The Birth of Super Crip (8 page)

Red raised his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting . . .”
He left the question unfinished.

“C’mon, dude,” Scott urged. “We suck. Plus, I got
Danny ready to bet me.”

“Oh, nice. Trying to use me.”

“You can test your skills,” Scott said, trying to
entice him.

It wasn’t a bad thought, Red knew. He also knew he
didn’t exactly have a good feeling after what he did in gym class.
“I don’t even know how much I can do,” he said. “Besides, I’m a
little tired from gym class.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, I used it a lot,” Red said, not wanting to
explain further.

“So?” Scott said. “See, you can do it.”

Red nodded. “No promises, but . . .”

He was interrupted as Pete approached from behind.
“All the freshmen bail out?” he said as much as asked. Then,
noticing Scott, he said, “Oh, I gotta sit with both O’Ryan boys
tonight?”

“You wish,” Scott said, “I’m not sitting over here
with you fools.”

“So funny,” Pete said.

Clapping his hands together as he took a couple steps
backwards, Scott pointed at his brother and said, “We got
this.”

Only Red knew it was actually a question. He shrugged
his shoulders slightly and smiled, not sure he was comfortable with
the idea of using the wave to help their team win—or if he was
capable of it. He could tell by the grin on Scott’s face as he
turned to take the bleachers back down that he was confident his
bet would be a sure thing.

Red turned around and saw Pete had already sat down.
“I was starting to think nobody else was showing up,” Red said,
leaning against the railing. “Andre coming?”

“No,” Pete said, obviously annoyed. “We waited ten
minutes outside his house. My dad was fuming.”

“He’ll have some BS excuse on Monday.”

“Won’t he?”

Pete saw some kids with green jackets with
Folsom
High
in white lettering on the back walking past the accessible
section. As usual, a few of the kids stared at them, while others
leaned closer to their friends and whispered. One of the last kids
in the group spotted his crutches and stopped.

“Hey, check it out, it’s the Penn Valley receiving
corps,” the kid said, pointing toward Pete and Red. But only a
couple kids in the green jackets even looked back as they climbed
the bleachers, and no one laughed.

Feeling just a splash from the wave as he looked over
his shoulder, Red saw a plump kid with bushy black hair that
couldn’t be contained by his hat carrying the largest box of
caramel corn that could be bought at the concessions stand. The box
already had a substantial amount missing from it, Red noticed, and
the kid was laughing at his own comment. Before Red could say a
word, Pete said, “Dude, they even wanted you to be funny and they
didn’t laugh.”

The kid saw Red laugh. “What are you laughing
at?”

“Not you,” Red replied.

“Shove more candy in your mouth, fat boy,” Pete said.
“At least it’ll keep you quiet.”

“Yeah, screw you,” the kid said as he walked away,
giving them the middle finger.

The kid went to climb the last few bleachers to catch
up with the rest of his group when Red easily pushed the wave at
his foot just as he was about to put weight on it. Missing the
bleacher, the kid’s foot found nothing to support him. He tumbled
backwards trying to keep himself from falling into the space
between the bleachers. Half of the caramel corn spilled all over
him and the walkway, and the kid looked up to see everyone around
him laughing.

Red simply walked away and sat one seat over from
Pete. The kid got to his feet and scrambled up the bleachers to sit
with the Folsom contingent. Without even looking at each other,
Pete and Red just smiled.

“You’re so angry, Pete,” Red teased.

“Oh, Red, they just don’t know how to connect.
Sometimes it comes off the wrong way, but they’re trying.”

Their laughter was interrupted by the squealing of
the public address system being turned on. They both turned and
looked up at the broadcast booth along with the rest of the
crowd.

“Sorry, folks,” the student announcer said. “And
welcome to the game as we host our rivals, the Folsom Raiders . .
.”

“Who are going to kick the crap out of us,” Pete
said, finishing the sentence. When he didn’t get a reaction, he
noticed Red was still looking up at the booth. “Chill out, it only
squeals a few times a game.”

Red shook his head. “I swear, I always feel like that
thing’s gonna topple,” he said. “I mean, look at it.”

Constructed as an afterthought to the stadium, the
booth was nothing more than a wooden structure with some siding,
built high enough for its occupants to see over the bleachers. It
had been a project for the shop club about a decade ago, and they
overshot the height of the bleachers by a good twenty feet. It
looked like it hadn’t been touched since the original construction,
and the panels on the front of the booth had been ripped away
before current seniors ever set foot in the halls of Penn
Valley.

“Why you think they put the handicapped section under
it,” Pete said.

“The section is handicapped too? Holy crap.”

Pete rolled his eyes.

“I forgot,” Red said, “you’re the funny one.”

“Yeah, stop doing that, will ya?”

Laughing, Red said, “Shut up.”

“You know what they say, the team has a better
foundation than that thing,” Pete said, repeating a popular joke
that floated through school every game day. “And we only won four
games in the last three seasons.”

Glancing over at the Folsom students, Red saw the kid
with the bushy hair blending in with the rest of them. Talking.
Laughing. Like nothing had happened.

“Upset tonight,” Red declared.

“You’re nuts. Folsom’s 3 and 0 and favored to win the
league.”

“They are going down tonight.”

“Five bucks?” Pete offered his hand to indicate the
sealing of a bet.

Red hesitated for a moment, feeling guilty to take
his friend’s money.

“C’mon, man, put your money where your mouth is,”
Pete said.

Red shook his hand and smiled. “Five bucks.”

