And then I think: Dad was a national champion…I picture him crushing a tennis ball, exploding across the court, crushing another, which I’ve seen on fuzzy VHS video at Grandpa Stan’s house.
Nick Clemmons keeps talking. But I don’t listen. I think: Dad. I think: Dad ran across the court. Dad crushed the ball. Dad didn’t move when he was zipped into a bag. Dad. Where did that energy go? Where did his life go? Where? Are you there, Dad? No. You’re dead with Curtis, but Pig Boy is here and Abby is here and Terry is up there in the stands staring down at Jerri and probably thinking he’d like to be making out with her on our damn couch because his marriage is done and Jerri’s been done with it all forever because Dad, you’re dead and gone forever…I see him crushing a tennis ball. Exploding across the court…I can’t take this anymore.
And then Nick Clemmons says, “It’s time, buddy. Are you still in deliberations?”
I hear him. I jerk to attention. “No. Sorry.”
“Where you heading next year?”
I look at the hats. I see them, see the insignias. (I’m not blind.) I reach and pick up the Wisconsin hat. The crowd completely erupts. There are huge cheers, like screams of joy. I say, “Shit,” on national television. I shake my head. I say, “No.” I put the hat down and pick up the Stanford hat.
“Ouch. Harsh, my man,” laughs Nick Clemmons from the ESPN studio.
I hold my breath. I know what I’ve done. Intentional. “No. That was…I’m going to Stanford,” I mumble.
Then there’s this giant hiss—the whispering of a thousand confused Wisconsinites.
“We wish you best of luck, Felton. Enjoy California, buddy,” says Nick Clemmons.
“Thanks. Okay,” I say.
The TV lights go off. Jerri says, “Wow, Stanford. Didn’t see that coming. That’s wonderful.”
The gym is so quiet. People murmur. Confused.
The gym is so quiet.
Then Karpinski yells, “Good one, Rein Stone.”
Coach Johnson says, “I’m surprised. It’s a good school. Good for you. I’m very surprised. We looked forward to seeing you up in Madison.”
“I’m not going to Wisconsin,” I say.
“No. I see that,” Coach Johnson says. His face is red. I’ve embarrassed him. The crowd hisses.
I decide right then I’m taking the rest of the week off. “I need to leave, Jerri,” I say.
She nods.
I pull the mic pack out of my pants, unclip the other part from my collar, hand it to the ESPN guy.
“Congratulations, man,” he says.
While kids flow out of the gym into the commons, Jerri and I leave by the side door. We don’t go through the school. People from the town and the state and wherever else are in the parking lot. A few say, “Good school.” But they’re quiet. They’re mad. Of course. I picked up the Wisconsin hat.
Terry Sauter meets us in the parking lot. He says, “Was that hat thing a joke?”
“No,” I say.
His face is red. “Good. Crappy joke. Wow,” he says. Terry Sauter drives me and Jerri home.
Holy shit. I saw the insignias. I saw my hand reaching for the Badger hat. Holy shit. Why did you do that?
Wisconsin doesn’t call. Northwestern doesn’t call. Not to Be Named doesn’t call. Stanford leaves a message and tells me to call back that afternoon. “So excited,” the coach says. “Good times coming.”
Tovi texts: STANFORD!
Cody texts: congrats.
Abby texts: is my dad screwing your mom?
At home, after ten minutes of looking at the Internet in my bedroom, I hold my head in my hands. I sort of laugh. This what you wanted? The State of Wisconsin hates me. Wisconsin wants me dead. You should see some of those messages…
***
Okay.
A couple hours after I held my head in my hands, I called up the Stanford coaching staff—not to get the letter-signing crap set up, the administrative stuff (we did deal with that), but so I could hear these people who were happy, who didn’t care that I was an asshole. The running back coach said, “Can’t wait to get you out to Palo Alto, buddy!”
“Can’t wait to be there,” I said.
“Talk soon.”
