by Edward Bloor
And what about the other member of the family? The other athlete in the family? The Tangerine Middle School War Eagles have won seven games in a row, and I have played in all seven games. I even started two games at fullback after Shandra collided with Dolly in practice and wrenched Dolly's back. I played all ninety minutes. In the other five games I went in as a sub for either Victor or Maya in the second half. By then we already had enough goals to beat most of our opponents: 10–0 over St. Anthony's, 8–0 over Heritage Baptist, 3–0 over De Leon, 4–0 over Seminole, 7–0 over Highland Park, 4–0 over Cortes, and 7–0 over Palmetto in a rematch at our home field.
Those are the statistics of this soccer season. But I have to describe the feeling that this has given me. It's not enough to say that we have won seven soccer games in a row. It's how we've done it that is so extraordinary. The War Eagles have set out on a bloody rampage through the county. We have destroyed every enemy. We have laid waste to their fields and their fans. There is fear in their eyes when we come charging off our bus, whooping our war cry. They are beaten by their own fear before the game even begins. This is a feeling that I have never known before. Anyway, I have never known it from this side of the fear. Maybe I am just a sub, maybe I am just along for the ride, but this is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.
Saturday, November 4
Back in October, when we all visited the tangerine nursery, Luis definitely said to me, "You should come again." I think he meant it. I know I meant it when I said I wanted to. But since that day, Theresa and Tino have held all of our project meetings in class. Anyway, I decided to take charge of the situation. I wanted to go back to the nursery, and so I did.
Mom drove me through Tangerine on a sleepy Saturday morning. I had no problem remembering the way—out through the groves, down the long driveway, past the house, to the Quonset hut. She said, "Are you sure these people are expecting you?"
"Yeah."
"What kind of building is that?"
"It's called a Quonset hut."
"Is it safe?"
"Mom, it's built by the army. It'll withstand a direct hit by a twenty-megaton bomb."
"What goes on in there? Is that their office?"
"It's more like Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory."
"Please, Paul. Give me a break. I'm worried about you out here."
"Mom. It's a citrus tree nursery. The worst thing that could happen to me is I'd overdose on vitamin C."
"Just don't touch anything rusty. You haven't had your booster shot."
"OK."
"What time should I come back?"
"I'll call you."
"All right. Be careful."
Mom pulled away. I walked up to the door of the Quonset hut and knocked. There was no answer. Then from behind me I heard, "Fisher Man? What're you doin' here?"
It wasn't a friendly greeting. I turned and saw Tino and Luis coming out of the house with coils of thin black hose wrapped around their shoulders, like bandolera ammo belts.
Tino and I get along OK on the soccer team, as long as I know my place and stay in it. But he has little use for me away from the team, and he has no use for me at all in science class. I swallowed and said, "I wanted to find out more about the nursery. Luis said to come back sometime, so I did."
"What? You don't have phones in Lake Windsor Downs?"
Luis said, "It's all right, Tino. I invited him to come back and he's come." He pointed to a pile of black hoses on the ground. "You can grab some of those and work with us."
I wrapped a bandolera of hose around my shoulder and followed them. We walked around the Quonset hut, through the rows of adult trees, and out to the baby trees—the Golden Dawn tangerines. We laid out all of Luis's hose, then all of Tino's, then all of mine, up and down the rows of little trees. Then we went back and loaded up again from the pile. We continued to haul and lay out hose for three hours, until every row had a black rubber stripe running down it.
We walked back again through the adult grove, but this time Tino sat down on a crate between two large trees. Luis pointed to two more crates, which I hauled between the trees for us to sit on. He reached up, pulled off a tangerine, and tossed it to Tino. Then he tossed one to me. We all sucked them down hungrily, and Luis pulled down three more. I hadn't said a word for hours until Luis asked me, "So how do you like the tangerine business?"
"I like it a lot."
Tino snorted. "Is that right? What do you like about it?"
