Hometown Favorite: A Novel

by BILL BARTON

  He ambled through the crowd until he spied Cherie. Here was a friend, a calm in the maelstrom. He moved toward her, but a group of teenagers bolted in front of him, blocking his path and nearly trampling him as they rushed to get a better view of their heroes. He waited for the herd to pass and then made steady progress toward his goal.

  Jake stepped up beside Cherie. "And what do you think of our pagan rites?"

  "It's loud enough to bring down Jericho's walls," Cherie said. "I should have brought my OSHA earplugs from the factory."

  "That assembly line working you hard?"

  Cherie cupped her hands over her ears. "Hard enough, but I don't think it ever gets as loud as these kids"

  "Humanity changes little, I'm afraid, except through calamity, and then reluctantly," he said, approving his pithy statement with a smirk.

  Jake Hopper gave of himself body and soul to taking the God-given talent of each player and molding it. In his heart of hearts, he considered himself a sculptor of living, flesh-andblood models, shaping and perfecting the fluidity of speed and motion of the human body. And a well-executed, unrepeatable moment on the field brought a bigger smile to his face than a touchdown or even a win.

  Jake prized the singular bond between player and coach, a bond of souls when competitive physical play brings out a special bliss between men. Jake and Dewayne had that bond, an idealized bond of a father and son, free of responsibility beyond the rules, discipline, and training necessary for the game. Dewayne had no father. Jake had no children. Yet the two men provided for each other what was missing in their lives.

  "Excuse me for being forward, but if all our sons had mothers such as you, the world would be whole," Jake said, a bold statement, especially from someone unaccustomed to making them. Perhaps the sips of vodka before arriving at the pep rally inspired the boldness. He felt a pang of regret, a flushed embarrassment at the compliment. He was thankful for the darkness. It helped conceal his chagrin.

  At that moment, the music from the marching band raised its decibel level, and the cheerleaders, shimmering pom-poms stuck to the top of each raised arm, began their escort of the senior boys to the front of the team.

  "Hush now. They're about to introduce my boy," Cherie said.

  Jake turned his eyes away from Cherie and wondered how life might have been different had he met Cherie in their younger days. She might have spoken the same words just now but substituted them with "our boy." The thought produced in him a pang of regret.

  Half a dozen buses hauled the Springdale Tigers, the cheerleaders, the marching band, and most of the student body to the state championship game. Like a large military convoy, the citizens of Springdale followed the buses for the two-hour drive to the stadium in Jackson, Mississippi. Sly, Dewayne, and Jesse sat in the very back of the team bus. There was no boisterous behavior or extraneous noise. The players had slipped into their game zone. The season's preceding games had already made the history books. This last effort would define the team and the character of each individual player.

  "I ain't accustomed to losing, you know that?" Sly's voice was louder than necessary. "I get my way on the field."

  "Your way on the field is the only way," Jesse said.

  "I am the way," Sly said, and he and Jesse pounded fists in front of Dewayne.

  "Be careful now;' Dewayne said. "Save it for the field'

  They had faced nothing like this before, a threshold into a new phase of life. It required a form of courage they could not understand, a courage that would provide the resolve to move beyond tonight into manhood regardless of the outcome, and the bus sped them toward that end.

  Jake Hopper ambled down the center aisle to the rear of the bus and sat down on an armrest. He had refrained from drinking before this game, although he had yielded to a swallow of mouthwash before leaving home. He scanned the faces of the three boys sprawled out on the extended seat in the back.

  "You guys have fun tonight," he said, and the boys nodded. "Dewayne, you and Sly play like always ... pitch and catch ... nothing's different, nothing's special ... Dewayne, just let the ball come to you. Sly knows how to place it. This is your moment, and I'm..."

  The eyes of Jake's audience diverted above his head. He turned around to see the head coach standing behind him, and he yielded to his superior.

