a while,” said Matt.

“Swirlies?” said Chris.

“On Raider Pride Night they used to push your face in a toilet bowl,” said Mr. Koslo, laughing himself into a coughing fit. “If they thought you needed it, there'd be more than water in the bowl, get my drift.” He winked.

Mr. Koslo put his hand on Chris's shoulder. Matt thought of Romo being petted. “First year's tough—gotta prove yourself, especially to yourself. But then you find out who you are, and they can never take that away from you.” He pushed himself up on Chris's shoulder. “My knees never got over those years. Gotta go downtown.
Stay as long as you like, fellas, enjoy. Coach Dorman'll get the driver when you're ready to go.” He gave them each a business card. “Call me anytime. Next summer maybe we can find some honest work for you guys.”

Chris rolled his eyes as Mr. Koslo walked away. “Is he for real?”

Matt wasn't sure, but he nodded.

It was Dorman's suggestion that they go back downstairs to watch the game. Maybe snag a foul. Chris swiped another wine on the way out of the skybox.

Matt got his head into the game, a pitchers' battle for a few innings. The Indians loaded the bases, but A-Rod ended their rally with a diving catch in foul territory, headfirst into the visitors' dugout in front of them. Dorman got all excited. “That's what it's all about—you can't think about getting hurt, you got to be ready to sacrifice to win.”

“But what if he busted his head open?” said Chris. “Broke a shoulder for a lousy foul pop.”

Dorman laughed. “I know you're yanking my chain. No football player thinks like that.”

The Indians never recovered, and the Yanks were 8–1 when Dorman reminded them it was a school night. He called the driver on his cell.

Dorman did most of the talking on the way home. “Defense is where it's at these days, all sports, all levels. Pitching is defense. In football, you can score on defense,
which makes defense the new offense. Understand? I see Matt an all-pro cornerback, scoring touchdowns on interceptions. Chris, middle linebacker could be your NFL ticket, you score after you strip the ball.”

Chris nodded mechanically. Matt turned on the mute until the driver pulled into the park-and-ride off the highway where Dorman had left his car. As soon as the coach was out of the limo, Chris opened the minibar and grabbed three little bottles. He flipped one to Matt.

“You buy that defense shit?” Chris cracked a bottle open and sucked it right down.

“Whatever it takes.” Matt was tired.

“What does that mean?” He cracked the second bottle.

Matt wondered if he was supposed to stop him from drinking it. “Look, Chris, you got to get past the past, pay the price. You want to play?”

“You don't understand.”

Should I say I do, that I know about your crazy mother, that you've got to make a choice if you don't want to wreck the team? Suck it up. We all do.

“We all have problems.”

“What's yours?” said Chris. It sounded more like a question than a challenge.

“Got all night?”

That seemed to satisfy him. “You trust Koslo?”

“What'd he want?”

Chris's face was twisted. “I can't tell you.”

The limo pulled up in front of a small house on a quiet old street. Chris drained the second bottle and dropped it on the floor. He got out without saying good night.

Matt drank his little bottle.