Just A Game

by Dustin Stevens

  Inside, he was happy as a pig in mud that Ohio State had gotten beat, but that wasn’t generally the kind of information one threw around in small town Ohio.

  “So tell me,” Barney said. “What happened last night?”

  Clay sighed and shook his head. “Wish I knew. Guess maybe the numbers game finally caught up with us.”

  “Aw, hogwash,” Benny said, waving off the comment like an unpleasant smell. “You boys had as much talent and twice the heart out there. No way we should have lost that game.”

  “That’s the way it goes sometimes,” Clay said. He really didn’t have any idea how they’d lost the night before, even after seeing the film.

  No point in trying to make something up.

  Clay glanced over and noticed two salads already out for he and Chelsie and turned back to the guys. “Fellas, I hate to run off so quick, but I’m being terribly rude to my date. We’ll see you guys tomorrow at the bonfire?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Bert assured him as he shook hands with the three of them again.

  Barney clapped him on the back as they returned to their pizza and Clay headed for Chelsie.

  “And here I thought your adoring fans were going to hog you all night,” Chelsie said, faking a pouty lip.

  “Something tells me you wouldn’t have had any trouble finding company,” Clay said, arching an eyebrow.

  “Ooh! Is that so?” Chelsie side, her eyes wide.

  “Girl that looks like you do? Eating dinner all alone? Only been a matter of time before some gentleman came along and offered to do the chivalrous thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Have you seen my boyfriend? Most guys would be too afraid to come near me.”

  The two shared a laugh as the waitress brought out a pizza loaded with meat and sat it between them.

  “Thanks, Anita,” Clay said.

  Anita Formaggio had been working the pizza shop since she was nine years old, inheriting it from her father when he passed. Her own young daughter now helped her, adding to the gray hairs starting to sprout near her temples.

  “You’re welcome, Sugar,” Anita responded. “Sure was sorry about the game last night. You boys played your hearts out.”

  “Thank you,” Clay said. “Shame we couldn’t have pulled it out.”

  A smile creased Anita’s face. “Y’all get ‘em next week though, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Anita moved away and Chelsie served them each a slice of pizza.

  “The Carnivore?” Clay asked, arching an eyebrow. “Feeling adventurous huh?”

  Chelsie lifted a strand of melted cheese from the pan to her plate and said, “Well, since it is my man’s birthday meal and it is his favorite...”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Clay said, waiting for Chelsie to begin eating before he did the same. “Though I am mighty glad you did.”

  Clay took a large mouthful of pizza and slowly savored the flavors, letting his gaze roam the walls as he did so. Plastered everywhere were jerseys, team photos, and assorted memorabilia of various Huntsville High sports teams.

  “Chels, you think it’s this way everywhere?”

  “What way?” Chelsie asked, her voice muffled as she chewed on pizza.

  “This way,” Clay said, motioning to the room. “Old guys greeting high school players like conquering heroes. Restaurants using the local teams as wall paper. All of it.”

  Chelsie surveyed the room slowly. “No. Absolutely not. When we were down in Cincinnati, people could care less. It was something that made the sports pages Saturday morning and that was it.”

  Clay continued working on his pizza and said, “So what do you think makes it so different here?”

  “Town this small, everybody feels connected. Like they have some piece of ownership in it.”

  Clay nodded, following her line of reasoning. “They’ve played, or their kids have played, or someone they know has played. Everybody goes to games, everybody talks about it.”

  “Exactly,” Chelsie agreed.

  “Think you’ll miss it?” Clay asked.

  “Oh I don’t know. It’s not like it won’t be there, my role will just change. I’ll cheer from the bleachers instead of in front of them.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Why, am I going somewhere?” Chelsie asked, staring back at him.

  “Aren’t you?” Clay asked.

  Chelsie set down her piece of pizza and folded her hands in front of her. “I’m going wherever you go.”

  A corner of Clay’s mouth turned up in a smile, but he said nothing.

  Chelsie watched him, letting the moment sink in between them, before turning her attention back to the half-eaten slice before her.

  “Do you think you’ll miss it?”

  Sunday

  Chapter Six

  Sunday was the earliest day of the week for Clay. He awoke at five-thirty, his morning starting on the old International tractor. He’d hitch a wagon to the back of it containing the week’s worth of horse droppings, take it out to the back field and spread it.

  From there he’d return and clean the stalls, throw down a few days worth of hay and bring in more sawdust. After the barn was done he’d split firewood for the days ahead and stack it against the back wall of the house.

  During the season he did just enough to get by from one Sunday to the next. Once it got colder he would keep several weeks worth on hand at all times in case the snows hit.

  The chores took him until seven o’clock, at which point he’d retire to the weight room his Pop had put in the empty end of the hay mow for him and Colt. It consisted of a flat bench, an incline bench, a power rack and platform for Olympic lifts. Along the back wall was a dumbbell rack with weights ranging up to 95 lbs and scattered about the floor were several hundred pounds in plates.

  No treadmill or exercise bike to be seen anywhere. Pop hated cardio.

