Chapter 1

September 1954

Bjorn

Well, that was hard.

New school—way bigger than my Victoria elementary. Couldn’t even find the study hall in time. I’d promised Pa I’d make the best of the next two years.

New kids and older ones in there too, some townies from Waconia, but some small towners, what with the consolidation and all. Had to get to know some of ’em. I started with the guys sitting around me.

The kid in front of me had a farmer’s tan. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi, I’m Bjorn. What’s your name? Where y’ from?”

He turned around and checked out my tow head and plaid shirt. He nodded. “Hey, there. Otto Schumacher . . . call me Shu. Farm near St. Boni. What’s your last name? Where y’ from?” His denim shirt had a yellow corn cob and DeKalb embroidered on its pocket.

“Olson. Victoria.” I glanced at the teacher and lowered my voice. “Probably should keep it down.”

“Don’t worry about him hearing us. He looks to be two acres away. Besides, what are we s’posed to be studying? We don’t have any books yet.” His pale forehead was offset with ruddy cheeks. His hands were familiar with work. The kind of hands you gotta earn, like mine. They were leathery brown, probably from gripping the steering wheel of a tractor.

I caught the attention of the tall, skinny kid with broad shoulders to my right. He was squeezing a sponge ball in his left hand and had on a grey t-shirt with a Chicago Cubs logo. “Hi, I’m Bjorn,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Ozzie Johnson, from Cologne. Nice t’ meet ya.” He waved a little and looked away.

I could tell the kid to my left was trying to ignore me. He was staring through his Coke-bottle glasses at the cracks in the plaster ceiling. He had a case of the zits and was a little pudgy. He was armed for classroom combat with four ballpoint pens and a yellow highlighter in his starched shirt pocket. A holster hung from his belt, not with a Roy Rogers six-shooter, but a slide rule. His hair looked like a young Einstein’s and he had beads on a string in his right hand. I poked him on his shoulder. “Okay, how about you?”

“Oh . . . well, my name’s David Grimm. I reside in New Germany. Also, I really do not believe we should be—”

“Hey, you four in the back—front and center, now!” The booming voice came from the front of the room, which was large enough to hold everyone from my grade school. Mr. Wagner sounded like an army drill sergeant I’d seen at the movies. The blackboard behind him framed his huge body.

My high school career wasn’t getting off to a shining start.

As the four of us shuffled up the center aisle on the maple floor, thirty-seven pairs of eyes drilled into my backside. The giggling from the other students added to my bashful agony. I looked straight ahead, not daring to look at the gigglers or out the tall windows to my left, which provided a view over the football field to the three-thousand-acre Lake Waconia.

Being from a small town of three-hundred-fifteen souls hadn’t prepared me for being in front of this crowd.

As I got closer to the teacher, I saw that his furry arms looked like Popeye’s and his burly chest came close to popping his shirt buttons. He had that tough-guy look perfected by male teachers to keep restless students in line. He had a short, jock haircut with a high forehead. His glasses were perched up on his hairline.

He signaled with his thick finger. “Okay, heroes, follow me out to the hall.”

We obediently followed. He closed the frosted glass door to the classroom and handed a clip-board to Shu. “If you girls know how to write, put down your names and home phone numbers.”

Oh, no. Is he gonna call Pa?

After checking the names and matching them to each of us, he said, “Ladies, keep your traps shut in my study hall.” Then his tough-guy voice and look magically were replaced by a friendly sales-guy voice and look.

“That’s not the real reason I called you up front. I’m Coach Wagner and the school needs players for the freshman football team. None of you are signed up.” He looked at Ozzie. “Johnson, you coming out for the team?”

“Oh . . . ah . . . I . . . my dad won’t let me. He told me maybe I could go out for basketball and baseball, but not football.”

Frowning, the coach said, “And why not?”

“He doesn’t want me to hurt my throwing arm.”

“You that Johnson from Cologne?”

“Yeah.”

Coach Wagner had heard about Ozzie from the baseball coach. “Okay with you if I call your dad?”

Ozzie shrugged. “Well, yeah. Sure, you can talk to him, but I don’t—”

“Schumacher, how about you? Got some meat on you—you’ve probably thrown a few hay bales around. You look like a player.”

Shu looked down at his feet, like he was stalling for time to think of the right way to say things. “Sir, Pa needs all the help I can give ’im on the farm. Doubt he could spare me. Do you practice every day after school?”

“Varsity does. Freshman practice only two days a week plus a game day.”

“I’ll have to talk to Pa about it, sir. Fall’s the worst time for me not to be around to help with the chores.”

“Okay if I call your pa too?” Coach had heard all this before from many farm kids, but he had a way of convincing farmers to let their boys play for him.

We didn’t live in the beautiful, touristy part of the country. We were from the beautiful productive part. We lived in the breadbasket of rolling fields of black loam intersected by wooded ravines, shimmering lakes, winding river valleys and semi-quaint small towns some thirty miles southwest of Minneapolis.