I knew the answer to that right away. "The way it smells. I like how it smells out here." I held up my tangerine. "I guess I like how these taste, too."
Luis smiled. I asked him, "What's the best thing about it for you?"
Luis stood up to get us three more. When he sat down, he answered, "Just like you said. The way it smells out here. That scent. It's like nothing else in the world." Luis looked at me intensely, but he spoke softly, almost musically, almost tearfully. "You know, I walk out here in the mornings sometimes, and I fall on my knees, and I weep, right into the ground. I'm overcome by the beauty of it all. I've tried to describe that scent, all around, in the air. I've tried to give it a name. But the closest I can come is ... It's the scent of a golden dawn."
Luis looked away. Tino was staring at him with reverence, with no trace of the hard-guy face he usually carries around.
We rested for five more minutes and then went back to the baby trees. Luis gave each of us a small, sharp hand clipper, which he called a tangerine clipper. We proceeded to crawl up and down the rows, slicing a hole in the black hose next to each tree. It was back-breaking, knee-scraping, glasses-fogging work. I could feel the sun doing damage to the back of my neck and to the backs of my legs.
We didn't break again until we had sliced a thousand holes in a thousand spots. Then we sprawled out again between the trees with our tangerines. Luis and Tino were hot and tired, but I was more like in critical condition. Luis said, "I think that's all for you today."
Tino added, "Yeah, Fisher Man. You don't look too good. You look like a lobster special."
Luis pointed at the Quonset hut. "Take him inside, Tino. Get him some of that first-aid spray."
Tino actually took my arm, helped me up, and guided me into the hut. He found a purple aerosol can, shook it, and said, "Close your eyes." He sprayed a cold white foam on the back of my neck, my arms, and my knees. I sat carefully on the top of the desk and said, "Thanks. Can I use this telephone?"
"Yeah. Go ahead."
Mom answered the phone after one ring. I said, "Mom, I'm ready to be picked up."
"Are you all right, Paul?"
"Yeah."
"You sound hurt."
"No."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
I hung up and said to Tino, "So where's Theresa today?"
"She's out with our daddy. She's helping him fill out some paperwork at the county building."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. She's gettin' more into that now. She's learnin' how to run the family business." Tino paused. "You know, I was thinking ... Theresa is real busy with that stuff, so maybe you should do the final report for the science group. You know, on a computer." He nodded, like he was agreeing with himself. "Theresa thinks so, too. In fact, it's her idea."
"Sure. I can do that." I waited for Tino to look at me. "We could have a project meeting at my house if you like. I can show you the types of graphics that we have on my dad's computer. You know, pie charts and stuff. We could design the whole thing."
"Yeah, well, let me talk to Theresa about that."
I slid off the desk and started to walk awkwardly toward the front door. It felt like my skin was too tight for my body. Tino laughed. "That's hard work, huh?"
"Yeah. I don't know how people can work out in the sun all day. I wouldn't make it as a fruit picker. I'd be dead."
Tino nodded. "Yeah, well, you do what you gotta do. I never did that, 'cause I never had to." He started to follow me down the length of the hut. "My daddy h
ad to. Luis did it, too. But he did it 'cause he wanted to. He used to beg to go on trips with Daddy and Tio Carlos. He picked oranges down in Orlando; he picked tangerines over on Merritt Island. That's how his knee got messed up."
I opened up the front door enough to look out for Mom. Tino went on, "You don't pick tangerines, you clip them, with one of those clippers. Luis was doin' that when he fell out of a tree. He was twelve years old back then. He landed on his kneecap, cracked it, and stabbed himself in the hand with the clippers. Daddy picked him up and drove him to the hospital. They bandaged up his hand, right? But Luis didn't say anything about his knee 'cause it wasn't looking too bad, and he was afraid that our mama wouldn't let him go along to pick anymore. The next morning his knee looked like a soccer ball. He had messed up his cartilage so bad that they had to operate. They had to put a pin in there, too. He couldn't walk at all for about two months. And he was right about Mama—Mama told him he could never go out picking again." Tino nodded slowly, remembering. "Anyway, after Mama died, Luis couldn't go anywhere. He had to stay at home with Theresa and me."
