“See ya around,” she said, turning and walking back toward the diner, laughing.
“Bitch,” Bret growled softly.
Chapter Nine
As with most high schools, Friday night football games were always the social event of our week. I don’t think we ever would have seen so many games if it hadn’t been for Grant. His whole life revolved around football. I was convinced that football was also going to be his future—he had been on the varsity team since he was a freshman, and he was getting better each year.
The Football game against Bret’s school came one month after the racing episode at The Oasis. We hadn’t heard anything of Bret or his friends—no remarks, rumors, or conversations—which was odd, because Bret usually made it a point to constantly talk crap about us, and word had spread fast about how Runaway had beaten his Z.
We settled into our habit of going to Grant’s weekly games and then heading to the diner, which, because of Runaway’s race with Bret, was now always packed with people. Most times, we couldn’t even walk across the floor or get close to the jukebox, as so many people were there.
Mr. Thompson naturally loved the business. He was happier than we’d ever remembered him. Often, during Friday nights, we’d be in our normal booth and people would approach us from everywhere, asking about the Wall of Fame. They wanted to know if that’s where we got our inspiration for the car club, or how they could get their pictures up on the wall.
All of us were happy to talk with anyone who was interested. We were also happy to tell everyone about our cars and the race against Bret. We had heard that some people were interested in the older-model cars and they wanted to know how they could get their hands on one. No one ever asked about foreign cars or even new cars—they were mostly intrigued by the classics.
Eventually, over the course of the month, we began seeing more and more classic old cars like ours show up in the parking lot. Listening to the conversations as they wafted through the air, we could hear people talking engines, gears, tires, and stories about where they got their cars. Some guys had gotten their dad’s old car—some had gone to their grandfathers, and more than one had gone to junkyards and found cars whose bodies were still in good condition.
Because of it, we started to see Mustangs, Camaros, Fords, Chevelles, GTOs, and old coupes. Not everyone had gotten the fever yet, but at least they were headed in the right direction.
All week long, Grant was pretty pumped about this week’s game, as we all were, because we were playing Bonita. Grant kept saying that he just wanted to hit somebody.
I agreed—I would have liked to deck Bret, but I didn’t think that’s what he was talking about. We sort of envied Grant because he got to be where the action was.
Bonita was our biggest rival, next to Upland. We just hated Bonita because of Bret and his friends. We didn’t have any problem with Upland, other than the fact that we had almost the same mascots.
Both Upland and Glendora used the Scottish pride for the basis of their mascots—Upland was simply known as the “Scots,” or the “Highlanders.” Their mascot was the Scottie dog, and they used the tartan plaid in black, green, and white.
Glendora also used the same tartan plaid, only in black, red, and white. We were known as the “Tartans,” and everything was focused around our plaid, but our mascot was also the Scottie dog. Each school felt that their theme had been stolen from the other, and each group was hell-bent on taking back the right to be the only “Scottish” school.
Our league was known as the Baseline League, as the majority of the schools were located along the route of Foothill, or Route 66. We consisted of six schools, all fighting for the bragging rights that come with winning the city trophy. We felt competition in every element—athletics, academics, and now, with our car club, we felt it even more.
Game time was 7:00, and as always, Grant went early for taping, suiting up, and a team dinner. Glendora didn’t have its own football field. In fact, most schools didn’t have football fields, because of the original citrus groves that later turned into housing tracts. Once the housing tracts were built, putting in a football field would have been a major problem—no one wanted the noise that came with a field. Out of the six high schools, only two had a proper football field—the rest had to play at one of the local junior colleges, usually Citrus or Chaffey.
Arriving at 6:30, we parked in front of the field, which had a massive parking lot. We began walking to the bleachers. There was a lot on the other side of the field as well, but mainly visitors parked there.
Since Citrus was a community college, the stadium was huge, in comparison with high school stadiums. The stands on either side of the stadium seemed to go straight up at a ninety-degree angle, rather than a slow incline. Climbing the incline they made my thighs burn, even if I only climbed a few.
Our usual seat in the stadium was on the west side of the south bleachers—this was considered the “home” side. We chose to sit near the grassy area around the discus and shot-put rings so we wouldn’t have to be near the band, parents, or any other distractions.
Walking to our normal seats, and of course, wearing our jackets, I had just a bit of apprehension. I knew Bret would have to show his face. I wondered what kind of mood he’d be in. Obviously, we were pretty certain he was going to show, as the game was between our two rival schools.
At 6:45, both teams were out on the field warming up. We could see Grant, number 56, running practice drills. I could tell he was pretty intent on his pre-game warm-up, as he rarely turned his head either way. Every once in a while, I would see him steal a look to Bonita’s side, searching for anyone familiar, I’m sure. Even our searching turned up empty as we scrutinized the visitor bleachers.
Runaway sat down, kicked back and put her hands behind her head. She caught me staring at her.
“What?” I immediately defended myself.
I quickly looked away because I didn’t want to be caught worrying, but it was too late.
