I looked at him, thinking of Mitch the grom. “Here. I’ll do you one better. Come on.” Then I walked with him over to the skaters. They saw the board in my hands and the skater card around my neck and stopped talking. I knew each and every one of them from all the mags I had stashed in my room. The pros. “Hey.”
One nodded to me. “Local?”
“Yeah.”
A couple of the guys snickered, but he didn’t. “Cool. Good luck, man.” He pointed to a room. “That’s the locals’ joint. You’ll be staged from there.”
“Thanks.” I hesitated. “Hey, listen, would you mind signing his board? And mine, actually?”
The guy looked at the boy, then nodded. “Sure, man. Here, give them over.”
So we did, and they passed the two boards around, each signing the bottoms of the decks. The kid was almost hyperventilating by the time I walked him back to the rope. He turned, said thanks, then handed me his board. “You didn’t sign.”
I looked at him, then at the board. “I’m not a pro.”
He smiled. “I know. You’re from here, though. Just sign it, huh?”
I did, scrawling my name on the deck. “There you go.”
He beamed. “Cool. Thanks.” Then he scrambled under the rope.
I turned toward the offices.
“Hey.” The boy’s voice came again. I turned back, and he flashed me another smile. “Kick their asses, okay?”
I smiled. “I’ll try,” I said. And I would try.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Holy shit,” Sid whispered as we stood on the second level looking down on the vert planted on the arena floor. The butterflies in the pit of my stomach turned into burrowing rats. Holy shit was right. From above, the sweeping wooden surface of the U-shaped structure looked huge.
I took a breath, staring at the skaters warming up below, dropping in, taking turns as the seats of the arena filled. “We should warm up, guys. It starts in an hour.”
Piper cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be scared, right? We can handle this, right? Why am I peeing my pants? Jesus, look at that.” He put his hands on the rail, bowing his head between them. “I’m going to puke, guys.”
I laughed. “We can handle—” Before I could finish, he did. All over the floor. Half-digested day-old deli sandwich minus lettuce splattered on his shoes. I stepped back as scores of people walking by gaped and gawked, disgust on their faces.
Piper wiped his mouth, sighing. “Better now.”
Sid, unperturbed, called for a cleanup on aisle five. I shook my head. “Dude …”
Piper smiled. “Got any gum?”
“Let’s go. Once the competition starts, we’ve each got one run. A minute and a half to pull every trick we know without screwing up and making fools of ourselves in front of the entire country.” We walked back to the hall circling the arena, past security at the entrance, and made our way to the floor. We stopped, looking up at the seats as they filled. I felt small. Minuscule. One run. Ninety seconds. One shot at making it.
Piper pointed up. “Hey, there’s my barf.”
I looked up, and a maintenance guy was dragging a mop back and forth. Off to the right, I noticed an ESPN camera crew setting up gear. The burrowing rats in my stomach became clawing tigers. “Come on. Take as many practice runs as you can, guys.”
We passed through the freestyle-trick area and climbed the stairs to the platform on top of the vert. I stood at the coping on the edge and looked down. Bigger than the Monster. Steeper. Pure fear hit me, my nerves frayed and sweat building on my brow.
The pros were gone now, their practice runs taken care of, and that left the vert for the amateurs. I looked across the bowl to the other side, and there, on the opposing platform, were Corey and his crew. He smiled, then laughed as he spread his arms wide, gesturing for me to go first.
Piper grumbled, “What a prick.”
I shook my head. “Don’t pay attention to him, Pipe. Just skate.”
Piper dropped his board to the deck. “You go first, chief. This was your grand idea.”
I didn’t bother telling him he was the one who brought it up first. I set my board down, adjusted my knee and elbow pads, balanced my tail on the coping, and, with a small prayer to the anti-humiliation gods, dropped in. And proceeded to slide out and burn my ass on the wood all the way down.
Corey and his crew, all but Stick, laughed. Once I stopped sliding, I grabbed my board and walked off, back up the stairs. My cheeks burned, and sweat poured from under my helmet as I reached the crew. Sid smirked. “Nice start, Tate, but we’re not sledding.”
