Painting the Black (11 page)

But when our offense came on the field in the third quarter, Brandon Ruben was still running the team.

The O'Dea guys were really teeing off on him. They were overpowering our linemen, just annihilating them. Ruben would take a three-step drop and have about a tenth of a second to throw before some guy was right in his face.

The score was still 24–0 with about four minutes left in the third quarter when it happened. Ruben had gotten rid of the ball when Number Forty drove him into the ground. From where I was you could see Ruben's head hit the turf and bounce up. It took about five minutes for Ruben to get up, and it took two guys to help him off the field. Everybody was up and clapping for him, glad to see him moving.

As Ruben was helped off, Josh trotted on. The applause for Ruben blended with the cheers for Josh, and suddenly the Crown Hill section was alive again. It was only the third quarter. There was plenty of time for Josh to bring us back. He was the miracle worker, the guy who'd turned the season around. Turning a game around would be a snap.

On his first play he threw a little hitch pass over the middle. Before Santos could pull it in, the O'Dea safety hit him and the ball was jarred loose. That made it third and ten.

Josh took the snap and rolled to the right to buy some time. But the blitz was on, and before anybody came open, he had to unload. The pass sailed out-of-bounds, and our punter came on.

I sat back, trying to stay confident. Josh just needed to get the feel of the game, to get loose. Then he'd work his magic.

But O'Dea took the punt and came after us again, grinding up great big chunks of yardage on the ground and taking precious time off the clock. Four yards. Seven yards. Five yards. Nine yards. Down the field and into the end zone. 31–0.

It was over. Not even Josh could bring us back from that deficit. The smart thing to do was to pack it in, to run some sweeps or maybe some short passes.

After what happened later that year, lots of people say that Josh was a coward. They say that only a coward would do what he did. But I don't see how anybody who saw Josh play the fourth quarter of that game could ever think it was that simple. Because what Josh showed that day was courage. Pure courage.

Nobody else seemed to be even trying. Santos had pulled himself from the game. Wilsey was just going through the motions. But Josh wouldn't quit. The O'Dea guys teed off on him every down. Still he'd hold the ball and hold the ball, not letting it go until the last possible second, and then taking the hard shots that came. Time after time Number Forty drilled him. Time after time Josh picked himself up off the turf.

With three minutes left in the game, Josh put a drive together. It was all pride—
his
pride. O'Dea led 38–0 by then. But that zero sitting up on the scoreboard was the ultimate humiliation.

A sophomore wide receiver, Andrew Hanson, had replaced Santos. Hanson had fresh legs, and he wanted to show what he could do. Josh hit him with two deep outs in a row. That put the ball on the O'Dea thirty-three. Then we picked up fifteen yards on an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty for a late hit. With under a minute left in the game, we had a first down on the O'Dea eighteen.

The clock was running as Josh hurried the team up to the line. Even though the game had been decided, you could feel the tension. O'Dea wanted the shutout as much as Josh wanted to keep them from getting it. He dropped back to pass—an all-out blitz was coming. Just as he unloaded the ball, one O'Dea guy hit him low while Number Forty blasted him straight on. Josh went down hard, his head smacking the turf just as Ruben's had.

But his pass was a thing of beauty. Hanson had run a fade pattern into the corner of the end zone, and the ball dropped out of the sky and into his outstretched hands for a touchdown. There would be no league championship, no berth in the state championship tournament. But we hadn't been shut out.

Sunday morning I went over to Josh's house. His mother let me in. “He's on the sofa in the den,” she said, her face gray. She paused. “You're smart not to play football, Ryan.”

I was stunned when I saw him. He was lying on the sofa under about a dozen blankets. His whole face was swollen. He had an ice pack on his neck and another one on his right shoulder. He looked as though he'd gone twelve rounds against Mike Tyson.

“Hey, Ryan,” he murmured. “What's up?” Even his voice was off—raspy and clotted.

“Nothing much. I just wanted to come by and see how you are.”

