Away Running

by David Wright

  Suddenly I heard my own voice, the words spilling out.

  “He punched the ball loose. Like he wasn’t even going for the tackle.”

  I heard my voice, and my words surprised me, because they sounded like a confession.

  “They recovered.”

  Matt said, “It’s funny how the bad memories are the ones that stick with you.”

  “The weird thing was that he knew. The free safety, I mean.”

  Matt looked like he didn’t quite follow.

  “Our stadium manager called me into their locker room after the game, after they’d showered and left. All over—on the floors, under benches and taped to lockers—was my head shot from the program, taped to note cards with my tendencies written on the back. An outside runner; quick; a fumbler; carries the ball with only one hand, even on the goal line.

  “I wasn’t number 17, just a helmet and pads playing running back. I had a face. They knew my face.”

  “That’s cool. Or, at least, flattering,” Matt said. “Did you win?”

  “Nope. I didn’t have another run longer than five yards after that first drive.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who knows,” I said. “Fear of failure.”

  “Or of success?”

  “Maybe. Coach Calley moved me to corner the next game; he said my future was playing on defense. I guess that’s why he’s the coach and I ain’t nothing but a player. He sees things I don’t really see.

  “So where to?” I asked, rising—and changing the subject.

  “Why, the Museum of Peace, of course.”

  FREE

  The ticket to the museum was really expensive—80 Euros, like, $125, the student rate!—more than I’d budgeted for the entire week. At least it included a minibus tour of the beaches. And the museum was worth it, way impressive. They showed these films about D-day—nothing you didn’t already know from school and all the movies, but it was something else to see for real. And there were tons of photos and memorabilia, the uniforms of all the units and stuff, their weapons—straight-up relics.

  I bought some postcards from the gift shop. Mama and I had taken to writing each other, paper and pencil, after that first letter. I’d been sending three, sometimes four, a week. I wrote at night, before going to bed, and I would tell her about what I’d done that day, places Matt and me had visited, things I’d learned about Paris or France or the world. Hers were scribbles on scrap paper mostly, sometimes hardly more than I’m fine and Have fun. I mean, she’s got so much to do, and Tookie and Tina to worry after too. Tookie would usually write a few words at the bottom in those big block letters you first learn, and Tina sent crayon drawings she’d made for me.

  I would carry Mama’s letters with me, unopened, in my jacket pocket until the next one arrived, sometimes days and days on end. Because once I’d read it, it was like the letter was suddenly just ink on a page, you know, and I would lose sight of them, of Mama and Tookie and Tina. The weight of it in my pocket, the anticipation of the still-unseen words, made Mama and them seem real and right here with me. Like the next line in a conversation that never ended.

  The minibus that carried us out to the beaches was packed with tourists, most of them older couples with cameras hanging around their necks, most not American. Me and Matt squeezed onto a narrow bench near the back. The bus went to Sword Beach first. We got out and looked down over the bluff. The wind was crisp, and I put my letter jacket back on. The brochure talked about all the troops that had landed there, Canadians and Brits at Sword, Juno and Gold, Americans farther on.

  It shook me, the spare stretches of sand and the rocky bluffs, and the conical black roofs on the white stone houses in the distant villages. It was picture-postcard pretty, but the emptiness was loud. You didn’t need movie special effects, the Saving Private Ryan and Band of Brothers pillbox bunkers and tracer bullets and bursting spits of dirt. The quiet and space said it all.

  We wandered around Omaha Beach, into the bunkers and machine-gun nests. As a kid, I would have been imagining myself a soldier, maybe even playing war. Dodging behind walls and charging through doorways, tossing grenades into machine-gun nests. But me and Matt just drifted from spot to spot, kind of reverential.

  Up the way, past the giant Battle Monument, was the American Cemetery. It was just rows and columns, rows and columns, of white crosses, sometimes a Star of David. I’d seen it a hundred times before in pictures, but you just don’t know. You just don’t know what it’s like. All those crosses and stars.

