The Emancipation of Evan Walls

by Jeffrey Blount

  I felt dirty, and yes, inferior. A stereotypical young black man who only knew how to cause trouble in the lives of white folks.

  “I think you should leave, Evan,” she said.

  “I just wanted to see how Dee is.”

  “Dee will be just fine if you stay away from him.”

  This hit me like someone had dropped a bale of hay on my head. She was cold and serious, and I got the message. Just as I was about to turn away, Dee hobbled out onto the porch. He convinced his mother that he would be all right, and she went inside.

  “It’s not that bad,” Dee said. “Black eye, two bruised ribs, bruised shin, and assorted other small bruises. I’ll miss a couple of games, but I’ll be okay, man. Really.”

  “Dee, I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey, Evan. Don’t feel bad. I don’t know what you had going on, but you wouldn’t have asked for the favor if it wasn’t important. And I know you would have done the same for me. After all, you took a knife for Eddie. Remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Now I can relate.”

  We laughed, but it felt uncomfortable and forced.

  “What’s with your mom?” I asked.

  “My parents, they think my friendship with you isn’t worth the risk of being attacked again. I guess I should have never talked about all the changes you’ve been going through with Taliferro and most of the other black kids. I probably had them nervous before, but this put them over the top.”

  “What about you?”

  “Evan, I have to be honest.”

  “Don’t say it,” I replied abruptly. I turned quickly to get back on my bike.

  “It’s just that I’m scared. I hear that they gave Taliferro a long suspension from school, but his henchmen are still there and on the team. I’m tired of being scared of those guys.”

  “I don’t need to hear it,” I said, backing away on my bike. I was thinking of the night Bojack told me he could no longer hang out with me. That feeling of loneliness was closing in, and it seemed final with Dee. There would be no clandestine visits when his folks weren’t around. Plain and simple; it was over.

  “And I probably should tell you that there won’t be a car in the morning. Tex’s folks feel the same way.”

  “Well,” I said on the verge of breaking down, “there’s always Eddie. I mean I did take a knife for him, right?”

  Dee simply shook his head, and then he turned around and walked inside. My heart sank. Mama Jennie was dead, Eliza Blizzard was gone, Bojack was pretty much gone, and now it was Dee, Eddie, and Tex.

  I got on my bike and rode to the church graveyard. I rode fast, fueled entirely by my anger at the world, the cold wind drying the tears on my cheeks. Once there, I found Mama Jennie’s grave and fell on my knees. And then I lay across the slab and held onto it for all I was worth. I cried like I had done years ago on her front porch. I told her how much I needed her. I told her how much I loved and missed her. I fell asleep there, hugging her spirit, remembering the kindness in her face, her iced tea, and most of all, her completely unconditional love for me. There had been no other like it in my life. Just being there a while gave me strength to return home.

  After some time in my bedroom, I calmed down a little and decided to call Patty, using a signal we’d decided on. I let the phone ring once, hung up, dialed and let it ring again. Patty answered, sounding out of breath.

  “Evan?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. You heard yet?”

  “I heard. So now your folks know you lied to them.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t tell them where I was,” I said and then told her that Dee, Eddie and Tex had dropped me.

  “Oh, Evan. I am so sorry.”

  “Me too. New York seems so far away.”

  EIGHTEEN

  There is something very special about the way natural grass looks under the powerful lights of a football stadium. Up close, there is a golden glow that immediately calls to mind great plays, spectacular hits, and roaring crowds. Looking at it would get me excited, revved up to the point of goose bumps. In this magical light, my pads took on the feel of a warrior’s armor, and my heart became that of the strongest gladiator, battling enemies before the emperor and citizens of Rome.

  Weeks after my weekend in New York, these thoughts filtered through my mind as I stretched my hamstrings on the sidelines before the biggest game of my career. It was the regional championship between the Hogs of Canaan High and the Cougars of Jefferson High. And it was also the first time that a regional game was to be played on our home field.

