The Off Season

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  Dr. Miller sat down so that he was facing me and Mom, so that all three of us were in this conversation. "You have any plans for basketball this year?"

  I snorted. Dr. Miller knew all about my basketball—he came to every game. "Yeah."

  "It's her junior year," Mom said. "This is recruiting year. For college." Although I don't know why she needed to explain this, because Dr. Miller knew as well as anyone how important scholarships have been to our family.

  Dr. Miller uncapped and capped his pen, then put it in his little front pocket. "Football players get AC injuries all the time. Give it a week, add some support..." He studied me. "How often do you throw over your head in football?"

  "As a linebacker?"

  He nodded.

  "None. Never..."

  "How often do you in basketball?"

  I started to laugh, but I stopped when I saw that he wasn't laughing. Because that's what basketball is, your arms are over your head the whole game, shooting or blocking or reaching for a pass.

  "So what are you saying?" Mom asked.

  Dr. Miller reached for his pen but put it right away again, like it was a bad habit he was trying to stop. "You've damaged one of the ligaments holding your shoulder together. It's not going to heal, not very well, playing football."

  "What if I rest it two weeks?" I asked. I could miss New Norway if I had to.

  He looked at me really seriously. Like I was a grownup. "Maybe. But if you go back in and your AC doesn't heal, or it gets injured again, you won't be able to play basketball."

  The whole ride home, Mom didn't say a single word. Finally I couldn't stand it anymore. "What do you think?"

  She said right away, like she'd been waiting, "You need basketball for college." Which was just wonderful for her to bring up, especially now that I knew our situation money-wise.

  "Could I go without a scholarship?" I asked. "If I had grades and everything?"

  "Not without us borrowing. There are loans, maybe we could re-mortgage—"

  "Never mind," I said, wishing I hadn't opened my mouth.

  That night at dinner Mom had me explain to Dad, and Curtis too—who actually seemed kind of interested—about my injury, and what Dr. Miller had said.

  "Are you going to get that ice machine?" Curtis asked, one of his left-field questions.

  "Yeah," I snorted, "if we sell the pickup for it."

  "The pickup's not worth that much," Mom said. (Which was not very nice because it turns out the shoulder-cooling kit only cost about eighty dollars and insurance paid for half.)

  Dad frowned down at his fried chicken. We had spinach too, that he'd cooked with bacon so it tasted like I never thought spinach could. And biscuits that were fluffier and more delicious every time he made them. "Did he say playing would definitely make it worse?"

  "It won't make it better," Mom said.

  "There's a big difference between those two," said Dad. "A big difference."

  "You could tape it," Curtis added. "Not raise your arm at all."

  "I could," I said, trying my best to butter those biscuits with my left hand because my right arm was in a sling. Mom took the biscuit away from me and did it herself.

  "I've seen guys play with cracked ribs," Dad said. "And not with fancy painkillers, either. Just go out and play because their team needed them. I never thought I'd say this, but D.J. plays football as good as anyone I know. She's got a team that needs her."

  "Basketball needs her," Mom reminded him, handing me the biscuit all buttered up like I was five years old or something.

  "We don't know the future. Heck, anything could happen. All I know is hard work—you work and you work, and sometimes it pays off."

  Or it doesn't, I thought to myself. But I didn't say it out loud.

  After that we didn't say too much, just ate the rest of that dinner without even mentioning how good it tasted, me glad at least that I could eat the chicken with my fingers instead of a knife and fork, and then I cleared the table one-handed and went upstairs with another ice pack to start in on my homework as well as I could with my AC separation, which was not very well at all. So instead I called Brian.

  He listened to my whole story, and he agreed right away it was the toughest decision he'd ever heard, and he asked me to go through the reasons I should play football and the reasons I shouldn't. He was absolutely the best person in the world to talk to.

  Finally he asked, "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know!" All of a sudden I started crying, which I never do and I really hate, but right then it felt so good. "What do you think?"