“Don’t worry, Mr. ‘oh-my-gosh-they’re-not-going-to-show,’” she said slowly while looking at me, almost too condescendingly. “They’ll show—how can they not?”
She then looked at Stephen, leaned over, and patted him on the back.
“Just sit back and relax, like good ol’ Stephen over here. He is as calm and cool as a cucumber.”
Without even glancing at her, he replied.
“Explain why it is necessary for you to use both a simile and personification in the same sentence?”
She closed her eyes and began to shake her head. I saw her mouth the words “here we go”
as she leaned her head back against the bleacher.
“Really,” he stared forward as he continued. “Why do we first personify the cucumber as being calm? It’s a vegetable; it has no attributes other than being a vegetable. Why would you first imply that this particular vegetable is calm? How is a cucumber calmer than a tomato? Second, I fail to understand the logic behind the simile ‘cool as a cucumber.’ Cucumbers grow, as most plants do, outside, and they enjoy the heat of the summer, not the cool of the fall or winter, like peas, pumpkins or apples.” He now looked at her, exasperated. “Furthermore, like all things that become cool, it is only when placing them in a refrigerator that they become cool. So why not ‘cool as a pumpkin,’ or ‘cool as an apple’? Perhaps it is the alliterative device of which you are so fond of that forces you to say ‘cool as a cucumber.’ ”
“What the hell?” she said, and smacked him in the back of the head. “We are not in Hill’s English class—it’s Friday, and we are at a football game… hence, we are off duty!” she yelled.
I loved it.
He simply shook his head at her and faced forward again.
At 7:00, the kickoff started the game. It soon became evident that it would be a battle. Glendora won the toss and elected to receive during half time. That meant Bonita was to kick off first. Grant had always told me he preferred it that way, as Glendora would get to receive the second half. Strategically, it was better, he’d said.
Bonita kicked off, but Glendora maneuvered a kickoff return into the Bonita end zone and scored. We were only two minutes and thirty seconds, and already the score was seven to zero. It was going to obviously be a long game.
Bonita, not to be outdone, answered Glendora’s kickoff return with a forty-two-yard pass after only two plays. The game was now tied seven to seven. Everyone could see that it was going to be a fight to the end, as both sides loathed each other.
Grant usually played only defense, but tonight he was playing offense, as well. He came out onto the field with a light jog, not even paying attention to the opposing sidelines. When he was on the offense, he was left tackle, and when he switched to defense, he was an outside linebacker. Either way you looked at it, that boy had a challenge to face, no matter which line he was on.
I looked over at Runaway, who was staring intently at the game.
“Looks like Grant has his work cut out for him, doesn’t it?” I seemed to have voiced her thought.
“No doubt. I wonder why he’s playing both sides,” she wondered, looking at me.
Stephen piped up. “He told me the individual who apparently plays left tackle for us supposedly pulled a groin muscle in practice, and Grant was the only one who could replace him. So there you are—it is Grant to the rescue.” He sounded clearly put out that Grant had to come to the rescue of a lesser player.
“That seriously sucks,” I said.
“What I can’t believe is that the game is already seven-seven,” Stephen mused. “If this is the immediate state of affairs, I can’t imagine what the result of this game will be.”
“Too right,” I agreed.
Nodding in assent, we continued to watch the game. After Bonita’s touchdown, they kicked off to Glendora and GHS ran it back only ten yards before they fumbled. However, Bonita didn’t fare any better, as on the first down, they threw an interception.
The rest of the first quarter was pretty much the same thing.
“Man… if this keeps up, it’s going to be a long night,” I said.
“Yeah, especially if you’ve been watching Grant,” Runaway pointed out. “I’ve noticed that a couple of times he’s shaken his head back and forth like
he can’t believe it, either.”
“I’ve observed that, as well,” Stephen added. “Did you also notice when he threw his hands into the air? I am positive he yelled…”
“ ‘What the hell’?” Runaway finished.
“Exactly.” Stephen smiled.
I searched for Grant among the sea of numbers. Everyone looked the same in black uniforms—it was only his number 56 that set him apart.
“I hate football,” Brandon said.
“Of course you do,” Stephen agreed. “Perhaps it is because you fail to understand the competitive drive that propels the game forward.” He attempted to explain the battle behind the game.
“Oh, I get it.” Brandon looked at Stephen. “Not.”
“Figures.” Stephen rolled his eyes.
Without our noticing, GHS scored while we were talking. I looked up just in time to see Grant get up from the field, drop his arms and let his head fall back and look into the sky, as if to say, “finally.”
With only a few minutes remaining in the second quarter, Glendora attempted a two-point conversion instead of a field goal. It looked as if Bonita was going to stop them, but at the last second, the running back—I think his name was Cade—sneaked the ball over the line, making the score fourteen-seven. Before half time, Glendora attempted an off-sides kick, but it backfired. Bonita picked it up and drove it to GHS’ twenty-yard line.