Running Loose

by Chris Crutcher

  Anyway, after the films Lednecky called us to the bleachers in the gym, which was unusual. When we were all sitting and quiet, he took off his hat and sailed it over by the stage and said, “Gentlemen, we had a fine game Friday. There weren’t many mistakes, and none that were costly. And Coach Madison and I got a good chance to look at some of you younger men. So let’s just look ahead.”

  He ran his hand over his face like he does when he’s real serious. “Salmon River beat Connelly sixty-three to six. Now Connelly doesn’t have much, and we probably could have run up the same kind of score against Tamarack Falls if we’d poured it on. But Salmon River has a transfer from down in California somewhere that we’ll have to watch out for. He’s a black kid, a Negro. Name’s Washington, and he scored six touchdowns.”

  There were a few low whistles, and guys glanced around at each other.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Six TDs.” He paused. “And he’s their quarterback. He passed for two more.” His voice dropped a little. “Men, I don’t know exactly where this boy came from, but we can’t afford to let a ringer come in and spoil everything we’ve worked for. Now I don’t want to sound prejudiced; but I played with blacks up at the U, and there’s only one way you can stop them. That’s to hurt ’em. And I’m telling you now, and I don’t want it to leave this room, I want that Washington kid out of the game! Early!” His voice was no longer low, and the veins in his neck and forehead looked like a road map. His face looked like he was having a heart attack. The man was serious.

  “Kill that jungle bunny!” Boomer screamed.

  “Yeah! Yeah!” Guys were going nuts.

  Lednecky just turned around and took a couple of steps away. I looked over at Carter, who looked back and shrugged. Coach Madison was sitting at the end of the lower bleacher, staring at his shoes. I thought he looked embarrassed.

  I couldn’t believe it! Lednecky was telling us to go out there and deliberately play dirty football, and everyone was eating it up. To tell you the truth, I was real confused.

  Lednecky stepped forward again, raising his hands for quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Now besides that, we’re still going to have to go out and play good football, so let’s hit the field.”

  I was one of the first ones out, jogging around the track to warm up. Carter fell in with me about halfway through the first lap. Lednecky had given up making us run the mile every day to get Larry Ingram’s time under six minutes—he’d never made it under seven and a half—but I always liked to get a little distance in by myself. It loosened me up, and I usually used the time to get psyched up for practice. That day I was just using it to figure.

  “What do you think?” I asked Carter.

  “About what?”

  “About Lednecky giving us thumbs-down on that black kid. Sounds kinda low to me. I mean, we’ve got a good team; we shouldn’t have to pull that kind of crap.”

  “Aw,” Carter said, “forget it. Coach gets a little wound up sometimes. He doesn’t really mean anything by it.”

  “Tell Boomer that.”

  Carter laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s for sure. What the hell, though, if the guy’s as good as Lednecky says, we won’t be able to catch him to hurt him.”

  The whistle blew, and we headed in.

  I was hoping Coach would let it drop, but he harped on Washington the rest of the day. The defense was set up to key on his every move. He was by far their best athlete, and he played quarterback, so that wasn’t unusual; but still, a lot of talk was about how to put him out of commission. Boomer was thriving on it. It seemed to give his life new meaning. I got into an argument with him about it after practice—I can be such a dumb-butt at times—and almost cut my life short. He was talking about “sending all them grrs back to Africa on a leaky boat,” and for some reason I felt the urge to lay out what I’d learned about civil rights—in Lednecky’s government class, for Christ’s sake—for him.

  “You ever had any problem with blacks, Boomer?” I asked.

  “Damn right,” he said. “Bunch of ’em jumped my old man once. In a service station can. There was four of ’em. Had knives, too.”

  “What’d they do?”

  “Took every damn thing he had, buttbreath. What the hell’s it to ya? You some kinda nigger lover?”

  “Geez,” I said, “I don’t know. Only one I ever met was an editor down at the Statesman. He seemed nice enough.”