Tino pushed past me through the door. I followed him outside. He said, "It worked out OK for Luis, though. He became a genius at horticulture. There's nobody better in Florida."
I waited to see if that was all that he had to say. It wasn't. "Luis played soccer, you know. At Tangerine Middle School. At the high school, too."
"No kidding."
"Yeah. He was good. We used to go watch him."
"What position did he play?"
Tino looked surprised at the question. "What else could he play? He was the goalie."
"The goalie?"
"Yeah. They had to put him in there 'cause he was handicapped."
I looked at Tino to see if he was mocking me. He wasn't. He was just making conversation. He was in the nicest mood that I had ever seen him in. I figured it was my chance to clear my conscience once and for all. I said, "Hey? Do you remember when you guys got busted at the carnival?"
"Yeah. What about it?"
"Well, I'm the one who ratted you out. They accused some of the Lake Windsor soccer players of wrecking that exhibit. The Ax Man? I'm the one who told them that it was Tangerine Middle soccer players."
Tino nodded slowly. Then he said, "Turn around."
"What?"
"Turn around. Look over there."
I turned around and looked out toward the house. Suddenly I felt a swift kick in my backside. It made me hop forward about a foot. I turned back and looked at Tino. He had a sly smile on his face. He said, "If any of your Lake Windsor home-boys ever ask you what happened when I found out, you tell them about that."
Mom's car appeared around the corner. She drove through the shade of the house, into the sunlight, and up to where we were standing. She waved to Tino as I climbed in. Tino returned her wave and then walked around the Quonset hut to go back to work.
Sunday, November 5
Mr. Donnelly called Dad last night, which is funny because Mr. Donnelly has never returned Mom's phone calls or responded to her letter about the row of lightning rods on his roof. Anyway, he called Dad and invited us all over there tonight.
Mr. Donnelly, aside from being an outlaw wanted by the Architectural Committee, is a big University of Florida football booster. He has season tickets. He knows the coach. He even travels to games as far away as Tennessee. Dad has been after him ever since we moved here to come and see Erik kick. Now that Erik is starting to live up to Dad's bragging, Mr. Donnelly has taken notice. After the field goals of 40 and 45 yards in the game against Flagler, he showed up at the practice field and watched Erik make three fifty-yarders in a row. He was impressed.
So we're all invited over there to meet two other Florida football guys from this area. Dad says, "I want coaches from Florida, FSU, and Miami to start hearing about this kid from Lake Windsor High."
The kid from Lake Windsor High agrees. Erik is now as famous in these parts as Antoine Thomas. There are even those who say that Erik is more important to the team. This hasn't sat well with Antoine and some of the other players. Some of them obviously don't like Erik, but it seems that most of them do. Erik and his flunky, Arthur, are always in demand. They're in big demand this evening. Arthur picked Erik up about two hours ago to go somewhere (we never know where), and they'll be going somewhere else right after Mr. Donnelly's.
You can just imagine Mom's reaction to this visit tonight. She told Dad, "I don't care if this is supposed to be about football. He's going to tell me why he won't answer the letter and the phone calls from the Architectural Committee."
Dad said, "Please. Tonight is not about that. Tonight is only about Erik."
Mom, Dad, and I decided to walk to Mr. Donnelly's. We turned the corner at Kew Gardens Drive just as the sun was setting. The row of lightning rods in the red sky looked like some weird science experiment, like NASA's model home on Mars. Complete with a For Sale sign.
Arthur Bauer's muddy Land Cruiser was parked out on the street, in front of the house, ready for a quick getaway. I wondered if Erik and Arthur were sitting in there. I stared hard at the tinted glass, but I couldn't see anything inside.
