The Fast and the Furriest (7 page)

He heard Zach giggling.

“What?”

“Then I’d
own
you, dude. Like an employee. When
I say break time, it’s break time. When I say work, you work.”

Zach un-paused the game.

“Game on,” he said.

Up arrow … “B” button … up arrow …

Kevin’s receiver was chugging toward the end zone.

“Has your dad not found it odd that you’re a total master at virtual football, and uninterested in actual football?”

“He can’t tell one video game from another. They’re all just a version of Mario to Howie Pugh.”

“Good game, Mario.”

Up arrow … “X” button … left arrow … up …

“I think you’ll like working for me, Kev. You’ll find that I’m a firm but generous employer, willing to accept your in—”

Kevin re-paused the game.

“I should take Cromwell for a walk—a brisk walk. A lazy man’s run. Continue the informal training, just in case.”

Zach sighed. “A nice step. But you should register Cromwell at Paw Patch, dude.”

“I can’t quit real football, Zach. No way. My dad would
destroy
me. And you don’t own me yet.”

Kevin removed the headset, set down the controller, and clapped his hands. Cromwell leapt—well, half leapt and half tumbled—from the couch.

Kevin shuffled toward the basement steps. Cromwell bounded up the stairs happily, if crazily.

“Dad would totally destroy me,” Kevin repeated, looking at his dog, but maybe speaking to himself.

O
n Wednesday morning, Kevin accepted a ride to camp from his mom, though he refused to be transported in the heavily decorated Bears SUV. As they entered the circular drive at Scherzer’s front entrance, Kevin said, “Don’t even stop, Mom. Just slow the car down. I’ll roll out.”

“But I want to meet this coach of yours,” his mom protested.

“I do
not
need my mom talking to my football coach.”

“Oh, Kevin, it’s totally normal. I’m an active, concerned parent. I want to …”

“Mom, you’re Mrs. Howie Pugh. I’m the awkward son of Howie Pugh. There’s waaaay too much Pughness already.”

“Havali’l fahmwee pwy, Gev!” said Izzy from the back, through a mouthful of gum.

“I
do
have family pride, Iz!” said an exasperated Kevin. “I’m actually protecting the family name by keeping a low profile at camp.” He turned to face her. “This might shock you, but I didn’t exactly dominate on Monday.”

She popped a bubble, then peeled a thin film of grape gum from her cheek.

“Gividime,” she said.

“I’m
trying
to give it time. That’s why I need Mom to chill.”

“You kids put all this pressure on yourselves,” said Maggie, shaking her head.

Izzy withdrew the wad of gum from her mouth. “I do not put pressure on myself,” she said. “Pressure worries about
me
.”

“Of course, dear,” said Maggie. She stopped the car, but made no move to get out.

“Mom,” said Kevin, “please swear that you won’t introduce yourself to the coaches.” He looked toward the field, where campers had begun to assemble. “You’ll notice there are no other moms.”

“Okay, Kevin. I swear that I won’t be a responsible parent who gets to know the people who instruct her children.” She gave him a serious look. “But just for you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” said Kevin, opening the door. He walked slowly toward the coaches.

“Get ’em, Kev!” shouted Izzy.

Kevin waved.

I’ll be lucky to survive ’em
, he thought.

Kevin walked on, his cleats clicking against the pavement—there was no way he was going to risk going cleatless again. He still held on to a dim hope that perhaps his lack of proper footwear was the reason he’d been so awful on Monday.

But it turned out that no, the footwear was not a major factor.

Today was equally bad.

During the warm-up lap, Kevin was again beaten by the asthmatic. His flag team lost 35–0 and 41–6, and most of the scoring plays seemed designed to expose his immobility, his ignorance, or both. Coach Z began the day enthusiastically, but by noon he was sullen, responding to campers only with grunts.

Friday was no picnic, either. Kevin’s team lost 28–0 and 37–0, and the longer they played, the more Kevin loafed. Brad Junior unveiled a series of touchdown celebration dances. And it had been miserably hot all week. The heat had transformed Kevin into a sweat-soaked, sagging, un-fun kid by noon.

After the final whistle and the final lap, Kevin started plodding toward the bike rack to unhitch his
dog. The rest of the campers walked off the field in groups, talking, high-fiving. Kevin walked off slowly, alone, muttering.

He felt a hand slap his back. This, he thought, must have been disgusting for the owner of the hand—Kevin’s shirt was drenched.