He smiled, and I could tell that even that hurt. “I'm terrific. Never been better.”

The television was on to the 49ers-Eagles game. I watched for a few minutes. When I looked over at him, his eyes were almost closed. “Listen,” I said, “I'll be taking off now. You rest up. I'll see you tomorrow at school.”

He shook his head. “I doubt I'll make it tomorrow. Not unless I feel a whole lot better.” He paused. “But come over tomorrow night. We can watch Monday Night Football.”

“You got it,” I replied.

I left, stunned. I don't know why. I'd seen it all. The crushing tackles, the blind-side hits. In the movies guys shrug off beatings as if they are pillow fights, but real life isn't a movie. Josh wasn't Superman. I banged my head a couple of times with the heel of my hand. There are times when my own stupidity amazes me.

Nobody mentioned the football game at school on Monday. It was as if it had all been a bad dream that no one wanted to talk about. The halls were quiet; the posters were down. Everything was back to normal.

In English Ms. Hurley had us read a short story about some guy with two doors in front of him. Behind one door was a lady and behind the other was a tiger, or something like that. I read the thing beginning to end, but I just read words. I didn't follow it at all.

The discussion never got going. Even Monica was strangely quiet. A couple of times I caught her sneaking peeks at Josh's empty desk. For a while I wondered if somehow she'd heard what a beating he'd taken and felt sorry for him, but that made no sense.

Just before the dismissal bell, Ms. Hurley clapped her hands to get our attention. “I almost forgot,” she said, holding up a stack of papers. “A new issue of the
Viper
is out. Monica and Franklin and many others worked hard on it. So please don't take it if you're just going to throw it away.”

I grabbed a copy on my way out the door. I headed to the computer lab, where I finished up some end-of-the-chapter questions for history class. As I waited for the printer, I pulled out the
Viper
and flipped through it.

The main story made fun of Mr. Hagstrom, a French teacher who was notorious for talking too much about his Brittany spaniel, Buddy. Then there was a sci-fi/fantasy thing about how the school's water was tainted with some strange chemical that made everyone live their lives in reverse. Adults were sucking their thumbs and wetting their pants while babies were driving cars and reading Shakespeare. Maybe it was funny and I just wasn't in the mood, but I was about to toss the whole thing when a short piece on the last caught my eye.

Jocko Come Home

 

PLEASE HELP! Our beloved dog, Jocko Spaniel, is missing. Jocko is a fun-loving hound who loves to roll on the ground with boys. Around girls, Jocko slobbers uncontrollably and howls. If you find him, please call 1-800-Clueless. P.S. Jocko desperately needs neutering!

It was playing dirty, pure and simple. All afternoon I seethed. When the dismissal bell rang, I went to the front steps and looked everywhere for Monica. I was always running into her around the school, but the one time I wanted to see her she was nowhere to be found.

Then it hit me. She'd be in the publishing center, a little room in back of the stage. That's where the staff of the
Viper
met, and I'd heard Franklin say something about a party.

I walked down the hall to the theater. The main lights were off, but I could hear laughter coming from behind the black curtain that was pulled across the stage. I strode down the center aisle, hopped onto the stage, and pulled the curtains apart. There were six of them, Monica and Franklin and Linda Marsh and some freshmen and sophomores I didn't know, sitting at a long table eating cupcakes and drinking Coke and talking. Everyone stopped when they saw me.

“That was a cheap shot, Monica,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. Josh didn't deserve that, not after what he's done for this school.”

She smiled her know-it-all smile. “‘After what he has done for the school,'” she echoed, looking at her friends. “Tell me, Ryan, what
is
it that he has done for this school?”

“Maybe you didn't notice,” I said, “but he's given us something to be proud of, some reason to be glad we go to Crown Hill High.”

She continued smiling sarcastically. “Oh, I am so delighted to go to a school where the jocks sit together in the center of the cafeteria hooting at girls and copping cheap feels. My heart swells with pride!”

“I wasn't talking about that.”

Her smile disappeared. She picked up a
Viper
and waved it in front of me. “Well, that's what I was talking about.”