  For an hour each Sunday morning Clay would hide in the mow, working his way through set after set of bench presses, military presses, dead lifts and squats. No beach lifts like bicep curls when working out in the barn. The place was old school, and deserved to be respected as such.

  Colt had always said it was the mow that had put him in college football and over the years Clay went from thinking he was crazy to believing it whole-heartedly. Something about being up there early in the morning, no music or distractions, just the earthy smell of the barn and the rhythmic sound of his breathing made for outstanding workouts.

  When he was done, he went straight into the house and showered for church. He dressed in a pair of slacks and a sweater and made his way downstairs to meet his folks.

  His mother was in a long dress with a cardigan sweater over it and his dad came rushing out of the bathroom just as Clay reached the foyer. His thinning, graying hair was wet and combed tight to his head and he smelled strongly of after shave.

  “What do you say, Pop?” Clay asked.

  “Son,” his father responded.

  “You get the fields done?”

  His father paused for a moment and said, “In the third quarter the other night, Richmond was wide open and you missed him. Ended up kicking a field goal, could have been the difference in the ballgame.”

  Clay exhaled through his nose. “Yes, sir. I know.”

  The Post-Game Critique had started with Colt seven years before and had occurred every week since, much like their mother questioning them about injuries. Truth be known, it started the first time they ever put on cleats and continued through every game they’d ever played.

  Each week after the game they got a report on what they did wrong and what it could have meant to the outcome of the game. Some weeks when they played extremely well, they’d even get a report about something they’d done in pre-game warm-ups.

  Usually the Critique happened right after the game while watching the area scores on the local news. This week, planting had pushed it back to Sunday morning.

  The three of the
m piled into the truck and drove into town in silence, Clay thinking about the play his father had pointed out. His protection had broken down, he’d been flushed hard to the right and hadn’t even seen Richmond streaking down the left sideline.

  The damnedest part of it was the Critique was always right.

  The service had already begun when they arrived and slid into the back pew, singing “How Great Thou Art” from memory with the congregation. At the end of it Pastor Waverly asked them to be seated, made a few announcements, and launched right into his sermon.

  The Huntsville Church of Christ was one of only two churches in town. The handful of Catholics that lived nearby drove to Dayton and the one Jewish family in the district went to Cincinnati. Everybody else either went here or to the Methodist Church just down the street.

  The church stood three doors down from Formaggio’s in a stately brick building that was built in the sixties and had hardly aged a day since. From the back of the congregation Clay could see Marksy with his brothers and mother, Anita Formaggio, Chelsie and her family.

  The Little’s and Coach Stanson went to the Methodist Church.

  Goldie went to neither. He wasn’t exactly the church going type.

  Pastor Waverly spoke from the Book of Colossians, citing verse 3:23 that told believers of Christ to do all things as if working for the Lord and not for man. He closed by dedicating the service to the senior class of Huntsville High and his gaze found Clay in the back of the room as he implored them to take those words with them into the game on Friday.

  To know that they weren’t simply playing for themselves or their school, but also playing in service to the Lord.

  After the final prayer his parents struck up a conversation with the family beside them and Clay excused himself to find Chelsie. She was standing with her back to him as her mother chatted with Anita Formaggio.

  “Hey, Gorgeous,” Clay said, coming up from behind her and placing his hand on the small of her back.

  She smiled and said, “I was hoping you’d come say hi.”

  “I thought about leading with some cheesy line about seeing an angel at church this morning, but decided against it.”

  “Probably a good call,” Chelsie agreed. “How’d you like having the service dedicated to you today?”

  Clay weighed it for a second and said, “I don’t know that I entirely buy it, but maybe I agree with what he was saying.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, as you know I’ve always said I’d never bring the Lord into anything as trivial as a football game. He’s got better things to do. At the same time though, Pastor said God draws enjoyment from what we do.

  "I dunno, I kind of like the idea of him kicking back on Friday and watching us ball.”

  Chelsie started to reply, but instead laughed softly and shook her head, resting it on his shoulder. “Only you Clay...”

  A shrill, clipped whistle went up from the back of the room and without turning Clay said, “That’s Pop, I got to go. I’ll see you at the bonfire, right?”

  “Oh, is that tonight?” Chelsie feigned.

  “Cute,” Clay said and kissed the top of her head before disappearing through the crowd to find his parents.

  Chapter Seven

  The horn outside honked three times in succession before a pause and a fourth time that extended for several long seconds. Clay looked out his bedroom window to see Goldie’s Trans Am idling in the driveway and smiled. He pulled his blue and yellow jersey over his long sleeve white Under Armour shirt and bounded down the stairs.

  “That’s Goldie!” he called to nobody in particular.

  His mother emerged from the bedroom wearing a blue Huntsville football sweatshirt with two large buttons of Clay high on the chest. She was putting in her earrings and said, “Alright, you boys have fun. I’ll be over before it starts.”

  “Sounds good. Pop still in the fields?”

  “Yeah. He called a little bit ago and said they were going to try and go until midnight or so. I guess Bill Jasmine brought his combine over too and they were thinking they could get a good bit of it done tonight. Said to tell you he’s sorry he can’t make it and I’m supposed to take a lot of pictures.”

