The Off Season

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  "That guy just offered you a job," Bill said.

  "Yeah, right. A 'job' being the cripple in the wheelchair—'Oh, isn't he brave, look how good football is to him.' It's complete crap."

  "It didn't sound like that to me," I put in.

  "You're not the one lying here. So why don't both of you just get out of my room. And while you're at it, go home! I don't need your pity, I don't need your help, I don't need anyone." He lay there glaring at us, the collar looking almost like football gear around his neck, and for a moment I thought he was going to climb right out of that bed and start swinging, he seemed so full of anger. So full of life.

  And, well, I snapped. All the garbage I'd been through, all the stress of Brian and Amber and Curtis and Dad and my shoulder and Mom's back and our lack of money, not to mention all the stress of Win, all of a sudden exploded right out of me. And that's when it happened.

  24. There Aren't No Miracles on Schwenk Farm

  GRANDPA WARREN WAS ABOUT the most nonreligious person I know. He wasn't one of those atheists always complaining about nativity scenes and stuff—those folks are just as pushy as some born-agains. It's more that he didn't care. He only went to church that one time, and while he might mention God in cussing, mostly the higher powers stayed out of his conversation altogether. I asked him once if he believed in heaven, and he said he was a farmer, he was happy just being dirt.

  One summer he cleaned out our raggedy old toolshed, which is a huge project, getting all covered with grease and rust and cobwebs, taking a couple beers with him in the afternoons to ease the pain. Well, after a full week including Sunday he got it done, and of course we all went to see because we were curious and also it would have set him off if we hadn't, and we stood there gaping at all those perfect shelves, the tools where they should be for once, the lawn tractor with all its attachments hanging like a store display or something.

  "Why, Warren, it's a miracle in here," said Mom.

  Grandpa Warren snorted. "There aren't no miracles on Schwenk Farm, Linda. You know that." Then he went on to say that if God had been out there cleaning the shed, He sure had kept His presence quiet, and that next time Grandpa would appreciate a little more participation on the Lord's part, should He be so inclined.

  I've thought about this story a lot these past weeks. Of course Win is named after Grandpa and all, but mainly I can't help thinking about it whenever anyone uses that word "miracle." Every time I hear it I nod, or shrug if I'm in that kind of mood, and think that I could have used more of the Lord's participation in those first weeks, and in the weeks following to tell you the truth. I'll probably end up getting hit by a thunderbolt or something, but I can't help it.

  And if I don't get hit by a thunderbolt for being sacrilegious, I'll get hit for being just plain mean because that's what I was. I won't lie.

  Because what happened was, I stood there glaring at Win lying there so furious, unable even to wipe his eyes and yet still looking like he could jump right up, and I blasted him.

  "You have no idea, do you? You have no idea who you are. All you can think about is how sorry everyone feels for you, how you want to die. Fine, go ahead. The Packers will find someone else. There are two thousand guys out there who'd cut their arm off to work for that team. Guys who know everything there is to know about football. Some of them maybe even know more than you. Do you think? Do you think that maybe out there in this entire enormous country is one person who knows more about football than you do?" Oh, I was hot.

  Bill gaped at me. At least I think he did. I was too mad to really notice.

  "Shut up," Win snarled.

  "Yeah, probably. But none of them are getting offered jobs. Not because they're not crippled. Not because their necks aren't broken. It's because they're not you. They want you."

  "Shut up!"

  "You—in high school you got twenty guys to come out all summer to a field full of cow poop, their moms driving them at six in the morning sometimes, because of you. Because you care so much you get everyone else caring too. And that doesn't have anything to do with your neck or your body. It's just who you are."

  I was crying now, I admit. I could barely talk, I was crying so hard. Bill had backed himself into the corner trying to get away—he'd have climbed out the window if he could, probably.

  "I swear to God, Win, you could crawl across the grass with your teeth and you'd still make those players care. You could coach anything—you could coach basketball. You could coach me! And if you throw away a chance at pro ball when most guys work twenty years for one shot—when Bill's giving up his whole life, and me too, just to take care of you ... Fine. As far as I'm concerned, my brother is already dead."