I needed that. I didn’t like being hated, even if I’d caused it, even if part of me wanted it. Why?
I think I know why.
Hate causes hate. My Badger hat grab worked. For days after the grab, I stopped seeing my dad hanging. I stopped seeing him buried in the ground. I stopped trembling all the time. I had a new battle. Against the State of Wisconsin.
Uncovering stopped. Covering up started.
Rebury the dead.
Guys like me don’t want to deal because dealing is goddamn hard. Dealing is torture. Living the hell again and again. Who wants to do that? Do you understand? Fighting with the State of Wisconsin is easier, even though it’s stupid and useless.
I still feel like a prick.
Launching Stupid Chickens
Chapter 20
No Thanks, Andrew
On the night of the announcement, Andrew called. He said, “Congratulations. I’ve never been to Stanford, but I understand it’s a beautiful school.”
I’d begun stewing. “No shit, you’ve never been to Stanford,” I said.
“No shit?” he asked. “Grandpa said he already knew you were going there.”
“I told him.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Andrew said.
“You weren’t interested,” I said.
“Of course I was interested,” he said.
“I have to go. I’m cooking a frozen pizza,” I said.
“Wait. I just emailed you a list of therapists, along with some thoughts on each of them. Just wanted to give you warning. I’m glad you’re going to…”
“Not now,” I hissed.
“What do you mean?” Andrew asked.
The landline rang. I was in the kitchen, so I could see the caller ID. The caller was from northern Wisconsin, the 715 area code.
“You there?” Andrew asked.
“Just a second,” I said and waited to hear the message because people were leaving some badass messages.
The caller hung up.
“Nobody home,” I said.
“What?” Andrew asked. “Are you talking about your brain because you’re acting so weird?”
“No. That’s the past. I’m done with the past. I’m moving on,” I said.
“Felton. I just thought. I thought you were…”
“I’m tired,” I said. The oven alarm started beeping. “Gotta go. Pizza,” I said.
“Felton?” Andrew asked.
I hung up. I ate pizza. I read mean things about me on the Internet while I ate pizza.
Andrew called back. I didn’t answer. He left a simple message: “Check your email, you ass face.”
The landline rang again. Same 715 number. No message.
I checked my email, but only to read mean messages Wisconsin people sent me.
Wisconsinite:
YOU ARE A TRAITOR!
Oh yeah? Come here and say that. Come on…
Chapter 21
Rebellious
By the time I talked to anyone (other than Jerri) again, I’d been locked up in the house for the better part of three days. I’d only left twice to run. Although I was sort of out of shape because I hadn’t worked out in January, I ran really hard and right into the middle of town, and I ran into the street when cars were coming, which is bad. I flipped off an old man who honked at me at an intersection. (I’m sure he knew who I am too—little Bluffton.)
I was pissed.
Here’s the shit:
After my announcement, Wisconsin fans caught fire. Journalists were on fire. Bloggers and Facebook members—all on fire. Th
ey were totally united in their hatred of me. They called me traitor and classless and an asshole and a bad citizen and selfish and lots of four-letter words I don’t care to repeat. Jerri screamed because we got calls every five minutes, all day, all night—people breathing, hanging up, or shouting profanity. We could see their damn numbers. These people weren’t even anonymous.
Worst thing I saw? Some asswipe kids from Appleton in front of their ranch house rapping in a video called “Homo Reinstein” where they rhymed “Reinstein” with “Vi Queen” (I think in reference to the Minnesota Vikings) and replayed over and over me picking up and putting down the Badger hat, eventually putting on some kind of red filter like there was blood covering me. They acted all gangster or whatever. I could take you. I could wipe that driveway up with your stupid faces.
People left comments cheering them on.
I read Facebook again and again. I watched the tweets pile on me. I watched the “rap” video again and again.
Why?
