War and Watermelon

Ferrante’s calling signals as he looks over the helmets of the linemen, directly at me: the middle linebacker.

Peter Sarnoski limped off the field a second ago, and Coach Epstein pointed to the first guy he saw on the sideline to take his place. It happened to be me.

Ferrante slings a short pass over the middle, right toward me. The tight end is coming my way and he steps in front of me and catches the ball. I wrap my arms around his legs and another linebacker helps me finish the job.

They’ll be working on me, that’s for sure—thinking I’m the weak spot. I brush some dirt off my thigh.

I glance at the sideline. There are three or four people kneeling there who probably should be in here instead. Tough luck. I got it.

Ferrante’s no dope. He calls that same pass route from the opposite side, and I see it coming but don’t have time to react. Eddie Lorenzo grabs the pass and tries to stiff-arm me, but I duck under and get hold of his leg. He drags me a few yards, but he goes down.

Coach calls time and huddles up the defenders. “This is where tough guys toughen up!” he growls. “First and goal, backs to the wall. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Coach grabs my face mask and glares at me. Then he turns to Finken, who’s at middle guard. “They’re coming right at you two, and you know it!” he says. “Smashmouth football, right up the gut. Let’s stop ’em cold!”

“Readeeeeee,” Ferrante calls, hunched over the line. “Ready, set . . . hut, hut.” He takes the snap and cradles the ball, lunging behind the center as Finken is shoved aside. I step into the gap and meet Ferrante head-on, standing him up just long enough for help to arrive and stop him for no gain.

“They’re coming at you again, middle men,” Coach says. “What kind of candy are you made of?”

I let out my breath hard. This isn’t so bad. It’s like playing in the lot up on Roosevelt Avenue. Only difference is the matching uniforms and the coaches.

Ferrante drops back. Lorenzo’s in my face, reaching for the pass, but I duck under his shoulder and deflect the ball to the ground.

My hand stings. I shake it. Lorenzo yells, “Pass interference,” but Coach waves him off and says, “Get back to the huddle, pansy.”

These guys are big and quick and have a lot more experience than I do. They’re busting my chops on every play, expecting me to fail.

Same play again? Lorenzo is running toward me like a freight train. I pivot, timing my hit so I’ll get there just as the ball does.

But there’s no pass. Lorenzo comes up from under me with a brutal block. I see stars as his forearm meets my mouth, and I fall backward to the dirt.

I lie there for a few seconds, in the end zone. Esposito is standing over me with the ball. He scored.

I sit up and spit out my mouth guard. I reach for my jaw and it feels okay, so I nod. But my fingers are bloody when I take them away. I can taste the blood, too, but just on the outside of my lip. No big deal.

“Better sit out until that stops bleeding,” Coach says. “Offense’s ball at the twenty, going the other way.”

Sarnoski comes back onto the field, so that’ll be the end of it for me. I join Tony and the other subs on the sideline.

Nobody says anything about my performance, but I’m feeling good about it as we leave the field after practice. They came at me on every play and I held my own. I stuck ’em right back.

My lip is stinging and I can feel it starting to swell, so I check it in the side mirror of Coach’s Wonder Bread truck as we pass through the parking lot.

There’s a crust of dried blood and dirt covering about a third of my lower lip. No way I’m wiping that off.

We reach the Boulevard and turn right. It’s a twelve-block walk home (two more for Tony), but I don’t mind. I like being seen in my football stuff. Football is big here; we’re one of the few towns in the county with a lighted field for Friday night high school games. Most of the other high school teams play on Saturday afternoons, and the junior football teams play on Sundays. We go Saturday nights for our home games, and the crowds are big. Not like Friday nights, of course, but big enough.

Tony grabs my wrist as we’re approaching Corpus Christi. “Look over there,” he says, jutting his chin toward the other side of the street. Janet and Patty are sitting on the steps of the church.

He frowns and gives me a light shove. “Who’s bugging who?” he asks. “You think they don’t know when practice is over? That we walk past here every day at a quarter to six?”

Maybe he’s onto something. I touch my lip, feeling the crust. I swing my helmet at him and we cross the street.

Janet turns her head as if she’s looking for the ladies he might be referring to. But she looks back and says, “Men.”

Tony puts his foot on the bottom step, in front of Patty. I glance up at the church, which is huge and mysterious and kind of freaks me out. Seems like everybody I know goes here except us. I mean, there are at least six Protestant churches in town, too, but all together, I think the Catholics way outnumber us Methodists and Lutherans and Presbyterians. The guys I know who go here are scared to death of the priests.

Tony waves her off. “You should see the other guy. We hammered ’em good today. Blood all over the place.”

I look down. There’s a small streak of blood above the 3. (My practice number is 43; I don’t know what my game jersey number will be yet.)

“I’ll survive,” I say. And I don’t know why, but I take a seat next to Patty, not close or anything, but on the same step. I stretch out my legs and look at the traffic.

Corpus Christi goes from first grade through eighth, but I know a lot of kids who’ve gone back and forth from there to the public schools. They say the nuns are nasty teachers. Who knows if that’s true. I’ve had some nasty teachers at Euclid, too, but mostly not.

We sit there for about five minutes, talking about nothing. I used to have friends who were girls back when I was little, but things shifted a lot the past couple of years. By fourth grade you got ragged on just for talking to one, but in fifth some couples started pairing up. By sixth grade you either had a girlfriend or you didn’t, and everybody knew who didn’t.

So this feels different, sitting here, watching cars go by and listening to Tony yammering about music and television shows. Janet definitely seems to like him, laughing at things he says that are really lame. Patty keeps looking out at the street like there’s something interesting going on out there.