  James W. Smiley, Pvt 116 Inf 29 Div, Omaha, Nebraska, b. March 17, 1926–d. June 6, 1944.

  Draper A. Conway, Pvt 16 Inf 1 Div, Lynn, Massachusetts, b. October 27, 1922–d. June 6, 1944.

  Arthur L. Rose, Sgt 505 Inf 32 Abn Div, Fairfield, Connecticut, b. January 4, 1925–d. June 6, 1944.

  The brochure read: They died defending freedom and democracy.

  Matt said, “Coaches always talk about blitzes and lobbing bombs and taking no prisoners.” He moved from one grave to the next. “But this…what your father does… now that’s for real.”

  I broke away from him then, wandered off by myself. Because…well…I just did. And a few rows on, there was a crucifix and the guy’s birthdate was the same as my pops. No lie. September 7. And no lie, his first name was the same. John.

  Jack, my Mama called him.

  No lie.

  Suddenly Matt was there beside me, and he was like, “Hey, you all right? Free?”

  “My old man, he’s dead, you know.” My voice, the words spilling out of me, was like a confession. “In Iraq. They blew him up. An IED. He was riding in a Humvee, him and his team, going to train some new guys or some such. And he wasn’t even a combat soldier, just a jet-engine mechanic. I mean, he was a mechanic, man.”

  There was an old couple a few rows over, necklace cameras and all, and they were just staring.

  “We had a game the Friday after the casualty-notification officer came to tell us. A big game, to make the playoffs. Ain’t none bigger.”

  I tried to look at Matt as I said it, but I couldn’t.

  “I played the fucking game, man.”

  I got my hands free of my pockets and wiped my face, the snot that was at my nose.

  “Mama ain’t been to church in I don’t know how long, Pops sure as shit didn’t go, but she’s steady going now, with my Grandma Jessie and Auntie Constance in New Orleans. Like that makes one bit of difference, you know? And…”

  I didn’t know what more to say.

  We’d buried a casket, just a metal box with an American flag draped over it, whatever remained inside too far gone for viewing. Taps and a twenty-one-gun salute. Mama behind a black veil, Tookie’s face in her shoulder and Tina on her lap. Tookie couldn’t stop crying. A colonel in dress blues gave me the triangle of folded flag.

  Remembering the funeral now, on that beach in France, I wiped the water off my face, then twisted my class ring free. I laid it at the base of John Wilson Smith’s white crucifix, and I took a knee. I crossed my heart with a finger like you see people do in Notre Dame. I didn’t really say a prayer, because I didn’t know what more there was to say. I just knelt there.

  When I opened my eyes, Matt was kneeling beside me. He rose when I rose, then followed me to the minibus. We sat at the rear and waited for the tour guide to lead all the old couples back and for the bus to return us to Caen.

  On the ride there, the bus twisting along the beach-side roads, Matt said, “You did good, leaving your ring there.” He hunched his neck into his collar. “It’s just so tacky and gaudy…”

  And I busted up. He was laughing too.

  FREE

  It was pretty late when we finally got back to the museum. The sun had dropped, and the temperature with it. Buses ran on a reduced service on weekends, so we had to wait forty-some minutes for the one to take us to the highway. Once out there, Matt leaned toward the road, thumb out. Soon he was actually in it, on a knee, his hands together, like a plea.
The cars just zipped by.

  Being a Saturday evening, traffic was thin, almost nothing, and it felt like hours passed before anyone stopped. They dropped us twenty kilometers up the road. Each lift was trifling like that, just a bunch of short ones, and with each one the time got later and the traffic thinner. Some cars taunted us by riding their horns—beeeep!—as they passed. Eventually, almost no cars came by at all, just semis. We tried to wave some down, like we had an emergency or something. Nobody stopped.

  I glanced at my cell. It was one in the morning.

  “We’re not getting back tonight,” Matt said. “I’m a moron! Hitchhiking to Normandy on our free day. I thought it would be easy.”

  But I was like, “Bullshit. Even if we have to walk, we’re back tonight.”