  "Jesse, you and Dewayne got to remember what this team always does in a bind. They pull out their quick pitch. You got to be ready for that. The running back will line up behind the tight end instead of the gap between the guard and tackle. That's the sign for the play. Heads-up for you, Dewayne ... you've got the read. When you see that lineup, shout, `Judas!' three times, and then widen out a little more and rush up the field to force the running back inside. Jesse, you come in and clean his clock. Put a chokehold on this team ... force them to use the Judas play, then finish them off with some smashmouth tackling. No overtimes. Just a clean game and we're out of there with a championship."

  He slapped Jake's back as a signal that the speech was over and that Jake should return to the front with him. Jake rose and took one last look at the trio. Words failed him, and he had to trust they understood his pride in them as he lumbered back to his seat.

  In the stadium, no one was left sitting in his seat. All were on their feet. Dewayne had scored two touchdowns: the first, a down-and-out pattern where he outran his coverage; the second, a leaping catch in the end zone. Sly had scored one with a quick dash into the end zone from the five-yard line. Jesse recovered a fumble and ran it back sixty-five yards for his touchdown. He had never run so far and so fast in his life. In spite of these scores, the Tigers were still up by only four points.

  The Red Devils from southern Mississippi, a team with equally impressive players and an undefeated season coming into this game, had come back to score every time the Tigers had made it into the end zone. The last time, however, the Tigers had held the Devils in the red zone and forced them to kick a field goal from fifteen yards. With less than two minutes remaining on the clock and a score of 28 to 24, the Devils kept the Tigers from getting a first down, forcing them to punt. The return was a twenty-two-yard gain, leaving a mere forty-four yards from the Devils' line of scrimmage to the goal line. The first play Dewayne had blocked the expected pass. On a blitz in the second play, Jesse had sacked the quarterback for a threeyard loss, his third sack for the game.

  From the Tigers' side of the stadium, there was chaos, enough noise to travel through the cold and damp night air like a howling army. From the Devils' side, there was an overwrought silence except for mumbled prayers for divine intervention and jinxes against the Tigers. For every soul on their feet, life outside the confines of this stadium had ceased to exist.

  Dewayne spotted the play as soon as the Devils came to the line on third down. The running back had taken his position out behind the tight end.

  Dewayne whirled around to the team, shouting, "Judas! Judas! Judas!"

  The defense made the instant adjustment.

  Dewayne looked at Jesse one last time to make sure he had heard the call and saw his teammate stepping toward the outside and giving him a thumbs-up. It was a short count, and as soon as the center snapped the ball, Dewayne rammed into the tight end, forcing the Devils' running back toward the hole.

  After the quarterback had made the quick pitch to the running back, he began to sprint in the opposite direction. When the running back caught the ball, he hesitated, and from the corner of his eye as Jesse dashed toward the open hole made by the Devils' tight end, he saw the quarterback moving away from the action to the open field. The unexpected move surprised him.

  Confident it was a pass option off the pitch, Jesse made a snap decision to follow the quarterback, expecting the Devils' running back to pass it to the quarterback for a clear shot to the end zone. When Jesse changed his route and followed the quarterback, the Devils' running back saw the clearing ahead of him and sprinted through the scrambling bodies into an open field.

  Dewayne m
anaged to touch the running back's heel with the tips of his fingers as he fell to the ground from the tight end's forceful resistance, but his touch had no effect. He watched from his helpless position on the ground, the weight of the tight end draped over his stomach, as the Devils' running back raced toward the end zone, outrunning a helpless Jesse not fast enough to chase him down.

  Within seconds, the pent-up anxiety on the Devils' side of the stadium over a sure defeat erupted into pandemonium. On the Tigers' side, the vision of a silver-and-gold-plated trophy encased in the main hall of the high school was shattered glass. Screams meant to confuse the Devils became cries of horror and lamentation. The town of Springdale had performed all the proper rituals and offered all the right prayers to prevent this outcome. Where had the system broken down? A cruel joke had been played upon them. Now all that remained was the mourning.