  "Jeez. As the Hawley quarterback, the only thing I can do is tell you to quit."

  "Really?" This stopped me cold, I was so shocked. "No! That was a joke. You're an amazing football player. Look what happened when you weren't playing. I don't know anyone who loves it as much as you do. It'd kill you not to play."

  "And it'd kill everyone else on the team."

  "Probably," he agreed.

  "Thank you for saying that." I almost started crying again. "Considering everything."

  "Yeah, well, don't tell anyone or I'll be totally screwed." Which made us both laugh. Then we chatted a little bit more, and I got off the phone and took a shower, which was a total laugh because I had to wash my hair one-handed. Then I went to bed. Although sleeping with a separated shoulder isn't much fun either, no matter how much ibuprofen you take.

  School on Tuesday was a blast and a half because have you ever tried to write with your arm in a sling? At practice Jeff asked what Dr. Miller had said, and I explained as best I could without mentioning the decision part. I must have looked some kind of miserable in my sling with yet another ice pack, because he asked if it would be hard for me to watch everyone else practicing and I couldn't help but nod, so he told me to go home and get some homework done.

  Which I couldn't, seeing as Curtis and Mom and I drive home together after all the practices end, so instead I sat in an empty classroom, which is against school rules but who cares, and tried to do my homework while making another Lake Schwenk on the carpet. Which I also didn't care too much about, frankly. Then on the way home we picked up my new shoulder icer so I could at least stop making puddles.

  Wednesday afternoon I couldn't face that homework routine again, so instead I drove over to Amber's. I hadn't seen her since Monday—I guess Mr. Slutsky's lecture impressed her so much that she decided to cut school even more—and she hadn't returned my one phone message. I really wanted to fill her in on all this. And maybe we could joke around a bit like we had on Monday. Like we used to.

  I rang her doorbell for five minutes but no one answered, darn it. I was about to leave when the door to Dale's little camper opened and Dale stepped out.

  "Hey, there, how are ya? Want to come in?" she asked.

  I gulped. I'd never been alone with Dale, just the two of us. But I couldn't think of one single way to get out of it. "Sure, you bet," I said, and in I went.

  You drive down the highway and see one of those pickup campers and you think a person could barely fit inside—that's what I always thought, anyway. But actually it's really nice and cozy. Plus Dale had flower curtains in the windows and a tablecloth, and a little curtain hiding the bed over the cab, all that she'd made with her grandma back in St. Paul, which kind of struck me as odd, Dale the butcher-barbecue girl sewing with her grandma. Although she also told me that the two of them used to go deer hunting until her grandma's arthritis got too bad, so maybe it wasn't so odd after all.

  Anyway, Dale got me a pop from the little doll-size fridge, and made herself coffee at the doll-size stove, and said Amber was working a double shift and then asked why I was wearing a sling.

  So I told her about the x-rays and Dr. Miller and the Type I AC separation, and even about how we didn't have any money for college or the farm, and how I had to decide between football and basketball. Dale sat across from me the whole time, stirring her coffee, and when I was done she sighed and said, "
That blows. What are you gonna do?"

  I sighed. "They need me. And I ... I miss it."

  Dale stirred her coffee. "I didn't go to college. There wasn't money, for one thing—you know what that's like. But now I wish I had. There's a lot of jobs out there you need a degree for."

  "In barbecue?" I couldn't help but ask.

  "You'd be surprised."

  "You can go now. People do all the time."

  "Yeah. I will, someday. By that time, though, I'll probably have forgotten everything I already learned." She frowned. "Amber's being so dumb cutting school."

  "Oh." It hadn't occurred to me that the two of them might, you know, disagree. In fact, I'd kind of figured it was Dale's idea. "Did you tell her?"

  Dale laughed. "You've known her a lot longer than I have." Meaning Amber's not so big on advice, which I knew well enough. "So, are you going to play?"

  "Yeah. I mean, he didn't guarantee that I'd be too hurt for b-ball, he just warned me."