I sighed, my eyes going to the seats. Three-quarters of them were filled. Thousands of people would be watching me. I closed my eyes. Come on, Tate. Ignore it. Just skate. Let it happen. I opened my eyes as Corey dropped in from the other side, carving a straight line, building incredible speed, coming up our side, doing a simple turn, and shooting back down. I swallowed. “The wood is slicker than the concrete, guys. Be careful.”
After Corey finished his run, Piper dropped in, wobbling a bit but keeping his wheels on the downside. He carved back and forth two times, then hit his first trick, nailing it with that shit-eating grin on his face that said he was in his groove. Sid actually laughed. “I thought we were doomed there for a minute with your grand entrance. At least one of us can stay upright.”
“Thanks, Sid.”
“At least Puke Boy kept his ass off the deck.”
When it was my turn again, I tailed off the coping and dropped in, this time ignoring everything except the feel of my board on the deck and the flow of my wheels rolling. Fast. Faster than I’d ever experienced on a vert. I hit a simple turn on the first run and then, back on our side, held my breath and pulled off an airwalk, landing it without a bump. There. You can do it, man. It’s just bigger. Faster. All the same but bigger.
I finished my last run with a trick that brought scattered applause from the preshow crowd, and felt a flush of excitement course through me. Sid and Pipe slapped me five, and Stick yelled out from across the vert, “Nice, Tate. Nice.”
I waved to him, and we spent the next thirty-five minutes taking turns getting used to the deck. Then a lady wearing a STAFF shirt waved us down. Warm-ups were over. I glanced at the digital clock under the big-screen monitor. Fifteen minutes until it started. The shakes came back. Fifteen minutes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Our staging room was too small for us and Corey’s crew. The universe was too small for Corey, and within ten minutes, I knew there’d be a fistfight. Corey was at his finest, slinging barbs across the room, and Piper, so high on adrenaline his eyes were twittering, slung shit back at him with abandon. I stood. “I’m checking the show out. See ya.”
Sid was sprawled on the floor staring at the ceiling and Piper hashed back and forth with Corey as I left. I walked to the floor entrance, the music blaring and the crowd roaring as the pros came out for their introductions, pulling a couple of tricks each as the announcer hyped the crowd up.
I watched, and a moment later, Stick came up beside me and watched, too. He smiled. “Sort of a trip, huh?”
I nodded.
“Indy’s not competing.”
“No.”
He nodded. “He’s got style.”
“He’d eat it up here.”
Stick stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been watching you guys.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded again. “Yeah, and our crew is better than yours, even if Corey is full of crap.”
I smiled. “Looking for a fight?”
“No, I’m not, but we’re better.” He looked at me. “Without Indy backing you, we’ll win.”
I laughed. “Indy backing me? You’ve got that wrong. I’d be backing him.”
He shook his head. “You’re a better skater than any of us. Better than Indy. You just don’t know it.”
I stared out across the packed arena. “Yeah, right.”
His eyes met mine. “Corey�
�s skating after you. He’s the last skater.” He paused. “You’ve got one run, Tate, and you can beat him. You can take the Best Amateur Individual, and sponsors will be calling your number.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugged. “My own reasons, but you won’t see me skating with Corey or the Wheelhouse after this. I’m sick of his shit.”
“Looking for a new crew?”
“Maybe, but Corey is your competition tonight, because he’s good. Good enough to go pro. And he’s going to be pulling some monster shit.” He paused, raising his voice as the first pro skater took the vert to thunderous applause. He went on, “If you go light, he’ll beat you out. That’s all I wanted to say.” Then he slapped me on the shoulder and walked away.
CHAPTER FORTY
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” the announcer blared, “WE HAVE THREE LOCAL SPONSORED TEAMS OF SKATERS HERE WITH US TONIGHT, AND THEY’RE HERE TO SHOW YOU WHAT THEY HAVE!!!! PLEASE WELCOME TEAM WHEELHOUSE, TEAM HOLE IN THE WALL, AND TEAM POST FALLS, FROM NEIGHBORING POST FALLS, IDAHO!!! LET THEM HEAR YOU, SPOKAAAANE!!!”
Piper yelled as he followed me up to the platform and the crowd went crazy, “I’m gonna puke again, man.”