I felt the ground slipping away from me. “Other guys were louder and grosser than Josh, and you know it.”

She glared. “What about Celeste Honor? Was that some other guy too?”

“Come off it,” I said. “Celeste has been asking for something like that for years. He was just joking around.”

Monica tilted her head. The smug smile returned. “Well, that's all I was doing, Ryan. Just joking around. If you can dish it out, you've got to be able to take it. Isn't that what guys always say?”

I stood there, suddenly feeling stupid. I needed to come up with some answer, but I couldn't think of anything. I swallowed, then I turned and walked away. The heavy curtains rustled as they closed behind me. When I walked out of the theater, I could hear the whole bunch of them laughing.

A guy is lying on his sofa, beat up and bruised. His head is aching, his face is puffy, and every muscle and bone in his body hurts. He's just come up empty in the biggest game of his life, and you've got to tell him that the school magazine makes him out to be an idiot and a pervert. There's a fun job.

Actually I didn't describe the article. I sat in the big chair next to him and watched the opening of the Cowboys-Raiders game on Monday Night Football. When the first set of commercials came on, I handed the
Viper
to him.

“Monica Roby,” I said.

He looked puzzled, then he read the words I'd circled. “This is stupid,” he said, throwing it back to me.

“That's exactly what it is,” I replied, and I started to shove it into my back pocket.

He grabbed it back. “Let me read it again.” His jaw tightened as he read. “This is something my brother would think was funny. I know her type. She thinks she's so clever and smart and everybody else is dumb.”

I watched a beer commercial. A little time ticked away.

“You know what I'd do if I were you?” I said. “I'd just forget about it. Act like it never happened. That would show her.”

His eyes widened. “No way, Ryan. Absolutely no way. I'll get even with her. I don't know how, but I will.”

We watched the game then, both of us silent. Emmitt Smith was running wild, breaking tackles and scoring touchdowns. At halftime I got us some Cokes from his refrigerator.

“You know,” he said as he drank his off, “she cost us the game.”

I put my Coke down. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean that if I had started, we'd have won.”

I thought of how much bigger the O'Dea guys were, and how their offense had cut right through our defense. “The game would have been closer, but they were—”

“They were nothing,” he interrupted, his tone vehement. “Nothing. Ruben made them look good. I'm telling you, I could have beaten them.”

On the television Dallas was celebrating another touchdown. I got up and stretched my arms over my head. “I'll be going home now,” I said. “You coming to school tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “My mother made me go see a doctor. He wants me to take the week off, which is okay by me. I won't go back until after Thanksgiving.”

It was actually good Josh stayed away. Tuesday morning in the halls I saw kids pointing to the
Viper
and laughing. But by Tuesday afternoon most copies were in garbage cans. Wednesday was a half day. Everyone was looking forward to the time off from school. Josh, Monica, the
Viper
—they were all old news.

When I was little, I used to play for hours with plastic soldiers. I'd set them up everywhere in my room—on the floor, on my chest of drawers, my nightstand. I'd have them in lines of two and three and four. Once they were all set up, I'd smash them here, there, and everywhere. I was in complete control. Every little plastic man did exactly what I wanted.

I think that's what I wanted from Josh those days. I wanted him to be like one of my plastic soldiers. I wanted him to do what I wanted.

I had it all worked out. I'd give him a week to get over the battering he'd taken from O'Dea. Then he'd be ready for baseball. We'd throw at the Community Center after school and hang out together at night. It would be just like summer, only better, because I'd be better. My ankle felt good; I had more stamina; and it seemed like my foot speed was picking up, though it's hard to know about that unless somebody times you.

The problem was I couldn't get him to play ball. After school he wanted to hang around in his room and talk football. O'Dea was cruising through the state tournament, and every one of their victories ate at him. “That should be us playing,” he'd say, as he looked at the newspaper. “That should be me out there.” Even after O'Dea crushed Bellingham for the state title, he still wouldn't do anything.