“Hey, bro,” said Brad Junior, jogging slowly and smirking blatantly. “Nice work today.”

“Go away, little Brad,” said Kevin. “Shoo.”

Junior laughed. In the distance, so did his gaggle of friends.

“C’mon, Pugh. Don’t be like that.” He jogged a few more steps. “Say hi to your sister for me, okay? She’s kind of a hottie.”

He laughed again, as did his associates.

“Eww, little Brad,” said Kevin. “And no.”

He would have tried to chase down Junior for that comment, but a week of camp had proven definitively that Kevin couldn’t catch him. Or anyone else.

“Pugh, how did your sister end up with all the athletic—”

“That’s
enough
, Ainsworth,” said Coach Z, who was suddenly walking behind Kevin. “We’ll see you on Monday.”

“But, coach, I was jus—”

“Good-bye, Ainsworth,” said Coach Z sternly. Brad Junior jogged back to his friends.

“Thanks, Coach,” Kevin said quietly.

“Sure, kid.” Coach Z walked at Kevin’s side, keeping his pace. “Hot out here, eh?”

Kevin shrugged. “Guess so,” he said glumly.

“Can I ask you something, Pugh?”

Kevin shrugged again. “Okay.”

“Why are you out here, exactly?”

Involuntarily, Kevin laughed. He quickly decided that was not an appropriate response.

“To, um … well, to learn certain fundamentals of, um … football.”

“Really?”
asked Coach Z. “Because your dog seems more interested in what we’re doing than you do.”

Kevin saw Cromwell sitting attentively in the shade. This time he said nothing in response. Coach Z continued.

“In real football, Pugh, people who lose focus can get hurt. You can’t play with indifference.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kevin.

“So I’ve gotta ask it again, Pugh.” The coach’s voice was oddly serene. “Why are you out here?”

“My dad wants me out here,” blurted Kevin.

He wasn’t sure it was wise to admit that, but it certainly felt good.

“Ah,” said Coach Z. “Well, yeah, you play like someone who’s out here because he
has
to be, not because he wants to be.”

“Ouch,” said Kevin. “But yeah. Have to be. There’s not much wanting.”

Okay, that felt awesome, too
, he thought.

“What are we gonna do about this, Pugh?”

“Well, my plan was to just suffer quietly. I can’t quit.” Kevin fanned himself with his shirt.

“Pugh, you’re too young to spend all your time on things you don’t like.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Kevin.

Coach Z stopped walking.

“What are we going to do about this, Pugh?” Coach Z said again.

“Nothing,” said Kevin flatly. “I’m not allowed to quit.”

Coach Z sighed. “That’s admirable,” he said. “Really.” He lifted his Scherzer cap, ran a hand through his thinning hair, and then repositioned the hat. “Can I just level with you, Pugh? Just straight-out level with you?”

“Okay,” said Kevin.

“And you’ll keep it between us?”

“Sure,” replied Kevin.

“Pugh, I can’t keep losing. Every day in these games it’s the same thing: loss, loss, loss, loss, loss, loss. That’s all we do. We lose. And when Coach Glussman is up there in the bleachers, he’s not just evaluating you kids. He’s evaluating
us
, his coaches.
And this is getting to be a problem, Pugh.” He exhaled disgustedly. “I was a shoo-in to be Scherzer’s offensive coordinator this year, until this camp started. And now we’ve scored exactly six points in six games
—six
games! And the teams are set for the duration of camp. And every kid has to play. And I’m stuck with …” He caught himself. “What I mean to say is that …”

“… you’re stuck with me.”

Coach Z stared at Kevin. “More or less, yes. The losing has to stop.”

“You could trade me to Coach Dombrowski’s team.”

“Oh, I’ve offered a trade,” said Coach Z, shaking his head.

“You
did
?” asked Kevin, slightly offended in spite of the circumstances.

“Actually, it was more of a gift. I tried to package you with Alex.”

“He’s our best player!”

“Yeah, but you were kind of the sticking point in negotiations, Pugh.”

Kevin shifted his feet. He looked down at his scuffed cleats, then back at his coach. “Sorry,” he said, simply and pathetically.

“One of two things needs to happen, Pugh, because there are careers at stake.” Coach Z placed his
right hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Either you need to decide that you want this—that you actually
want
to be here, that you want to play well—or you need to tell your folks that football doesn’t interest you at all.”

