by Trent Reedy
Finally, as I crawled with just my feet and hands on the ground, I reached someone’s feet at the goal line. I looked up and saw Sullivan. “That’s it. You’re done.” As I stood, I noticed McKay and Karn had left. “They wanted to get out of here. McKay had to gas up his car before tonight. Karn … well …”
We started walking back toward the school.
“A lot of the guys are pretty mad that Coach let you on the team so late,” Sullivan said. “Some of them want us to work you hard enough after practice that you’ll quit.”
It didn’t take too much careful thought to guess who the angry players were. Their little conspiracy made me angry too. “I won’t give up.”
“I hope not,” Sullivan said. “I think you could really help us, and we need all the help we can get. We have to do well this year. I have a shot at some football scholarship money, and without it, I might not be able to go to college.”
“I’ll do my best not to let you down,” I said.
He looked at me as if sizing me up. Then he nodded. “Good. Now come on. Hopefully the girls are still in the equipment room.”
“What took you guys so long?” said Laura Tammerin, the team’s assistant. She wore her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail like always, with a game jersey that said ROUGHRIDERS over her large chest and the number 17 below that.
The other team assistant, Kelsey Hughes, tossed a red jersey to Sullivan. “Here you go, stud.” She blew a bubble with her pink gum.
“Thanks.” Tony caught his shirt.
Laura rolled her eyes at Kelsey and then smiled at me. “You must be” — she checked a list on a clipboard — “Mike Wilson, the last guy to get his jersey.” She turned around and bent over to reach into a cardboard box. I could tell that Sullivan noticed the view. Kelsey must have noticed him noticing, because she stepped to the side to block it.
“Here.” A jersey came flying over Kelsey’s head. I caught it and held it up in front of me, a big, bright white 42 on the red shirt with ROUGHRIDERS in white letters.
“I didn’t know you were out for football,” Kelsey said, wrinkling her nose a little.
“This is only my third day.”
She chomped her gum. “They let you do that?”
“I think it’s cool,” said Laura. “I saw them working you extra out there.” She led us all out of the room, switched off the light, and closed and locked the door. Then she gave me a light punch to the shoulder. “You got guts giving this a shot. You ever have any equipment problems or need any help, let me know.”
“Thanks, girls,” Sullivan said as we headed to the locker room.
“So we wear this to school tomorrow?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” said Sullivan. “And to supper tonight, if you’re going.”
* * *
A few hours later, I leaned Scrappy against a tree at the edge of the gravel lot in front of Piggly’s and straightened my jersey with a quick tug on the bottom. For a moment, I thought about getting back on the bike and returning to the farm. Derek hadn’t seemed entirely happy about letting me out of work tonight, and I didn’t want to have to put up with Rhodes or Karn if they decided to give me crap.
But right then, an older couple came out of Piggly’s. The gray-haired man waved at me. “Good luck tomorrow,” he said. I smiled and nodded at him like an official representative of the team, a Riverside Roughrider. Up on the roof, Mr. Piggly, a giant pink pig balloon with a huge grin and big wide eyes, beckoned me in.
Inside, before the door even finished its opening Oink, Oink! Oink, Oink! sound, Mr. Pineeda started his usual greeting. “Another proud warrior comes for his meal before tomorrow’s battle! Welcome, young Mr. Wilson!”
I laughed. He straightened his dancing-pig apron over his enormous belly and his happy face became serious. “It’s that time of year, isn’t it? Sometime in late August? Early September?”
“Huh?” I said. What was he talking about?
“I remember your father.” The enthusiasm had dropped out of Mr. Pineeda and he spoke in a completely different voice. “He was a good man.”
Except on Veterans Day and Memorial Day, it seemed nobody remembered or spoke of my dad. How could he possibly have remembered the anniversary of my father’s death? The thought flashed through my mind that maybe he could be the guy who got my father’s letters after Sergeant Ortiz died. The Mystery Mailer, as crazy as that sounded.