I guess I was happy to be pissed (instead of depressed). I thought I understood Dad’s poem. I wanted to be fearless, like a Wallenda who worked without a safety net. I’ll break the mold. Being pissed gave me the courage of my fake convictions (that all Wisconsin people were assholes). It felt so much better to be pissed than incapacitated. I felt like I had a reason, a mission. Show them you don’t care if they live or die.
The more shit I got, the less sorry I felt for picking up the Wisconsin hat. These people wanted me to crumble on the damn floor because I’d made a mistake? (I convinced myself it was a mistake.) I’d rather set fire to the whole damn Dairy State than crumble on the floor. I don’t back down. I’d pick up the Wisconsin hat again, idiots. I backed down when I was a squirrel nut, bullied kid. Not now. No more.
***
On Friday, I wanted to talk about it. (Jerri didn’t want to talk about it.) I called Gus to bitch at him about Wisconsin football fans.
“It’s just a damn game,” I said. “I’m the one who plays the game. What’s wrong with all these people? They’re pissed at me? They should go play their own game.”
“Mob mentality, man. They like being on a team, and if you mess with their team, they want to kill you. People are brutal,” Gus said.
“It’s not their team. They watch the freaking Badgers on TV. Idiots should die,” I said.
“Uh…You okay?” Gus asked.
“I’m mad, man!”
“Okay.”
“Stupid!”
“Um…” Gus was quiet for a second. “Okay. My parents are going to Milwaukee for an art show tomorrow,” Gus said. “How about you come over and we have some beer? We’ll put down a six-pack, man. Relax and reflect. I’ve got some big news.”
I didn’t even think for a second about the alcohol policy at school or the track season or anything (or about “big news” for that matter). “That’s what I’m talking about,” I said.
“Cool,” Gus said.
“I’ll break the mold.”
“What?” Gus asked.
“I will toast the fire that consumes Wisconsin.”
Gus paused. “Dude, calm down.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“I have to call Maddie so she can get beer,” Gus said.
“Have you heard of the Flying Wallendas?” I asked.
Gus was already gone, calling Maddie. She baby-sits for her older brothers and sisters. They give her beer and wine and everything else as long as she keeps baby-sitting for them.
My anger kept me from thinking about Pig Boy for a couple days. He’d sent me that weird email about who killed Curtis. He sent me other emails, which I didn’t open. I forgot about him and roasted my nuts on an open fire instead.
After talking to Gus, I ran the hill on the main road for an hour. It was a killer workout, but I had to do it.
My plan: Explode all over Wisconsin during track season. Defeat Roy Ngelale (a Wisconsin recruit). I would destroy the rest of their sons in the long jump pit.
Nice plan.
Except something drenched the anger. Drunk.
Chapter 22
Mr. Dipshit’s Love Day
Here’s why alcohol is dangerous for some people: it totally seems to work at first. Unfortunately, “at first” is the end of “work” and the beginning of Shit River.
Gus texted me at midnight: be here at 8:30.
Normally, that might seem a little early for a Saturday morning. But I was psyched to get going.
At 8:20, after checking the Facebook taunts, I climbed upstairs to get a lighter coat because February had turned weird warm, like 50 degrees. Jerri and Terry were sitting on the couch. I didn’t even know he was at the house.
“What are you doing awake?” Jerri asked.
“Did he stay over?” I asked, pointing at Terry.
“I did, buddy,” Terry said. He smiled. Shit-eating smile.
“Great,” I said. “I’m going over to Gus’s. I think I’m going to stay over there tonight.”
“Good! Glad you’re reengaging, Felton!” Jerri said.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Reengage this, jerks,” I said under my breath.
“What?” Jerri asked.
“Nothing,” I said. I got my coat and my stocking cap, got my bike, and hit the road.
When I arrived, Gus greeted me wearing a blue robe and chewing on his dad’s old pipe (same pipe he used in our karate video back in the innocent fall). And something bad. He’d gotten a haircut. No more hair wad. To me, this wad was Gus.
“What the hell did you do?” I shouted.
