Read The Heartbeat of Halftime Online
Authors: Stephen Wunderli
The Heartbeat of Halftime (3 page)
HEAT'S WAY
A
nyone who didn't know Heat the way we did said he was better with dogs than he was with people. He never said a whole lot, and what he did say wasn't exactly pleasant. Heat had a mother who didn't like children. So when she had one, she didn't act like she did. Oh, she was nice enough, but she never spent a lot of time with Heat. She just kind of let him go off and do what he pleased. So maybe Heat never got what he needed from his mother. Maybe he wanted her to be around a bit more, or talk to him, or just plain take an interest in him. But she didn't. She ignored him. So Heat spent most of his time with his dogs, four black Labradors. They were beautiful in the sun, their fur shiny and thick. And Heat was with them so much that they were almost human. He talked to them like they were his family. He could send one to the
store for a bag of Oreos, while another bought movie tickets. They were that smart.
nyone who didn't know Heat the way we did said he was better with dogs than he was with people. He never said a whole lot, and what he did say wasn't exactly pleasant. Heat had a mother who didn't like children. So when she had one, she didn't act like she did. Oh, she was nice enough, but she never spent a lot of time with Heat. She just kind of let him go off and do what he pleased. So maybe Heat never got what he needed from his mother. Maybe he wanted her to be around a bit more, or talk to him, or just plain take an interest in him. But she didn't. She ignored him. So Heat spent most of his time with his dogs, four black Labradors. They were beautiful in the sun, their fur shiny and thick. And Heat was with them so much that they were almost human. He talked to them like they were his family. He could send one to the
store for a bag of Oreos, while another bought movie tickets. They were that smart.
You never saw Heat without his dogs. Most of the time he was jogging along with his pack. Sometimes, when he was short of money, he'd jog through town with an old flour sack. He'd send the dogs up and down the alleys collecting bottles. I guess that's what made him so fast, running with his dogs all the time. You could knock his feet out from underneath him and he'd put a hand down for balance, twist in the air, and be back on his feet at full gallop. I guess he learned a lot from those dogs. Heat had his own way, and he was the only one of us Ed Stebbings wouldn't touch.
The way Heat tells it, the story goes like this: He was out collecting bottles one day and it got kinda late. He was headed home beside the canal when he ran into Lance Lindsay, Ed's bud, and a few of his friends. The dogs were off lookin' for bottles and Heat was alone on the path.
“Well, if it ain't the running back for the girl's team,” Lindsay said, and I'm sure his brainless teammates laughed then.
“We could use some cheerleaders,” he said. “We think you and the rest of the girls on your team would be perfect.”
Heat didn't say anything. He never does.
“Well?” said Lindsay.
Heat just stood there.
“Give us an answer, pansy, or we'll throw you in the canal.”
Heat was probably pretty mad about this time. But he has a hard time findin' the right words. So mostly he keeps his mouth shut.
Right here's where I should tell you about one of the tricks Heat taught his dogs. I don't know how he did it, but he taught them all to lunge for the zipper. So on command, any one of these four dogs would head-butt you right below the belt. And they could punch so hard with those stiff snouts that it didn't matter if you had a cup on. You felt it. He tried it on me one day after practice and I thought I'd been hit by a baseball.
Anyway, Lindsay kept after Heat there at the canal. “What's it gonna be, wimp?” Lindsay said in a squeaky voice. “You wanna put a wig on and watch the big boys play, huh?”
Well, they must've been laughin' real hard then, 'cause they didn't hear Heat whistle for his dogs. It was dark and pretty hard to see three black dogs trotting up from behind Heat. The fourth one was across the canal, and when he splashed in, Lindsay and his two buddies looked over to see what was comin' out of the water. What they didn't see was three black Labs running full speed with their snouts in the ram position. The dogs struck enemy crotches like invisible missiles.
One thing was for certain that night: Neither Lindsay or his buds were wearing cups. They fell to the ground like, well, like they had been socked right in the goods. They lay there for some time while the dogs stood snarling above them. Heat never said a word. He just walked off down the path with his pack of dogs scouting out in front of him, looking for bottles or crotch targets, whatever they could find.