Instead of rolling surf on ocean beaches with bikini-clad girls and mountains with switchback roads and forever views, we had King Corn and Queen Bean along with alfalfa and grain: the Land of the Jolly Green Giant. No tour buses clogged up the roads here.

This is where Shu’s old man drags his butt out of bed at 5:00 a.m. to milk the Holstein cows. That same smelly herd also needs his attention at 5:00 p.m.

“Olson, you gonna help me out?”

I could tell by his expression Coach was getting frustrated. He could see I was small for my age, but he needed all the bodies he could get. With fifty-five students in our freshman class and only twenty-four boys, he needed at least eighteen of us to make up a team. Probably only fifteen would be around at the end of the season as some wouldn’t like the hard work and discipline. At small schools like ours, most players had to play both offense and defense.

“No, sir, ah . . . not interested. I can’t. Dad’s disabled and Ma can’t make enough money by herself. She cleans some big houses on Lake Minnetonka, but I gotta make money too.” The smell of the newly waxed hall floor distracted me for a bit. “Lumberyard manager said I could have all the hours I want. The way it looks, I’m outta here when I’m sixteen, so I won’t be any help to you in the future anyway.” I turned away so he wouldn’t see my quivering chin.

“Sorry, kid. You gotta do what you gotta do, I guess. So Mr. Grimm, don’t you let me down too.”

I think the coach felt he had to also ask the kid with the Coke glasses and zits because he didn’t want to make David feel bad.

“Well, sir, I have not been inclined to partake in athletic endeavors up to this point in my life. However, I feel I would like to be involved in all aspects of high school to help me become a well-rounded person. But I have heard football coaches and players tend to take the Lord’s name in vain. I could not countenance that.”

Holy cow. He talks like he’s an English professor who has a dictionary stuck up his butt. At that point, I thought the coach would boot David squarely in the ass.

David continued. “And if there were any Sunday practices or games, I would have to be excused from those events. With those conditions, if you believe I could be of some value to the team, yes, I would be interested.”

Then I knew how desperate the coach was. He turned slightly away from David and rubbed his lips with the back of his hand, and I could almost hear him thinking, Jesus Christ, why do I have to kiss ass just to get enough bodies? Should’a been a basketball coach. He was struggling to keep a straight face and his cool when the coach turned back to David. “Well, the State High School League doesn’t allow Sunday practices or games, and I can assure you I frown on using the Lord’s name in vain.”

Ozzie whispered to me, “Shit, Grimm sounds like he’s gonna be the dang pope someday.” That did it. Our nickname for him became Pope. Small town social pressures dictated that almost everyone needed to attend church services whether or not they believed in a deity. David, I mean Pope, must have believed with all his being.

Coach said, “Okay, Grimm, let’s give it a try. Stop at my desk after study hall to sign the forms for the team.” He turned to us. “Johnson and Schumacher, I’ll leave it up to you as far as telling your dads I’m gonna call ’em.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Olson, hang in there. And don’t think just because it’s legal to drop out at sixteen you should. Could be other answers to your family’s problems. Now, ladies, get back to your seats and zip the lips.”

Slinking back to our seats, we didn’t so much as look at each other until the bell rang. I patted David on the back. “Good luck with the football team. Just to let you know, we’ve given you a nickname. We decided we’ll call you Pope from now on.”

David frowned and then smiled. “I never had a nickname before . . . at least to my face. Pope . . . Pope . . . that will take some getting used to.” He went to sign the team papers with a smile on his zitted face.

Shu asked Ozzie, “What’s the deal with your old man and your arm?”

“He thinks maybe I’ve got a shot at pro ball. He thought he had a chance, but never got drafted. Town team wants me to play for them next summer. Never had anybody my age on the team. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Think your old man will let you play football?”

“Not a chance, and I’m not sure I wanna anyway. I just didn’t want to turn Coach down cold.”

Shu and Ozzie turned to look at me. Shu said, “What’s with your dad?”

“He was working for Honeywell in the city as a master machinist working in the Norden bombsight area.” I took a deep breath. “Some asshole on the next lathe let a piece of metal slip. It flew off the machine and hit dad in the forehead. He lost his left eye, has a long, red scar and has bad headaches sometimes. He still has buddies there. Honeywell paid off our mortgage and sends him a small check every month, and they have him in once in a while to train new guys.”

Shu said, “Jeeze. Sorry about that. Must put a lot of pressure on you.”

“Ya, well, it is what it is. What’re you guys doing tonight?”

Shu said, “I’ve got chores ’til about eight, then I’m gonna crash.”

“Probably play a little street ball,” Ozzie said. “Then I’ll turn on the new TV and watch some damn test patterns. The old man works for the railroad. Hope he’s outta town.”