In the long run, I don't think the adult psyche is well-served by having been popular in high school. I suppose that sounds like sour grapes, since I was always on the outside looking in, but my belief in that basic truth comes from observation, not resentment.
Most of us were born ordinary, and we are destined to spend ordinary lives doing ordinary things—our modest successes and unsurprising failures stem from the sheer ordinariness of our lives. We should be content with that lot.
Unfortunately, Americans are drilled from infancy in the magnitude of our own potential—infected with the notion that each and every one of us can do whatever we want, if only we try hard enough.
That's a heavy burden, even for those whose idea of a good day involves not spilling coffee down anyone's back and having the cash register balance at the end of a shift.
It must be even more difficult for someone who once stood in the spotlight, in front of cheering crowds.
Take Doug Fischbach (as Henny Youngman would say, please), a man who spent his high school years lionized. Supremely cocky, he left for college with great fanfare, and the town's high hopes, only to disappoint himself and his supporters with a mediocre football performance that left him no chance to make it in the pros.
There is a nasty homily that states that those who can, do, and those who can't, teach. The unspoken corollary to that is: Those who can't, coach.
Back in Delphi, older and not yet wiser, Coach Doug Fischbach seemed to focus his entire being wringing a winning season from a group of boys in a town that had grown used to losing.
A diminishing rural population made it impossible for Delphi to field the usual eleven man football team. We played now in a league composed of even smaller communities who struggled to find, and keep healthy, the nine players required for regulation games. The smaller team size in no way negated the rabid interest of adults in the athletic pursuits of adolescents.
The small towns of Hitchcock and Tulare had consolidated their gene pools to form a powerhouse nine-man team that was currently, and unexpectedly, ranked second in the standings, right behind Delphi.
And Coach Fischbach was determined to keep them there, fired not only by the need to prove his own abilities, but to reenact the triumphant homecoming game of 1969. The one that sealed four-year football scholarships to good Minnesota universities, for both him and Stu McKee.
The present third quarter had concluded much the same as the first half—a tight game with Delphi barely in the lead, performing spectacularly, and Doug furiously unhappy with every play and player, regardless of who had the ball. He shouted at, insulted, and humiliated each member of his team—calling into question their intelligence, masculinity, and parentage in a way that bordered on obscenity.
"Why do the kids put up with that kind of treatment?" I asked Stu, whose halftime drinks had mellowed him. He stood next to me, arm settled comfortably around my shoulders between on-field excitements.
"All coaches do that," Ron Adler blinked from my other side. "It's just a way to get the kids' attention. No one takes it seriously."
Cameron, sitting on the bench, helmet off and towel draped over his head, shoulders rounded in dejection, looked as though he took his father's abuse seriously enough.
"Ron's right," Stu said to me, watching the field intently. "Kids won't listen unless you shout at them. Besides"—he pointed at Cameron, who headed back into the game as Doug shouted instructions at his back—"they're big boys. A few bad words aren't gonna hurt 'em."
"Well, if it was my kid, I'd put a stop to it," I said darkly as Doug screamed, spittle flying, in the face of another unfortunate player.
Stu turned and said gently, "Believe me, Tory, kids hate overprotective mothers a lot more than screaming coaches."
"No shit." Ron blinked.
"And how would you know?" I asked Ron, irritated. "You didn't play football."
"I wrestled," he said with injured dignity. "Same thing."
The conversation was going nowhere, which was just as well, because Delphi had kicked a thirty-five-yard field goal, making it impossible for the Patriots to win unless they gained a touchdown in the final minute of the game. The hometown fans were on their feet, roaring, the stands a sea of waving pennants.
The men on the sidelines stood together, a near-critical mass of flailing arms and Y chromosomes—a masculine bonding that swept up even usually sedate and uncompetitive guys like Neil Pascoe and the Reverend Clay Deibert.
I could not see over, or through, the solid wall of hooded sweatshirts, satin team jackets, and baseball hats. I mimed to Stu that I was going over by the concession stand for better view. He barely nodded.
I was not the only one unmesmerized by the possibility that the Oracles might actually beat the Patriots. The man who had claimed to be Janelle's husband prowled through the crowd. Here and there, he tried to ask people questions, but most were too engrossed in the game to talk to him.
Del was also paying attention to something other than football. With elbows crossed on the counter of the concession stand, and ample breasts propped comfortably on the elbows, she laughed and shook her hair back. Del, who eventually dallied with every eligible man (and some not eligible), had finally gotten around to Hugh Kincaid.