  Time enough remained on the clock for a Devils' kickoff and a Tigers' return. Springdale fans were delirious with momentary hope as the kickoff return placed them at the thirtyyard line, but the Devils' defense solidified. Two desperation passes from Sly to Dewayne, each one blocked by the Devils' triple-team coverage of Dewayne. Then a final forty-sevenyard field goal attempt. The ball nicked a Devil's helmet and never had the chance to fly toward the uprights. It bounced to the ground and lay dead until snatched by a jubilant Devil, who tossed it into the air. The coveted game ball seemed to float for a few seconds above the field, buoyed on the Devils' euphoric shouting. The fact that this object would forever be in possession of the Devils was too bitter a consequence for every Springdale citizen.

  The trip back to Springdale was like that of a routed army returning home after a long and exhausting war. All movement was painful, not from the punishment of combat, but from the ache of defeat. Discreet tears flowed only when the bus had pulled away from the stadium, and in its dark and silent interior boys hid their faces and allowed disappointment to flow from their eyes. This time could never be repeated, only replayed again and again in their memories, a continual loop of heartbreaking highlights.

  There were great moments to revel in, but the Tigers could enjoy only the minutes leading up to the final two. Up to that point their lead had never been overtaken, their potential victory not in serious jeopardy. But to a player, breaching the memory threshold of those last two minutes was perilous, a thorny punishment with a difficult recovery. The head coach stood in front of the bus hoping to pour the balm of comfort on his broken team with some reassuring words, but he needed comfort in order to give it. Silence was best. He simply waved into the darkness of the bus's interior and sat down.

  Surrounded by empty seats, Jake sat alone, staring into the melting ice in the plastic cup he held. He had finished one drink in the privacy of a locker room toilet and picked up a second cup of ice as he left to board the bus. He opened his briefcase and used the lid to screen the odorless, colorless vodka he poured into his cup. After draining his drink in short, rapid swallows, he closed the lid on all the physical evidence.

  When Jake's wife had left him because she was craving a bigger city with more opportunities-at least that was how she'd described it in the note Jake found when he came home from a late practice-he turned to alcohol. Only sips at first to aid with sleep, to deaden the pain of loss, the feelings of rejection and inadequacy, and to bolster false courage. He was not sure when his use of alcohol for medicinal purposes had become an addiction.

  Jake pulled himself out of his seat and into the aisle, pausing long enough to make sure he could maintain his balance. He held on to the seats as he made his way past the players slumped down and dejected, quiet and still as though tossed in these positions by a heartless fate.

  When he arrived at the back of the bus, only Dewayne looked up at him. Sly and Jesse kept their eyes on the images flying by their windows. Jake needed to make this fast. The alcohol was making its ascent to his brain, and he would need to return to his seat. He leaned over and patted each boy on the knee before he turned around. The gesture brought Sly and Jesse to their senses, and they turned their heads from the windows. All three watched as Jake descended back into the darkness toward his seat.

  Each boy knew the pat on the knee was a gesture of departure. Their friend and mentor was releasing them to future success or failure with the hope that what paternal wisdom he might have provided them through his coaching would be remembered with fondness.

  The three boys had been the first on the bus after the game and had retaken their seats in the back, each clutching his duffle bag to his chest like a protective shield. They had slouched across the seat like rag dolls, motionless, no one willing to speak, all three cross at even having to breathe. When the silhouette of Coach Hopper disappeared into his seat, Jesse broke the barrier between them.

  "I swear I thought it was a pass option off the pitch."

  "You thought. You thought. You thought," Sly repeated in a contemptuous mantra.

  "The running back hesitated and I thought-"

  "You thought. You thought. You thought:" This time Sly's voice was louder, and his hand sprang into the air, flapping his fingers together to mimic a bird talking.

  "We played a full game, not just two minutes;' Dewayne said.

  "Don't defend this chump;" Sly shot back.

