The Farewell Season (3 page)

Just to make sure she didn't get too swell-headed about it, I leaned over and let out a super-sized burp in her right ear.

"Oh, gross!" Kirstin shot me a look of utter disgust.

I grinned and ran upstairs to grab my gym bag. I had to hurry if I was going to make it to practice on time. I dashed back downstairs and started out the door.

"Where are you going?" Kirstin asked, her bright blue eyes opening wide.

"Duh, where do you think?" I held up my gym bag.

"But it's early. Where's … that is, aren't you getting a ride?" Kirstin peeked out the window toward the driveway.

"Your concern is touching," I said. "But I can walk. I've been doing it since I was ten months old."

"Oh. Well. Will you be coming home for lunch?"

"I don't know. I guess so. Unless I grab something at the Sub Shop with Rolf."

"Well, I'd like to
know
. 'Cause I … I could fix you something here. Maybe some … some meatcakes."

"Hmm …." I practically slobbered just thinking about the small patties of ground beef, grated potato, and onion. There were some advantages to having a sister who loved having an excuse to cook. "Okay, you talked me into it."

"Ummm …." Kirstin chewed her lip. "Rolf will be with you, right? So, um, how many do you think I should make?

"Tons! Rolf will work extra hard at practice just to build up an appetite once he hears the word 'meatcakes.'"

"Good." Kirstin smiled. "I'll make plenty."

I glanced at the clock. "Gotta run."

"See you later," Kirstin said. She looked way too cheerful about the prospect of frying up a batch of meatcakes.

***

It was not that far to the school, but after a quarter of a mile under the bright sun I was broiling. Instead of brisk morning air, a hot, muggy vapor wrapped around me. It seemed to rise right off the grass-seed field next to the road. The town cemetery was just down the dirt road that cut through the middle of the field.

I never went there. I'd thought I was a man, so strong and macho, but I never felt weaker than when I saw Dad's casket lowered into the ground. I couldn't stand the idea of him being in the cemetery.

Suddenly there was a honk. A blue pickup truck pulled up next to me. It was Rolf. "Hey, Eric." Rolf leaned over and stuck his head out the passenger window. His thick crop of wheat-colored hair fell across his forehead. "You sure you don't want a ride?"

"Man, I could use it." It took me two seconds to hop into the truck.

"First day of practice, and … surprise! … it's gonna be a scorcher." Rolf grinned, plumping his cheeks into two big red apples.

"Yeah, wouldn't you know it?"

Rolf babbled all the way to school. Some guys got annoyed at his almost constant talking, but I found it relaxing. He was an easy guy to hang with. And he paid attention when someone else spoke. That's probably one reason he was voted one of the team captains this year. That, and his positive attitude.

As I listened to Rolf ramble on, I looked out the window. I swallowed hard as we passed Nielsen and Lindquist, Insurance. It was still tough not to think of Dad in there at his old mahogany roll-top desk.

When Rolf stopped talking for a second, I suddenly remembered, "Oh, Kirstin wants us to come home for lunch. She's going to make meatcakes. How 'bout it?"

"You bet." Rolf pounded the steering wheel with enthusiasm. He couldn't resist the lure of meatcakes.

When the tires of the pickup crunched the gravel as we pulled into the school parking lot, I actually started to get some of those new-season feelings. Anxiety. Nausea. I even felt kind of excited.

As we got out of the pickup and headed for the front door, I heard the familiar, if ragged, strains of the Crystal Lake High School fight song. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the band marching over on the soccer field. I quickly looked the other way. Hedy Theodore was one of the clarinetists. I didn't want her thinking I was looking at her.

"Not bad for the first day," Rolf said.

"What?"

"The band. It sounds okay for the first day of pre-season practice."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess."

As we headed for the classroom where we'd have our team meeting, other guys started arriving. Larry Johnson sent up clouds of dust as he roared in on his motorcycle. Lars Sundstrom jogged up the front walk. Inside the school, we ran into Jamar Pickett. He looked as if he'd had a bad night or something.

"Hey, Jamar, how's it going?" Rolf asked.

"Not so good." Jamar pointed to his feet. He was wearing sandals, so we could see that two of his toes on his right foot were taped together. "I fractured my toe last night. It'll be at least four weeks before I can even practice."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Well …." Jamar let the word hang there for a second. "My mom's always bugging me to push the chair in after I eat. I didn't, as usual, and later I was walking around barefoot and whacked my foot into a leg of the chair. Man, it hurt! I knew something was wrong when I saw my middle toe sticking out at a weird angle."

"Tough break." Rolf slapped his forehead. "Sorry, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, thanks," Jamar said. "I just wish that was the worst of it." Before we could ask what he meant, his father called him over and he hobbled off.

"We sure didn't need to lose our top player," Rolf said.

"Yeah …." Rolf, Jamar, and I had all made First Team All State, but Jamar was the best of the three of us. I felt lousy for him, but I felt lousy for myself, too. I didn't need that kind of bad news.

More guys arrived, and we funneled into the classroom. The first thing we saw were Coach Pickett's "Six Commandments for Football" scrawled across the top of the blackboard.

1. Always do your best.

2. Play one game at a time.

3. Play all four quarters.

4. Never let down.

5. Never give up.

6. Play the game first. Talk later.

A low murmur of voices floated around the room along with heavy air from the open windows. The hushed tones were due to the presence of Coach Pickett.

He was a short, solid man built like a fireplug, and he had one of those pushed-in faces, kind of like a bulldog. A tough-looking guy. He taught math, a pretty tough subject. Dad said folks in town weren't quite sure what to expect when Coach Pickett arrived twenty years ago, a black man wearing a sharkskin suit and a ruby earring.