I laughed, yelling back, “Just don’t get any on me.” It was so incredibly loud I could barely hear myself. Volbeat pounded the song “Thanks” over the speakers at our introduction, and as I reached the platform with the Post Falls team, I scanned the crowd, finding Indy, my parents, and Bill Badger in the section they’d told me to look in. Mitch the grom sat next to Badger. Everybody except my dad was standing, screaming their lungs out and waving to get my attention. I smiled, waving back, and Mom put her hands over her mouth, which meant she was crying.
My eyes went over the rest of the crowd until I found Kimberly, holding up her TATE BROOKS ROCKS sign. Her parents were beside her, with her father standing and clapping and her mother sitting sullenly. I waved, smiling and laughing through my nervousness.
Then the announcer spoke again. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, EACH SKATER WILL HAVE ONE RUN TO PROVE JUST HOW GOOD SPOKANE SKATERS ARE!!! BUT WE HAVE A LITTLE SURPRISE FOR YOU HERE TONIGHT!!! SHOULD I TELL YOU WHAT IT IS?” The crowd roared and he went on. “FLYING GECKO SKATEBOARDS OUT OF MARINA DEL REY, CALIFORNIA, ONE OF THE PRIMO BOARD COMPANIES IN THE WORLD, IS OFFERING A FULL SPONSORSHIP TO THE INDIVIDUAL AMATEUR SKATE WINNER THIS EVENING!!!!”
My jaw dropped, and the claws in my stomach ripped me to shreds. No way. Pro. I could go pro tonight. No phone calls, no working my way up the circuit. Tonight. Dizziness swept over me as I realized what the stakes were, and I steadied myself. Pipe and Sid grinned ear to ear, waving to the crowd as the announcer introduced the first skater, Stick from the Wheelhouse.
With “Breadfan” from Metallica machine-gunning over the sound system, Stick dropped in and pulled his first trick, a rock-and-roll, then carved to the other side, pulled a three-sixty frontside to thunderous approval from the crowd, barely hung on to a Stalefish, pulled a couple of minor filler tricks, gained speed two times through, and ended with a Switch Indy Air, pivoting, spinning, and landing it with ease. He was on his game.
Piper nodded to the beat as we watched, yelling in my ear, “Stakes are high and so am I, got me a rock-and-roll band, it’s a free-for-all. I’m next, mofo. Wish me luck.”
I laughed at his Ted Nugent lyrics, and as that song by the Nuge began—the song he’d picked for his run—he tailed in and went for it, wiping Stick all over the floor with a huge airwalk followed by a Stalefish seven-twenty finale. I hooted and hollered, caught up in the excitement as he shredded. The announcer blared props for Hole in the Wall, and I glanced up at Mom and Dad, who sat next to Badger. Badge smiled, holding up his arms and taking all the credit as he nodded his big fat head. I laughed, realizing I was having a blast. This was for me, I knew. I could get used to this.
On down the line they went, calling each name. Sid picked it up a notch even for him, although Piper’s run had been better. But at the last turn, Sid took a digger, sliding on his knees as the crowd quieted. Piper leaned toward me. “The Wheelhouse just won, dude. Post Falls boys aren’t that good, but that just screwed us.”
I took a deep breath, ignoring him. We could win. Just me and Corey were left, and if Corey fell, we might take it. I thought about what Stick told me. Monster shit. I had to do it. This wasn’t just about me and my future and what I wanted so badly; it was about us. All of us. The crew. Indy. Cutter. Then the announcer said my name, the crowd cheered, and my favorite song by Volbeat, “Sad Man’s Tongue,” hammered the speakers and pumped me full of adrenalized electricity. This was it. I tailed on the coping and looked down.
I knew what I had to do. No filler tricks, keep my speed, and kill it. All monsters. One run, one chance. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, then dropped in when the first heavy guitar riff pounded the speakers.
I flew, and I forgot everything but the music smashing through me and my wheels flying. The crowd, the roar, my parents, Kimberly, Will—everything disappeared in a moment, and I knew I was meant for this. Meant to skate. Meant to carve and grind and fly and meant to be good at something. Strength burned through me as I hit the coping, driving straight into a huge airwalk right in front of Corey’s face.
I nailed it solid, crouching for speed, then hit the other side, spinning straight into the biggest three-sixty frontside rock-and-roll I’d ever done. In the distance I heard the crowd roar, and the moment my wheels hit the landing, I crouched again, straight as an arrow as I sped across and up the vert, launching into a mammoth varial five-forty.