Anyway, that's why Ed never messes with Heat. By the time he got the story from Lindsay, they had made Heat out to be some kind of crazyman who lived with a pack of wolves. No, you never see Heat without his dogs. It's like they're family, brothers, I guess. Heat's spent so much time with his dogs, some people say it's given him strange ways. Maybe the strangest is Heat's habit of jogging to the football field the night before a game to mark his territory in the end zone. See, dogs will pee on every corner. It's their way of letting other dogs know where their territory is, letting them know they got a fight comin' if they cross the line. It's like layin' claim to a piece of ground, sayin' this is mine. So Heat does it the night before each game. Sometime after midnight he jogs down to the field with his dogs. And then in some kind of ceremonial way, he pees in each end zone. It's his way of saying, “The only one who can score here is me.” I never would
have known it, but the night before our third game I couldn't sleep. So I got up and sat on my roof like I always do when I can't sleep. I could see over to the other street because there was a full moon out; and I see this pack of dogs moving up the sidewalk. At first I thought it was just a bunch of strays out sneakin' around at night. Then I notice their tight formation, and Heat running right behind them. I only had to watch for a moment, and I knew where he was going.
have known it, but the night before our third game I couldn't sleep. So I got up and sat on my roof like I always do when I can't sleep. I could see over to the other street because there was a full moon out; and I see this pack of dogs moving up the sidewalk. At first I thought it was just a bunch of strays out sneakin' around at night. Then I notice their tight formation, and Heat running right behind them. I only had to watch for a moment, and I knew where he was going.
I climbed down and followed him. I watched him run to the far goalpost and pee while his dogs waited for him. I walked into the other end zone and just stood there. He turned and trotted toward me. He didn't see me until he was almost to the twenty. I think I scared him, but he didn't act like it.
“What are you doin'?” I asked him.
He didn't answer; he just looked at me, tryin' to figure out if he could trust me or not. Finally he spoke up.
“Move,” he said. “You're in my way.”
I stepped aside and stood with the dogs while he marked the end zone. He went on like it was the most logical thing to do, that it was a part of nature, a kind of force that would drive away our enemies. He said that there was something primitive about it and that we needed all the help we could get.
“I guess so,” I said. Then I marked my own territory just inside the goal line. Heat didn't say anything about it, just nodded his head in approval. Even the dogs seemed to be smiling, like they had taught us some great truth. Maybe they had.
THE FORCES OF NATURE
N
ature is a funny thing. When you think it makes the most sense, it changes course. Yeah, we lost. It was the first game I really thought we had a chance of winning. We had a good week of practice. Coach even said that we were wakin' up like the Greek statue Colossus, all bronze and ten stories high. Slowly it came to life, breakin' out of its bronze skin to destroy the centurions.
ature is a funny thing. When you think it makes the most sense, it changes course. Yeah, we lost. It was the first game I really thought we had a chance of winning. We had a good week of practice. Coach even said that we were wakin' up like the Greek statue Colossus, all bronze and ten stories high. Slowly it came to life, breakin' out of its bronze skin to destroy the centurions.
“Football is a thinking man's game,” Coach said over and over. “Intelligence is the finest weapon in the arsenal. Think, think, think.”
And we did. Spray Can would screw up his face whenever he was figurin' somethin' like when's the best time to blitz, or fall back, or shade left or right. He was gettin' it. So when we stood there in the cool morning air early on game day goin' through our stretches and warm-ups, all I could
think of was eating my lunch in peace ⦠walking through the lunchroom with a tray in my hands and not hearing a word, sitting at a table like I was at a restaurant, slowly eating, laughing, retelling football stories, stories of great victories. I was prepared to win. I had worked hard. I had marked my territory.
think of was eating my lunch in peace ⦠walking through the lunchroom with a tray in my hands and not hearing a word, sitting at a table like I was at a restaurant, slowly eating, laughing, retelling football stories, stories of great victories. I was prepared to win. I had worked hard. I had marked my territory.