The 14-14 score deep into the third quarter had the
crowd getting increasingly boisterous with each play. A
strengthening wind only seemed to fuel them more. Penn Valley
seniors had taken to joining the cheerleaders’ chants from the
bleachers, calling for “D-fense” with rhythmic stomping of their
feet, which the rest of the students gradually joined.

Once again the Raiders had made it beyond midfield
only to find themselves in a third-and-long situation. Red had his
hands jammed into his jacket pockets. The hood of the sweatshirt he
wore under his jacket framed his face, with the strings pulled as
tight as possible. It was providing little warmth against the now
constant wind as the temperature continued to drop. He was already
shivering at times, but resisted the urge to get in his wheelchair
to go down the ramp and seek out protection from the wind until his
brother was ready to drive them home.

Instead, Red focused on the Folsom quarterback as he
took the snap and looked to throw. Bringing his arm back and
stepping into the throw to launch a 15-yard pass to his tallest
receiver, he exposed the ball for all to see. For what felt like
the thirtieth time of the night, Red locked his eyes on the ball as
the quarterback let it fly and pushed it at least ten yards over
the receiver’s outstretched hands. The wideout looked back at his
quarterback with his palms up as if to say, “What’re you doing?”
Red watched the quarterback make the same motion and shrug, and
felt a twinge of guilt.

The sound system squealed to life, and the announcer
yelled, “Fourth down!” in such a partisan way that his
communications instructor wouldn’t have approved. The crowd loved
it, however, and didn’t seem to notice the sound of a
crack
in the background. Red instantly looked back at the booth, then
looked at Pete.

“What?” Pete asked, mirroring Red’s efforts to stay
warm.

“Nothing,” Red said. “Thought I heard something
snap.”

Pete glanced back, but was clearly unconcerned or too
cold to care. Taking a look around, Red noticed that the tops of
the trees standing just outside the stadium had begun to sway when
the first raindrops found his face. He checked the scoreboard
towering over the field about ten yards behind the end zone to
their right to see how much time was left in the third quarter.
Instead, he thought he noticed the scoreboard move ever so slightly
in the wind. As fast as he dismissed that idea and told himself to
stop being paranoid, he heard the rain begin a steady tapping on
the parts of the bleachers that were empty.

“Great,” he heard Pete mutter.

Red tried to turn his attention back to the game.
Taking possession on their own 20-yard line after the punt had been
ruled a touchback, the Lions didn’t move the ball at all on first
down. While the wave was coming with ease, Red barely feeling it
recede when there was a break in the game, getting the results he
wanted was proving to be much more difficult than he expected.
Helping Penn Valley on defense wasn’t too hard, especially with
pass plays on a windy night. Running plays were a bit more
challenging. He figured pushing running backs to the ground without
a defensive player making at least some contact would raise
questions. The same was true on offense. There were only so many
times a defender could inexplicably fall down. And more than a few
plays had proven that he could only do so much on a pass play.

Finally, the quarterback dropped back on
second-and-long. He had a receiver wide open for a first down. The
pass rush closed in, and he was hit as he threw. Red pushed what
would have been a wobbler into the ground right into the receiver’s
chest only to watch him drop it.

“What the hell!” he screamed. “Do I have to catch it
for you?”

Pete looked over at him with a blank stare.

Realizing what he’d just said, Red tried to cover his
tracks. “What?” he said. “I’m just sayin’ catch the damn
thing.”

Pete struggled to hear him over the wind. Red leaned
closer and repeated himself in a shout.

“Yeah, and you could do better,” Pete shouted back
before turning to watch the game.

Happy his friend seemed satisfied with the response,
Red didn’t risk a comeback.

Instead, Red started to think a fluke play on the
punt might be the best way to get the home team into scoring range.
Nothing else was working, and he didn’t know how many opportunities
were left.

His eyes shifted to Pete, then quickly away. Does he
know? he wondered. Red looked at the clock again. With just seconds
left, there wouldn’t be another snap in the third quarter, and
there was no guarantee Penn Valley would even have a reason to punt
again. Besides, they would be going into the wind in the fourth
quarter. It made his plan for a long punt that he hoped to make
sure was mishandled by Folsom and recovered by the Lions all the
more implausible.

At the snap of the ball, Red instantly knew there was
nothing he could do short of pushing down the entire defensive line
as three Raiders converged on the running back in the backfield.
Instead, he stole another opportunity to help the left end pancake
Chuck, pushing him to the ground with the wave as the defender went
around him.

“C’mon!” Pete yelled after the third-down draw play
went nowhere. “How many times is Chuck just gonna fall to the
ground?”

“I know,” Red said, continuing to look straight ahead
for fear of laughing. “He sucks!” Watching Chuck pound the ground
and then walk to the sideline as the coach laid into him, Red felt
just a little guilty. He decided Chuck had taken enough for one
game.

Penn Valley called time-out with a second left in the
quarter to be able to punt with the wind.

Scott came running up the bleachers moments after the
whistle sounded for the time-out. He motioned for Red to meet him
at the railing. Moving carefully, Red kept his head down as the
wind had suddenly picked up and was sending a now-steady rain
almost sideways. Each drop that found his face felt like a little
pellet bouncing off him. The sound of the crowd’s latest song
selection, “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” barely reached them. Red looked
over Scott’s shoulder to see what seemed like every student on the
Penn Valley side standing and chanting as much as singing the final
line of the Creedence Clearwater Revival classic.

“You want to take off?” Scott screamed louder than
necessary to be heard over the wind.

Red reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, this is brutal. Let’s
go.”

“What?” Scott snapped. “I was just saying that loud
enough to give us an excuse to talk.”

Red rolled his eyes.

“So, what gives?” Scott asked.

“Huh?” Red muttered, genuinely confused.