Shooting across the deck after the varial five-forty, I barely pulled out a gymnast handplant, to the astonishment of the announcer. The only thing I heard over the muffled noise was “THIS YOUNG MAN WANTS IT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!!”
I was completely in the zone. Outside of myself. Not seeing, not hearing, just feeling it. Feeling the roll of the board and the flow of the dance and the feeling in my chest that no person could explain and that I loved so much. I carved the vert twice, gaining speed and pulling a Stalefish seven-twenty. The crowd went crazy when I landed it, and I glanced at the clock ticking down the seconds I had left. Twenty seconds, Tate. You can do it. One chance. One chance. I kept my speed, building it faster and faster.
I’d tried it. Practiced it for hours, but only landed it once. One single time. You can do it. I flew, gaining speed back and forth, the ticker on the board winding the seconds down as I hit the coping and launched. Then I was in the air. I was spinning. Once, twice, then the last half. My deck came down straight and true, and I grinned as I sped down the vert. The nine hundred. I’d landed the nine hundred. I’d just knocked on heaven’s gate, and it had opened.
I kicked the board out from under me and slid on my knees to the center of the vert, overcome, raising my arms as the crowd went nuts. Shit, they didn’t go nuts, they ROARED. The whole place shook.
I looked up to my family’s section, and Mom was bawling her head off and Indy was spasming wildly as my dad leaned toward him, no doubt asking what in the hell I’d just done to cause a commotion. I glanced to the side of the vert, and every pro skater stood there, some looking at me like I was a freak while others clapped. A replay of it rolled on the big screen.
The announcer screamed disbelief at an amateur pulling a run like that, then corrected himself, calling me a pro. Corey Norton stood on the platform staring daggers at me. I stood, and Sid and Pipe slid down the vert, hugging me and clapping my shoulders. Piper screamed in my ear that I’d outdone every pro on the circuit. “None of them yanked a nine hundred, man!!! None! HOLY SHIT!”
I looked at the screen, watching the slow-motion replay. I had done it. I’d done it all. And as I walked from the deck, Corey Norton left his board on the platform—his run still yet to be announced—and walked down the stairs and left the arena. Some things, I thought with a smile, were better than punching a guy out. I looked up at Stick, who grinned, and gave him the thu
mbs-up.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Fifteen minutes later, after the scores of the pros were announced, all three crews, minus Corey, stood on the platform with the vice president of Flying Gecko Skateboards while the announcer declared Team Hole in the Wall the winners of the amateur competition. With Corey bailing on his crew, they’d had no chance of winning.
I won the Individual, too. The VP of Flying Gecko Skateboards leaned over to me as the crowd thundered. “Keep that up and you’ll be a star, young man. We’ll be seeing each other soon.”
Then it was over. We met Mom, Dad, Indy, Mitch, and Badger at the access door, and Mom slung her arms around me, almost strangling me. Dad clapped me on the shoulder, and Indy grinned. “You did it, dude. You really did it.”
I looked at him. “You could have, too.”
He shook his head. “No, Tate, I couldn’t have. Maybe the nine hundred on a great day, but to pull a line like that without a flaw, no. Not a chance.”
I smiled. I’d done it, and if I kept at it, I knew I could do it again. I had a chance now. “Flying Gecko, Indy. I can’t believe it.”
He smiled. “I can believe it. You’re going to hook me up with some swag, right?”
“You got it.” We walked out to the concourse, and there, at the top of the landing, stood Kimberly and her parents. She ran down the hall, and as she threw her arms around me, I glanced over her shoulder at her parents. Her dad shuffled uncomfortably and smiled, waving at me. Her mom, with her arms crossed over her chest, clenched her jaw and looked away, ignoring the fact that her daughter was a human being.
Kim kissed my cheek, her eyes shining. “You were awesome, Tate. You should have heard the people around us! They went crazy! And now you’re a pro! A real pro! That trick thing you did was sooooo cool!”
I grinned, introducing her to Mom and Dad as Mr. Lawson grabbed Mrs. Lawson’s hand and yanked her forward. I nodded to him as they reached us, shaking his hand. “I’m Tate. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lawson.”
Under the Bridge Page 17