Dad must have been wondering the same thing. He started to walk up to the passenger-side door, but he never got there. That was when the mosquitoes attacked. I looked up into the setting sun. Mosquitoes completely filled the air above us, hovering there, skinny, black, and silent. They glided down onto us like tiny, bloodsucking men in parachutes. We all started to slap at ourselves as we felt the first bites. I watched one land on Mom's cheek. She screamed and started to run. Dad and I hurried after her. At the front door, we brushed at each other frantically until Terry Donnelly opened it.
We dove through the door, nearly capsizing a glass trophy case in the foyer. Around the corner, in the great room, a videotape of a Florida Gators football game was playing on a big-screen TV. And there sat Erik—composed, casual, wearing his football-hero smile. He was on a long couch with Mr. Donnelly and two other men, who Mr. Donnelly introduced as Larry and Frank. Erik stood up when the others did, like a gentleman would. Everything seemed to be going exactly as planned. Larry and Frank were smiling. They seemed to like Erik; to be impressed with him; to be ready to support the Erik Fisher Football Dream in any way they could.
Mom looked around and said, "So where is Arthur?"
Erik seemed genuinely surprised by the question. He said, "Arthur? He's out in the truck," as if to say, Where else would he be?
But Mr. Donnelly called over to his son, "Terry! Go outside and tell that boy to come in."
Erik waved at Terry Donnelly and said, "Nah. Nah. He doesn't want to come in. He smells too much like bug spray."
Mom sniffed. "Now that you mention it, so do you."
Erik pulled his shirt up to his nose and sniffed, too. "Bauer always has bug spray in the truck. In case we want to go mud runnin'."
Mr. Donnelly said, "Yeah. Those swamp skeeters'll eat you alive."
The conversation went on like that for a while. Erik remained charming. Larry and Frank remained impressed. Arthur Bauer remained in the truck.
Mr. Donnelly turned out to be a nice guy. And a good host. He didn't sit there listening to Erik all night. He talked to Dad about Old Charley Burns and the parties he used to have in his skybox. Then he talked to Mom about the concerns of the Architectural Committee.
I drifted back over to that glass trophy case to examine its contents. A lot of it seemed to be rinky-dink stuff that Terry Donnelly won as a kid. But there were a couple of old things that belonged to Mr. Donnelly. Suddenly he was at my elbow, saying, "I keep my Heisman Trophy out in the garage." I laughed, and he continued. "Now, what about you, Paul? Are you a kicker, too?"
"I play soccer, sir."
"Ah, then I suppose you are a kicker. Do you play for Lake Windsor Middle?"
"No, sir. I play for the War Eagles—Tangerine Middle School."
He opened his eyes wide. "I remember! Betty Bright's te
am! You have those all-star girls playing for you, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"How is your season going?"
"We're number one. We're undefeated. We're breaking all county scoring records."
Mr. Donnelly looked at me with increasing interest. "And you're doing all that with a mixed boy-girl team?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded. "I've known your coach for a long time. She's an extraordinary person. Does she ever talk about her track career?"
"No, sir."
"No? Well, let me tell you, Betty Bright is the greatest track and field athlete ever to come out of this area. She ran the hundred-meter dash and the hundred-meter hurdles; she threw the discus and the javelin; she did the high jump and the broad jump. She did it all, right over at Tangerine High."
"Did she ever play soccer?"
"No. Not to my knowledge. She became famous as a hurdler. I mean really famous. The Times started a fund to send her to the U.S. Olympic trials back in 1978. She made the team, too! She competed in the Pan Am Games in Buenos Aires the next year." Here Mr. Donnelly turned to the men who were watching football. "Do you guys remember that fund drive we had for Betty Bright?"
Larry got up and joined us. "Sure. She's the runner."
"The hurdler," Mr. Donnelly corrected him. He turned back to me. "I remember Larry and a bunch of us at the newspaper office one Saturday afternoon watching Betty Bright on ABC's Wide World of Sports. You know—the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. And there she was! It was a great feeling. Our paper had gotten behind her cause, and now there she was!"