The Corn Husk Experiment
Page 10
“Go on,” said Misty.
“Do you know what he said?”
“Tell me.”
“He said, ‘That’s actually a good idee-yer.’”
“Well, good,” Misty said, sincerely congratulating her mother for a job well done.
“No, not good,” the elder woman snapped in disgust.
“What? Why?”
“His word ‘actually’ is why. ‘That is actually a good idee-yer?’ I hate when people say that crap.”
“Mom!”
“Sorry, I get all revved up. See that? It’s almost as though he assumes my idee-yers are going to be dumb ones. That is actually a good idee-yer—heh! Well, let me tell you, that guy is actually a royal butthead.”
“Mother!”
The elder woman didn’t always have the most elegant choice of words, but her ability to change a mood was often beautiful.
“Speaking of hotdogs, who would like one? Theyah on me,” she said.
“Yes, please!” both boys shouted.
“Oh, look who’s listening all of a sudden. Fine, then. Hotdogs all around. Please come give me a hand, Oscah. I’d ask my adorable grandson, but he’s glued to the edge of his seat watching Bevin’s preparations.”
“Devin, Grandma. The quarterback’s name is Devin.”
“So sorry, my de-ah boy. I will leave ya in peace so you can study your stats.”
The woman knew her grandson well. Henry settled into his hard seat and opened his program to review the players’ pictures, sizes, and positions. He knew UB had a promising team this year—perhaps even a big bowl-worthy team—and he felt confident that the day’s game would be an easy win.
Misty broke the silence—as she always did—between them.
“You know, Henry, your grandma said the dogs were on her, but we’re gonna have to pay for them.”
Henry peeked over the edge of his program with slight interest.
“We’re gonna hear another speech about the cost of four hotdogs here. That alone will be a price to pay,” she explained with a wink.
Henry nodded in agreement before quickly and silently returning his gaze to the program. Misty looked at it too even though her mind was on other things.
Her mother and Oscar returned with lunch.
“Good thing I make a whopping $300 a week as a cashie-ah,” the elder woman said. “What is it with this place? Are hotdogs the new fine dinin’? Would you believe it cost nearly $30 for fo-ah dogs with sodas?”
Prickly on the outside and tender within, Henry’s grandmother often reminded the boy of a porcupine. To prevent her beloved grandson from feeling guilty, she quickly continued.
“Ya know, I may be crazy, but I’d do it again tomorrah. Theyah no othah people I’d rather have lunch with and no othah place I’d rathah be at. Thanks for includin’ this old lady. Cheeyahs, you guys.”
“Thanks for lunch, Ma.”
“Thanks,” echoed the appreciative boys.
As four hotdog buns dripping in ketchup and mustard united in celebration, the crowd and marching band came to life. The red-and-gold Falcons had taken the field.
The match didn’t take off as Henry expected. The opposing team’s defense was powerful and relentless at rushing the passer, and after three quarters, the teams’ points were tied.
“Yo-ah stah co-ah-taback is takin’ a beatin’ my de-ah Henry, but he’s a fightah,” Henry’s grandmother bellowed.
Henry nodded, but he wished the score wasn’t so close.
In the game’s final minutes, quarterback Devin Madison showed everyone in the stadium why he was Boston’s golden boy. With the number four on his back, he showed off a quartet of skills in the fourth quarter—late-game adjusting, calm play-calling, elusive scrambling, and aggressive throwing. In the last 15 minutes, Devin attempted a dozen passes and completed all of them for 151 yards. He also threw two touchdown passes and zero interceptions in the final quarter. His defensive line held strong when it counted and in the final moments gave up only a field goal to the other side.
As the seconds ticked down on the scoreboard, Boston’s home crowd gave off renewed energy as its team exited the field. Most were thrilled to have witnessed a close game with their Falcons gritting it out in the end.
“It’s gonna be a special season, man. Number four has got what it takes, I think,” Henry overheard a chipper man say behind him.
To his front, a younger group of guys drunkenly sang part of the school’s fight song:
“O Falcons’ nest, O Falcons’ nest, hither opponents come!
Set forth your best, through every test, your glory shan’t be unsung!”
Despite the team’s thrilling win, Henry and the rest of his party were subdued. They remained still in the stands like the last moviegoers to leave a theater. They sat as though they were clinging to every last credit. None of them wanted the game to end. Leaving the stadium meant returning to one kind of harsh reality or another. It meant returning to a challenging school, home, or work situation.
Instead of ripping their bandages off quickly to shorten the pain, Misty had another idea.
“You know what, I hate battling the crowds,” she said. “Let’s let everyone go on first.”
And so they sat, enjoying every last bit of the crisp September air until the smells of pretzels and hot chocolate faded and the rowdy crowd dispersed into a quiet dusk.
“Alrighty, troops,” Misty finally declared with as much cheer as she could muster.
The four worked their way out of the stadium, through the grand New England campus, and into Misty’s old sedan that noisily made its familiar route out of the city toward home. As they passed the restaurant where Misty served pizzas and other greasy entrées in Kenmore Square, Misty hoped she wasn’t missing a good night of pay. Even with free tickets, a trip for four to the game wasn’t cheap, she thought.
