| |
A goal from number twenty-seven’s team usually got a cowbell salute of about four shakes. “Dong-dong, dong-dong, dong-dong, dong-dong,” and then she was done. A good move by her daughter, two or three good shakes.
This was something else. This was a steady DONG-DONG-DONG-DONG with no letting up. Sandra wouldn’t let herself look back, but it was obvious that the woman was pumping that bell for all it was worth, and it was so loud. Sandra grew less fearful and more annoyed. It had been the right call. That sweeper hadn’t touched her daughter. That little girl had faked falling down so she could get the trip call, and Sandra was sure that everyone on the field knew it—everyone, that is, but Ms. Cowbell.
The ball was batted back and forth by players in the other eighteen, and Sandra tried to concentrate on the game, but ... was the cowbell getting louder? She glanced at Moose, but he was doing a great job of pretending he couldn’t hear it. Or maybe he really couldn’t. She’d heard that refs developed selective hearing. And then eventually a loss of hearing.
No, she decided. No way could selective hearing filter that obnoxious ringing out. It was so loud. It was all she could do not to turn back and look, and several of the players had done just that. They’d stopped moving and were staring at what was happening behind her. Sandra glanced at their faces and didn’t like what she saw.
They looked scared.
Sandra looked at Moose, who was still watching the ball.
Ms. Cowbell started to scream, and nearly every other word was an obscenity. Her voice made Sandra long for a thousand fingernails on a thousand chalkboards. Still, she didn’t look. One by one, the players stopped playing and turned toward the spectacle.
Was the cowbell getting louder? Was the cowbell getting closer?
She didn’t look.
Neither did Moose.
There was a breakaway, and a girl dribbled alone toward the goal. The goalkeeper didn’t even look at her. Sandra, realizing she was supposed to be on the goal line, started to sprint, but before she could even get going, a blur of pink flashed through her peripheral vision.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. She looked. A fluffy mom with giant blond hair was running at Moose. Above her head and slightly out in front of her, she rang a cowbell.
Sandra froze. “Mooooose!” she hollered with all her might.
Finally, he looked. His feet stopped moving, his jaw dropped open, and the whistle fell out of his mouth.
Sandra didn’t know what to do. What was happening? Was Ms. Cowbell going to assault him? Yes, yes, it appeared she was. But was she going to assault him with her vile language alone? Or did she plan to use the cowbell?
Sandra scanned the touchline for the school’s athletic director, but she didn’t see her. The home coach looked horrified. The visiting coach had his hand over his mouth to hide his laughter, but the fact that his whole body was jiggling betrayed the truth.
Sandra turned back to look at Moose who was backpedaling away from the bell-wielding mother. But she was gaining on him. She pulled her hand back, and it became clear that she was actually going to hit him. This spurred Sandra into action. She had to help Moose! She turned toward the home coach and hollered, “Find your A. D.” Then she ran toward the conflict, shouting for the woman to stop.
The woman swung, but Moose dodged the blow. He was still backpedaling as he did so, and this made for an awful, awkward balance-disturbing twist. He stumbled and fell backward. Down he went, onto his rump, and the woman pulled back to hit him again, even though he was on the ground. Sandra pushed herself to get there in time and then lunged. As Moose used his hands to slide back away from her, Sandra grabbed her arm.
Ms. Cowbell turned to look at Sandra. Her eyes were huge and wild, and gave Sandra a chill. It seemed the woman had only just realized that Sandra was on the field.
“Never mind, Sandra!” Moose had pulled himself to his feet and was starting to run away—toward the parking lot.
Sandra let go of the woman’s arm and backed away from her, but now the woman was coming for her, with cowbell raised and cusses spewing.
“Sandra! Come on!” Moose’s voice sounded unrealistically far away.
Was he leaving the field? She considered her options. She could try for the school, but it might be locked, and the parking lot was closer. She could try for the snack shack, but then what? She’d be trapped in the snack shack. And the snack shack booster was probably Ms. Cowbell’s cousin or sister-in-law or dental hygienist.
She turned toward the parking lot and ran. She ran so fast that her shirt flapped out behind her, cooling the sweat from her back. She was confident she could outrun Ms. Cowbell, and the relief of being free of her was sweet. She caught her reffing partner just as his cleats clopped onto the hard asphalt of the parking lot. He ripped his truck door open and threw himself behind the wheel.
She stopped running and turned to look behind her.
The woman was still coming.
Moose laid on his truck horn, which jumped the tar out of her. As if her heart hadn’t already been beating fast enough.
“Get in!” he hollered through the windshield.
She hurried around to the passenger door. She probably didn’t need to hurry. Ms. Cowbell was huffing and puffing and no longer brandishing her weapon over her head. Instead, it hung limply at her side. But Sandra hurried, nonetheless. She sensed her hurrying was important to Moose. Sure enough, as soon as she shut the door, he threw the truck into reverse and peeled out.
She put her hand in her head, embarrassed. The other refs were going to be talking about this for years. As he continued backing up at a breakneck speed, she looked out the windshield to see that Ms. Cowbell had stopped. She was bent over, her hands on her knees, breathing hard. Sandra knew the feeling.
Moose slammed on the brakes and put the truck in drive.
Sandra looked at the sky, searching for some sign of Bob. Wasn’t this situation exactly what he was there for? To defend innocent referees from murderous cowbell-brandishing mothers?
Moose slammed on the brakes again and looked up and down the road. Seeing no other vehicles, he yanked the truck out onto the road.
“Where are we going?” she said, stretching one arm out to steady herself on the dusty dashboard.
“We are going to Burger King.”
She snorted. “Burger King? Why?”
“Because I’m hungry. And we need to give her time to go home. Then we’ll come back for our bags, and if it’s safe, you can get in your own car.”
She fell quiet. She was pretty sure that the closest Burger King was in Lewiston. This was twenty minutes away. She didn’t want to go to Lewiston or to Burger King, but she didn’t have a better plan. “I guess Burger King makes a fine hideout.”
Moose grunted. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”
Sandra wondered if Burger King still had a rodeo burger and smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
A smile crept onto Moose’s face. “Okay, it was a little funny. But we could choose not to tell people.”
“Are you serious? We need to report that!”
Moose rubbed his jaw and glanced into the rearview mirror nervously. “All right. But can we leave out the part where I fell on my keister?”
Sandra laughed. “Sure.”
“And I don’t know about you, but I’m blocking all future games for that school. I’ve been saying I was going to do that for years, but I’ve blocked so many schools now, I don’t have many left.”
Sandra laughed again. “We can wait for her child to get to high school, then we can unblock the school again.”
He nodded. “If I remember.”
“That wasn’t a trip, by the way,” she said, referring to the call Ms. Cowbell had accused him of missing.
“I know it wasn’t. Little Miss Twenty-Seven was faking it. Like I said—”
“Not your first rodeo. I know, I know.”
“It’s worse than you think. That child is the third daughter in that family. You should see the oldest. She’s a senior.”
Sandra was so glad she never reffed varsity games.
“I’m really hoping there aren’t any more kids in that family.”