  Boomer started toward me. The boy’s got no sense of humor. I was looking for Carter, whose job it is to keep me alive in tough situations. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Banks. An’ I get sick of your smart mouth.”

  “Come on, Boomer,” I said, putting my hands up for protection. “I’m just saying it seems like a raw deal to give a guy just because he’s black.”

  He stopped and threw his towel in my face. “If I was Coach, I’d get rid of you, wussy. If you’re too yella to help out the team, why don’t you get out? Go hop in the sack with Sanders. I did.”

  “Hey, screw you, Boomer,” I said. The mention of Becky’s name made me forget who I was and how dearly I loved life.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said, and his right hand came across my face with a loud pop. My four front teeth, which are on a bridge, flew across the room. I lost them to a baseball bat when I was a freshman.

  Carter stepped out of the shower. “Hey, what the hell’s going on?” he yelled.

  I was standing away from Boomer with blood trickling out of my nose and a big gap in the front of my face. My cheek burned, and I hated that scumbag’s guts.

  “Wussy here thinks he’s a damn silver rights leader,” Boomer said.

  I didn’t bother to correct him.

  Carter looked over at me. “Jesus Christ, Boomer, just play the game. We’re not a lynch mob.”

  Boomer stood and stared at him for a second. “You heard what Coach said. Maybe you’re a nigger lover, too.”

  Carter stood his ground. “Maybe I am.”

  For the past year or so Boomer hasn’t been sure he could take Carter, and he wasn’t about to try unless he knew. Carter understood what that was about and used it all the way. And even if Boomer could take him, he’d get hurt doing it.

  “Well, screw you, too, Sampson,” Boomer said finally, and picked up his towel.

  Carter went over to the corner and picked up my teeth, which were miraculously in one piece. “Keep these in your mouth,” he said, handing them over. “You’re ugly without them.”

  When I got home for dinner, I was cooled down, but I still couldn’t get the whole deal with Washington off my mind. Lednecky had come into the lockers just after Boomer and I got into it to remind us that what he’d said was not to leave that room, and that included our parents; but I didn’t pay any attention to that because when I have a problem, I take it home or I take it to Dakota. I mean, I’m not a goody-goody or anything, but the whole thing was ruining my idea of what sports were supposed to be about.

  I got out of the pickup to see my sister, Tracy, sitting on the porch steps.

  “Your night to do the dishes,” she said. Tracy’s nine. Usually that means she’s good for a bribe. I went for sympathy first.

  “Come on, Trace. I’m a football hero. Football heroes don’t do dishes. They get battered and sore, and they need their rest. Usually their sisters do the dishes for them.”

  “Fat chance,” she said. “I’ll bet Carter does the dishes.”

  “You know,” I said, “we were just talking about that today, as it happens. He says he never does the dishes. Messes up his hands for handling the ball.”

  “Let’s call and ask,” she said. She’s always had a crush on Carter and would do anything to get to talk to him.

  “Okay,” I said. “Carter does dishes. How much?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  I fished out two quarters and flipped them to her. She caught them and stuck them in her pocket. “Should have held out,” she said. “I would have done it for twenty-five.” She
went inside.

  Norm was already eating, and Brenda was putting mine on. I pecked her on the cheek as I went through to wash my hands. Norm looked up from the paper and nodded.

  “So how’s it going?” he said when I sat down at the table.

  “Okay, I guess.” Then I told about Lednecky’s plan and my run-in with Boomer.

  Norm smiled and shook his head. “Boomer,” he said. “I hope that boy makes it in football. Vietnam ended too soon for him to be a productive citizen there.” He put the paper aside. “I wouldn’t worry about Lednecky. He gets pretty excited sometimes. I think this will blow over before Friday.”

  “That’s what Carter says,” I said, “but I don’t know. You should have heard him. It’s like it’s part of the game plan. I’m really having a hard time with it. I mean, maybe I should quit.”

  Norm looked up and frowned. “You serious?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” he said, “do what you have to, but I wouldn’t overreact if I were you. You’ve worked pretty hard for this season. I’d let it sit for a couple of days.”

