Captain Nobody

by Dean Pitchford

  When the crowds stood up to stretch their legs, I blinked and looked around, confused. Without realizing it, I had gotten so caught up in the action that I had followed the game up and down the field, pacing in the aisles. Now I found myself standing at the far end of the bleachers. I sat down on a step and tried to use halftime to focus on my Halloween costume problem.

  Suddenly from behind me a voice boomed, “Can I see your ticket?”

  I turned to find a tubby, red-faced teenager wearing a Fillmore Ferrets button pinned on his Fillmore HS Usher jacket.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “You can’t sit here,” the teen barked. “There’s rules.”

  I scrambled to my feet. “Oh. See, you’re gonna laugh. . . . I’m actually supposed to be over there”—I pointed to the midfield seats—“but I kinda got squeezed out . . .”

  “Ticket!” The usher snapped his fingers in my face.

  “It’s here somewhere,” I promised, digging deeper and deeper into my empty pockets.

  And that’s how I wound up standing out in the parking lot at the far end of the stadium, watching the second half through the wire fence surrounding Fillmore Field.

  When the Ferrets stormed back from their locker room, I positioned myself so I could look between the uprights of the goalpost, right down the middle of the field. It was weird seeing the game from that angle because, depending on the play, the teams were either running away from me . . . or directly at me. For the first time ever, I truly understood the scary stampede my brother was always facing.

  As I stood on the cold, wet grass in the dark, the Ferrets and the Chargers battled through the third quarter and into the fourth. My brother was doing a fantastic job of keeping Fillmore out in front until—with only forty-five seconds left to play in the game— Merrimac kicked a field goal and pulled ahead by two points. The enemy was winning!

  I paced nervously as Merrimac kicked off to Fillmore for the last time. A few more plays brought the Ferrets far enough downfield toward me that I could now see Chris huddling with his team through the backs of the Charger defense. But I could also see the clock.

  It said :07.

  “No way!” I gasped. Chris only had enough time for one more play! It was his last chance to save his final game.

  The Ferrets lined up opposite the Merrimac defense. Time slowed to a painful crawl, and it seemed like it took forever for my brother to bark his signals and take the snap.

  Then everything exploded into fast motion.

  As Reggie Ratner bulldozed through the line, Chris staggered backward, looking for a receiver. Reggie lunged for my brother, but Chris faked to one side and left him grabbing at empty air. Chris spun around and handed the ball off to Darryl Peeps, his running back, who found a hole and started tearing down the field. The screaming in the bleachers sounded like ten jet engines at full throttle, and I swear I was screaming louder than all of them.

  The Merrimac players looked like an orange-and-green avalanche roaring toward me, while on all sides, red-and-white Ferrets chased anybody who got close to Darryl. At the fifteen-yard line, a Merrimac tackle lunged for Darryl and caught one ankle.

  “No!” I shrieked. “Stay up! Stay up!”

  Just as Darryl tumbled to the turf, he tossed the ball sideways—right into the hands of my big brother, who, as usual, was in just the right place at the right time.

  The stadium went wild!

  Please don’t think I’m a wuss when I tell you that tears welled up in my eyes as my brother zigged and zagged, dodging tackle after tackle in the last ten!, nine!, eight! yards. Everyone was closing in, surrounding Chris in a tidal wave of green-and-orange-and-red-and-white. And leading the pack, breathing down my brother’s neck, was Reggie Ratner.

  Finally, at the two-yard line, a desperate Merrimac player dove right across my brother’s path. I shrieked, “Chris, watch out!” But he didn’t need my advice. In the next split second, my brother extended the ball in his outstretched hands and, with a flying leap, sailed over that Charger and crossed the goal line.

  TOUCHDOWN!

  Immediately both teams buried my brother in a thunderous crash! of shoulder pads and crack! of helmets that was louder than anything I had ever heard from up in the bleachers. But it didn’t matter.

  Fillmore had won!

  The Fillmore stands erupted with confetti and streamers, and the Ferrets’ marching band tore into the school fight song. Cheerleaders waving victory banners ran up and down the field as miniature cannons boomed.