Ever polite, Hugh chatted with Del, though he was obviously keeping one eye on the game. She raised an eyebrow in my direction and started to say something to him, but was interrupted by a cheering crowd whose volume knob had been cranked all the way up.
"Another sack for Fischbach. What a night, folks, what a night," the announcer said, excitement ringing in his voice. "Patriots' ball, second and twelve. Oracles call for a time out."
Hugh, cheering inside the stand, didn't even pretend to pay attention to Del. She shrugged and walked over to me.
"No luck, huh?" I asked, watching the field. Doug was kneeling at the center of a huddle of sweaty, dirty boys, many of whom held their helmets in their hands.
"I don't get it," she said. "The average man spends three quarters of his time bitching about not getting any—and then when some is staring him right in the face, he'd rather watch a stupid game."
"Must be a guy thing," I said. "Maybe testosterone should be declared a toxic substance."
All evening I'd had no luck getting Stu's attention for serious conversation, even after mentioning Janelle's invitation to the river. He'd nodded absentmindedly and mumbled, "Whatever."
"Say," Del, tuned to my wavelength, asked, "you heard anything about a party tonight after the game?"
Play had resumed on the field. The Patriots gained four yards. The crowd groaned. Time out was called again.
"Yeah. Ms. Nelson herself invited me," I said. Del had been pissed the last time I talked to Janelle without telling her. I was not going to make that mistake again. I ran down my conversations with her and the "husband."
"Weird."
"No shit," I said. "You gonna go?"
She shrugged. "Depends."
I figured it depended on whether Hugh's attention could be secured more easily after the game than during.
"Mom, can I have a couple bucks?" Presley popped up between us. His cheeks were flushed and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead by sweat. He'd been running around with his friends, ostensibly cheering the team, but mostly watching for the occasional flash of cheerleader underwear. Which probably accounted for the flush.
"Sorry, kid, fresh out." Del shrugged.
Presley turned to me and batted his eyelashes. As a rule, I don't fall for that kind of flirtation, especially from a thirteen-year-old, but I felt a small wave of tenderness for this unfortunate testosterone time bomb. He didn't ask to be a Y chromosome carrier.
I handed Pres a five. He thanked me and disappeared in the crowd.
"Wasn't he supposed be grounded?" I asked his mother.
"Yeah, well, it's homecoming," she said.
Which explained everything. At least to a South Dakotan.
As we talked, the time clock ticked down. Delphi still led Hitchcock-Tulare by four points, and in less than twenty-five seconds, were going to beat the Patriots for first time in our history.
Stu and the rest of the guys hovered right at the line of scrimmage, close to the Patriots' goal. I was not totally immune to the drama myself. Del and I stood a little farther downfield, next to Debbie Fischbach, who was pacing nervously.
The teams lined up again and snapped the ball. Our guys had only to hold the Patriots back for one more play—something they'd done competently the entire game.
I watched as the play evolved as if in slow motion. The Patriot quarterback, whom Cameron Fischbach had sacked three times already, sidestepped neatly around him. Cameron twisted, leaped, grabbed air, and landed with a thud as the quarterback sprinted, unhindered, the final ten yards to the goal as the clock ticked down to zero.
The Patriot cheering section erupted, and the Delphi fans stood, pennants motionless, stunned silence broken only by a single piercing wail. Debbie Fischbach, hand over mouth and deathly pale, howled as Cameron slowly stood and stumbled back to the Oracles' bench.
The pain in her voice shocked the rest of us into remembering to be good sports. We shouted encouragement to our boys for a good effort. A really good effort. At least Del and I and the moms and cheerleaders did.
The guys along the sidelines hung their heads in shame and dejection, disappointment obvious on their faces. A couple of them were genuinely, and vocally, angry that their self-image had not been collectively upheld by a bunch of teenage boys.
The jubilant Hitchcock-Tulare team members hugged and high-fived one another.
The smiling Patriot coach strode across the field, hand extended. Doug stared at him, frozen, spun around, and stalked to the bench where Cameron sat, head down.
"That's it for tonight, folks, a heartbreaking squeaker, but a truly amazing game for number 69. Let's hear it for the coach and Delphi Oracles. And let's hear it for the undisputed star, number 69, Cameron Fischbach."
The crowd, finally realizing that a homecoming loss was not the end of the world, roared in approval of the undisputed star, whose furious father reached down jerked him up roughly, then threw him bodily over the bench before storming off the field.