by Carl Deuker
The final day of tryouts wasn’t a tryout at all—it was a game. I knew if I didn’t play great, I’d be stuck on the freshman team.
As I lay in bed the night before the scrimmage, I thought through the next day. I was starting to get used to the helmet and shoulder pads. I just needed everything to come together. I pictured myself streaking down the sideline, hauling in a perfect strike from Hunter, making a nifty move to get past the safety, and taking it to the house.
A touchdown would shut Colton and the rest of them up.
I ran through different versions of that play, and then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew it was morning.
When I got downstairs, my parents had already finished breakfast and were heading out—my dad to his job at SeaRock Bank and my mom to her job at Metro Transit.
What to eat? I didn’t want to puke after the first hit, but I didn’t want to run out of gas either. I decided on yogurt, a blueberry muffin, and a bowl of Cheerios. Enough, but not too much.
At nine thirty, I walked to the practice field. I thought I’d be one of the first there, but when I climbed the stairs to the field I saw about sixty guys stretching out, tossing footballs around—all itching to go. I spotted Hunter and nodded to him. He surprised me by nodding back.
The coaches had divided us into teams—Red and Black. Mine was the third name called out for the Red team. After that, I listened intently for Hunter’s name. With all the bad luck I’d been having, I was afraid he’d be on the Black team, but he was on the Red team as well. That explained the earlier nod. I was still his best chance for a long TD strike, and he knew it.
Coach Payne gave us a talk about hitting hard but hitting safely, too. “No head shots. You go high and you’re off the field.”
I was flanked way out on the right side for the opening kickoff. My assignment was to race downfield, staying in my lane, and force the runner to the middle, where a swarm of guys were waiting.
My heart was thumping; my ears were ringing. Coach Payne blew his whistle and our kicker, Danny Ingram, booted the ball. It wasn’t much of a kick—the kicking game was the weakest part of the team—neither high nor deep.
The ball was headed to the opposite side of the field. I raced over that way, hoping to be able to pile on at the end of the tackle so I could get the feel of contact. But then—just like that—the return man pitched the ball to a guy coming around on a reverse. Instead of moving away from me, the whole world was suddenly headed right at me.
I was looking for the ball carrier, which is why I never saw J’Varre Dixon. But J’Varre saw me. He measured me like a lumberjack measures a tree, and then he leveled me with a shot to the ribs. A millisecond later, I was lying flat on my back, gasping for air like a fish on the sidewalk.
Somebody must have tackled the runner or forced him out of bounds, because I heard a whistle ending the play. J’Varre stood over me, grinning. Then I heard a second whistle. “No taunting! That would cost us fifteen yards in a game!” Coach Payne shouted.
J’Varre turned and raced to his side of the field, high-fiving guys as he went. I wobbled over to the sideline, found the bench, dropped my head toward my knees, and tried to keep from throwing up.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard Coach Payne’s voice. With him was Mr. Rosen, the team trainer. “You okay, kid?” Mr. Rosen asked.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Your head clear?”
“My head’s fine. He hit me in the gut.”
Mr. Rosen shone a light in my eyes and had me answer some questions. With each passing second, I felt better. Mr. Rosen turned to Coach Payne, who’d been watching the game while glancing in my direction. “He just had the wind knocked out of him.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been ridiculous to have my football career end on my first play.
Coach Payne put his hands on my shoulder pads and looked me in the eye. “All right, kid. Take ninety-nine’s spot for this series. Those guys cleaned your clock—do something good to get even.”
I pulled on my helmet, raced onto the field, and tapped ninety-nine on the shoulder. He frowned but then ran off.
On first down, Hunter handed off to our running back, who banged out a couple of yards. I put a block on the cornerback guarding me—nothing sensational, but my chip kept him out of the play.
In the huddle, Hunter looked at me. “You ready?”
I nodded.
“Okay. Left slant eighty-two on ‘Rocket.’”
I lined up on the left, my feet set properly. On Hunter’s ‘Rocket,’ I took three hard steps upfield and broke to the middle. It was a route we’d practiced over and over at Gilman Park in the summer. Hunter’s pass was on target. I was about to reach out for the ball when from the corner of my eye I saw J’Varre bearing down on me. I pulled my arms in, letting the ball sail right by me.
J’Varre didn’t pull off. His shoulder drove right into my stomach for the second time, again knocking me flat. I didn’t see the interception, didn’t see the guy run Hunter’s pass back for a TD.
I struggled to my knees and jogged off the field. I found a spot at the end of the bench, yanked off my helmet, dry-retched a few times, and then puked up the yogurt, the blueberry muffin, and the Cheerios.
I was back home a little before one. I found a hot-water bottle in the closet, filled it, and lay down on the sofa. I placed the hot-water bottle on my stomach, and the heat slowly went down into my body and took some of the pain away.
After about thirty minutes, I heard a key in the front door, and a second later my mother was standing over me.
“Your coach called,” she said. “He told me you might have broken ribs.” Her tone was more angry than concerned. “I called Doctor Jain, and he can see you at two.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Nothing’s broken.”
“You’re going to the doctor, Brock, and that’s final.”