  “Aw, that’s alright,” Clay said. “We both know Pop can’t stand this rah-rah stuff.”

  His mother smiled. “And neither can you, or Colt before you.”

  Clay nodded in agreement as Goldie’s horn cut through the air once more. “I have to go. I’ll see you over there!”

  Without another word he was through the front door, across the porch and down the front stairs. He used the momentum to take him into a light jog to the Trans Am, climbing in without breaking stride.

  “You in a damn hurry or something?” Clay asked, his body falling sideways into the car.

  Goldie smacked the back of his hand against Clay’s chest and said, “Bout time. Damn fire’s going to be out by the time we get there!”

  “It’s not even completely dark yet,” Clay said, “calm yourself!”

  They arrived five minutes later to find that the fire was not yet lit, though a crowd had already amassed. Goldie honked his horn repeatedly and bulled his way through the people, swinging the faded classic to a stop in front of the locker room.

  A throng of players milled around on the concrete outside, standing in bunches and watching the crowd file past.

  “Look at the freshmen,” Goldie said. “All big-eyed and star struck.”

  “Remember when that was us?” Clay asked.

  “Hell, that was never us,” Goldie responded. “Not me anyway. The only time I got like that was when the senior cheerleaders walked by.”

  “Not a one of which ever gave you the time of day,” Clay pointed out.

  “Not true!” Goldie said. “Tammy Rae and I got it on in the back of her car the night I scored my first touchdown.”

  Clay shook his head and said, “Doesn’t count.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “First, that was her third time as a senior. Second, you weren’t even her first that night.”

  Goldie weighed the evidence for a moment before finally admitting, “Well, maybe you’re right. Shall we?”

  The two of them climbed out of the truck and met up with the other seniors. They stood talking for a few minutes as people continued to flow past, many openly gawking at the players as they went. When the band began playing, the players formed a haphazard line and made their way over.

  The team emerged on the far end of the parking lot to find a massive heap of pallets and scrap wood piled over fifteen feet high. The band stood in a loose formation off to the right and several hundred of the town’s people were bunched up to the left. Between them and the wood pile, the cheerleaders danced in synch to the band.

  A cheer went up from the crowd as the seniors led the players off to the left and formed a large clump beside the crowd.

  Another cheer erupted as Coach Stanson was the last to make his way out. In his right hand was a torch burning brightly, which he held proudly above his head. In his left hand was a microphone.

  He waited for the buzz of the crowd to die down, turned on the microphone and said, “Throwing the torch and lighting the fire this year will be the man who’s been the arm of Huntsville for the past three seasons, Clay Hendricks!”

  The crowd erupted again as Coach Stanson held the torch high above his head and passed it to Clay. Clay accepted it and held it above his head, then took several steps toward the wood pile. He could smell the lighter fluid rolling from the wood and stopped several yards short, throwing the torch directly at the center of it.

  The torch turned end over end three times before striking the pile and igniting it in a brilliant ball of orange and yellow almost instantly. The force of the fire shot a wave of heat and air back at Clay and he instinctively took several steps back towards the team, feeling like every hair on his face had been singed away.

  The band launched immediately into the Hun
tsville fight song and the cheerleaders danced along with them, their pom-poms reflecting the brilliant light of the fire.

  For a few moments Clay paused as the music died away from his ears. He panned in a full one hundred and eighty degree arc and took it all in.

  The other players beaming proudly in the firelight. The band playing the school fight song fervently. The cheerleaders, Chelsie, dancing in unison with full smiles on their faces. Most of the town decked out in blue and yellow, standing in a dirt field on a Sunday night to cheer a team that wouldn’t play for another five days.

  The song ended and Coach Stanson handed the microphone over to Chelsie.

  “As you all well know this week we play the Sentinel Lions.”

  A smattering of boos went up from the crowd as a subset of the cheerleaders stepped forward holding large letters made of cotton cloth and stuffed with newspaper. They spelled out the five letters of Lions, along with a cutout of the Sentinel mascot.

  “And to give you folks a taste of what’s in store for those Lions this Friday, we’ve asked the senior players to help us give you a little demonstration!”

  A loud ovation went up and the drummers in the band banged several times on their drums.

  “First up, Rich Little!” Chelsie called.

  Rich shuffled forward and accepted the letter L from cheerleader Sarah Slater. He walked it as close as he could to the fire before the heat was too intense, then stood and threw the letter high onto the flames.

  The cotton and newspaper caught immediately and the crowd cheered loudly as the L evaporated before them.

  Rich moved back to the team and was followed by Lyle, Marksy and Matt, each of them taking their respective I-O-N to the fire and tossing it on the blaze.

  Each time the letter went up within seconds and each time the crowd cheered with gusto.

  Goldie was the last letter to go. Megan Willis presented him with the letter S, which he accepted with a big hug. Clay laughed as Goldie strutted over to the fire and appeared as if he was going to walk directly up to it before the heat brushed him back and he tossed the letter sideways while retreating, fanning himself with a hand.