He turned out to be quiet and effective as both teacher and coach. He almost never yelled at anyone. He got people to work through their mistakes. Kids could tell that he really cared about them.

Of course, winning football games made a big impression. If anyone in town still needed to be won over, that did it.

Standing next to Coach Pickett was a tall, broad-shoulder guy fidgeting with a piece of chalk. His limp brown hair fell across his sloping forehead, almost touching his thick, heavy eyebrows. All I could think was, Neanderthal Man.

Where was Coach Short? He coached the defense at Crystal Lake High for as long as I could remember. He was a lot like Coach Pickett, very positive, saying more with one look than a lot of guys did with a ton of yelling and screaming. The kind of guy you'd bust your butt for. I was really looking forward to my last year with him.

"Good morning." When Coach Pickett spoke, the room fell quiet. He gestured toward the caveman. "Gentlemen, I didn't make a public announcement, because I wanted to tell you myself. Coach Short got a last-minute offer from Meridan down in southern Oregon to be their Head Coach. Meet Don Horton, the new history teacher and assistant football coach at Crystal Lake High. "

Omigod. Not a new coach, not for my senior year. A dull, empty ache gnawed at my stomach.

Coach Horton nodded and scanned the room with a scowl. Something about him bugged me. For a second our eyes met in a mutual glare.

Coach Pickett launched into his first-day-of-practice pep talk about doing your best, giving a hundred percent, but still remembering it was a game. It looked as if Coach Horton winced at that last part.

I tried to listen, but my mind wasn't on football as much as it should have been. Besides, I'd heard the talk, or ones like it, before. I looked around the room. Some of the guys, such as Rolf and I, sat at desks. Others leaned against the wall or sprawled on the floor. We were divided as usual, though, defensive guys on the left, offensive guys on the right.

Suddenly, something Coach was saying caught my attention.

"… and I have a special announcement." Coach Pickett paused, then said, "Unfortunately, I've found out I have some health problems. In the near future, I'll need to cut back on my workload. So this will be my last season as coach of the Crystal Lake football team."

Gasps and moans spread across the room. I exchanged glances with Rolf. That must've been the "worst of it" Jamar had mentioned. Rolf whispered, "Thank God we're seniors."

I nodded. It was tough enough having a new assistant coach. I couldn't imagine adjusting to a new head coach after someone like Coach Pickett, especially in my senior year.

Coach waited for the clamor to subside, then went right back to his usual speech. "Right now, we are undefeated …."

He finished his talk, then went to the blackboard and started sketching offensive formations. After that, Coach Horton took over. He sketched a four-three defensive lineup and talked a little about what he expected from each position.

Nothing earth-shatteringly different, which was good. At least I didn't have to learn a whole new system for my senior year. The four-three relies on having a sure tackler at the middle linebacker position, and I'm for-sure a good tackler.

We had a couple minutes to study the board before Horton looked each of us on defense in the eye. "You may think you are good at your position. Maybe you are. Maybe not. Don't treat preseason as a lark. There'll be competition at every position." His eyebrows slanted down. "There will be a lot of pressure. You can't take any plays off. You'll have to work for everything."

Silence.

It wasn't as if all of us didn't know that everything Horton said was true. It was just something about the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes that made it brutal.

After a couple seconds, Coach Pickett indicated it was time to head to the locker room, put on our helmets and shoes, and go outside. As I strapped on the green helmet I remembered looking at myself in the mirror the first time I ever put one on.

I'd complained to Dad that I looked like a wimp with my baby face and my gold-blond hair curling out. I announced that I wanted to shave my head. Dad said that I might regret shaving my head, and, in any case, Mom would have a heart attack if I did. "Besides," he said, "it could work to your advantage."

"Right," I muttered. "How?"

"Your opponents will underestimate you."

After I thought about that, I decided not to shave my head.

***

I finished adjusting the strap to my helmet and hurried to join the guys. Moving as a unit, we thundered onto the field sounding like a herd of buffalo. Ordinarily, my heart would've been pounding with first-day excitement, but so far I didn't feel much of anything. Maybe it was the heat.

We circled the field then lined up for stretches and calisthenics. As the defensive captain, Rolf joined Kyle, the offensive team captain, in leading the exercises. As usual, Rolf was vocal.

"Okay, guys! C'mon. Let's go," he yelled, clapping his hands, which were as big and thick as sirloin steaks. "That's it. Good job. Yeah!"

Most of the guys picked up Rolf's enthusiasm, but a couple rolled their eyes. Derek Davis shook his head and a half-sneer curled across his freckled face. I could see by his expression that he was itching to lob a few vocal volleys at Rolf, but he wouldn't as long as Coach Pickett was standing just off to the side.

By the time we broke into smaller groups for drills, I was drenched with sweat. I headed to the sideline for water. Rolf was right behind me.

As I replaced some of the water I'd sweated off, I saw that up in the covered stands a girl scribbling in a notebook was sitting next to Jamar. With a closer look, I could see it was Glynnie Alden. She was new at Crystal Lake High at the start of last year and had been in some of my classes, so I knew she was real smart.

But she was one of those girls who was determinedly dowdy. For instance, her hair was bluntly chopped off at about chin length. It looked somewhere between light brown and dark blond, as if it couldn't quite decide what color to be. Same with her eyes—they were sort of gray, sort of blue. She wore old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. Plus, she didn't have much of a body, except for long legs that went up practically to her ear lobes.

"Hey." Rolf nudged me. "I think Jamar's getting interviewed."

"Yeah," I said. For the summer, Glynnie had been doing a column, "Youth Scene," for the
Crystal Lake Recorder
, the local, semi-weekly newspaper. I'd read her column a few times. It was pretty good, actually.