by Rich Garon
The car stopped and Marian opened the door. “Thank you, Christie. I’m so blessed that my son has found someone as nice and caring as you.”
“Lee is someone special; I am very fortunate.” As she drove off, there was a huge sigh of relief. She gave thanks that Lee appeared to be free from further entrapment and she prayed also that Audrey would find happiness with John Cantoli.
Lee thought how lucky he was to have Christie as he watched the summer landscape that hugged the interstate. He then thought about a goal post that seemed to be moving further and further away.
“Damn, I’m glad we left when we did,” Reid said as he finished the water in his Thermos. “This traffic is getting worse; vacationers, got to be vacationers. We should have about another hour. I didn’t sleep too good last night, must be all this excitement. I keep thinking this guy who’s going to be watching you is an NFL coach. Do you believe that? Ever think you’d be kicking in front of an NFL coach? How did you sleep last night?”
“I did not sleep as well as I would have liked. I spoke on the phone with Christie for a long time. We spoke about a lot of things. She kept telling me to hang up so I could get some sleep. She said I was going to need my sleep.”
“You and Christie are pretty damn close, man. Oh damn, let’s not even get into what could happen if she goes to state. I’m sure things will work out okay. Just got to keep Booby away from her. Yeah, it will work out fine. She’s got to know that guy’s a jerk. I knew it first time I saw him. Damn good kicker though. I don’t know about you, but I just want to get a quick hamburger or something and get to the motel. I want to hit that old sack early and you should too. Matter of fact, as your unofficial trainer, I’m going to order you to get to bed early.”
“I just have to call Christie when we get to the motel. I told her I would call her.”
“I’ll call her and tell her we got here safely. Geez, you’d be on the phone half the damn night.”
The clock said 3:07 when Lee awoke. He closed his eyes, but that was as close to sleeping as he would come for at least another hour. He tried to detect a pattern in Reid’s snoring. Maybe there would be a large enough pause in the bursts of rattling air coming from Reid’s pillow that would give Lee just enough time to fall asleep. But Lee couldn’t break the code. Somehow his body finally blocked it out, one of those miracles that somehow the body pulls off. The next time Lee awoke it was to the sound of the alarm which went off precisely at the six am time to which Reid had set it the night before.
“Turn that son-of-a-bitch off. Can you turn that thing off?” Reid implored.
“But you said we should get an early start this morning.”
“I was wrong. Even I can be wrong you know. Now turn that damn thing off.”
Lee reached over and fished for the lever and the shrill noise came to an end. He visited the bathroom then put on his shorts and flip flops and opened the door. The morning was cool and the bright rectangular light shining down on the parking lot caught lazy drops which when apprehended in the glare, exploded into mist. He walked the length of the terrace and looked at the pancake house that was well into the business of the day. He wondered if Bobby DeFlore was up. He thought about the field at St. Leo’s; there were puddles in the parking lot. He wished he had brought another towel to wipe the footballs. It would be over by noon and he and Reid would be on their way home. He turned towards the room looking still at the pancake house. They should eat soon. His flip flop hit a spot by the railing, green fuzz had turned into a wet sponge by the leaking gutter above. It was the ankle he had twisted as he ran to the hospital that night. The flip flop went flying as he bent in the direction of the turning ankle. He held his leg up; no pain. He placed his foot down. “No,” Lee grunted. He lifted his foot up then stood on it. He walked back to the room, each step sending the same spike. This wasn’t something he would shake off.
He closed the door, sat on the bed, and carefully massaged his ankle. He stood on his foot. “Owww,” he said, falling back on to the bed.
“What the hell is going on, didn’t I ask you to go back to bed?”
“Reid, I think I sprained my ankle.”
“You did what?” the unofficial trainer said as he whipped away his covers. He looked at the ankle which was starting to bulge. “Holy shit, how the hell did you do that?”
“Outside, it’s raining, I slipped.”
“Okay, stay right there, stay off of that ankle,” Reid said as he reached for the ice container. He returned with a full bucket and wrapped a towel full of ice around the ankle. They both looked at the ankle as if searching for a magical chant that upon completing would produce an ankle as good as new.
“It is my plant ankle, at least it is better that it is my plant ankle. If it were my kicking ankle, it would be all over right now.”
“All right, all right, let’s stay calm, let’s think this through. Aw damn, this isn’t going to work, there’s no such thing as a one-legged kicker.”
“Reid, I think . . .”