“Big news! I’m going to Amherst College. I got in and I’m going. I marked the occasion with a new hairdo,” he said.
“Aw, shit. Stupid,” I said. “You look like a lawyer. Do lawyers go to Amherst? Are you going to be a lawyer?”
“Jesus, Felton. Relax. I’m not the enemy, man.”
“I know.”
“I’m really happy about this, okay? Life is change.”
I exhaled. “Okay. Why do you have a pipe?” I asked.
“Feels right. Anyway, I’m in the process of preparing us a breakfast for the kings of ass-kicking,” he said.
“Cereal?” I asked, walking in.
“Bacon and eggs, mother boy,” he said.
In a few minutes, Gus had placed a far better looking breakfast in front of me than anything Jerri had cooked since she had her first freak-out a couple of years ago. (Jerri has been institutionalized once.) There was actual cheese and salt and pepper in the scrambled eggs. The bacon was not burnt to black dust. Along with the eggs and bacon, Gus put two cans of Hamm’s Beer on the table.
“I’m told that this beer comes from the land of sky-blue water,” Gus said. “It also cost me nine dollars for a twelve-pack, which is affordable on my budget.”
“Good. That’s a lot of beer, man,” I said. I stared at his haircut and my jaw clenched, but I didn’t say anything.
“Maddie assured me that twelve would be the minimum we’d need for a day of relaxation and beer drinking. She knows these kinds of things. I trust her.”
“Good.” One beer at Stanford had made me loose. What would happen with six? Would I rip off my clothes and run out into the street? So be it.
“A toast,” Gus said. He popped his beer, which spewed some foam on his eggs. “To the end of the world as we know it.”
“Yes please,” I said. “Blow it up.”
“I don’t want to blow anything up,” Gus said.
“To each his own,” I said.
“Okay.”
Then I popped my beer can, which spewed some foam. We clapped our aluminum cans together, which spilled beer on the table. Then we sucked down our first sip.
I gagged. My nose burned. I swallowed so I wouldn’t spit it out. I exhaled and looked at t
he ceiling. “Wow,” I said. I took another sip. Then a longer drink. Good. Very good. Within about a minute, I felt looser. And here’s what’s really weird: within about two minutes, my anger began draining in a stream from my fingers. (I let my arms hang down at my sides and I felt the draining.) I took another deep breath. I shut my eyes. I swallowed. I opened my eyes and I saw Gus and all he was to me: the greatest damn mother on the face of the whole planet. The best.
This chemical. That fast. I’m serious.
Beer is dangerous for me.
“This tastes like urine, right?” Gus said.
“I think I love it. You know what? You’re a good man. Amherst College, huh? That’s awesome.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re the best, man. Amherst? That’s a good one. You’re my best man.”
“You’ve experienced an attitude change,” Gus said.
“Have I? I guess. Good. Life is hard.”
“Indeed, my brother,” Gus said, raising his can and taking another sip and making a face.
“You do look like a lawyer,” I said, smiling.
“I’m aware of that,” Gus said.
“I like it,” I said.
I sucked down about ten gulps, and the saintly tears of a million smiling Christmas angels swept down my stairs. My chest expanded with love. My heart slowed. My face smiled.
***
I think we were only two beers into our day when Gus put a record on his dad’s record player. “‘O-o-h Child.’ The Five Stairsteps,” he said. “You know this song?”
I didn’t. It’s all these people singing, “O-o-h, child,” and telling that child that things are going to get easier and that things are going to get brighter. I had to drink my smelly beer very fast because it was all too much, this song and the nice people on the record. Way too much. Not like the angry Badger fans who wanted to kill me. All these people singing sweet, gentle words of hope to this poor kid, who probably had lots of sad problems but was still alive and still had hope, telling that kid that things are going to get easier and brighter.
“This song’s from the ’70s, man. I sometimes wish I was a hippie,” Gus said. “You know, like dancing naked on a VW van?”
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