“Well,” said Kevin, “honestly, that first thing probably won’t happen—I’m just being realistic, Coach Z. And the second thing
can’t
happen. No way. There would be serious long-term repercussions.”

His coach sighed. “Well,” he finally said, “the good news, at least for me, is that Coach Glussman won’t be here next week. He’ll be at an offensive clinic at Eastern Alabama Polytechnic Institute. Very prestigious. So we’ve got one week to light a fire under you, Pugh.” He smiled. “Or to convince you that your summer would be better spent elsewhere—and I can be very convincing when I need to be.”

And with that, Coach Z walked toward the parking lot.

Kevin stood still for a moment, wondering what sort of convincing Coach Z had in mind.

K
evin spent the weekend nervously fretting. Monday was going to involve pain—potentially serious pain. And shame. And the pain and shame would be followed by total exhaustion; then the cycle would repeat. There were six weeks of camp remaining. Kevin needed to endure if there was any hope of getting his dad to agree to agility classes. Or maybe he just needed to endure in order to prove something to Howie Pugh.

Either way, endurance seemed key … and the thought made Kevin miserable.

On Saturday, he and Zach spent the day doing what Maggie called “TV things” and Kevin called “the only things I’m good at.” Zach’s parents took them to Taste of Chicago that night, and Kevin inhaled two turkey legs, a small order of paella, a large order of shrimp
stir-fry, cheese fries, and, for dessert, frozen cheesecake on a stick.

It was satisfying, but only in the moment. He was still dreading the week ahead.

On Sunday, Kevin decided to give Cromwell another workout. They began with a brisk run, but it soon became less than brisk, what with the 90-something-degree temperature.

And after six blocks, it became a walk …

Then a sticky, sluggish stroll …

And then Kevin and Cromwell reversed direction, slowed a little more, and plopped onto a bench at a bus stop. Cromwell panted. So did Kevin.

“This jogging stuff”—deep breath—“isn’t so easy, boy.” Kevin used his shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead. “At least in football”—deep breath—“I can take the occasional break.”

A Chicago Transit Authority bus creaked to a stop and Kevin stood up. Passengers exited, looking not nearly as dreadful and tired as Kevin felt. A young blond woman with a yoga mat visibly recoiled when she brushed a little too close to him. He stood there, sweaty and still slightly breathless, fishing in the various pockets of his cargo shorts for cash. Something on the bus hissed. Cromwell kept panting.

“No dogs, kid,” said the bus driver, a gruff woman who seemed, rather obviously, to be wearing a wig. The wig looked a lot like a yellow Pekinese.

“Oh, um … really? Because we’re not going far, I…”

“No dogs. Unless it’s a guide dog—which that ain’t—there’s no dogs on the bus.”

“I have an astigmatism,” said Kevin. “Very poor depth perception. Balls are always hit—”

The door shut and the bus pulled away. Kevin stood there, still absently patting his pockets.

“C’mon, Crom,” he said. “Let’s walk home. We can do this.”

The dog barked.

“Well, okay, I know
you
can do it. I need a little pep talk sometimes.”

They trudged home slowly.

Before going to bed that night, Kevin discovered that he—or rather, Cromwell—had received another e-mail from Elka Brandt.

From: [email protected]

Sent: Sunday, June 27, 5:38 PM

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Thank you for your interest in Paw Patch, Inc.

Dear Cromwell,

Hope you are well, you marvelous creature. When you speak to Kevin, please suggest a
dog snack with glucosamine and chondroitin. For healthier hips and joints.

Elka

    “O-kaaaay,” said Kevin, switching off his bedroom lights. “Thanks for the tip, dog e-mailer.”

Cromwell whined.

“
Fine …
maybe I could check the ingredients on your treats, boy.”

Kevin slept poorly that night. He dreamt that Coach Z was chasing him with weapons—knives, flaming arrows, catapults; he dreamt that Coach Z had captured Cromwell and forced him to run laps; he dreamt that Coach Z and Elka Brandt were battling, Jedi-style.

On Monday morning, Kevin’s alarm viciously blared at 7:45 a.m. He winced, then mumbled, then whacked the clock repeatedly with his fist, then jerked the cord free of the wall socket and threw the clock into the hallway.

“Good morning, sunshine!” called his mom, who happened to be rushing past.

“Sorry, Mom,” he managed, then yawned.