“Do you think we should all stop in and thank yo-ah boss?” asked her mother from the passenger side.
“Nah, Mom, I’ll thank him on Monday,” Misty said before turning to her with a whisper. “We’ve stalled long enough. Time to get back now.”
“It was a fun day, wasn’t it, boys?” asked the elder woman in a voice loud enough for them to hear if they were sitting in the back row of a bus, never mind the backseat of the car.
“It was great!” Oscar shouted back.
“The best,” added Henry.
Henry looked over at his best friend, who was battling the restriction of his seatbelt, apparently searching through his coat pocket for a snack. Henry reached into his own and handed over a baggie filled with pretzels, a favorite for them both at school during their show-and-tell time on Friday afternoons. The sight of the snack made Henry wonder whether he should raise his hand for once during the next session to tell the class about the game. He could try to relay Devin’s level of coolness in hopes that the students would think Henry was cool for having witnessed it. But raising his hand wasn’t Henry’s style. Instead, he would stay quiet and hope Oscar would do the bragging for them both.
Oscar munched through the last salty bit as Henry took in every last sight of the city through the car window. In less than an hour, he would be back in the quiet of his bedroom, where he would hide even from his grandmother the fact that he was writing what he thought to be embarrassing stories or dreading the next school day.
CHAPTER 13
JP
The Destined One
Even though JP could’ve easily lived at home with the Syracuse College professors he called Mom and Dad, it was his parents who had insisted that he live on campus with the rest of his SC teammates and classmates.
“Living there is at least half of the college experience,” said his mother.
“It could save a lot of dough, you know,” JP countered politely yet half-heartedly. “It would make sense if I lived here with you and drove in. Campus is only like a minute from home. I could practically run it.”
“Nope, we’re booting you ou
t, you big shot!”
“Honey!” the professor shouted toward her husband. “JP knows he’s welcome here anytime. That’s not the least bit funny.”
“Yeah, it is, and I love ya both for it,” JP said. “Fine, I’ll get out of your hair, but I’m still coming to visit for the home cooking. Or is that off limits now too?”
“No casa, no queso,” the anthropology professor said.
The warm smile of JP’s mother gave the young man the true answer, one he already knew.
So on a bright morning near the school year’s start, the professors packed up both of the family’s cars and drove JP and his belongings the seven miles to East Campus, a corner of Syracuse College that the professors rarely saw, despite working at the college each weekday.
While the community suddenly resembled stacks of concrete shoeboxes to JP’s mother, the rows upon rows of far-from-fancy apartments were loved by the majority of the university’s athletes who—like JP—chose to call East Campus home because of its proximity to the athletes’ locker rooms, practice spaces, weight rooms, and coaching offices. The opportunity to live among teammates who silently understood each other’s pressures to perform in and out of the classroom was perhaps an even greater unspoken perk on “East.”
As the Hemmings’ matching Saabs pulled onto Winding Ridge, JP’s mother turned her scrutinizing gaze toward a handful of athletic giants who had squeezed into lawn chairs to cheer on a pair of wrestling teammates. She was accustomed to SC football and basketball players’ extraordinary size as they struggled to fit the writing tables over their laps in her classroom over the years. Inside her car, she nervously adjusted her big glasses and decided that the giants seemed much gentler on her turf. She questioned whether moving out and moving on were the right decisions for her baby boy after all. Even though he was far from the fragile infant she had adopted, he was still especially small, particularly among these young men. Not wanting JP to detect her growing fear, she quickly felt grateful that he was riding in their other car with her husband.
“My money’s on the big guy,” the anthropology professor said inside the other Saab, as father and son watched JP’s new teammates tussle on the lawn. “Can’t go wrong with that bet, can I, JP? It’s like flipping a double-sided coin.”
Both cars pulled closer to a row of apartments, and as they inched to a stop, so did the playful fighting in front of them. All eyes were on the professors and the young man, who didn’t look anything like either of them.
“My dear boy, I do believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen you blush. Shall we exit the car? Oh, and don’t worry about them. I’ve got this.”
His father “having this” was exactly what JP feared most in such a crucial moment. While he loved the man, he also understood that students more often laughed at him than with him. JP suddenly wished he were riding with his mother. She has the ability to ease any situation, he thought.
Three car doors opened and three family members stepped into the hot autumn sunshine with a quiet crowd and the smell of dry grass surrounding them.
“My dear boys,” JP’s dad said to the guys as he tucked his shirt cleanly into his pants. “Or shall I say men? Let me start over. My dear gentlemen! I would like to introduce you to, drum roll please, the newest member of your team.”
All of the players’ eyes went to JP.
“I’m sorry, mister, but if you’re looking for the gymnastics club’s row on behalf of your…little friend there, you might want to try those apartments over there on Small Road,” said one of them through growing snickers.
“Can it, Whistler,” JP’s mother whispered just loudly enough for all to hear. “I have you in my political science class again this semester, and I know you don’t want to fail again.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh,” sang a chorus of teammates with wild exaggeration.