  Across the field was Jefferson’s famous deep receiving threat, Bill Jackson. The wide receiver was sitting on his helmet taking his competition as he usually did—lightly.

  In the stands were loads of football scouts. They had come to see the war between Jackson and me, and to see Tex, who had come on strong toward the end of our undefeated regular season and seemed to be catching everything that came his way.

  The write-ups in the papers hyped the three of us. The experts thought that Jackson would dominate the night. They gave him the edge because he was a senior and a “man playing with boys.” I was a lowly sophomore, and Tex was only a junior. But Coach Kendel gave me the upper hand.

  “Walls is not only a good athlete, he’s smart. He’s a student of the game, and that gives him an edge in my book,” Coach told The Canaan Courier. “Evan has a career all sewn up. The scouts are not coming to this game to see if he is good enough, but just to see if it is possible for him to get any better while still in high school. He’s a once-in-a-lifetime athlete. I think he will have a wonderful college career and, barring injury, I believe he will go pro. Look at the stats. They don’t lie. But I’ve got him for two more years!”

  I couldn’t believe he said that. I’d always dreamed of playing pro ball, but I never knew that anybody besides Bojack thought I had a legitimate shot at it. But my stats were pretty good. We had a strong defensive line and linebacker corps, yet I led the team in tackles. For the regular season, I had eleven interceptions and countless knockdowns of passes that one quarterback or another tried to sneak past me. I ran back four of the interceptions for touchdowns.

  Just thinking about the stats got me pumped up. I got up from my stretching position, put on my game face, and stared across the field at Bill Jackson, who was still sitting on his helmet.

  The team captains took to the field for the coin toss. We won and elected to receive the kickoff. After that, we lined the sidelines and the band played the national anthem.

  I turned my head and glanced up into the stands. Mama and Daddy were in their usual places, and they had on their best fake smiles. For weeks after I’d lied about staying with Dee, they boycotted my games and went back to the cold shoulders at home. That sent me back to the woods, where I broke about thirty glass Taliferros on my rock.

  Mama and Daddy missed out on all of that great anger-produced play leading up to the regional championship game. And frankly, they couldn’t have cared less. That is, until Mama’s boss asked her one day why she hadn’t seen her recently at any games. Rather than let her boss think that anything was amiss, Mama and Daddy showed up at the next home game. Mama made a point of finding her boss to let her know that Treeny Walls was out supporting her son. I found her behavior to be sad, and I promised myself not to look at them during the games because they would only distract me.

  As the national anthem ended, I looked around for Patty. I was shocked to find her sitting one bleacher down from Bojack, directly in front of him. I couldn’t believe he was there; it was the absolute show of friendship as far as I was concerned. At the same time, I knew it meant something unfortunate had happened in his marriage. After all, Aunt Mary had banned him from going to my games.

  I waved to Patty, who waved discreetly back. Bojack waved and shouted something like, “You the man!”

  Patty turned and looked at him and then back at me. She pointed over her shoulder, and I nodded yes as I took to the
field. As I awaited the kickoff, I saw them talking in the stands. As the ball left the foot of the Jefferson kicker, I had a good feeling.

  By the time the clock ran out on the first half, I still felt good in that I was playing well. But I felt more winded and bruised from this one half of playing than I did from the regular season. The score was 0 to 0, indicative of the brutal defensive battle taking place. Along with the rest of the Hogs, I hobbled into the field house and found a place to lie down on the floor. No one said a word. It was as if we were conserving every ounce of energy for the second half.

  The coaches came in clapping their hands and patting players on their heads. They were being positive, reinforcing the play of the first half. Their eyes glowed with the possibility of knocking off the perennial champions, and they shouted those typical coaching clichés in order to keep us fired up. We didn’t need it, though. Everyone knew the importance of this game, including Taliferro Pitts, who had recently rejoined the team after his suspension.