  That’s the way Norm is. He’s always counseling me to look things over before I do some knee-jerk thing I’ll be sorry for. There’s nothing wrong with making a mistake as long as you think about it first, but it’s stupid to make mistakes by closing your eyes and gritting your teeth. Makes sense.

  I did let it sit, and nothing more was said through the week, at least not by Lednecky. We had a lot of hard contact on Tuesday and Wednesday and worked like crazy on our defense. Thursday, as usual, we went without pads and ran plays against dummies. Boomer brought Washington up a few times, usually right after he’d torn some second-stringer’s head off by blocking the dummy too high; but Lednecky didn’t say a word, and I thought it really had blown over, like Norm said. And I was getting up, no question about it. Salmon River was the only team standing in the way of our making it to the championship game again.

  Friday dawned cool and clear. I love Trout on a good game day in the fall. The smoke from the stack down at the sawmill runs straight up in a long white cloud. The trees are turning yellow and red, and the temperature, usually in the low forties or high thirties early, will get up to sixty or so by game time. Carter and I get up early and drive up to the spillway and around the lake, and talk about the game and sometimes our lives.

  The whole town shows up for the game. I mean, after two o’clock you can’t even buy a beer, or a tank of gas. People close everything up. The few who don’t stand out on the sidewalk and listen for cheers. This is a real football town.

  School lets out at one-thirty so all the kids can be there in plenty of time for the two o’clock kickoff. The pep club decorates my pickup with purple and gold crepe paper and sells popcorn and peanuts and candy bars and cold pop packed in a big icy galvanized tub, out of the back.

  The cheerleaders get out early to get the crowd worked up. I’ve seen sixty-year-old ladies join in the yells. There’s only one small set of bleachers, for the pep band and old people. Everyone else follows the game up and down the sideline, so people come early to get a good place to stand. By the time we blast out onto the field from between the goalposts, you’d think we were the Roman army returning from a three-year stint conquering the known world. It would be hard not to get psyched when you hear that crowd.

  We were going through our preliminary calisthenics when the Salmon River bus pulled up. They had suited up at home, I guess to avoid any contact with us before the game. I watched closely as each guy got off, straining to see which one was their secret weapon. No strain was necessary, number 18 was our man. Boy, was he smooth. I suppose I got the feeling a lot of guys get when they see Carter step off the opposing team bus. There’s something about the way a special athlete moves that leaves no doubt. Washington seemed to float when he ran. And he threw the ball like Carter, like there was no effort involved, like he’d been born practicing the motion.

  Boomer was practicing his kicking over near the sideline with his back to Salmon River. He wouldn’t look at them. I looked over at Carter and saw him standing with his helmet off, just watching Washington. And he was smiling.

  CHAPTER 6

  Salmon River won the toss and elected to receive. In the team huddle before the kickoff, Lednecky went down on one knee. “This is it, men. The only thing standing between us and a state championship game at the end of the season is number eighteen. Without him, we could walk away from these guys by three touchdowns. Now here it is. Play him tough. Key on him. Bottle him up on every play. Every time he hits the line, ball or not, tackle him.” He paused. “And if you get a clear shot, you better damn well take it.”

  He put his hand out into the middle of the huddle. The hands of every team member joined it. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go win a football game.”

  A roar went up from the huddle as we broke and the kickoff team took its place on the field.

  Lednecky was right about number 18 hurting us. What he did on the kickoff was run it back for a touchdown. In my four years at Trout nobody’s ever done that to us. He took the ball around the six yard line and started straight upfield. My job on kickoffs is to come down wide on the left side and make sure the ballcarrier doesn’t get outside me. Boomer, who kicks the ball, comes straight down the middle and destroys anyone who might be stupid enough to come that way. Washington came within three yards of him and cut to my side. I thought I had him contained, especially when he started to my outside and I could use the sideline. I lowered my head to tackle him out of bounds and got air. He just opened up and blew by me. Carter had to come clear across the field and couldn’t get there. Washington went in untouched.