  In the Merrimac bleachers, people covered their faces and sobbed. Along the sidelines, the rest of the Chargers’ football team bowed their heads in disappointment.

  The crying and cheering continued until the players had all untangled and peeled themselves off the pile.

  All but one.

  And in the time it takes a heart to beat, every sound stopped.

  5

  IN WHICH THE BAD DREAMS BEGIN

  From my place behind the fence, I saw everything that happened next. Coach Gavin and the Fillmore assistant coaches rushed into the end zone, pushing through the players to huddle over my brother. They kept repeating, “Chris! Hey, buddy! Can you hear me?” until four or five adults from the bleachers joined them. Each one announced, “I’m a doctor!” as they ran up, and then they took turns kneeling over Chris and calling his name.

  An ambulance rolled onto the field just as Mom and Dad arrived. The doctors and the coaches shook their heads with concern and said some stuff that I couldn’t hear. Mom covered her mouth with one hand, and Dad put his arm around her shoulder.

  “What did they say?” I wanted to shout, but my mouth was dry, and I didn’t have the breath to make a sound.

  The ambulance guys put my brother on a backboard and lifted him onto a rolling stretcher. While both teams stood by with their helmets in hand, Chris was wheeled into the ambulance as my mother climbed in alongside him. Everything was so quiet that, even from where I stood, I could hear Dad say to Mom, “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  Not a single person in the stadium moved until the wailing siren faded in the distance, and then the crowd filed out in stunned silence. It took me a moment before I snapped to and realized that I couldn’t stand there all night.

  I ran across the crowded parking lot to where Dad was backing out.

  “Newt! Where’ve you been?” he asked, rolling down his window. “We looked everywhere for you at halftime.”

  “I lost my ticket,” I panted, “but I saw what happened to Chris. How is he?”

  “He’s unconscious,” said Dad, rubbing his eyes. “That’s all we know right now.” His cell phone was ringing, but he didn’t answer it. “Listen, I’m going to join your mom at the hospital.”

  “Can I come?” I asked quickly.

  “It’s gonna be crowded,” Dad said. “Dr. Snow and Dr. Stanford—they were sitting with us, remember? They’re going to meet us there.”

  “How come they get to go?” I asked.

  “Because they’re his doctors.”

  “But I’m his brother!”

  “I know, kiddo.” Dad nodded. “But until we know how serious this is . . .” Dad’s voice caught in his throat. He sniffled and tried to start again. “Until we get a better idea of what’s happened to your brother—”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I interrupted him. I could see how hard this was on him. I wasn’t making it any easier.

  He smiled and quietly said, “Thank you.” Then he looked past me and called, “Carole? Stephen?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Hennessey were walking to their car. They turned at the sound of my dad’s voice.

  “Can you drive Newt home?”

  “Absolutely!” Mrs. Hennessy told my dad, putting an arm around my shoulder. “You go see Chris. We’ll take care of Newt.”

  “I appreciate it, Carole.” Dad looked at me. “I’ll call you from the hospital, kiddo. And don’t worry,” he said before he drove off, “your brother’s got a hard h
ead. I’m sure he’s gonna be fine.”

  And Dad was right. Sort of.

  “Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s sprained,” Dad sighed with relief when he finally called me at eleven o’clock that night. “And they’re doing every kind of test: a CAT scan, X-rays, the works.”

  “Then what’s wrong with him?” I asked.

  “Well, he’s . . .” Dad hesitated. “He’s in a coma, Newt.”

  “That’s bad, huh?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Dad said carefully. He was quick to add, “His brain’s healthy, and his spinal cord is fine. He’s just . . . out.”

  “He’s been working real hard. Maybe he just needs the rest?” I suggested.

  Dad chuckled. “Well, that’s a good way to think of it. I’ll tell your mother that. It’ll cheer her up.”

  “When can I see him?” I asked.

  There was a long pause before Dad said, “Can we figure that out later?”

  “Sure,” I answered, trying not to let my voice betray the disappointment I felt.

