by John Grisham
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“Congratulations, Neely. You and Screamer began your adventures at the age of sixteen. Look at her now. Fat and tired.”
“Did you ever hear the rumor that she was pregnant?”
“Are you kidding? Rumors are like mosquitoes in this town.”
“The summer before our senior year, she tells me she’s pregnant.”
“What a surprise. Basic biology.”
“So we drove to Atlanta, got an abortion, drove back to Messina. I swear I never told a soul.”
“Rested twenty-four hours, then back in the rut.”
“Close.”
“Look, Neely, I’m really tired of your sex life. It was my curse for many years. Either change the subject, or I’m out of here.”
Another long awkward pause as they watched the receiving line and thought about what to say next. A breeze blew in their faces and she held her arms close to her chest. He fought the desire to reach over and hold her. It wouldn’t work.
“You’ve asked nothing about my life these days,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I stopped thinking about you a long time ago. I can’t lie, Neely. You’re just not a factor anymore.”
“You were always blunt.”
“Blunt is good. It saves so much time.”
“I sell real estate, live alone with a dog, date a girl I really don’t like, date another one with two children, and I really miss my ex-wife.”
“What caused the divorce?”
“She cracked up. She miscarried twice, the second one in the fourth month. I made the mistake of telling her I once paid for an abortion, so she blamed me for losing the babies. She was right. The real cost of an abortion is much more than the lousy three hundred bucks at the clinic.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ten years to the week after Screamer and I made our little road trip to Atlanta, my wife had the second miscarriage. A little boy.”
“I really want to leave now.”
“I’m sorry.”
______________
They sat on the front steps again. The lights were off. Mr. and Mrs. Lane were asleep. It was after eleven. “I think you should go now,” Cameron said after a few minutes.
“You’re right.”
“You said earlier that you think about me all the time now. I’m curious as to why.”
“I had no idea how painful a broken heart can be until my wife packed up and left. It was a nightmare. For the first time, I realized what you had suffered through. I realized how cruel I had been.”
“You’ll get over it. Takes about ten years.”
“Thanks.”
He walked down the sidewalk, then turned around and walked back. “How old is Jack?” he asked.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Then, statistically, he should die first. Give me a call when he’s gone. I’ll be waiting.”
“Sure you will.”
“I swear. Isn’t it comforting to know that someone will always be waiting for you?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
He leaned down and looked her in the eyes. “Can I kiss you on the cheek?”
“No.”
“There’s something magical about the first love, Cameron, something I’ll miss forever.”
“Good-bye Neely.”
“Can I say I love you?”
“No. Good-bye Neely.”
Friday
Messina mourned like never before. By ten on Friday morning the shops and cafés and offices around the square were locked. All students were dismissed from school. The courthouse was closed. The factories on the edges of the town were shut down, a free holiday, though few felt like celebrating.
Mal Brown placed his deputies around the high school, where by mid-morning the traffic was bumper to bumper on the road to Rake Field. By eleven, the home stands were almost full, and the ex-players, the former heroes, were gathering and milling around the tent at the fifty-yard line. Most of them wore their green game jerseys, a gift to every senior. And most jerseys were stretched tighter around the midsections. A few—the lawyers and doctors and bankers—wore sports coats over their game shirts, but the green was visible.
From the bleachers up above the fans looked down at the tent and the field and enjoyed the chance to identify their old heroes. Those with retired numbers caused the most excitement. “There’s Roman Armstead, number 81, played for the Packers.” “There’s Neely, number 19.”
The senior class string quartet played under the tent and the P.A. system lifted its sounds from end zone to end zone. The town kept coming.
There would be no casket. Eddie Rake was already in the ground. Miss Lila and her family arrived without ceremony and spent half an hour hugging former players in front of the tent. Just before noon, the priest appeared, and then a choir, but the crowd was far from settled. When the home bleachers were full, they began lining the fence around the track. There was no hurry. This was a moment Messina would cherish and remember.
Rake wanted his boys on the field, packed around the small podium near the edge of the tent. And he wanted them to wear their jerseys, a request that had been quietly spread in his last days. A tarp covered the track and several hundred folding chairs had been arranged in a half-moon. Around twelve-thirty, Father McCabe gave the signal and the players began packing into their seats. Miss Lila and the family sat in the front rows.
Neely was between Paul Curry and Silo Mooney, with thirty other members of the 1987 team around them. Two were dead and six had disappeared. The rest couldn’t make it.
A bagpipe at the north goalpost began wailing and the crowd became still. Silo was wiping tears almost immediately, and he was not alone. As the last melancholy notes drifted across the field, the mourners were softened up and ready for some serious emotion. Father McCabe slowly approached the makeshift podium and adjusted the microphone.
“Good afternoon,” he said in a high-pitched voice that broke sharply through the stadium speakers and could be heard half a mile away. “And welcome to our celebration of the life of Eddie Rake. On behalf of Mrs. Lila Rake, her three daughters, eight grandchildren, and the rest of the family, I welcome you and say thank you for coming.”