  She played with her spoon for a bit. "Amber says you're even better at hoops than football."

  I shrugged. "I'm okay."

  "Which means you rock." She smiled. "Going to college is important. It's your whole future. And it's expensive, so if you can do it for free..." She sighed. "It's none of my business, I know. But you know, I've never heard of a girl getting a scholarship for football."

  I was halfway home before I realized that Mom and Curtis were still at school and I had to turn around. Mom was pretty angry, especially because she'd been trying me on my cell phone but it was dead, which I didn't know and which I was learning was a really annoying thing about cell phones. So we didn't say too much, Mom steaming and Curtis lost in his own thoughts, and me so busy thinking about what Dale had said that I barely noticed either one of them, which explains why I forgot them in the first place.

  I didn't say too much at dinner either. Sitting in our dingy old kitchen kind of drove home everything I was thinking. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life in Red Bend—I didn't want to spend five minutes in Red Bend sometimes, everyone knowing my business and acting like it was theirs. And I sure enough didn't want to sit at this table knowing the farm was losing money, Mom and Dad not talking about it, and Curtis pretty much not talking at all. I loved football as much as I love anything, and I mattered to my team, I mattered a lot. But it wasn't going to get me out of Red Bend. The only way I could see out of here, away from this busted farm and screwed-up family, was basketball.

  "I'm going to drop football," I said.

  Dad set his fork down, but before he could open his mouth, Mom asked, "Is that your decision?"

  I nodded. It was easier looking at her than Dad.

  "You've thought it through? Anyone pressure you one way or the other?"

  "Yeah. No."

  "I'm proud of you, honey."

  Which kind of silenced Dad, seeing as Mom usually doesn't jump in like that. And Curtis of course didn't say a word.

  ***

  I called Brian but he didn't pick up and I didn't leave a message. How do you say you've decided not to play football because your family doesn't have enough money for college and you sure don't want to be stuck in Red Bend for the rest of your life with people talking about you every second? That sort of thing you need to say in person.

  At least without football practice I'd have time to get my homework done. Which if you're ever looking for something to cheer yourself up is about the very last thing on the list. It shouldn't even be on the list. It should be on a list of World's All-Time Downers, because that's sure how it felt to me.

  10. Notions That Make Turkeys Look Just Brilliant

  THURSDAY AT SCHOOL I didn't have the stomach to talk about my decision. I mean, my arm was in a sling and everything so it wasn't like my missing the Bonnelac game was too controversial. Although Beaner did ask if I could tape it or something, and he looked really disappointed when I said no. "We need you out there," he said, making me feel even worse. Maybe I didn't have to quit forever. Maybe I'd go back to Dr. Miller in a couple weeks and he'd say it was a miracle and I could play now. Maybe that was the solution ... That thought got me through Thursday afternoon and all of Friday, all the way up to the football game I wouldn't be able to play in.

  When I got to the boys' locker room, though (all the guys already suited up because heaven forbid I should see a guy's butt or something when I only have three brothers), and they were getting themselves all pumped and Beaner was doing his wolf howl, Jeff asked if he could speak to me a minute. Which was weird because he was supposed to be giving a pep talk and everything, explaining the last-minute strategy. But I followed him into his little office, cradling the sling with my good arm, and he sat down on the edge of his desk and started chewing on his mustache.

  "You know, I ran into your mom today. She happened to mention you're quitting the team." He spat out some mustache hairs.

  "I was just—I'm hoping maybe it'll heal and I won't have to," I offered. Because clearly Jeff was thinking I should have taken a moment to share this little piece of information with him.

  "From what your mom said, that doesn't sound so likely."

  "It might."

  "You think it's fair to your teammates, letting them think you're coming back?"

  I shook my head.

  "We need you, D.J.," he said.

  "I know that! You think I don't know that? You think you aren't the eighty-fifth person to tell me that?" Which, just so you know, isn't how you're supposed to talk to your coach.