“All right, listen, I told you to remain calm. Damn! All right, this is what we’re going to do. You stay right there, I’m going to run over to that pancake house and get us some breakfast. You got to eat now, get that energy into your system. Keep that ice on, if we keep that swelling down and wrap that baby tight with an Ace bandage I think we got a fighting chance. Aw shit. I’ll be right back with breakfast. You know there is no turning back, don’t you? You ain’t gonna get another chance like this. You look at me, don’t let your mind start playing tricks on you. Even if your ankle is messed up a little, you’re still a better kicker than Booby. You got that? No turning back!”
“No turning back.”
Lee and Reid arrived at St. Leo’s at 8:45. Bobby DeFlore was lying on the field, someone about his size in shorts, cleats, and cut-off football jersey was pushing Bobby’s outstretched leg back.
“Bobby is here already,” Lee said as if looking at an invincible adversary.
“Now I’m telling you be calm, that’s the best Booby is going to look all day. C’mon let’s get our stuff and get on the field before the coaches get here.”
Bobby DeFlore and his friend watched every hobble that Lee took as he walked toward the sideline. “What happened to you?” Bobby asked still trying to reconcile the limp with what looked like Lee’s determination to get ready to kick.
“What do you mean what happened to him?” Reid answered.
“I was talking to Fitts, he can speak for himself, even though it takes a while.”
“Look,” Reid said. “I’m surprised at you, big-time kicker and all. You never heard of ‘Kicker’s Limp?’ That’s a training aid older than time. I guess to you that big Ace means something is a matter with Lee’s ankle. Wrong! We wrap that bad boy tight, makes the blood pump harder to the muscles and give you more power and snap. Some people think it’s not Kosher, but there’s still no rule against it.”
“You idiot, what the hell are you talking about?” Lee was hoping for further explanation as well.
“Bobby,” the friend said as he motioned towards the parking lot. Coach Ezzer waved as he spoke with a man in a yellow baseball hat, wind breaker, and long shorts that splashed on muscles not common for a man who like Coach Clement must be in his early sixties.
“Reid, Coach wants us all stretched out by the time he and Coach Turley got here,” Lee said.
“We’ll start stretching, get in as much as you can. Damn, the ankle any better?”
“It hurts like heck.”
“That’s okay, don’t worry about it. That’s normal.”
“Bobby, Lee, this is Coach Turley. An old friend of mine, two old warhorses from when they didn’t have those fancy Gatorade squeeze bottles. When we got a break during a game, some kid would run out on to the field with a bucket and ladle. If you didn’t get to that water early on, well, when it got to you you’d be getting a good helping of grass and snot with your water.”
“I don’t remember bac
k that far,” Coach Turley said. “Damn, Clement you must be much older than me.” Both coaches laughed. That was the last time anyone on the field saw anything faintly resembling a smile on Coach Turley. This is one serious son-of-a bitch, Reid thought to himself.
“What happened to your ankle Lee?” Coach Ezzer asked.
Lee explained. “That is why we got to the field a little later than we wanted. I am still not done with my stretches.”
“You going to be able to kick?” Ezzer Clement asked in much the same manner the target of the firing squad is asked if he would like a last cigarette.
“Yes, I will be able to kick,” Lee said, suppressing a grimace as he placed his weight on his bad ankle.”
“All right, seeing as we’re a little early, finish your stretching.”
Reid worked Lee through his routine as Bobby and his friend talked on the sideline with the coaches. “How does it feel Lee?”
“It does not feel the way I would like it to feel.” On his back, Lee looked into a sky where the sun peeked through a traffic jam of clouds. The clouds were the paint of his imagination. He pulled himself from the grip of tears; no magnitude of throbbing would let slip from his hand this day so important to his father. He didn’t care if his father in the end had talked about being wrong. Jim Fitts’s son knew what mattered to his father and it mattered more now to Lee.
“Okay guys, ready?” Coach Ezzer called out, even though he was telling them more than asking them. “This is going to be simple, I’ve told you already a bit about coach Turley. He’s one of the best football minds in the country and for one thing, you guys are getting a shot not many other guys get. Coach has a limited amount of time, so we’re going to get started right away. Five kicks each from different spots on the field, then two kick offs. Bobby, you go first, from the twenty-five.” The two coaches walked to the sideline.
“Hey Lee,” Bobby said as he and his friend turned toward the twenty-five. “Sorry Christie wasn’t able to make it today. Hey be a buddy, here’s my phone number; I told her I’d give it to her so she can call me about state.”
“Give me that,” Reid said as he stuffed the paper into his pocket. “What a frickin booby.”
“PHANK,” went the ball as it left Bobby’s foot and cleared the crossbar by a mile.
