by Rich Garon
Christie pulled away slowly. She turned, her eyes like a referee calling time out during an important game. “Lee, I know this is important, but try to keep this whole thing in perspective.”
“This is not just kicking, Christie. This is about more than kicking.”
“Beautiful day for kicking the old pigskin. Damn, look at that field,” Reid Fletcher said as he turned his pick-up into the Langford High parking lot. “I got to see if I can talk with someone at the school about getting that grass patched up, needs some quick-grow seed and needs sod in spots. They just haven’t been taking care of this field the way they used to.”
“I think they will work hard over the summer to get this field into good condition. I have seen them do that; they always make the field look nice when the season starts.” Lee said.
“Damn, I hope you’re right, man. I didn’t think I’d find these things, a little scroungy, but they fit pretty good and they’ll get worked in once I’m out there shagging those kicks of yours coming in from fifty yards.” Reid finished tying the frayed, dirty laces of a pair of stiff, faded red leather sneakers and tossed his muddy work boots into the back of his truck.
“I am nervous, Reid. I am very glad you are here with me.”
“No reason to be nervous man. Look, I told you I’ll be with you all week. We’ll get you ready for this Coach Ezzer on Saturday. Say, you sure this guy is on the up and up? I mean you sure he was an All-American and is this big kicking expert?”
“I like the coach; he has been very nice to me and it was Rev. Taylor who told me the coach had been an All-American. I do not think the coach would lie to Rev. Taylor.”
“Yeah, if he knew what was good for him, he probably wouldn’t go around lying to the Rev. Here, you carry the bag with the stand and I’ll get the balls. Man, those are beauties, four, five, six. Those babies aren’t cheap.”
Lee finished getting on the new pair of soccer cleats he had begun breaking in the week before. The shoes, the crisp tang of new football leather from his quiver, the pinch of breeze toward him carrying the grass and hard dirt smell of the field beyond the waist-high chain link fence, the goal post just waiting; it was like Lee had never left.
“Did you bring a magazine?” Lee asked.
“Yeah, my boss let me borrow this magazine; it’s got all these garden layouts and tells you how to build these retaining walls with old railroad ties.”
“That is good, because I have to warm up and stretch for at least twenty minutes. I hope it is not too boring for you.”
“Don’t worry about me, just do what you have to do and tell me when you want me out there.”
Lee jogged back and forth across the field several times. He walked slowly toward the upright until stopping, he looked at it as a fighter would stare into the eyes of an opponent in the center of the ring before the match. He began the regimen of stretching that his father once directed with a harsh voice always telling his son he could do more, that the young legs could be lifted higher and held for longer. Though his muscles trembled and threatened to snap, Lee found that his father had been right. At the command to bring his leg down, Lee would feel a jolt of energy rushing to his toes. There was pulling to stretch the thighs, then the calves, then twists to loosen the ankles. The ankles, there was no trace of the injury that had hobbled him the night his father died. Lee worked on the hamstring, then the back. He pranced sideways, alternating steps. He shook his arms and the current flowed to his hands. He jogged past Reid, who by now had finished reading about retaining walls and shrub placement.
“I think I am ready. My legs feel like they are ready.” He kicked his leg above his waist several times.
“That’s good man; that’s good. Let’s go do it,” Reid said as he reached for the mesh bag containing the six judges that would soon tell by their flight and trajectory if a flicker of Lee’s magic had survived that morning of horror.
As Lee walked toward the middle of the field, he saw for a moment Sam and Christie Veit near the sideline, talking then turning to look in Lee’s direction just as they had that afternoon. Sam would probably be playing football at state university. Lee might have gone there too. The morning that had snatched away Sam Veit had sent Lee and Christie on to a much longer path toward each other. Lee wondered if he and Christie would be together now if not for that morning. “Keep your mind on what you’re here for son,” came a forceful voice with little tolerance for anything that distracted from making the football rotate perfectly turn after turn as it sailed over the crossbar. “You are right Dad, you are right,” Lee said.