“Ouch,” replied Whistler with a dramatic curtsy. “Yes, ma’am. I can start over. So who do we have here? One of your more scholarly students than myself?”
“We have here the running back who rushed for nearly 1,000 yards for his team last year, a running back who can sprint the 40-yard-dash in 4.5 seconds. We have here…my son.”
The laughter stopped. All that remained was the quiet panting from the two wrestlers.
“Thanks for all the introductions, Mom and Dad, but I can talk for myself,” JP said with a laugh that managed to contain only a hint of embarrassment before turning his attention to Whistler.
“Don’t worry, man. I’m used to the small talk.”
Thank heavens, his mother said to herself. Like mother, like son with the comebacks. Please, may he do as well on the field.
As the teammates picked up the first round of JP’s boxes and bags and made their way toward his apartment, Whistler jogged up to JP and removed a suitcase from his new teammate’s small but strong hands.
“So you’re JP,” Whistler said.
“Yeah, man, how’d you know?”
“You’re my new roomie.”
The pair laughed at life’s irony.
“Coach Flash told us about you, you know. The stats sounded familiar. Some of the guys said they practiced once with you.”
“Coach told you about me?”
“We heard all about the local walk-on who had the thousand-yard season, thanks in large part to a quote-unquote hard work ethic and positive attitude. He even had a book of your stats. I don’t know who your agent was, so to speak, but he sure sold Flash. Everyone was pretty impressed. Coach failed to mention your size, though. He must’ve been trying to win us over before the rest of us laid eyes on ya.”
The new roommates laughed a little harder than before and found themselves on the second floor at their modest apartment.
“Listen, man, I’m a wise pain in the butt,” Whistler said. “I can’t help it, but I think you’ll find I’m not that bad of a guy. So you can see I took the bigger bedroom up here, but in return, I promise I’ve got your back—or your front really—when you’re rushing.”
“I’m the fourth-string running back,” JP said, suddenly feeling a need to manage others’ expectations. “Dude, I’m pretty much here to make your practices better. I’m not going to see any playing time. Appreciate it, though.”
“What happened to Mr. Positivity? You never know, JP. In this game of ours, far crazier things have happened.”
“Mom, could you please pass the corn on the cob?” JP asked during his first Sunday dinner home since moving to college.
Despite only a week passing, JP’s time away felt much longer for all three of the Hemmings. His father missed the noise in the house. The home suddenly seemed too quiet without JP bounding down the stairs for breakfast at a speed that made him sound like he was falling. His mother missed her son’s hugs. As a boy, JP was cuddly. It was a quality that had dulled a bit with age and acting cool, but even as a teenager, it had never disappeared completely. JP missed his family’s round dinner table, a spot in the house that reminded him that he belonged somewhere.
The professor instinctively passed her son the butter and salt.
“So tell us how it feels to be a running back for the Orange and Navy.”
“Fullback,” the other professor corrected.
“Backup fullback,” JP corrected them both, baiting his mother to fire out questions faster than a quarterback’s snap.
“What? You’re not running the ball anymore? They’re changing the position you’ve held since grade school?”
“Whoa! Mom, fullbacks are in the same family as running backs, just like the halfback or tailback.”
“So you’re still running the ball?”
“No, Ma. The halfback runs. The fullback blocks for the quarterback on passin’ plays, and I’ll block for the halfback on running plays. Shifts happen when there are multiple backs. I still start each play behind the quarterback, so you’ll be able to pick me out of the lineup just as easily. You’ll have to come to a practice if you want to see me play, though.”
“Are you insinuating my size is too small to block?” JP asked sarcastically, knowing that his small height—and weight—were the elephant that seemed to follow him onto every practice field, in every classroom, and across campus apartments these days.
“Maybe you should have your old high-school coach talk with this twin brother of his,” she said.
“Yes,” piped up JP’s father with a deep chuckle he couldn’t contain. “Let’s have Tweedledee talk to Tweedledum. My heavens, their nicknames are too much. What are they now?”
As JP’s dinner cooled before him, his passion was beginning to heat up.
“Pops, the old coach is Crash and the new one’s Flash, his twin. They also happen to be two guys who stuck their necks out for me. Can we take it easy?”
“I still don’t think it would be a bad thing to at least clue your old coach in to all of these changes,” said the professor with the type of tireless persistence a mother sometimes manages to get away with, if not this time.
“Listen. Holding out for a Division 1 school was a gamble I knowingly took with the crazy dream that I could start at the bottom as I always have and work my way up. I have a plan. I’m practicing longer hours than the first string. I’m still running extra laps on the track even though I’m not in a running position right now. We all just have to believe that it’s going to happen for me. In the meantime, it would help a lot if you could just be happy for me practicing on the team.”
Both parents suddenly felt rushes of guilt. JP’s mother wondered when her son’s maturity caught up with her own, and she unknowingly dabbed at her aching heart with her dinner napkin in a fruitless attempt to soothe it.
“Well, hopefully I can pull some of my insider strings to get into a practice and see my baby’s new blocking skills,” she replied.
“That’d be great. Just promise me you won’t call me ‘baby’ in front of the guys, Ma. I get razzed enough.”