I locked eyes with him. “Did you know my father well, Mr. Pineeda?”
He looked sad. “Not as well as I would have liked to. He came into the restaurant a few times. He was great in football, kind of a legend in his day.” No, he couldn’t have sent the letter. It just didn’t make sense. The big man patted my shoulder. “Good to see you on the team. You make your father proud tomorrow, no?”
“I doubt I’ll even play,” I said.
“Well, you never know what will happen,” he said, recharging like he’d just knocked back an energy drink. “You eat a couple sandwiches tonight, and Piggly’s Super Secret Special Barbecue Sauce will give you all the strength you need to go out there and win the big game! Aaron?” The man’s son jogged over from the other room. Pineeda gave him a double-chinned nod. “Escort this fine young man, this proud Roughrider, over to his teammates!”
The kid led me to the other room in the restaurant. Roughriders pennants and photos of Riverside sports teams decorated the walls. A row of shiny plaques proudly showed off how many times Piggly’s had won “Best Riverside Restaurant” and even “Best Iowa Barbecue.” Old bowling league and Little League baseball trophies stood on a shelf.
All the football guys looked up from different tables in a roped-off area.
Pineeda’s son unclipped the rope and held it aside for me to go through. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I said. Then I entered our section and stood there like an idiot. I had no idea where to sit. I knew everyone here by name, but I hadn’t hung out with many people for a few years.
“Hey, Wilson!” Ethan called out. He sat at a booth back by the wall with Gabe Hauser and Monty. They had a pitcher of dark soda, and Ethan slapped an empty plastic cup down in front of the place beside him. I tried to look casual as I sat down. This kind of supper might feel normal for these guys, or even for my sister, but I never did things like this.
“It’s great you decided to go out for football,” Ethan said. “Coach got you backing up Rhodes at end?”
“I guess so.”
“Cool,” said Monty. He laughed. “That shot you put on him today totally ambushed me.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said.
“No big deal.” He poured me some soda.
Kendra Hanson, a freshman at school, stood nearby with a scowl on her face and a little notebook in hand. As a waitress here at Piggly’s, she had to wear a plastic pig snout on her nose and a pink bow in her hair. When some of the guys started making grunting and squealing noises, she looked like she wanted to kill them.
Just then, Mr. Pineeda entered the room with his heavy arms spread wide and a big grin on his face. “Good evening, mighty Roughriders! Welcome, all of you! Tonight is a very special night. Tomorrow, you play against the Dysart Trojans —”
“Tomorrow we crush Dysart!” McKay shouted.
“Yeah, dude!” Karn yelled.
Mr. Pineeda laughed and waved for them to be quiet. “That’s the spirit, men! But to win an important game like this, a man must build up his power and stamina. That’s why it’s important, on the eve of battle, to eat a big meal. Piggly’s SSSBS will put the fire in you!” Some of the guys laughed. Others cheered or pounded the table. Mr. Pineeda nodded toward Kendra, who did not share the enthusiasm. “Miss Kendra Hanson and I will be around to take your order. Oh! And don’t be shy, men. Tonight, for the Roughriders, everything is half price!”
The room erupted into loud whoops and cheers. Cody growled as he bit down on the middle of his fork. I could have sworn he actually bent it. The rest of the supper
went like that. I mostly sat back and watched, enjoying the Piglet Dinner, a regular-size barbecue pork sandwich that came with an order of curly fries called Pigtails. Some of the upperclassmen made toasts, and we all raised our glasses. Otherwise, we joked and talked at our tables. It was the kind of fun high school stuff Dad had written about, it was all completely stupid, and I loved every moment of it.
Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any better, when I returned home, I found another letter addressed to me, waiting in the stack of mail on the dining room table. I hurried up to my attic to read it. As I’d hoped, it was from Dad.
Saturday, June 12, 2004 (351 Days Left)
Dear Michael,
A lot has happened in the last couple weeks!