Lee stood at the fifteen-yard line. Counting the ten yards from the goal line to the back of the end zone where the goal post was anchored, meant his first kick would be from twenty-five yards out. He took a ball from the mesh bag, squeezed it as if he were a discerning melon buyer and put the ball back into the bag. The fourth piece of fruit was the one on which Lee would initially pin his hopes.
“What are you doing?” Reid asked from behind the goal post.
“I have to find the ball that will do the job.”
“C’mon, they’re all the same. I just looked at them.”
“No, they are not all the same; not now. When I get the first over the crossbar, then they will all be the same.”
“Jeez,” Reid muttered into his cupped hands. “All right, all right, find the right one.”
Lee set the top pipe of his PVC stand at just the right angle on the right one. The new ball, it’s white, unblemished lettering glowing in the late afternoon sun, looked fully the NFL caliber it was. The afternoon would tell if the ball were wasted on Lee.
Lee took three steps back then paced his shorter steps to the side. He looked at the ball, he looked at his foot, he rocked on his left leg, he looked at the goal post, he moved toward the ball, his right leg beginning to whip, his instep making contact: “PHUMF,” “TOINK.” PHUMF was the bad sound coming from his foot and the ball meeting in the wrong place. TOINK was the second bad sound as the ball hit the upright. The ball landed way to the side of Reid.
“Okay, okay, that’s the first one in how many years? Don’t worry about it man, just get another ball. It’s gonna come, it’s gonna come. Just put it right into my arms, right down the middle.”
Lee stared at the bar, then at Reid. “PHUMF,” “TOINK.”
“Okay, okay, that’s good consistency. You hit the other upright, just got to aim that gun a little more in the middle. The middle; look for the middle. All right, get another ball. C’mon.”
Lee looked up to the cloud. He heard nothing. He reached in for another ball and closed his eyes as he shook his head. Reid looked now like an impossible target. Lee rubbed his palm on his instep, seeing from the touch the sweet spot he would have to hit. One leg planted, the other whipped. “PHANK,” came the sound of his foot smacking the leather wall around the bladder of air. He waited as he was supposed to and didn’t lift his head, but he knew that sound. Reid held his two arms straight up as the ball gunned over the middle of the crossbar by six-feet.
“That’s what I’m talking about, that’s what I’m talking about. You woke up that kicking genie on that one. Hurry up and get another ball, before you start to do too much thinking. Better yet, don’t do any thinking.”
The next ball flew the same path, but at least three feet higher. The next was back five yards and landed in the same spot.
“Damn, Mister Kicking Man be back in town. Try the left hash mark.” Lee moved from the center of the field and took several practice follow-throughs at the clipped angle.
“PHANK.” Another “PHANK,” as he connected from the right side of the field. Reid started gathering the balls and tossing them back to Lee.
The next half-hour was full of “PHANKS” from all over the field and Reid scampered after balls and continued his profane cheers which became more and more punctuated by a shortness of breath. “Son-of-a bitch, you got it down now. Time for a little break, that leg has got to ease in,
got to ease it in.”
Lee turned his back to the goal post and broke into a smile. He didn’t want anyone else to see. He looked up at the cloud which was now behind him. Small wreaths of white formed a smile as bubbly as Lee’s. Lee knew that Jim Fitts had counted each one of the balls that breached the crossbar in a perfect arc of end–over-ends.
“Okay,” Reid said after he joined Lee in the middle of the field. “That’s good man, that’s real good. You really nailed them. Come on give me a little smile. You were knocking the crap out of those balls and you know it.”
Lee smiled as he began to put the balls back into the bag.
“That’s the spirit, man. I ain’t see you smile like that in, in a real long time. That’s good man, nice to have something to smile about. I think you got something to show Coach.”
“Yes, I think I did better than I expected this afternoon. I hope the coach will be happy with what he sees on Saturday.”