  Which was kind of a dramatic exit line for someone who usually thinks them up three or four weeks later. But I stomped right out because if I hadn't, I would have punched him. And I raced into the bathroom with the wide doors and the special low sinks and tilted mirrors and locked myself in the handicapped stall because right then I didn't care about any handicapped female who might need to pee, and I cried. I sat in the corner, my head against that cold tile wall, and I sobbed. I couldn't go on like this. I really couldn't. Dr. Rosenberger had said that people who want to die usually succeed, and right now that was looking like a pretty good option for me. I could jump off the building maybe, although that would require leaving the bathroom. Or take some of those pills that people on TV always seem to have available when they want to off themselves, if only I knew what kinds of pills those were. And had some.

  It was pretty comfortable sitting here, actually—a lot more comfortable than the bathroom at home. It didn't smell. Probably got cleaned every day. I could stay here awhile, which wouldn't be a bad thing seeing as I was beginning to wonder how loud I'd been, how much the nurses had heard me bawling out my crippled brother. Which I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do no matter how much they deserve it. Those nurses were probably calling a psychia-lady right now, getting ready to take me away.

  Someone came into the bathroom, and I pulled my feet in close so I wouldn't get seen. The footsteps got closer until they were right outside my door.

  "D.J.?"

  It was Bill. He peered over the top of the stall. "Could you come out here a minute?"

  "You're not supposed to be in here, you know," I managed to say. Then with a big sigh I stood up and tried to get past him without showing my face and all its red tear marks, and washed some of them off while he waited, and he handed me a paper towel, which was nice, and walked me back to Win's room.

  "Do it again," a nurse was saying with this really strange expression, her eyes on Win's right foot.

  And Win, with a look of total concentration, wiggled his toes.

  I screamed. I didn't even realize I was screaming until Bill threw his arms around me and spun me in the air like I weighed absolutely nothing, which I don't, and the nurse grabbed the phone to page the doctor because nothing counts until a doctor sees it.

  "Jeez, you two, chill out," Win said.

  And the doctor came and Win did it again, and then tried to do his other foot and almost could, you could see the muscles flexing sometimes, which is what really matters, and then he said he was really tired and wanted to sleep. So the doctor left to go write this all up, and Bill and I rearranged Win like you should, and he closed his eyes.

  "Sweet dreams, bro," Bill said. Bill looked fit to burst, he was so happy.

  I adjusted his sheets, bursting myself, just itching to call Mom and tell her.

  "Hey, D.J.," Win whispered. "Wear your b-ball shoes tomorrow."

  "What?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"

  He shut his eyes, already half asleep. "Because I'm your new coach."

  Mom called it a miracle, of course. But like I said, it's not. I don't think it is, anyway. Bill and I have talked a lot about it, and you know what I think? Those first weeks that Win couldn't move his body or feel anything, he was still too caught up in football and not being able to
play. He wouldn't let himself feel—literally—anything else. Win even told me later—he was kind of sheepish about it, to his credit—that he'd had a hunch for a while that he could wiggle his toes a bit. He'd practice sometimes when he was alone. But he didn't tell anyone because he wasn't talking for one thing, and also because he was afraid it might not be true, and that even if it was true, he wouldn't be able to do it when people asked, because if you can't move "at will," it doesn't count. Also I think he didn't tell anyone because to his mind wiggling his toes was so insignificant compared to what he used to be able to do, especially when even trying to wiggle took every bit of his concentration. And it wasn't until he'd been presented with some real options, coaching options, that he began to see that toe wiggling might actually lead to something worthwhile.

  I mean, I'm not a psychia-lady or anything but that's my theory, and Bill at least thinks it's a pretty good one, not that he's got any more brains than I do for this stuff. Also, I have a suspicion it was getting a little boring even for Win just to lie there all day feeling sorry for himself and yelling at people. As boring as it was getting for everyone else.