He flipped a page of notes. “Carl Edward Rake was born seventy-two years ago in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Forty-eight years ago he married the former Lila Saunders. Forty-four years ago he was hired by the Messina School Board as the head football Coach. At the time he was twenty-eight, had no head coaching experience, and always said he got the job because no one else wanted it. He coached here for thirty-four years, won over four hundred games, thirteen state titles, and we know the rest of the numbers. More important, he touched the lives of all of us. Coach Rake died Wednesday night. He was buried this morning in a private ceremony, family only, and at his personal request, and with the consent of the Reardon family, he was laid to rest beside Scotty. Coach Rake told me last week that he was dreaming of Scotty, said he couldn’t wait to see him up in heaven, to hold him and hug him and tell him he was sorry.”
With perfect timing, he paused to allow this to choke up the crowd. He opened a Bible.
As he was about to speak, there was a commotion near the front gate. A loud radio squawked. Car doors slammed and there were voices. People were scrambling around. Father McCabe paused and looked, and this caused everyone else to look too.
A giant of a man was walking briskly through the gate, onto the track. It was Jesse Trapp, with a prison guard at each elbow. He was wearing perfectly pressed khaki pants and shirt, prison issue, and the handcuffs had been removed. His guards were in uniform, and not much smaller. The crowd froze when they recognized him. As he walked along the sideline his head was high, his back stiff, a proud man, but he also had a look of slight bewilderment. Where should he sit? Would he fit? Would he be welcome? As he approached the end of the stands, someone in the crowd caught his attention. A voice called out, and Jesse stopped cold.
It was his mother, a tiny woman holding a place along the fence. He lunged for her and hugged her tightly over the chain-link as his guards glanced at each other to make sure that, yes, it was okay for their prisoner to hug his mother.
From a wrinkled grocery bag, Mrs. Trapp pulled out a green jersey. Number 56, retired in 1985. Jesse held it and looked down the track at the former players, all straining to see him. In front of the same ten thousand people who once screamed for him to maim opposing players, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. Suddenly, he exposed more brilliantly toned and tanned muscles than anyone had ever seen, and he seemed to pause so they, and he, could enjoy the moment. Father McCabe waited patiently, and so did everyone else.
When he had the jersey arranged just so, he pulled it over his head, then tugged here and there until it was properly in place. It strained over the biceps and was very tight across the chest and around the neck, but every other Spartan there would’ve killed to fill it so well. It was loose at the narrow waist, and when he carefully tucked it into his pants the jersey looked as if it might burst open. He hugged his mother again.
Someone applauded, then several people stood, clapping. Welcome home, Jesse, we still love you. Quickly, the bleachers rattled as people rose to their feet. A thunderous wave of applause engulfed Rake Field as the town embraced a fallen hero. Jesse nodded, then waved awkwardly as he continued his slow walk to the podium. The standing ovation grew louder as he shook hands with Father McCabe and hugged Miss Lila. He hugged his way through a haphazard aisle of former players, and finally found an empty folding chair that seemed to sink under his weight. By the time Jesse was seated and still, tears were dripping from his face.
Father McCabe waited until all was quiet again. There would be no rush on this day, no one was watching the clock. He adjusted the mike again and said, “One of Coach Rake’s favorite Scripture verses was the Twenty-Third Psalm. We read it together last Monday. His favorite lines were, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil … thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’ Eddie Rake lived his life with no fear. His players were taught that those who are timid and frightened have no place among the victors. Those who take no risks receive no rewards. A few months ago, Coach Rake accepted the reality that his death was inevitable. He was unafraid of his disease and the suffering that would follow. He was unafraid of saying good-bye to those he loved. He was unafraid of dying. His faith in God was strong and unshakable. ‘Death is just the beginning,’ he liked to say.”
Father McCabe bowed slightly and backed away from the podium. On cue, an all-female choir from a black church began humming. They wore scarlet and gold robes, and, after a short warm-up, launched into a boisterous rendition of “Amazing Grace.” The music stirred emotions, as it always does on such occasions. And memories. Every Spartan player was soon lost in his own images of Eddie Rake.
For Neely, thoughts of Rake always began with the slap in the face, the broken nose, the punch that knocked out his Coach, and the dramatic comeback for the state title. And he always fought himself to move on, to get past that painful moment and recapture the good times.
Rare is the Coach who can motivate players to spend their lives seeking his approval. From the time Neely first put on a uniform in the sixth grade, he wanted Rake’s attention. And in the next six years, with every pass he threw, every drill he ran, every play he memorized, every weight he lifted, every hour he spent sweating, every pregame speech he gave, every touchdown he scored, every game he won, every temptation he resisted, every honor roll he made, he coveted Eddie Rake’s approval. He wanted to see Rake’s face when he won the Heisman. He dreamed of Rake’s phone call when Tech won the national title.
And rare is the Coach who compounds every failure long after the playing days are over. When the doctors told Neely he would never play again, he felt as if he had fallen short of Rake’s ambitions for him. When his marriage dissolved, he could almost see Rake’s disapproving scowl. As his small-time real estate career drifted with no clear ambition, he knew Rake would have a lecture if he got close enough to hear it. Maybe his death would kill the demon that dogged him, but he had his doubts.