“Oh, he’ll be happy. If he ain’t happy with the way you’ve been kicking, know what? He ain’t a real coach ‘cause he don’t know nothing about kicking.”
“But I know he’s a real coach.”
“Why are you putting those balls away? You got to try a couple of those long boys. We got to see what you can do on the kick-offs, see if you got what it takes on the long ball.”
“I thought we could wait on those.”
“Wait? You’ve only got four more days after today till Saturday and I heard them calling for some rain maybe later this week. Suppose you’re hurting in the long ball department? We better find out sooner rather than later. Tell you what, just do one so we can see what we’re working with. I’m going to stand about twenty yards in front of the end zone, you know, to give you a way to measure if you can get the ball at least to the twenty- yard line, then we’ll know how much more oomph you need to get into the kick to get it back further.”
“Okay, maybe one kick, my leg is a little sore, I don’t want to . . .”
“Lee, this is the big time, you want to be in those NFL films where they have that music playing in the background and then the kicker lines up in slow motion to get that ball sailing through to win the big game or what? You think that guy’s leg might not be sore? I know how to handle these things; we’re just talking about one kick.”
Lee lined up at the thirty-five-yard line. He took a black, hard plastic block from his bag and placed a ball, its lettering now slightly scuffed, on to the holder. He stretched his legs then rolled his shoulders as he waited for Reid to get to the twenty-yard line, some forty-five yards away.
Reid turned and raised his arm. “Look, you don’t have to get it as far as me. We just need to see what kind of height you’re getting, get an approximate hang-time, and see what kind of spin you can get on the ball.
Lee walked back from the ball, looked at Reid, rolled his shoulders then took strong strides to the ball: “PHANK” and a follow through that almost landed him on his back.
Reid’s eyes locked on to the field in front of him where he expected the ball to land. Like a radar dish struggling to track the unexpected, his eyes lifted sharply. The perfect end-over-end hadn’t been consulted about landing short of the twenty-yard line and soared above Reid’s turning body until it zeroed in on the ten, landed, then rolled out of bounds at the five.
“Son-of–a bitch, did you see that? I can’t believe it. I got lost on the hang time watching that, but has to be at least four seconds. You got the package man, it’s a gift, man, just no other explanation. Almost took my head off trying to watch that baby go right by me.”
Lee watched as his friend went to retrieve the ball. He brushed off the kicking tee and put it into the bag.
Marian Fitts and Christie showed up at the field the next day. There was no way Lee could keep them away after Reid’s Emmy-award winning narrative of what had taken place as Lee began “his quest for stardom.”
“This is not a good idea, Reid,” Lee said as he saw his mother and Christie wave from the top of the stands.
“This introduces that element of having to perform before a crowd. What do you think those stands are going to be empty when you get called into the big game?”
“But, I still am not ready for the big game. I need to do my stretching.”
“Okay, okay, start your stretching, I’ll be checking the wind and looking for some good spots for you to kick from.”
Lee brought to his stretching the conviction of a shaven-headed, saffron-robed ascetic. Lee neither saw nor heard his mother, Christie or Reid. The kicker’s legs worked a loosening routine on muscles that had proven themselves the day before. The back, the arms too were prepared as well for their role during that snap second when the restive solitude seven yards behind the line of scrimmage explodes.
It was much as it had been the day before. Lee did miss on two kicks, the first from twenty yards out, and the last from a tricky angle on the left. But the form was there; the quick muscle twitch that snapped Lee’s leg like a medieval catapult and made him a genuine competitor.
“You got it man, I’m telling you, I think you did better than yesterday. You got some good early lift then those babies sailed home to their mommas,” Reid yelled out to Lee as he looked up to see nothing but a blue sky. “Did you see him kick those babies? Perfect end-over-end, and this is only his second day!” Reid called out as he walked up the stairs to where Marian Fitts and Christie were sitting. The two nodded at Reid with satisfied smiles.