Forty-five minutes later, a technician at Dr. Jain’s x-rayed my ribs and then led me to an examining room. Minutes later, Dr. Jain came in. I lay down on a sheet of white butcher paper while he pushed down on my chest. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
He pushed again. “How about that?”
“A little.”
“Take a deep breath. Pain?”
“Not much.”
He poked a little more and then left to look at the x-rays. When he came back, he gave me a thumbs-up. “Nothing’s broken. You’ll feel better in a day or two.”
On the drive home, my mother hardly talked. It was as if she was angry that I didn’t have broken ribs. At dinner, my father asked me about the play. “It was a slant pass over the middle.”
He frowned. “You’ve got to protect yourself on those. Your coach must have told you that.”
“Obviously, telling wasn’t good enough,” my mother said, her voice clipped. She took her plate to the sink, putting it down so hard, it broke in half.
After dinner, I went to my room and closed my door. It didn’t help—I could still hear my parents arguing in the living room. I couldn’t make out what was said, but it went on and on.
The next morning, my mom came into the kitchen while I was eating breakfast and sat across from me. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into quitting.”
I didn’t answer.
She sat looking at me for a long time. Finally, she sighed, started to stand, and then sat down again. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Join the chess club at Crown Hill High.”
It was so out of left field that I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
“The chess club?”
She nodded. “You know how to play, don’t you?”
“Sort of. Dad taught me, but I haven’t played since fifth grade. Why do you want me to join the chess club?”
“Because your dad loves chess. You could play against him. It’d be something you’d have in common. Whatever is driving this football thing will end, bu
t you two could play chess your whole lives.”
Crown Hill High was built piecemeal, so one wing is one hundred years old, while the other wing looks brand new. The long, narrow hallway connecting the two wings is called Suicide Alley. If a junior or senior wants to harass a freshman, that’s where it’s most likely to happen.
I was weaving my way through Suicide Alley, heading to my first class, when I spotted Hunter Gates. He radiated power, like a hunk of uranium. He had a bunch of kids around him—football players, other athletes, and nice-looking girls.
I sort of mumbled “Hello,” but he ignored me. I’d dropped his pass; I’d caused an interception; I was on the freshman team. Once he passed by, I breathed a sigh of relief. Okay—as far as he was concerned, I didn’t exist. But better to be invisible than to be the next Jerry Jumper.
The classes at Crown Hill High weren’t much different from classes in middle school. History, P.E., math, English, general science, and Spanish. I had English fourth period with Ms. Ringleman. I arrived a few minutes before the bell and spotted an empty seat next to an Asian kid. Was he the kid at Gilman Park whose father had been yelling at his mother, the kid who’d been shoved around by those losers?
“Anybody sitting here?” I asked.
He turned toward me, and I knew it was him. Physically he was the anti-Hunter—the last guy in the world you’d call handsome. He had black hair that stuck up, big ears that stuck out, and a chubby face. He wasn’t tall, but he looked strong in a fireplug way. “Eleven big-breasted girls have begged to sit there,” he said, his voice and face deadly serious, “but I have saved the seat for you, my Caucasian friend.”
I laughed a little—what else could I do?—and took the seat.
When Ms. Ringleman called roll, I learned his name was Richie Fang. Kids snickered as he said, “Here.” Ms. Ringleman looked down to her class list to put a check next to his name.
As soon as her eyes were off him, Fang made a vampire face, sticking his front teeth out, forming his hands into claws, and then lurching toward me. Instinctively, I pulled back, and kids laughed again. Ms. Ringleman’s head snapped up. Fang’s face became the picture of innocence, making kids laugh more and making Ms. Ringleman tell us all to quiet down.
When class ended, I headed to the lunchroom to meet the McDermotts and Trevor Marino. As I made my way down the hallway, Richie Fang walked right by my side, jabbering away about the book Ender’s Game, as if we were lifelong friends. I nodded a few times, unable to shake him. In the cafeteria, I spotted my friends. I got my food and then took a seat at their table. Richie Fang plopped down next to me. “I’m Richie Fong,” he said.
That took me back. “I thought your name was Fang.”
“No. It’s spelled F-A-N-G but it’s pronounced ‘Fong.’”
Rory tilted his head, confused. “If it’s pronounced ‘Fong,’ why don’t you spell it F-O-N-G ?”
“Because my parents are Chinese.”
It made no sense, but Richie gave out a big laugh, so we laughed along.
He talked nonstop, telling his life story all through the lunch period. His family had moved to the Seattle area two years ago. He’d gone to Canyon Park Middle School in Bothell. Before that, he’d lived in San Francisco, and before that in China in a city that he sometimes called Nanking and sometimes Nanjing. His parents both worked for UW as research scientists. “They’re world-renowned experts on genital herpes,” he said, laughing loudly. Nobody other than Richie knew what genital herpes was, but we laughed too. Like me, he had no brothers or sisters, but he loved animals. “In my room in Nanjing, I had twenty-three cockatiels that flew around my room, pooping wherever they wanted, sometimes on my head.”
That was too much. “Come on,” I said. “You didn’t own twenty-three cockatiels.”
