I FIGURED SCHOOL STARTED around eight in Philadelphia, which would be five a.m. in Seattle. The first hour or so the office at every high school is swamped, so I decided not to call Aramingo High until nine thirty their time.
I watched the minutes tick off, one by one. Finally I keyed in the number. A guy answered on the first ring, but not an adult. "Aramingo High School," he muttered, the words slurring together.
I put on my most adult voice. "This is Bob Bernstein. I work on the sports desk of the Seattle Times in Seattle, Washington. We've got a football player out here who transferred from Aramingo to one of our schools. He's having a good year, and we're considering doing a feature story about him. Could you put me in touch with your football coach or assistant coach? I'd like to get some background information."
"The football coaches don't work here," he said. "They just coach."
"How about a phone number?"
"You kidding? We don't give out phone numbers. What's the guy's name? If he played on the football team, I can tell you about him."
"I'd prefer to talk to the coach," I said.
His voice grew sharp. "You want help or not?"
"Okay," I said, my mouth dry. "He would have played for Aramingo last year or maybe even a few years ago."
"What's the guy's name?"
I swallowed. "Angel Marichal."
"No Angel Marichal ever played here."
My heart sank. "You sure? How about just Angel? Maybe his parents divorced and he changed his name."
For a long time there was nothing but silence. I could feel the guy thinking. "What's he look like?"
His voice had changed from hostile to interested. It was as if we'd switched roles, and now he was pumping me for information.
"Mexican guy. Dark hair, dark eyes. Six three, over two hundred pounds. Strong and fast. Great arm. Quick feet. Hard tackler. "
"Position?"
"He's playing middle linebacker," I said, choosing my words carefully, "but that's because his team's got a helluva quarterback. My guess is he might have played quarterback at Aramingo."
"You sure he's not Puerto Rican? We had a Puerto Rican guy play quarterback a few years ago."
"I don't know. I guess he could be Puerto Rican."
"What's your number? I know somebody who's going to want to talk to you."
"Is this a coach who's going to call me?"
"Just give me your number."
"It's 206-879-3078. It's a cell phone."
"And your name again?"
I flushed. "Bob Bernstein," I said, thankful I'd settled on the double Bs. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the phone went dead.