  Jesse's mouth pulled back in a grimace as though a large hand was squeezing his gut, but he put his hand over his mouth to cover it, to stifle any words he might blurt out in his defense.

  "I dropped some passes;' Dewayne said. "You fumbled once.

  "And I recovered it. Two-yard loss. Big deal," Sly said.

  "The game is forty-eight minutes, Sly"

  "And it was lost in two. Stop taking up for him. All he needed to do was play by the rules. We know all the plays. We know where each one is going to be. He broke the trust, man. He didn't have your back. Where was he? Where was he? Chasing rabbits"

  Jesse pretended to be invisible. It was better to hear a friend say these things so he would not have to suffer hearing his own voice repeatedly cast these accusations against him. It was better that his friend try to deflect the slings and arrows so there would be no additional wounds to compete with the self-inflicted ones. Dewayne's defense relieved him from having to speak, from having to move.

  "Lay off now before you go too far," Dewayne said.

  "Too far;" Sly said. "The rules of life are made for people like him, but he don't have to play by the rules. The white boy makes his own kind of rules."

  Jesse kicked out his leg, as though trying to kick off his shoe, his first sign of life in several miles.

  Dewayne shifted in his seat. "Careful, Sly..

  "You be careful. He has every advantage while you and I have to fight for everything we get."

  "This ain't the time or the place, Sly," Dewayne said, looking into Jesse's trembling face.

  Sly began to shake his head, starting a swaying motion in his body. Dewayne laid his hand on the back of Sly's neck, but Sly knocked it away with his arm.

  "I can't believe you're taking up for him;' Sly said, leaning forward and pointing his finger at Jesse. "You and I are going places, D. We're leaving Springdale, and we're shaking the dust off our feet. We're leaving this fool behind"

  Jesse twisted his head from the window to look at Sly, tears streaming down the solemn-stoned bust of his face. In Sly's cruel words, Jesse saw his immediate and distant future play out before him: he would be scorned and despised by the good people of Springdale for a time, though most of the citizens would hide the true face of their contempt for his split-second decision that cost them their coveted state championship behind a strained but civil mask. The Springdale Leader would write about the play that lost the game, and every reader would fill his name in the blank. Who would remember that Jesse Webb had been the best linebacker in the history of the Springdale Tigers? In time, the town's disdain would pass; the population would find new reasons to hold a grudge, new people to scorn, and this spirit of disparagement would pass fr
om everyoneexcept perhaps from Jesse, a compartment of his heart holding the contemptible memory like a cold stone, creating an invisible deformity every bit as real as a clubfoot or withered hand.

  "We could have had it, man," Sly said, his head hung low. "We could have had it"

  The Webb bloodline might have sealed Jesse's future profession, but his friend's words would coat every decision, every thought process, every emotional impulse, that Jesse would ever have.

  Jesse and Sly caught the smell of fried chicken coming from Cherie's house as soon as they opened the doors of the yellow Hummer. They were late. Dewayne had stationed himself at the top of the steps, his arms crossed over his muscular chest like a menacing bouncer. Sly and Jesse pointed the finger of blame at each other.

  "Come on now," Dewayne said. "I saved you each a drumstick"

  This was the boys' last meal together. Dewayne would be leaving in the morning for California to play for USC, where he would continue to perfect the wide receiver skills that Coach Hopper had nurtured and developed. In the next few days, Jesse would leave for Ole Miss, and Sly would catch a plane to Miami. Their daily involvement, their daily sharing of dreams, of boasts, of secrets, would end with this night. The meal Cherie prepared was a unanimous favorite of all three. Cream-style corn, mashed potatoes covered in redeye gravy, three-bean salad, and homemade biscuits fought for room on the plate with the mound of panfried chicken. Between mouthfuls washed down with sweet tea, the boys joked with Cherie with the respect and familiarity that came from the years of caring attention she had given them. Dewayne was her flesh and blood, but she freely disciplined and loved Sly and Jesse as if they were her own. She never begrudged the cost or the time required to prepare the mountains of food.