Reid reached for the ball from the imaginary center and placed the pigskin down. Lee started through his motion and felt the bite and burn that consumed his plant foot and shot up his leg. “PHUMF,” One of the loudest “PHUMFS” Lee had ever heard came from the ball before it slammed into the upright and bounced away from the crossbar. Room charge, gas, tolls, breakfast at the Pancake House, damn, we just wasted a lot of money, Reid said to himself.
Lee bent over and clenched his fists. With an iron concentration powering into his body, he walked on the ankle and continued in his mind to stare down -- much as one would seal watertight hatches -- the barbs of pain ready to shoot up his leg.
Bobby and Lee got “PHANKS” on kicks from thirty-five and forty. On the left hash mark, Bobby’s was more centered than Lee’s. The two kickers walked to the fifty.
Bobby PHANKED right down the middle.
“Easy Lee, you can take this guy. I mean with your ankle and all, I haven’t seen anything like this,” Reid called out to his struggling friend.
Lee took his steps back and to the side. Reid’s hands went down, the ball planted a little to the left, but Lee’s foot snapped past Reid with ferocity and purpose. It was a PHANK that Reid thought could have launched one of those space shuttles at Cape Canaveral. The ball lacked only a fiery trail as it sailed a perfect end-over-end some ten feet higher and a little to the right of Bobby’s kick.
“Let’s get it to the thirty-five. Reid, see if you can find that goal line down there so these guys have something to aim for,” Coach Ezzer said.
“You go first, Bobby said. “Your ankle must be getting pretty sore by now.”
Lee was holding his shin. He knew the familiar rush of adrenalin; he wished it to all parts of his body. The ball slipped on the tee and Lee walked up to reset the ball. His plant was the most painful yet, but he felt pain in a different way now. “PHANK.” The ball was high, a good hang time, a real good hang time he said to himself. It fell about a yard in front of Reid who was standing on the ten. Bobby DeFlore PHANKED the ball into a lower trajectory landing it several yards between Reid and the goal line.
The pain was unlike anything Lee had ever felt. He fell over as he lifted the ball into yet another seconds-gobbling hang time which plopped on the two-yard line and rolled laterally several yards before stopping.
Bobby DeFlore, holder of all kinds of records and awards, NFL prospect, looked at the spot where Lee’s ball landed. “Luckiest damn bounce I ever saw,” he said. He placed the ball on the tee and walked back in steps more carefully paced than ever. “PHANK.” The ball went too far, sailing over Reid’s head and bouncing out of the end zone. Bobby kicked the grass in disgust. A receiving team would have the ball on the twenty-yard line.
“All right, if I remember, this exit puts us about four hours from home,” Reid said as his fingers searched for any remaining fries in the bag on the middle console.
Lee shifted the bag of melting ice on an ankle now bluish, stiff, and puffy. “Yes, it will be good to get home.”
“Did one helluva job out there today. Damn, had old Booby on the run. You’re gonna hear from Turley, I know you’re gonna hear.” Reid looked up at the envelope and remembered Lee’s mother’s instructions to give it to her son on the ride back home. “Oh yeah, almost forgot, your mom wanted me to give you this on the way back.”
Lee opened the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper. It was written in his mother’s hand but the uneven signature was his father’s:
Lee,
I’ve asked your mother to give you this when she thought best. I want you to know that I have always been proud of you. I am very,
very sorry for the way I acted at times. You are the best son and have had to be very brave. I will always love you no matter what you do.
DAD
“Well, what’s it say?” Reid asked.
“Something really feels like it’s changing today. Damn, something feels so different. Can’t put my finger on it. It’s pretty funny though.” Lee said.
Reid’s neck snapped sideway. He looked at his friend then locked his gaze straight ahead. Maybe he was imagining things; maybe he hadn’t heard Lee correctly.
Ed Turley chomped into his cheeseburger. Both coaches had ordered the special, large house salads, and iced tea.
“Well, what’s the final verdict?” Clement Ezzer asked.
Coach Turley swallowed and then took a sip of iced tea. “Clem, it’s been great seeing you again. And I’m glad you arranged for me see to your guys. I can see why you were so high on the boy.”
“Yeah, I thought you might like what you saw. Bobby’s going to have a monster senior year.”
Ed Turley took another sip of iced tea to help his tongue dislodge bits of cheeseburger from his teeth. “I’m not talking about Bobby; I’m talking about the Fitts boy. Sure, I know Bobby’s more polished, but Bobby’s gone as far as he can go. Lee is still rough, but he’s got potential like I haven’t seen in a long time. Kids like this don’t come along often, and remember he was doing all this with a bum ankle. I’m going to want to work with him, bring him up to the complex. Maybe even Europe would be good for him for starters. I’ve got some friends over there with the pro team in Barcelona. I’m going to have to think this whole thing out.”
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