  “We know you want it!” Coach Kendel shouted. “So I’m not going to say anything more. Each of you has played a brilliant game so far. Take this time to think about that and how you can take it a step higher in the second half.”

  I glanced at Dee and Tex, who were sitting in an opposite corner discussing the game. They hadn’t come near me, and at one point during the game when I shared a tackle with Dee, he refused my attempt at a high five.

  I changed my focus. I scolded myself for thinking of anything other than the game. I replayed the first half in my mind. I saw myself winded but sticking with Bill Jackson stride for stride. Jackson had not caught a pass, and he was frustrated. He’d tossed more than a few obscenities and illegal elbows my way and complained to the referee that I had been holding him. But there was no holding, just the orders of Coach Bojack being carried out to a tee.

  •••

  When we returned to the field, police cars were leaving the end zone near the entrance. A couple of cheerleaders told us that some of the Jefferson people had gotten so wound up by the game that they booed the Canaan band. When Jefferson’s band took the field, some Canaan people attacked them. Then the visitors’ bleachers emptied and parents and high-strung fans ran out to protect their own. Somewhere in the ruckus, a Canaan man had been stabbed. The police were taking the attacker away as we took our places on the field for the kickoff. Somebody yelled, “Don’t get hurt now. The only ambulance is gone!”

  I was uncomfortable about people who could get so caught up in a game. I wondered what would happen when it was over. Who’s going to get stabbed on the way to the locker room?

  We lined up to kick off to Jefferson. Their return man fumbled the ball, and we recovered. The Canaan crowd came to life. The beating both teams had taken in the first half left everybody stiff, and the Jefferson defensive unit found it harder to get started than our offense. It took only two plays. A five-yard blast up the middle by our fullback was followed by a twenty-five-yard spectacular touchdown catch by Tex. We mobbed him in celebration. It was the closest I’d been to him in a while, slapping his shoulder pads from behind so he wouldn’t see me. The extra point was good, and we led 7 to 0.

  The Canaan crowd was crazy. The band played our awful school fight song, the cheerleaders danced, and the Hogs moved to the sidelines still slapping fives all around. I told myself to remember what Bojack had said to me one day in the field while we were practicing. “Keep your shoulders strong and smooth. Strong to meet and withstand the pressures, and smooth enough to let ’em roll right on off without doing much damage.”

  Our kickoff was delayed because Jefferson fans had thrown trash onto the field. While this was cleaned up, I had to listen to threats from the players on the Jefferson bench. It pissed me off. When the kickoff was finally allowed, I blew past the guy who was supposed to block me and punished the Jefferson runner.

  We lined up for the first play of the series. Some of the Jefferson players yelled to me, “We got your number, punk!” Then they ran the ball down our throats and scored a touchdown.

  “Told you we had your number,” Bill Jackson said after the touchdown.

  “You got my number?” I replied in my best trash-talking voice. “You didn’t run over me to score.”

  “But we scored, jerk.”

  “It’s not tied yet.”

  “It will be!” the kicker shouted as he took the field.

  The referees broke up the shouting match and managed to get the two teams apart and set up for the extra-point kick. As they organized, I thought back to a Sunday afternoon in the field when Bojack had said to me, “Now, as far as I can tell, the key to blocking a field goal or extra point is raw speed and timing. You line up with the ball about five yards behind the nose guard. When the kicker goes into his motion, you go into your motion. At the end of the run, you crouch and fly across their center. You gotta be in the air when the kicker plants his support leg.”

  I was, and I blocked the kick. The Canaan crowd began to rock the bleachers. The ball was covered by a Jefferson player and blown dead by the referee. I ran by the kicker on my way off the field and said, “My number is 5, and we’re still in the lead!”