  He glared at me as he opened the door. "Bill wouldn't have quit."

  "Yeah," I shot back, "and look where it got him!" Which came out totally wrong because I was trying to say that Bill plays college football and I can't, but Jeff just stomped out. And I had to spend the night on the sidelines—and it was cold too, this was mid-October—pretending like it wasn't breaking my heart to watch a game I couldn't join.

  At least we won. Bonnelac isn't such a great football school, but still, we creamed them, and Beaner ran four touchdowns so by the last one he was almost flying, he was so pumped, and it felt pretty great to be there with him whooping up a storm and slapping hands—slapping my one hand, my good one.

  After the game, though, all that changed, because we all went back to the locker room where Jeff wraps things up, and after he told everyone how well they played and congratulated Beaner, he said I had a little announcement to make. Which I hadn't been expecting at all, but I think he was still pretty furious, for reasons I can understand and other reasons that seem pretty darn selfish now that I look back on it, and I had to stand up and make my speech.

  Which was "I'm real sorry but it looks like my shoulder needs time to heal and I won't be able to play football anymore."

  "The whole season?" asked Beaner.

  I nodded. "Not—not if I want to play basketball."

  Which went over like a lead balloon. "Basketball?" Beaner said like he was saying "baton twirling" or something. And he plays basketball.

  He turned away, more disgusted than I'd ever seen him. The other guys wouldn't look at me either. Jeff told me to clean my stuff out of the girls' locker room, and by the time I got back from doing that, which I didn't do too quickly you can be sure, they were gone.

  As soon as I got outside, I could tell word had spread that D.J. Schwenk had quit football. Which wasn't fair at all because when some pro player is hurt, they never say he's quit the team, they say he's on the injured list and out for the season. I could hear words like "quitter" and "loser" as I walked through the crowd looking for Mom and Dad. Oh, it made me mad. And also want to cry because not one person besides Mom and Dale, and Brian too, seemed to understand how hard my decision had been.

  At least Dale was around, and Amber. That night I stayed up late with them, drinking beer and eating ribs one-handed because Dale wanted our opinions on these sauces she was working on although how do you tell the difference between three kinds of perfect, and all in all I was mighty g
lad to be with my two friends. My two only ones, maybe.

  Amber even invited me to sleep over, pointing out that I'd had too many beers to be driving one-handed. Frankly, I'd had too many beers to be driving with three hands even, and when I called Mom, she said it'd be great seeing as Curtis was on a sleepover as well—I guess she wanted a mini-vacation with Dad for once, the only kind of vacation the two of them get.

  And here's the thing: Dale went and sacked out in her camper, and left me and Amber in Amber's room all by ourselves, me on that beat-up old air mattress I've been sleeping on since my first sleepover there in fifth grade. Dale said that we needed some girl time, which kind of got me scratching my head because isn't that what she and Amber have all day long? But it meant that Amber and I could just hang out like we used to, before she got a girlfriend and I got a sling, and watch TV on that tiny little TV she has and do a little Bob talk and shoot the breeze. We spent a big chunk of time talking about Dale, how great she is—which Amber really liked to hear, that I agreed with her on that—and about my injury and my decision, which Amber completely supported although I think that mostly has to do with the fact she doesn't like me hanging out with all those boys.

  Anyway, we slept finally, and in the morning I woke up pretty early as always, and took off because Amber and Dale were driving to St. Paul for some party Dale's friends were having, and I sure didn't want to be the one stuck in Red Bend waving goodbye.

  When I got home, Smut just about wagged her tail off seeing me because oh my God I'd been gone all night and I guess she panicked like she always does that I might never come back. Which I was really planning on doing someday, but I didn't have the heart to tell her that. It would just make her all worried in her good-dog way. Not that I could tell her, just so you know; I'm not one of those folks who actually think they can talk to animals. But even if I could, I wouldn't want to bum her out. Or me either, for that matter, thinking about leaving her behind.