  “So, here’s the deal,” Dad said. “One of us is going to stay here, and one of us will come home. But you get yourself to bed. Can you do that?”

  Before I could answer, there was a beep on the phone, and I knew what was coming.

  “Oops, there’s my other line,” Dad grumbled.

  “Gotta go.”

  “Okay, but, Dad, what if Chris—” I started to ask, but then I heard the line go dead.

  When I was really young and still afraid of the dark, Chris would lean into my room at bedtime, and just before he clicked off the light he’d say, “Oh, by the way, bro, there’s a monster under your bed.” Even though I’d wail, “Chris, don’t do that!” the sound of my brother laughing quietly out in the hall somehow made me feel I had nothing to be afraid of.

  I lay awake that night, staring at my bedroom door, trying to imagine that Chris was just outside, good as new, chuckling like he used to. But each time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed Chris’s touchdown—the blur of bodies . . . the crunch of shoulder pads . . . the crack of helmets. As soon as the noises stopped, the memory rewound. The players’ bodies flew up off the pile and their legs pumped furiously, carrying them backward to the twenty-yard line. Then the whole thing started again.

  Blur! Crunch! Crack! Rewind!

  Blur! Crunch! Crack! . . .

  Yikes!

  I sat up, punched my pillow and tried to focus on something else. I stared at the shadow of tree branches scratching on my bedroom ceiling, which reminded me of monster claws. Which reminded me of . . .

  Halloween!

  My stomach cramped.

  “Come on, Newt,” I moaned in the dark. “You’ve got two days. Who’s your personal hero?”

  Instead of counting sheep, I ticked off heroic names and occupations in my head: “Fireman? Who’m I kidding? Christopher Columbus? Wasn’t he fat? Astronaut? Ha-ha.”

  Eventually, I drifted off. The next thing I knew, Mom was shaking me awake.

  “Newt, honey?”

  I opened one eye and asked sleepily, “How is he?”

  “Your brother’s vital signs are good, and he’s resting comfortably. So . . .” She shrugged.

  “Oh.” I was relieved that Mom didn’t sound worried—just tired. “So, Mom. You want some breakfast?”

  “Oh, no. I’ll get something at the hospital. Your father spent the night there, but he’ll come back sometime today.” She folded and stacked the clothes that I had tossed off on my way to bed. “There’s orange juice in the fridge, and I got you some sliced turkey for lunch.” Her eyes narrowed with confusion. “Or it might be sliced chicken. Whatever. It’s sliced.”

  She looked at me. “Are you going to be okay on your own?”

  “Mom,” I groaned. “I’m ten.”

  She leaned down and kissed me on the head. “I forget sometimes.”

  I wasn’t totally awake, or else I would have asked a lot more questions before she left the room. Anything to get her to stay and talk a little longer.

  All day Saturday the phone rang. I knew most of the callers, but some were total strangers who were just anxious for any news about my brother. I wrote down all the messages and answered every question as best I could without alarming anybody.

  “My dad says that nothing’s broken.”

  “My mom says he’s resting comfortably.”

  “Nah, don’t send flowers. . . . ‘Why?’ Cuz his eyes are closed.”

  JJ and Cecil dropped by that afternoon. They each brought me a CD to cheer me up. JJ gave me a recording of some famous English actor reading the first Harry Potter book.

  “He pronounces every word correctly,” she pointed out. “I smile every time I listen to it.”

  “And this here’s The Battle of the Drums,” Cecil announced, handing me his gift. “It’s one smashin’, bashin’ drum solo after another. But you don’t want to listen to it through earphones, cuz this stuff’ll scramble your brain.”

  “Thanks, you guys,” I said. I looked from JJ to Cecil, who were both watching me with concern.

  “Oh!” I suddenly understood. “You’re worried that I’m worried.”

  “You’re not?” JJ asked skeptically.

  “No, not at all. And y’know why?”

  “No, why?” JJ echoed.

  “Because Chris is gonna be okay. He really is.”

  They both nodded, and I nodded back, but we all seemed to have temporarily run out of words. So it was a relief when Cecil smacked his thigh and exclaimed, “Man! Whatever happened in that stadium last night is all anybody’s talking about this morning. It was all over the news.”