  We hadn’t eaten since the crepes at lunch. I was starving, so I knew Matt must be too, but we had the Caïmans the next day—we had to get back that night! I took off at a clip.

  The highway crossed a small country road, and a sign on it said that some town called Gaillon was three kilometers away. Symbols showed there were hotels and restaurants and a chateau. “Let’s head there,” I told him. “We’ll take the train.”

  We got to Gaillon by one thirty. It was really just a big village, all asleep, everything closed, no lights but that of the streetlights. Road signs showed that the train station was in the next village over, Aubevoye, two more kilometers away, so we kept walking.

  The station was tiny, closed but not locked. A few bums slept on or under benches, using wadded newspaper as pillows and unfolded ones as sheets. The departure board above the ticket window said the next eastbound for Paris wasn’t until six forty.

  “Merde!” Matt said.

  “Buck up, laddie,” I told him, but he didn’t laugh.

  “What do we do?” he said.

  The bums smelled, the whole place smelled, and we were tired and hungry and needing to get home. I did the only thing I knew to do: I started going through the trashcans. I handed him some wrinkled-up newspaper and kept some for myself.

  “Five-star accommodations,” I said.

  I left a text instead of calling Georges and Françoise, saying I was staying the night at Matt’s place and for them not to worry. Matt did the same with Juliette. We stretched out on the cold concrete floor, away from the others and near the ticket window. I rolled onto my side, curled up in a ball and laid my head on my arm, like that would help make it more comfortable.

  » » » »

  The six-forty train came through on time. The ticket window was still closed, so we bought tickets from the conductor when he passed. Matt was a wreck—a total wreck!—dark circles under his eyes and his hair all over the place. “Don’t say anything to Moose,” he said.

  Duh.

  “What a day to be playing a game,” he said. “If I can throw a few scores early, maybe we can build a lead and we’ll be all right.”

  Fifteen guys at practice all week, Mobylette hurt and Matt looking like crap, and the Caïmans the second-ranked team after the Jets.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

  Matt dozed off in his seat. Not me. The adrenaline was already flowing. It hadn’t really stopped since the night before. Going both ways, offense and defense, returning punts and kickoffs, whatever—it didn’t matter, I had to be on. I had done squat all season. I had to be on.

  » » » »

  I felt queasy and dead-legged in the locker room before the game, and I wasn’t sure if it was the trip to Caen or just normal pre-game jitters. Forty or so players had turned up. Every one of us was in his own private place. Some rocked music under headphones, half dressed; others played grab-ass with their neighbors. It was just a way to quash the nerves. Sidi sat in a folding chair, off by himself in a corner of the room. Matt was snoozing in the other corner, a towel over his face. Nobody questioned it.

  Moose, across the way, caught my eye. He sat fully suited up already, his helmet on the floor beside his foot, which hammered up and down. He nodded toward Matt, then crossed to him.

  When I got there, he nudged Matt with his toe. Matt lifted the towel. His eyes were groggy, and he looked surprised.

  Moose addressed me and Matt but loud enough for all to hear. “Listen, the other night was messed up. You regret it, I regret it, but the team is more important than any petty crap.”

  I couldn’t tell if Moose was being straight up or just saying it for the benefit of the team, but Matt gave Moose a thumbs-up so I was all in too, nodding, yeah.

  I looked toward where Sidi sat. He looked away.

  » » » »

  We went out as a unit. The Caïmans were already on the field, stretching in rows. And there was their Canadian linebacker, on the sideline while the rest warmed up. A big kid, hawking me, checking me out.

  None of the other Diables Rouges looked at the Caïmans. We took a lap around the field like always, in a tight knot of players, the pace slow, the pack pushing inward toward a center, Moose and Matt at the front, grunt-growling on the offbeat of our trot, the rest of us silent.

  “Hunh,” step-step-step, “Hunh,” step-step-step, “Hunh,” step-step-step.

  Moose didn’t stop after the first lap like usual. We took a second lap, the gathering pressure to sustain that slow pace in unison upping the intensity of the moment, the intensity of Moose’s grunt-growling.