But the stories would have to wait just a little bit longer, wait because Heat would fumble on the three yard line with two minutes left in the game and the mighty Titans would lose by one point. One point! Still, it was a good game. We all knew it. Spray Can had seven tackles. He knew where the ball was most of the time, he tackled so hard even the referees closed their eyes whenever he hit someone. He hit their halfback so hard on a sweep it sent the poor kid skidding out of bounds and onto the gravel track without his helmet on. That was the kind of day he was having. And our offense was scoring. Not once, but twice. The first time, Bam pulled off a fake to Heat and slipped me the ball on the counter. Nobody knew I even had the ball. Then Heat ran a punt back for a touchdown to give us ungodly confidence. Bam went for the extra point on a sneak, but came up short. So when “the jaws of hell opened up,” as Coach said after the game, we were down by only one. We drove the ball the length of the field on our last possession. The guards were playing like madmen,
pounding the defense back every time the ball was snapped. Then, on the last play, the 38 power pitch, Bam delivered the ball to Heat in mid stride, Taco Bell pulled from the guard slot and blasted the outside linebacker into the band on the sidelines. Heat cut the corner and the free safety came crashing in. We knew Heat could run over him, could pound him, dodge him, even drag him for three yards if he had to. We were cheering before they even collided. Heat went right through him, like kicking his way through a door. He was standing up in the end zone before he realized the little bullet had punched the ball loose. We all watched in horror as the ball bounded away from us, bounced slowly like someone had dropped it on the way to school. Then a red jerseyânot a green jersey, not one of ours, but a red one, a bright red jersey like the light on an ambulanceâlanded on the ball. The skinny cornerback cradled it like a pot of gold while we all piled on. But it didn't matter. In a few plays the gun would sound, the game would be over, and we would still be losers. We would still walk away from the football field as losers while the other team celebrated. We would still have to sit in the garbage dump. Of all the losses in our football lives, that one was by far the hardest. All Heat could say after the game was that he should've moved to Alabama.
pounding the defense back every time the ball was snapped. Then, on the last play, the 38 power pitch, Bam delivered the ball to Heat in mid stride, Taco Bell pulled from the guard slot and blasted the outside linebacker into the band on the sidelines. Heat cut the corner and the free safety came crashing in. We knew Heat could run over him, could pound him, dodge him, even drag him for three yards if he had to. We were cheering before they even collided. Heat went right through him, like kicking his way through a door. He was standing up in the end zone before he realized the little bullet had punched the ball loose. We all watched in horror as the ball bounded away from us, bounced slowly like someone had dropped it on the way to school. Then a red jerseyânot a green jersey, not one of ours, but a red one, a bright red jersey like the light on an ambulanceâlanded on the ball. The skinny cornerback cradled it like a pot of gold while we all piled on. But it didn't matter. In a few plays the gun would sound, the game would be over, and we would still be losers. We would still walk away from the football field as losers while the other team celebrated. We would still have to sit in the garbage dump. Of all the losses in our football lives, that one was by far the hardest. All Heat could say after the game was that he should've moved to Alabama.
I was so caught up in the game that I didn't see my father leave early. He had stumbled on the
sideline, too weak to pull himself up. Mom took him to the hospital for a day's worth of tests and drugs. When I finally did see him, he was in his chair with a blanket around his legs, staring out the window again. Staring like he was waiting for somebody again. I sat beside him and lifted a glass of water close enough so he could sip from the straw. That's when I told him we lost.
sideline, too weak to pull himself up. Mom took him to the hospital for a day's worth of tests and drugs. When I finally did see him, he was in his chair with a blanket around his legs, staring out the window again. Staring like he was waiting for somebody again. I sat beside him and lifted a glass of water close enough so he could sip from the straw. That's when I told him we lost.
“We couldn't beat 'em,” I said. “We just couldn't. It was there in front of us, but still we lost it. I don't know why.”
Pop told me he knew how I felt. He had lost his share of games in his life. Then he said the fight was more important than the outcome. But I think he still would've rather seen me win that day. It made me mad to think about him sitting there, not being able to toss me the ball the way he used to. I was pretty small when I first started playing football, so my pop taught me to catch. Every day after school I'd wait for him to come home and throw me the ball. I'd throw the ball on the roof and dive for it as it came rolling off. Throw it again, and wait. Throw it again, and wait. Finally Pop would get home and set his briefcase down on the driveway and toss me passes in his suit and tie. I'd run post patterns, flags, up-and-ins, down-and-outs, curls, flashes ⦠.
I sat there with him, looking out at the grass where we used to play. I could see the bushes in one end zone and the low fence behind it.
“Remember when you threw me a bomb, Pop,” I whispered to him. “And ⦠and I dove over the fence to make the catch, remember?”
But he was already asleep. I tucked the blanket in around his legs and went to bed.