  And let me clarify: it wasn't like, Win is cured! That little toe movement was the first tiny step of a huge trip. So don't think it ended, all the work and the huge fights, the crying and screaming sometimes. In a lot of ways, that story is just beginning.

  Which brings up another story that's kind of relevant to this whole thing. Remember Win and his baseball cards, how he didn't talk to Bill for a month? Well, I forgot to mention—because I forgot myself, forgot until after I'd yelled at him—how it ended. We were all at dinner, Win totally ignoring Bill like he'd been doing for weeks, and Dad turned to Win and said, "This isn't how a captain acts, you know."

  Win got up and stomped into the bathroom. I remember whispering, "Uh-oh" to myself, because even then Win could, you know, determine the mood of a room. After a couple minutes the toilet flushed and Win came out wiping his hands on his shirt, and he sat down and said to Bill, "Pass the potatoes, could you?" And that was the end of that. Like absolutely nothing had happened.

  Sound kind of familiar?

  25. Win Wasn't Captain for Nothing

  TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH, there were times I really missed Win sulking because it wasn't such a barrel of monkeys now that he was talking again. I don't know how a patient is supposed to act, but I have a feeling that bugging the doctors with a million questions, and demanding real rehab right in the middle of physical therapy, and getting on my case a hundred times a day about basketball—and all of this on major painkillers and muscle relaxants and stuff ... I mean, that's a lot.

  Plus he told Bill to go back to college. ordered him, really. He said Bill needed to keep playing football no matter what because his team needed him and so did the pros, and it was just a horribly bad and wimpy idea for Bill to even think about dropping football—which Bill had talked about with me a couple times as the two of us sat next to Win's bed back when he ignored us and pretended to be asleep. Which showed now just how much he'd been faking, because he lit into Bill about how rare injuries like his were, and how Bill needed to show courage for the other players, and for Win too. It was like a movie speech or something.

  Plus he said it was a waste of time for Bill to hang around the hospital when Win had me. Which I think he meant as a compliment, that I was so helpful and stuff. So Bill made us promise to call every day and send pictures, and keep some beer in the fridge for him, and he gave me a huge hug and started crying, saying I'd saved Win's life, which was a little heavy, and then I got stuck with the SCI Energizer Bunny.

  I've always said Win was born to be a coach—just look at that big inspiring speech he gave Bill. Well, once Bill listened to him and left, Win didn't have anyone else to take his coaching urges out on, the way some dogs need to chew and will use a shoe if they don't have a stick or a bone to work on. So he took them out on me.

  The first thing he did was grill me on my shoulder, and insisted the rehab doctors look at it. They said, maybe just to shut him up, that I should take it easy throwing still and do all those PT exercises I'd let slide, and Win looked at me like, Hey, your problems are over. Then he pointed out I was looking pretty flabby there. Weeks of sitting around the hospital, plus resting my shoulder and taking care of Mom, hadn't done anything for my strength, or my wind, which he said like it was my fault and wouldn't even admit that he might have had something to do with it, and instead he just told me to wear workout clothes when I came in every day. Just so you know, this was one of those times I wished he'd go back to sulking. But I kept that to myself.

  Because he was now recovering and all, Win was totally into a bunch of stuff he'd flat-out rejected a few days before, like traveling around the hospital in a wheelchair. Which was a huge bunch of PT in and of itself, learning to transfer from the bed to the chair with a PT helping him, and her teaching the two of us how to do it ourselves. The first big trip we took off the floor, we visited the hospital gym, and it just about broke my heart. A couple guys in those loose pants paras wear when they're first practicing how to dress themselves sat there struggling to shoot from their chairs, every basket—every throw—taking so much effort. That was one of the bad times, actually, when Win went back to his old self for a while, not talking at all or helping me transfer him to bed. It wasn't until he slept for a couple hours, and cried some from the looks of it, that he returned to being bossy and extra hard-working.