  “My sister told me that people are phoning into radio programs like crazy,” added JJ. “They’re already calling it the Big Tackle.”

  “They even canceled the Victory Parade,” said Cecil.

  “You’re not serious!” I cried. Each year the school that wins the Big Game gets their very own parade, which is way bigger and better than the Pep Parade. It never occurred to me that anything—not even my brother’s tackle—could interfere with that tradition.

  “It’s true,” JJ chimed in. “The principal of Fillmore High School said that the Ferrets won’t celebrate until your brother’s there to celebrate with them.”

  I shook my head. “Wow.”

  “And just be glad you’re not that guy . . . what’s his name . . . ?” Cecil snapped his fingers to help him remember.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “That defensive end from Merrimac,” JJ explained. “Reggie Ratner.”

  “Yeah, he’s the one,” Cecil said. “That dude is screwed!”

  “Why?” I asked. “What did Reggie do?”

  “Everybody’s saying he’s the one who head-butted your brother after the touchdown,” said Cecil. “Knocked him out colder than an ice cube.”

  “Apparently the two of them had some sort of rivalry going?” JJ asked.

  “And this morning, at like three A.M., a bunch of players from your brother’s school went to this Ratner guy’s house,” Cecil said excitedly. “They spray painted his car and slashed his tires.”

  “That’s terrible!” I yelped. I strained to remember what I had seen the night before. Was it really Reggie who rammed into my brother’s helmet? Or was it another player? There were so many bodies and it all happened so fast and—

  “So!” JJ announced, the way she always does when she wants to change the subject. “What time should we start tomorrow night?”

  “Oh, baby baby baby!” Cecil grinned broadly and swiveled his hips in a little dance move he calls the “Cecil Seesaw.” “You guys are not ready for what I’ve got planned!”

  My throat tightened. “Uh . . . I don’t know. Tomorrow night’s maybe not the best time for me to leave the house.”

  Cecil looked out of the kitchen, through the empty dining room and into the deserted living room. “Oh, yeah. I can see you’ve got lots going on here.”

  “Moping aro
und isn’t going to make Chris come around any faster,” JJ said gently.

  Cecil added, “And you say you can’t go to the hospital, so . . .”

  “So?” I asked.

  “So!” JJ declared, standing. “Six o’clock it is.”

  6

  IN WHICH I GET A TERRIBLE IDEA

  After JJ and Cecil left, I tore the house apart, desperate to find some idea—any idea—for my Halloween costume. I looked through all the DVDs in the den, searching for inspiration from a screen hero. I paged through books and magazines, and I switched on every TV—upstairs and downstairs—hoping that I might hear or see something that would make me shout, “Yes! That’s my inner other!”

  It didn’t happen.

  By the time I heated a can of SpaghettiOs for dinner, I was feeling awfully low. My dad called at ten-thirty to tell me not to wait up, but just as I started to ask him about Chris, a doctor came into the waiting room, and Dad had to hang up.

  I put the phone next to my bed in case he called back, and I fell asleep watching Saturday Night Live.

  When I was four, Chris taught me to skate on my grandparents’ frozen pond. In the dream I had that night, we were back there again. I felt my brother holding me up as I stumbled and slid, shivering from the cold but determined to learn what Chris was teaching me. I couldn’t remember ever being so happy. But then, just as Chris gave a gentle shove that sent me gliding smoothly across the ice, I heard a noise like thundering cattle. I looked back to find that we were now . . .

  . . . on the football field in the last seconds of the Big Game. Chris was in his uniform, standing in the path of the stampeding teams. In the next second, with a blur of colors and a blitz of body parts, the world crashed down on my brother while I stood by and watched, helpless.

  I woke up with a jolt. After a few blinks, I realized that it was already Sunday morning. From my bedroom window I saw Dad’s car in the driveway. My first thought was He’ll need some breakfast! Sitting down to eat with my dad—just the two of us—was such an exciting plan that I raced downstairs to scramble eggs and brown some sausages.