He stuck his hand out. “You want to bet me? All right. Bet me. Twenty bucks.”
How could I prove he hadn’t had twenty-three birds in China, or a hundred and twenty-three?
“I’m not betting,” I answered.
Richie’s face was stern. “So you admit I owned twenty-three cockatiels in Nanking.”
I looked to Trevor for help, but he just shrugged.
“Whatever,” I said.
Richie smiled, turned to Trevor, motioned back at me with his thumb, and whispered, “He thinks I let twenty-three cockatiels poop on my head!”
The whole thing was loony, and none of us really got the joke, but Richie laughed, so we laughed.
Once I’d finished eating, I looked around the cafeteria. In the morning announcements, I’d heard that there’d be a chance to sign up for clubs during lunch, and I remembered my promise to my mother.
I spotted a sign for the chess club in the west corner. I picked up my tray and stood. “I’ll talk to you guys later. I’m going to sign up for the chess club.”
“The chess club?” Tim said. “Since when do you play chess?”
I tried to sound sure of myself. “My dad taught me. It’s a good game.”
As I started off, Richie was again at my elbow. “I play chess too,” he said as we first bused our dishes and then wound our way through the tables and chairs to the back corner. “My rating is eighteen thirty-seven. There’s an Internet site—Red Hot Pawn. We can play every night. My screen name is Vampire17. Can you believe there are sixteen other chess-playing vampires?”
The guy was mildly entertaining, but I wasn’t ready to sign on to be his best friend. “I’m pretty busy.”
Fang’s face grew serious. “Eighteen thirty-seven is a very good rating. I could help you.”
Other clubs had long lines of kids waiting to sign up, but not the chess club. Mr. Gupta, the coach, beamed as he took our names. “My room will be open at lunch every day,” he said, speaking with a clipped, singsong accent. “The more you play, the better you will get. We will participate in competitions throughout the year. You will never regret this. Other games are for a day; chess is for life.”
After we signed up, Richie grabbed my forearm. “I have to talk to you. I have to explain.”
Before I could object, he pulled me to a spot by a janitor’s closet. His dark eyes bore into me. “You remember me from the summer. I know you do. You were playing soccer, and I was with my parents. And then those idiots came along.”
“I sort of remember. You ate lunch, right?”
“My dad is not a bad man.”
“Why would I think anything bad about your dad?” I protested. “I don’t even know your dad.”
“Because he was yelling, and my mom was crying. But it wasn’t what it looked like.”
“I didn’t notice anything. You don’t have to explain.”
He ignored me, his words rushing out. “My mom has cancer. When she won’t eat, my dad screams at her because he’s afraid she’s going to die.”
Behind us, food trays clattered as they were dumped into busing bins. Voices shouted back and forth across the room. Some teacher was making an announcement with a bullhorn. “We are going to be friends,” he said. “You and me, so you need to know.”
The bell rang, and then we were both off to our next class.
There were fifteen hundred students at Crown Hill High. Most kids walked the halls, laughing and joking with friends, just like I did, just like Richie did. How many of them had bad stuff going on at home? A parent who was sick or a drug addict or a drunk? Or just a house where everyone screamed all the time, or where they never saw their dad or their mom? How many kids had lives that had gone off the rails? It couldn’t be only Richie and me.
That night, I went to Red Hot Pawn and signed up, giving myself the screen name of Renaldo2. I searched for Vampire17, and I sent out a challenge. I waited for a few minutes. Nothing. I was about to log on to Minecraft when a message appeared in the upper-right-hand corner of the screen: Challenge accepted.
I remembered enough about chess to start the game, but within a few moves I was in deep trouble, and within twelve I knew checkmate was near. At t
he top of the screen was a little box that said Message Opponent.
I clicked on the box and typed, I know how it is with your mom, because . . . My fingers stopped. I deleted what I’d written and made my move.
Four moves later, he checkmated me with his queen. I wrote Good game in the message box and logged off.
The next morning, when I stepped inside Ms. Ringleman’s classroom, Richie’s eyes lit up as if we were lifelong friends. The seat next to him was empty, he pointed to it, and so I had to take it. After class, he chattered away at my elbow as I walked to the cafeteria. When the other guys saw him, they gave me a look.
Again?
I shrugged, and then suddenly I didn’t care what they thought. They could go to another table, or I’d go to another table—I wasn’t telling Richie Fang to get lost.
When I was with my Whitman friends, I knew what they were going to say before they said it, but I never knew what to expect from Richie. His mind was as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. High school was supposed to be different, a place where you learned new stuff. Richie was different. And we had a bond, a sort of secret partnership, even if only I knew it.
What people think and say about Richie now, the way they judge him—they don’t know the whole story, and they don’t want to know it. They want heroes and villains, like in a cartoon. I’m not defending what Richie did, because he was wrong, but other wrongs came first.
Lots of them.
Freshman football practice started after school that day. Everything about the team was slightly off. Our equipment was old; we practiced on a baseball field; the bathroom was five minutes away. We had only one coach and only four parent volunteers, and on the first day one of the parents didn’t show up. I felt some relief—none of those huge older guys were around to annihilate me—but mainly I felt let down.