  Luckily, pretty soon after Win's change of heart and Bill's departure, I was in his room reading him this article and trying to decipher the medical mumbo jumbo with a big textbook from the rehab library when this guy wheeled in. He wasn't the kind of individual you see much of in Red Bend, and I don't just mean the wheelchair. He was shaved bald with tattoos up and down his arms, and fingerless gloves and huge basketball sneakers that looked like they'd never been used. Which, duh, they hadn't.

  "And how are you two doing today?" he asked. Like he was a salesman or something.

  "Okay," I said, kind of cautiously.

  If he took offense, though, he didn't show it. "I am Dennis, the one-man committee of welcome. I know all about you," he said to Win. "You're a football C5 incomplete. But I don't know you," he added, pointing at me.

  "I'm, um, his sister. D.J."

  "Well, little sister, come sit in my lap." He patted his bony legs, then laughed at my face. "Don't worry! You should see the size of some of the ladies I've had here." He grinned at Win.

  I was shocked—completely and totally shocked. But Win just grinned back. "That a fact?"

  "This chair is like honey to a bee. Girls come around like, 'Oh, aren't you something.'" All of a sudden Dennis grabbed his wheels and—boom!—tipped over on his back, so far his head almost touched the floor. Like he was having a seizure or something. I gave this huge holler and Win gasped, and all at once Dennis was sitting right back up again—he'd pulled himself up.

  Well, that knocked us out.

  Dennis grinned. "You see that? That's a thunderball trick I know."

  "What's thunderball?" Win asked.

  "It's basketball for men. Basketball for wheelers. You play any hoops?"

  "A bit, in high school."

  "Well, you need to get out there, get yourself some moves." He wheeled closer to the bed. "Listen, don't you go badmouthing the chair. Everyone's hung up on walking like it's a trophy or something. Well, you can spend the rest of your life trying to walk or you can spend the rest of your life living. You hear what I'm saying?" He made a fist and reached out to Win.

  Win couldn't make a fist, but he raised his arm enough to connect.

  "You two come on down to the gym, you'll see some real ball." He rolled out, popping a wheelie.

  I blinked after him. "Jeez."

  Win didn't say anything. But he stared at the doorway for some time.

  The next time Win and I stopped by the gym, Dennis and some other guys in big elbow pads were playing pickup, and after a
couple seconds it was clear that shooting was the least of their problems—the main issue was that one of them was going to get killed. They'd crash into each other, and wave their arms in each other's faces just like real b-ball players only they were spinning their wheelchairs everywhere, and their language wasn't something you'd want your grandma hearing.

  "Hey there!" Dennis came zooming over. "How are ya?"

  "You got an extra ball?" Win asked.

  "Sure thing. You ready to give it a try?"

  "Not me," Win said, rolling his eyes in my direction.

  Dennis looked me over. "I see what you mean there..."

  At first I thought Win was going to make me play pickup with them, which I wouldn't do no matter what—it wasn't fair because I could intercept just about any shot, and it also wasn't fair because they'd roll into me and I'd end up with a broken leg. Instead I went to the other end of the court and started shooting three-pointers, keeping it gentle to hold off that shoulder twinge.

  "Oooh," I could hear Dennis behind me. "Check it out there!"

  "Drop the camera," Win said from the sidelines, which I learned was his term for showing off. "You're playing! Make a space for yourself." Which meant don't just shoot, but use my elbows like I had two defenders on me, and spin a little, and dribble, and imagine the game and the pressure instead of just playing Horse.

  Win seemed to feel I was just about the worst basketball player he'd ever seen. He kept yelling all the things I should be doing. Plus he was turning his whole body as much as possible, using all the muscles he could, to watch my shots because of course he couldn't turn his head. Within fifteen minutes we were both soaked, and he was so hoarse he could barely talk. But he talked enough to order some wind sprints, which I did even though I didn't want to because, well, he's Win, and also I knew sure as shooting that wind sprints happen every day at b-ball and I might as well get used to them.