  We retained our one-point lead throughout the rest of the third quarter, throughout several fights and several players being thrown out of the game, and most of the fourth quarter. It looked as if we had the game wrapped up with one minute and fifty-two seconds left. Our fans had already begun celebrating. Then our quarterback mishandled a simple snap from center, and the Jefferson nose guard recovered the ball. The Canaan defense took to the field feeling the pressure to keep the Cougars out of the end zone. I kept looking at the game clock. There was a minute and forty-seven seconds left, and they had two timeouts.

  Our fumble had occurred on their forty-five-yard line, which meant they only needed to go thirty yards to get into comfortable field-goal range. Bill Jackson was their go-to guy, which meant the play was coming at me.

  I looked up in the stands at Bojack, who was looking right at me. We were both thinking about the year before, when the Hogs lost on a long pass to Jackson in the final seconds. The only difference was that on this day, I was specifically assigned by our coach to cover Jackson no matter where he lined up, no matter where he went.

  Later, Patty would tell me about Bojack’s argument in the stands. Five football scouts sat a few bleachers up from him. One said to another, “You know what’s going to happen, right?”

  “Yeah,” the other replied. “History is about to repeat itself. Jefferson is going to prove again that Jackson can’t be stopped when the game is on the line.”

  Bojack was infuriated, and he interrupted the conversation. “The only thang they gone prove is that all fools ain’t dead yet!”

  Bojack had told me it took physical strength and brainpower working in unison to get the job done. I remembered him saying that Jackson was only relying on his speed, and now I knew that he was right, or else he would have broken free of me at some point during the game. I figured I could make the last minute and a half with no problem just doing what I had been doing the entire game—covering him closely, as they said in Canaan, “like some stink on shit.” And for the first plays of the series, I did just that. Jackson got mad and hysterically complained to the side judge about me holding him as he came off the line. The Canaan crowd booed him and heaved bottles and cups onto the field. Once again, play was delayed while the field was cleared. Both teams’ fans were warned that any more such outbursts could carry with them penalties for their team.

  Only fifteen seconds were left on the clock as Jefferson lined up for what would be their final play if they failed to score or at least gain the necessary yardage to stop the clock with their final timeout and kick a field goal. Bill Jackson and I lined up face-to-face. I glanced at the referee, who was looking directly at the two of us.

  I realized that Jackson had finally used his head and that this kind of thing was what the papers meant when they wrote about
his senior experience. He was a star, and the officials knew it. They hated it when the stars got pissed off. Bad press and everything else. In a tight squeeze, the biggest star always got the call in his favor. In other words, Jackson knew exactly when to have his temper tantrum and to pull all the side judge’s attention to him. The slightest touch from me would be considered interference, and a penalty could cost us the game. So it was time for me to use my head. I stared at Jackson and then backed off five yards, still looking him in the eye. He smiled because in his mind, he had me. He thought I was afraid.

  I heard my defensive coach yelling at me from the sideline. “No, Evan. Don’t back off! Bump and run! Bump and run!”

  I glanced at him and then up at Bojack, who was smiling.

  “What are you doing, Walls?” Coach Kendel yelled.

  Just before the ball snapped, I turned my back to Jackson and ran to the middle, deep, as if I thought the pass was going inside to another receiver. When the ball was snapped, Jackson headed straight up the field. I was fifteen yards deeper and more toward the center of the field.

  I hoped that the Jefferson quarterback would have an “I just can’t believe my eyes” moment and not realize that this was a trick. Knowing no defense would be foolish enough to leave Jackson intentionally uncovered, it had to come down to a blown coverage, in which case an easy pass to Jackson was money in the bank.

  The quarterback took the bait and lofted a bomb to Jackson. I was waiting for it.

  When I’d turned my back before the snap, Jackson was tricked into thinking that I had misjudged the play. So he made it easier on me. Instead of his normal blazing speed, which I was prepared for, he was moving at three-quarters pace. When the pass was thrown, I was coming back toward it as Jackson ran to get under it. Because he was looking back at the oncoming ball, he didn’t see me. According to Bojack, the quarterback threw his hands up in disgust when he realized he’d made a terrible mistake.