We get no warm-up at practice today, no jogging or dribbling drills or juggling. Coach just tells us to line up across the goal line. Then we run line drills—sprinting to the eighteen-yard line, turning and sprinting back to the goal line, then up to midfield, back to the eighteen, down to the opposite eighteen, back to midfield, down to the far goal line, then all the way back to where we started.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to relax,” he says. “Enjoy it.”
We’re all bent over, hands on our knees, gasping for breath. Then he blows his whistle and we do it again, with him shouting at us to quit dogging it.
We do the whole routine eight times, and Trunk and Hernandez both throw up when we finish.
“Herbie,” Coach says. “You were last in every one.”
“I’m biding my time,” Herbie says. He wipes his nose and coughs.
“You’re what?”
“Conserving some energy.”
“You won’t have any energy when I’m through with you,” Coach says. “Line up.”
Everybody groans. “All of us?” Dusty says.
“No. Just Herbie. The guy who saved so much energy.”
Herbie sneers and shakes his head, but he walks up to the line. Coach blows his whistle, and Herbie takes off, maybe a little faster than before.
We’re late for work, but extra running is really no big deal for me and Joey. We kind of like it.
It’s busy tonight, so we’re camped out by the dishwasher. We’re running a steak-and-shrimp special, so there’s a lot of cocktail sauce on the edges of the plates.
My forehead’s wet from dishwasher steam and the floor is slippery. But we’re in pretty good moods, despite everything.
Joey’s hosing down a tray of dishes and he looks over at me. “You talk to Shannon lately?” he asks.
“Not really. I saw her Saturday night. She was looking for you.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. She said you were supposed to show up at that party.”
He shoves the tray onto the conveyor belt and starts loading another. “I wasn’t up for it.”
“No?”
“She messes with my head.”
“She does?”
“She’s always talking about other guys.”
“Really? Like who?”
“Lots of guys. Like your brother, even. And your asshole friend Herbie.”
“What does she say?”
He looks up at the ceiling and scratches at his nose. “Like they’re cute or funny or whatever,” he says.
“Yeah, but you’re the one she’s with.”
“Sometimes. Not that often.”
“What do you mean?”
That’s news to me, because I hardly ever see Joey outside of work and soccer anymore. “So you’re not …” I stop. Not what? “So where do you go every night?” I ask.
“Around.”
“Why don’t you hang out with us? On Main Street.”
He frowns. “I don’t like some of the company.”
“Oh.”
Kenny calls me over and asks me to keep an eye on three steaks he’s got under the broiler. “Gotta get something in the walk-in,” he says.
He could have just as easily sent me to the walk-in, except that what he needs is a beer. So I grab a fork and flip the steaks and listen to them sizzle until he gets back.
“Find what you needed?” I ask.
Kenny just grunts.
“Cold and frosty?” I say.
He glares at me. I’m just kidding around. Screw him if he can’t take a joke.
I return to the dishwashing area, and Joey continues his talk.
“Maybe I really should go into the priesthood,” he says. Until about sixth grade he wanted to be a priest, then he started to figure out some of the realities of that profession. So he’s not serious, but I humor him.
“I think you have to be at least reasonably smart to be a priest,” I say.
“Yeah. But I’m in good with Father Jim.”
“Well, maybe he could get you in. But you’d probably never get to be bishop or pope or anything.”
“I wouldn’t mind that job, with the big pointy hat.”
“You ain’t even Catholic.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But maybe I could, like, be a Methodist pope.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He smiles and starts fishing the silverware out of the basin.
I stand there a few seconds and look at him. He’s okay. Then I head into the back to work on the sinkful of pots.