  Lednecky went nuts. On the sideline he was banging on my helmet, screaming, “You gotta contain! You gotta contain!”

  Boomer just glared at me.

  Carter slapped me on the butt. “Forget it,” he said. “We’ll just kick away from him next time.”

  “He won’t be there next time,” Boomer said, and pulled his helmet back on.

  Carter caught Boomer about halfway back to the field and stopped him. “Listen, Boomer,” he said, “let’s forget about the sniper tactics and play these guys heads-up.”

  “You goin’ belly-up on us, Sampson?” Boomer said.

  “No, but if we play him to hurt him, that means we think he’s better than us. And I don’t think he’s better than us.”

  He slapped Boomer on the side of the helmet and trotted to his position.

  Carter took the kickoff and got us pretty good field position. He started with some short passes to the flats—I caught two—and then pitched out to Boomer on their forty for a thirty yard gain. He went in on an option to tie the score. We traded two more touchdowns before the half, but we failed to convert on one, so we went in down 21–20.

  On nice days we take halftime in the end zone rather than going back to the lockers, so we were lying on the grass, propped up on our helmets, while Lednecky and Madison went around telling different people what adjustments to make. Then Lednecky signaled for silence.

  “Men,” he said, “overall we’re playing some good ball. Other than Banks missing Washington on that first kickoff, there have been no glaring errors, and you’ve made up for that, Banks. Now we can go on trading touchdowns with these guys, and whoever scores last will win it. Or we can do that damn Washington kid in and blow them out! Men, we have to win this game.”

  I figure someday some writer from Life magazine or Reader’s Digest is going to come around and look up Boomer’s old teachers and classmates, like they did with Charles Manson and any number of hillside stranglers or turnpike snipers, and ask us if we ever in our wildest dreams imagined that Boomer would turn out to be a mass murderer. I’m going to say yes, in my daily dreams. I’m going to say that the only thing that surprises me is that he didn’t do it sooner. And with his bare hands. Then I’m going to leave the country.

  “He won’t make it through the third quarter,” Bo
omer said, in a tone that was just plain scary.

  I looked over at Carter, who was staring off downfield, where Salmon River was warming up for the second half. He wanted to win this clean, so he was getting his mind off this garbage conversation. By now he was pretty sure that no matter how much Boomer and Lednecky carried on, there was no way they could realize their ambition because no one was going to get a clean shot at Washington anyway. He was too damn quick. It was, to date, Carter’s biggest challenge, and he was up for it. I noticed Coach Madison was out of it, too, off to the perimeter, reinforcing taped ankles and talking to guys about their assignments.

  We huddled quickly, broke, then went out to warm up.

  Carter received the kickoff but couldn’t get anywhere with it—or get anything going on the first set of downs—and Boomer had to punt. A lot of guys think Boomer got his name from the way he hits the line after a handoff, but actually that’s not true. He got it for the way he punts. On a good day he could kick the ball to Seattle.

  He blasted a high, soaring spiral all the way from our thirty to their fifteen. It bounced out of bounds on their nine. Then Washington went to work. He completed a couple of short passes and ran options to midfield. On a third-and-about-five he rolled out to the right—to the short side of the field—looking for the long pass. Boomer blitzed through the other side and zeroed in on him. Washington stretched it out all the way to the sideline in front of their bench and finally unloaded a bomb. Just as he released, Boomer planted his head in his sternum, lifted him up, and slammed him into the bench. Salmon River players scattered when they saw it coming, and the empty bench caught him just above the kidneys. I heard a low moan and the air leaving his lungs.

  Boomer stood up and turned around. “That oughta do it,” he said, and walked back onto the field.

  That was the last play of my football career. I threw my helmet off and looked at the ref. No call.

  “Did you see that?” I screamed.

  The ref was Arney Todd from the hardware store. “Did I see what? What are you talking about?”