Since our base in Farah Province is only in the beginning phases of construction, there were rumors that me and my guys would be spending most of our year at Bagram Airfield, the main base in Afghanistan. We were hoping that would be true, since our only real duty there was PT physical training, and since Bagram has a coffee shop, a computer lab with Internet, a great chow hall, and even a Burger King.
But this last week, the leadership told us we’d be moving out to Farah. So we readied our gear and our weapons for leaving the main base — what they call “going outside the wire.” I’m a team leader, so I’ve been issued an M203 grenade launcher, a short round tube beneath my M16 barrel. Each of us with an M16 was issued six magazines with thirty rounds in each one. On top of that, they handed me eight M203 grenade rounds. Plus, in our squad alone, two soldiers each carry an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, the SAW. One of those guys always acts half crazy and the other is basically just a kid, and now both of them are walking around with loaded, fully automatic machine guns. Everybody is trained and retrained with their weapons, and I trust them. It’s still nuts to think how much firepower we’re all packing, and nobody seems to notice or care. With all these weapons, I wonder what kind of a fight command is expecting for us down the road.
Me and my guys were flown to the city of Herat, which is north of Farah. As soon as we stepped off the C-130, there were hajjis everywhere! (“Hajji” is what we call a person from Afghanistan.) Some of them had guns. AK-47s. Right away a couple of our guys yanked the charging handles on their M16s to chamber rounds.
I rushed over to them and told them to lower their weapons, because these hajjis didn’t look like they were about to shoot us or anything. It turned out the ones with guns at the airport were on our side.
After a crazy ride down streets crowded with cars, motorcycles, and even donkeys, we made it to our base at Herat. It’s kind of like an Afghan mansion, this huge building with a basement and two floors above that. It’s really nice, finished off with fancy tiles and woodwork and all. There’s a motor shop and another building for temporary soldiers.
Right now, I’m sitting in this weird room in our transient housing building. It’s like a dining room back in America, with a big wooden table with padded wood chairs on top of an Afghan rug. When I first came in, I thought it would be a perfect place to write you a letter.
Then I noticed the big, tall windows. Looking out, I could see the tops of the buildings across the street. That meant it was also the perfect place for a sniper to take a shot at me. So I closed the heavy curtains. I know, I’m probably overreacting, but when I’m writing these letters to you — letters you won’t get unless I’m dead — I can’t help thinking that way. So I’m writing to you with my fully loaded M16 assault rifle sitting on the table next to me, just in case I have to return fire. I’ve been through training, but this still seems crazy. I’m just a Midwestern working man. How could I have wound up in a situation like this?
Another nice thing about this base is that they have a couple laptop computers to use. Tonight I got an email from my old friend Taylor Ramsey. He asked how the war was going, and said he hoped I’d catch Osama bin Laden. He told me to be safe. It was great to hear from him. The thing is, I haven’t really talked to that guy much the last several years.
You need to understand that friends come and go. In high school, your whole life, your whole idea of who you are, is based on the people you are growing up with. If you’re an outcast, you’re an outcast because you are rejected by the people at school. If you’re popular, it’s because a lot of them like you. The friends you make in school are closer to you than the friends you’ll make at just about any other time, but one day a lot of them will drift away from you.
This is sad, and it might make you wonder if the friendships are even worth much in the first place. But Taylor and some of the other guys helped keep my spirits up in school when I missed my parents, and they celebrated the good times with me too. I cannot imagine how much less full and meaningful my life would be without the memory of them.
Of course, my most important friendship from high school is also the love of my life, the girl I married — your mother. We started going out sophomore year, and except for a short breakup right after I graduated high school, we’ve been together ever since.
But I have to tell you a secret, Michael. She isn’t the only woman I’ve had feelings for.