Ellen Rake Young, the eldest daughter, walked to the podium when the choir was finished and unfolded a sheet of paper. Like her sisters, she had wisely fled Messina after high school, and returned only when family matters required. Her father’s shadow was too mammoth for his children to survive in such a small place. She was in her mid-forties, a psychiatrist in Boston, and had the air of someone who was out of place.
“On behalf of our family, I thank you for your prayers and support during these last weeks. My father died with a great deal of courage and dignity. Though his last years here were not some of his best, he loved this town and its people, and he especially loved his players.”
Love was not a word any of the players had ever heard their Coach use. If he’d loved them, he’d had a strange way of showing it.
“My father has written a short note that he asked me to read.” She adjusted her reading glasses, cleared her throat, and focused on the sheet of paper. “This is Eddie Rake, speaking from the grave. If you are crying, please stop.” This brought scattered laughter from the crowd, which was anxious for a light moment. “I’ve never had any use for tears. My life is now complete, so don’t cry for me. And don’t cry for the memories. Never look back, there’s too much left to do. I’m a lucky man who lived a wonderful life. I had the good sense to marry Lila as soon as I could talk her into it, and God blessed us with three beautiful daughters, and, at last count, eight perfect grandchildren. This alone is enough for any man. But God had many blessings in store for me. He led me to football, and to Messina, my home. And there I met you, my friends, and my players. Though I was emotionally unable to convey my feelings, I want my players to know that I cherished every one of them. Why would any sane person coach high school football for thirty-four years? For me it was easy. I loved my players. I wish I had been able to say so, but it was simply not my nature. We accomplished much, but I will not dwell on the victories and the championships. Instead, I choose this moment to offer two regrets.” Ellen paused here and cleared her throat again. The crowd appeared to hold its collective breath. “Only two regrets in thirty-four years. As I said, I’m a lucky man. The first is Scotty Reardon. I never dreamed I would be responsible for the death of one of my players, but I accept the blame for his death. Holding him in my arms as he passed away is something I have wept over every day since. I have expressed these feelings to his parents, and, with time, I think they have forgiven me. I cling to their forgiveness and take it to my death. I am with Scotty now, and for eternity, and as we look down together at this moment we have reconciled our past.” Another pause as Ellen took a sip of water. “The second involves the state title game in 1987. At halftime, in a fit of rage, I physically assaulted a player, our quarterback. It was a criminal act, one that should have had me banned from the game forever. I am sorry for my actions. As I watched that team rally against enormous odds, I have never felt such pride, and such pain. That victory was my finest hour. Please forgive me, boys.”
Neely glanced around him. All heads were low, most eyes were closed. Silo was wiping his face.
“Enough of the negative. My love to Lila and the girls and the grandkids. We’ll all meet very soon across the river, in the promised land. May God be with you.”
The choir sang “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” and the tears were flowing.
Neely couldn’t help but wonder if Cameron was keeping her emotions in check. He suspected that she was.
Rake had asked three of his former players to deliver eulogies. Short ones, he had demanded in writing from his deathbed. The first was given by the Honorable Mike Hilliard, now a circuit court judge in a small town a hundred miles away. Unlike most of the former Spartans, he wore a suit, one with wrinkles, and a crooked bow tie. He grabbed the podium with both hands and didn’t need notes.
“I played on Coach Rake’s first team in 1958,” he began in a squeaky voice with a thick drawl. “The year before we had won three games and lost seven, which, back then, was considered a good season because we beat Porterville in our final game. The Coach left town and took his assistants with him, and for a while we weren’t sure we would find anyone to coach us. They hired this young guy named Eddie Rake, who wasn’t much older than we were. The first thing he told us was that we were a bunch of losers, that losing is contagious, that if we thought we could lose with him then we could hit the door. Forty-one of us signed up for football that year. Coach Rake took us off to an old church camp over in Page County for August drills, and after four days the squad was down to thirty. After a week we were down to twenty-five and some of us were beginning to wonder if we’d survive long enough to field a team. The practices were beyond brutal. The bus for Messina left every afternoon, and we were free to get on it. After two weeks the bus was empty and it stopped running. The boys who quit came home telling horror stories of what was happening at Camp Rake, as it was soon called. Our parents were alarmed. My mother told me later she felt like I was off at war. Unfortunately, I’ve seen war. And I would prefer it over Camp Rake.
“We broke camp with twenty-one players, twenty-one kids who’d never been in such great shape. We were small and slow and didn’t have a quarterback, but we were convinced. Our first game was at home against Fulton, a team that had embarrassed us the year before. I’m sure some of you remember it. We led twenty to nothing at halftime and Rake cussed us because we’d made some mistakes. His genius was simple—stick to the basics, and work nonstop until you can execute them perfectly. Lessons I have never forgotten. We won the game, and we were celebrating in the locker room when Rake walked in and told us to shut up. Evidently our execution had not been perfect. He told us to keep our gear on, and after the crowd left we came back to this field and practiced until midnight. We ran two plays until all eleven guys got everything perfect. Our girlfriends were waiting. Our parents were waiting. It was nice to win the game, but folks were beginning to think Coach Rake was crazy. The players already knew it.