It was the same the next day and Thursday would have been the same except for the call early in the afternoon from Reid.
“Look, this is kind of bizarre, so just stay with me on this as I explain,” Reid told Lee. “I got a call last night from Audrey Plennington. Remember I told you that before I picked you up, I was putting up those little cards about me doing landscaping jobs? She saw the one I put up in the grocery store and well, I guess my new little business has its first customer. But here’s the rub, Mrs. Plennington said she’s having a party this weekend and wants all her beds mulched. She wanted to know if I could do it today. I told her it was too big a job for me, even if I could get the mulch delivered –and it is going to get delivered early this afternoon -- and that I didn’t know if I could find someone to help me on such short notice. She told me to ask you, no, she insisted I ask you, that you could use the money. And then on top of everything, when I told her how much it would cost, she said there’s another fifty dollars in it for us if we definitely get the job done today. But man, it was kind of weird how she was pretty firm about me getting you to help. So, there you have it, I mean I know you got this big kicking thing with your coach and everything on Saturday, but you’ve been kicking the crap out of the ball and you’ll be fine. Then on Friday afternoon we’ll get back down to the field and pick up where we left off. Whadda ya say, Lee? This means a lot to me, I mean this is my first job in my new business and I’m sure if I do a good job, well, Mrs. Plennington must have a lot of well-off friends she can recommend me to.”
It was easier for Lee to hold the phone as if he were waiting for Reid to say something further then to focus on the answer his friend was waiting for. Mrs. Plennington’s house? Missing a day of practice two days before he was going to meet his coach? Now he knew, it was easy as he thought about it. He would say “What?” and Reid would say “Just kidding man, I’ll pick you up usual time and we’ll head over to the field.”
“What?” Lee asked.
“C’mon,” came the response from Reid. “I need you on this one man, this is big to me.”
Reid wasn’t kidding. Lee had heard everything perfectly. What his best friend was asking could derail everything. His big chance with Coach Ezzer could go down the drain. “Is there some way we could do this job for Mrs. Plennington next week?”
“Man, I told you, she’s having this big party on Saturday and when she saw my sign thought she’d get this work done before the party. I told you that, man.”
“Yes, now I rem
ember, you told me that. Reid, I am afraid that if I miss a day of practice, it will make me not good enough for when I see the coach on Saturday.” He knew he could never say he was afraid of what Mrs. Plennington might do.
“Lee, listen to me. Is there anyone who wants you to do good on Saturday more than me? Is there anyone else who has been spending more time and working as hard as your best friend –me- so that you can get to be the best damn kicker your coach has ever seen? Do you think I would ask you to miss practice today if I thought it would hurt you? Do you?”
“No. I will help you with your landscape job at Mrs. Plennington’s house this afternoon.”
“All right now you’re talking; now I hear my best buddy talking. I will call you back in a half-hour.”
The phone rang five minutes after Lee put it down. “This is getting to be like a damn soap opera. Look, my boss just gave me holy hell for being on the phone so much today. He’s got me driving over to work this piece of hill I didn’t think I’d have to work on till tomorrow. Bottom line, I’m going to be here an hour longer this afternoon than I thought, so this is what I arranged. My guy who’s dropping off the mulch should be there by now. I told him to leave a rake, pitchfork, and wheel barrow. I need you to go over there and get started laying that mulch. Call a cab, I’ll pay you back when I see you, and get over to Mrs. Plennington’s house right away. We got to get this job done before dark. Try to get as much done as you can till I get there.”
Lee knew Mrs. Plennington would be there. Maybe he could call her and tell her about Saturday. He could tell her he needed to practice. But as he rehearsed his appeal, his mind heard the sound of Reid’s friend’s truck as it came up Mrs. Plennington’s driveway and backed up into the turnaround. The truck’s container lifted, dumping a huge pile of mulch right where Lee knew the guests coming to Mrs. Plennington’s party would park. He opened the drawer, pulled out the small yellow-pages and looked up the number of a cab company.