Early in my freshman year, soon after I’d lost my parents and moved to Riverside, my life took a nosedive for a while. I was pretty lonely and miserable, but there was one bright spot, this beautiful blonde, Hillary Bently. People said she liked me. I even kind of knew she liked me, since we talked all the time between classes, and she smiled a lot and laughed at my jokes. We got along great, but I’d never been so nervous or unable to talk to her as I was during our freshman-year homecoming dance. Every time a slow song came on, I’d start to walk over to ask her to dance, but then chicken out at the last second, telling myself, “Next song. I’ll ask her when they play the next slow song.”
On and on it went like that, until finally I just stopped worrying about it and walked right up to where she was standing with her friends. She seemed to sparkle in the colored lights from the stage as she smiled. I asked her to dance, and she said yes.
I froze in horror. I didn’t actually know what to do next. I’d never slow-danced before. Yeah, at the high school level, it’s mostly swaying back and forth while spinning in a circle, but I was nervous for my first go at it.
Then I learned there’s something magic about a school dance. Hillary took my hand and led me to an open spot on the floor. Somehow my hands found her waist and she slid her arms up on my shoulders. As we stood there, moving to the music, my heart beat heavy as I felt her warmth, and she moved closer to put her head on my shoulder. In that moment, I forgot about everybody else at that dance, in the school, in the whole world. Hillary and I were the center of the universe, with little specks of white light spinning around us on the gym floor like a galaxy of stars. When the song ended, the lights in the gym came back on and the dance was over.
After that, since the night was warm, we went for a walk and somehow ended up heading just out of town, down the abandoned railroad tracks to the Runaway Bridge. With a big bright moon shining above and the English River gurgling below, and without saying anything or thinking about it much, I kissed that girl. My very first kiss. And none of that would have happened if I hadn’t finally worked up the courage to ask her to dance.
Life is like a high school dance, Michael. You have to take a risk and take the opportunities as they come. You don’t always get another chance. You never know when it’s the last song.
Maybe you’ve kissed a girl. Maybe a couple. Maybe not. Either way, it’s okay. I remember Valentine’s Day during seventh grade. It seemed like every guy in the whole middle school except me had a girlfriend he could buy flowers or candy or balloons for. I was all alone, figuring no girl would ever like me.
I was helping my old man organize the tool room in the basement that night when he asked me why I was so down. After I told him, you know what he did? He laughed! He actually laughed. Then he apologized right away and told me what I want to tell you in case you ever feel like I
did. He said, “Listen. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but one day, you’ll work it out with the girls and you’ll have more dates than you can handle.” He grinned and punched me in the arm. “And one day, one of those girls will break your heart.”
Wise words from your grandfather. They turned out to be true, because six months after our kiss, Hillary dumped me. I’m very happy with the way things turned out with your mother and our family, but when Hillary ditched me I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and didn’t feel like leaving my room for over a week. And even though she moved away before senior year, and I haven’t seen or heard from her in ages, I still think about her once in a while.
Adults tend to belittle teenage love. They say it’s not really love, or it’s just hormones. And sure, some relationships are mostly just physical, but that doesn’t mean that young love can’t be real, and it doesn’t mean young relationships don’t matter.
I was lucky to find the love of my life when I met your mother sophomore year, but you might not marry the girl you date in high school. By the numbers, the odds are against the two of you working out. But even if it doesn’t last, that doesn’t mean you didn’t love her. And you will remember her forever.
So that’s your mission for this letter, Michael: Make your move with a girl. If there’s someone you’d like to get to know more, find a way to spend time with her. Talk to her. Ask her to dance. Take her roller-skating. Make your memories with the girl or girls you date good ones. Make her happy.
And when you finally encounter the Heartbreaker — someone who by ending your relationship makes you so sad that you wonder if maybe you never should have dated anyone to begin with — let her go gracefully. When that day comes, and it will come, it will be one of the most painful experiences of your life. And I’m sorry, but even if I were still alive to talk to you about it, there would be nothing I could do to make it hurt less.
Just try to hold on to the idea that the pain will fade in time, and because of her, you’ll have the gift of good memories to take with you as you go forward in life. I wish you luck and joy with your mission.