It was pretty late when we finally got back to the museum. The sun had dropped, and the temperature with it. Buses ran on a reduced service on weekends, so we had to wait forty-some minutes for the one to take us to the highway. Once out there, Matt leaned toward the road, thumb out. Soon he was actually in it, on a knee, his hands together, like a plea. The cars just zipped by.
Being a Saturday evening, traffic was thin, almost nothing, and it felt like hours passed before anyone stopped. They dropped us twenty kilometers up the road. Each lift was trifling like that, just a bunch of short ones, and with each one the time got later and the traffic thinner. Some cars taunted us by riding their horns—beeeep!—as they passed. Eventually, almost no cars came by at all, just semis. We tried to wave some down, like we had an emergency or something. Nobody stopped.
I glanced at my cell. It was one in the morning.
“We’re not getting back tonight,” Matt said. “I’m a moron! Hitchhiking to Normandy on our free day. I thought it would be easy.”
But I was like, “Bullshit. Even if we have to walk, we’re back tonight.”
We hadn’t eaten since the crepes at lunch. I was starving, so I knew Matt must be too, but we had the Caïmans the next day—we had to get back that night! I took off at a clip.
The highway crossed a small country road, and a sign on it said that some town called Gaillon was three kilometers away. Symbols showed there were hotels and restaurants and a chateau. “Let’s head there,” I told him. “We’ll take the train.”
We got to Gaillon by one thirty. It was really just a big village, all asleep, everything closed, no lights but that of the streetlights. Road signs showed that the train station was in the next village over, Aubevoye, two more kilometers away, so we kept walking.
The station was tiny, closed but not locked. A few bums slept on or under benches, using wadded newspaper as pillows and unfolded ones as sheets. The departure board above the ticket window said the next eastbound for Paris wasn’t until six forty.
“Merde!” Matt said.
“Buck up, laddie,” I told him, but he didn’t laugh.
“What do we do?” he said.
The bums smelled, the whole place smelled, and we were tired and hungry and needing to get home. I did the only thing I knew to do: I started going through the trashcans. I handed him some wrinkled-up newspaper and kept some for myself.
“Five-star accommodations,” I said.
I left a text instead of calling Georges and Françoise, saying I was staying the night at Matt’s place and for them not to worry. Matt did the same with Juliette. We stretched out on the cold concrete floor, away from the others and near the ticket window. I rolled onto my side, curled up in a ball and laid my head on my arm, like that would help make it more comfortable.
» » » »
The six-forty train came through on time. The ticket window was still closed, so we bought tickets from the conductor when he passed. Matt was a wreck—a total wreck!—dark circles under his eyes and his hair all over the place. “Don’t say anything to Moose,” he said.
Duh.
“What a day to be playing a game,” he said. “If I can throw a few scores early, maybe we can build a lead and we’ll be all right.”
Fifteen guys at practice all week, Mobylette hurt and Matt looking like crap, and the Caïmans the second-ranked team after the Jets.
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”
Matt dozed off in his seat. Not me. The adrenaline was already flowing. It hadn’t really stopped since the night before. Going both ways, offense and defense, returning punts and kickoffs, whatever—it didn’t matter, I had to be on. I had done squat all season. I had to be on.
» » » »
I felt queasy and dead-legged in the locker room before the game, and I wasn’t sure if it was the trip to Caen or just normal pre-game jitters. Forty or so players had turned up. Every one of us was in his own private place. Some rocked music under headphones, half dressed; others played grab-ass with their neighbors. It was just a way to quash the nerves. Sidi sat in a folding chair, off by himself in a corner of the room. Matt was snoozing in the other corner, a towel over his face. Nobody questioned it.
Moose, across the way, caught my eye. He sat fully suited up already, his helmet on the floor beside his foot, which hammered up and down. He nodded toward Matt, then crossed to him.
When I got there, he nudged Matt with his toe. Matt lifted the towel. His eyes were groggy, and he looked surprised.
Moose addressed me and Matt but loud enough for all to hear. “Listen, the other night was messed up. You regret it, I regret it, but the team is more important than any petty crap.”
I couldn’t tell if Moose was being straight up or just saying it for the benefit of the team, but Matt gave Moose a thumbs-up so I was all in too, nodding, yeah.
I looked toward where Sidi sat. He looked away.
» » » »
We went out as a unit. The Caïmans were already on the field, stretching in rows. And there was their Canadian linebacker, on the sideline while the rest warmed up. A big kid, hawking me, checking me out.
None of the other Diables Rouges looked at the Caïmans. We took a lap around the field like always, in a tight knot of players, the pace slow, the pack pushing inward toward a center, Moose and Matt at the front, grunt-growling on the offbeat of our trot, the rest of us silent.
“Hunh,” step-step-step, “Hunh,” step-step-step, “Hunh,” step-step-step.
Moose didn’t stop after the first lap like usual. We took a second lap, the gathering pressure to sustain that slow pace in unison upping the intensity of the moment, the intensity of Moose’s grunt-growling.
“Hunnnh! Hunnnh! Hunnnh!”
After the second lap, Moose barked orders, shepherding us into lines to stretch. I hustled indoors instead, the movement in my stomach so violent I couldn’t believe it was only nerves.
I got back just after the coin toss. Matt signaled to the sideline for the kickoff-return team. We all huddled together around Moose, the coaches over by the benches, discussing final adjustments or some such.
“To them, we’re the sorry Diables Rouges from the projects of Villeneuve,” Moose said. “Niggers and filthy Arabs!”
“Racailles!” Matt joined in.
“I challenge each of you to represent this place we’re from,” Moose said. “Each of you!”
I broke before he’d even done and went out to my spot on the goal line. The Caïmans, in bright white, stretched from 40 to 40. Some shifted from foot to foot. Some hopped in place. All glared my way. I looked past them, up into the filling stands, at all the people filing in, their eyes on me. There was no noise, really, just a background buzzing.
I don’t know if it’s right, but for me stadiums are sacred, as close to church as I understand. Even here, at the Beach. I stood there at the goal line, thinking on Private John Wilson Smith, that grave in Normandy. And I thought on Pops.
The Caïmans stilled as I caught the opening kickoff, blew through a seam, then bounced out and sprinted past, away, running down their sideline. Touchdown!
Diables Rouges 7, Caïmans 0.
And it was on. I picked off their quarterback three times in the first half—my first interceptions of the season—and Matt did just like he’d said he would: he threw a couple of quick scores. It was 21–0 at the midway point.
Matt sat in the third quarter. I went in at halfback. My first carry, I deked the Canadian backer, left him lumbering after me as I turned the corner. Forty-some yards later, it was 28–0.
Me and Matt didn’t even play the fourth quarter. Coach Le Barbu was carrying his cell phone on his belt, and I asked if I could borrow it. I texted Mama: Big win 2day. 3 INTs. I knew she’d read it to Tookie and Tina.
A text came back: For real? Yeah boiiii!
We were only one win away from qualifying for the Under-20s championship game.
Matt stood at the water table, helmet and shoulder pads off.
“Number two in the rankings,” I told him. “Despite yesterday.”
“No fear of success this afternoon.”
“Or of failure.”
“The pressure to produce,” he said, all smiles. “It’s why we play.”