THE GARBAGE DUMP
W
e must've all been thinkin' the same thing that next Monday at lunchtime. We stood by the candy machines, holding our lunch trays and staring at our table. It was empty 'cause we were all standing, waiting. No one would sit down. We looked over at Ed Stebbings's table. It was full. They were laughing, paying no attention to us because they had won. But we knew they were waiting, waiting for us to sit down like slow-moving targets.
e must've all been thinkin' the same thing that next Monday at lunchtime. We stood by the candy machines, holding our lunch trays and staring at our table. It was empty 'cause we were all standing, waiting. No one would sit down. We looked over at Ed Stebbings's table. It was full. They were laughing, paying no attention to us because they had won. But we knew they were waiting, waiting for us to sit down like slow-moving targets.
“I'm hungry,” Taco bell said.
Nobody answered him.
“Well?” Taco Bell said, trying to look each of us in the eye. We all looked at our lunches, wondering what they would look like splattered on our heads. It had to be spaghetti that day. And
pears, there were those pear halves, and green Jell-O and a hard brownie with sticky frosting. “That frosting will be hard to wash off,” I remember thinking. Spray Can walked up with two extra milks and an extra helping of the gross spaghetti that looked like fish bait.
pears, there were those pear halves, and green Jell-O and a hard brownie with sticky frosting. “That frosting will be hard to wash off,” I remember thinking. Spray Can walked up with two extra milks and an extra helping of the gross spaghetti that looked like fish bait.
“Let's go,” he said.
“Yeah,” Bam said. “Might as well take what's comin' to us.”
Slowly we walked over to the dumping grounds and sat down. We all looked at each other, our eyes kinda half squinted like we were waiting to get hit. But it didn't come. We waited like prisoners in front of a firing line, picking at our last meal. Finally, Ed Stebbings walked up and put his hand on Taco Bell. Taco Bell about jumped out of his chair.
“What? What do you want?” he screamed.
“Chill it, fat boy,” Ed said. “We just came over to say you guys played a good game yesterday.”
“You did, I mean, we did?” Taco Bell stammered.
“Yeah,” Ed continued. “You played a great game ⦠but you still lost.”
And with that, Ed clapped a pear half on Taco Bell's head, syrup and all. Then they all laughed and tossed milk cartons and sacks at us. Taco Bell tried to laugh, but I could tell he felt real bad, like he was about to cry. He had played his heart out
and still lost. I don't think I've ever seen him so hurt. He just sat there, shaking like his whole life was ending.
and still lost. I don't think I've ever seen him so hurt. He just sat there, shaking like his whole life was ending.
“You're a jerk!” I said to Ed Stebbings.
The whole lunchroom went dead silent, like I'd said the worst string of bad words or body parts I could think of. Nobody ever said anything back to Ed. He was big, and he had red hair that made him look like he was mad all the time. He never brushed his teeth and he loved to pull smaller kids into headlocks and tell them what crybabies they were, with that stinky breath all over their faces. Once he caught a mouse and killed it by squashin' it in his hand. He was that mean. He just looked at me, kinda smiled wickedly, and punched me in the stomach. By the time I had caught my breath, Fat Ed had emptied three lunch trays on my head and dumped two cans of pop in my left pocket. Then he had me in that headlock and was draggin' me toward the wet-garbage can when the janitor broke it up. It's a good thing, too; that wet-garbage can has caused more than one kid to throw up just from takin' a peek at what's inside. It's where everybody scrapes off their lunch trays before stackin' 'em up to be washed. You could die in there, I swear.
Luckily the janitor was strong, and he was used to bad smells after years of mopping up vomit. It didn't bother him one bit to pick us both
up and haul us down to the principal's office. I didn't stay there very long; guess I smelled pretty bad. They called my mom and told me to wait outside until she came for me. I sat out there alone, wondering if it was too late to join the band.
up and haul us down to the principal's office. I didn't stay there very long; guess I smelled pretty bad. They called my mom and told me to wait outside until she came for me. I sat out there alone, wondering if it was too late to join the band.
Other books
Outmatched in October (Spring River Valley Book 10) by Wynter, Clarice
Lo que esconde tu nombre by Clara Sánchez
The Pursuit of Mary Bennet by Pamela Mingle
The Luckiest Girl by Beverly Cleary
Special Delivery by Traci Hohenstein
Borealis by Ronald Malfi
His One and Only by Taylor, Theodora
Fate's Intervention by Barbara Woster
Winter of the World by Ken Follett
The Book of the Sword (Darkest Age) by A. J. Lake