  “Hunnnh! Hunnnh! Hunnnh!”

  After the second lap, Moose barked orders, shepherding us into lines to stretch. I hustled indoors instead, the movement in my stomach so violent I couldn’t believe it was only nerves.

  I got back just after the coin toss. Matt signaled to the sideline for the kickoff-return team. We all huddled together around Moose, the coaches over by the benches, discussing final adjustments or some such.

  “To them, we’re the sorry Diables Rouges from the projects of Villeneuve,” Moose said. “Niggers and filthy Arabs!”

  “Racailles!” Matt joined in.

  “I challenge each of you to represent this place we’re from,” Moose said. “Each of you!”

  I broke before he’d even done and went out to my spot on the goal line. The Caïmans, in bright white, stretched from 40 to 40. Some shifted from foot to foot. Some hopped in place. All glared my way. I looked past them, up into the filling stands, at all the people filing in, their eyes on me. There was no noise, really, just a background buzzing.

  I don’t know if it’s right, but for me stadiums are sacred, as close to church as I understand. Even here, at the Beach. I stood there at the goal line, thinking on Private John Wilson Smith, that grave in Normandy. And I thought on Pops.

  The Caïmans stilled as I caught the opening kickoff, blew through a seam, then bounced out and sprinted past, away, running down their sideline. Touchdown!

  Diables Rouges 7, Caïmans 0.

  And it was on. I picked off their quarterback three times in the first half—my first interceptions of the season—and Matt did just like he’d said he would: he threw a couple of quick scores. It was 21–0 at the midway point.

  Matt sat in the third quarter. I went in at halfback. My first carry, I deked the Canadian backer, left him lumbering after me as I turned the corner. Forty-some yards later, it was 28–0.

  Me and Matt didn’t even play the fourth quarter. Coach Le Barbu was carrying his cell phone on his belt, and I asked if I could borrow it. I texted Mama: Big win 2day. 3 INTs. I knew she’d read it to Tookie and Tina.

  A text came back: For real? Yeah boiiii!

  We were only one win away from qualifying for the Under-20s championship game.

  Matt stood at the water table, helmet and shoulder pads off.

  “Number two in the rankings,” I told him. “Despite yesterday.”

  “No fear of success this afternoon.”

  “Or of failure.”

  “The pressure to produce,” he said, all smiles. “It’s why we play.”

  DIABLES ROUGES (4–1) V. ARGONAUTES (3–2)

  AP
RIL 11

  MATT

  This pressure to produce. Merde!

  The scoreboard clock clicked down to 00:00, closing the first half. VISITEURS 10, ARGONAUTES 7. We had the lead, but they had the edge.

  Our opponents, the Argonautes of Aix-en-Provence, were every bit as tough as the Jets. More so, even. Two-time former national champs, the Argos had totally manhandled the Jets a few weeks after we’d lost to them, winning by three touchdowns. But then they got overconfident or something and got spanked by the lousy Mousquetaires, and the next week they lost a squeaker to the Caïmans, 8–7.

  The winner in the match between the Argos and us qualified for the final at the historic Stade Jean-Bouin in Paris the following weekend, against the Jets, who’d already clinched first place by dint of their 5–1 record.

  Coach Thierry had me play safety to open the game and instructed me to stay deep and mirror the Argos QB, an American who was All-State in high school in Pennsylvania but who couldn’t qualify academically for an NCAA scholarship (the dumb ass). The American QB kept looking me off, and their little receivers ran all over the field, our guys chasing after them like those bumbling cops in old silent movies. Twice, Argo receivers dropped passes in the end zone; otherwise we would have been down by two scores.

  Free and I headed toward the locker room, where Coach Thierry was surely going to ream us out in his halftime speech. The Argonautes shared a pitch with the local professional rugby club; it had a scoreboard, covered stands and proper seats. Argo fans, milling in the stretches of grass beside the stands, stared at us when they heard our cleats clacking over the concrete walkway.