Necessary Roughness (14 page)

“We came here so that you selfish children could have a better life. And as long as you are in my house, you will do as I say. I don’t want to see that Meek-o boy here again.”

“But he’s Chan’s friend too.”
There were tears thickening her voice.

Abogee said something, squawking, unintelligible.

“Then why don’t you just lock us up here, while you’re at it, so you can boss us around better?”

I heard a THWAP! and I cringed, but then realized it was the sound of flesh on wood, a table, maybe. Not flesh on flesh. If Abogee ever hit Young …

“Go to your room now. I won’t have any more of your silliness. I don’t understand—you used to be the best child.”

I heard movement toward the door, then realized, too late, that I was about to be caught eavesdropping. No way I could sneak back down the stairs fast enough, so I dove into Young’s room. Not the smartest thing to do, but the only alternative.

Young appeared, like a ghost, in the narrow room. She didn’t look at me, but she must have known I was there. She closed the door softly, too polite to slam it.

“They’re so unreasonable!” she moaned, falling like a rag doll onto the bed. I sat down next to her. “All I want to do is go to a movie with Mikko, get a pizza, for God’s sake.”

Her hair was stuck with tears to her face. I brushed it away. She curled away from me like a shrimp.

“Shhh, shhh,” I said, rubbing her back. I couldn’t think of any words of comfort; I just felt bad for encouraging her on what had now been revealed to be a suicide mission.

“Oppa, we get good grades, work, all that. Why can’t O-Ma and Abogee let us have just the littlest amount of freedom? No one else I know studies as hard as we do, or works at a store. Everyone I know just goofs off. Even Donna sits around watching TV on weekends.”

A vein in her temple throbbed.

“I don’t know what to say, except sorry,” I said. “I guess in hindsight, if Abogee can get so angry about my suggesting we leave an old Buddha statue behind, it was stupid of me to think he’d take dating very easily. Sorry.”

“They have no idea what I could do.”

I stared at my sister. Do
what?

“What I mean is that there is so much trouble we could get into, but we don’t. So when I want to be an adult, come out in the open about wanting to date, it’s like they think I’m some kind of slut or something.”

“Well, what do you think’s going to happen if they find out about Rainey?”

“It’s not the same. You’re a boy,” Young declared. “Boys can’t be sluts.”

“Still, I’m not going to let them find out if I can help it. I’ll cover for you, too.”

“Thanks, Oppa,” she said sadly. “But what am I supposed to do? Start sneaking around?”

“But Young, promising not to see Mikko is like promising not to breathe. I mean, you’ll see him at school, and he’s my best buddy.”

“I’m sure when he finds out I can’t go out, he’ll get another girlfriend anyway. All those cheerleaders are always slobbering all over him.”

“I don’t think so, kid,” I said. “Mikko is the kind of guy who sees things through. He’s loyal.”

She breathed a little, hiccuped.

“Life is so unfair sometimes, Chan.”

I knew Young wouldn’t sneak around. She just wouldn’t. I never felt like
I
was doing anything wrong when I snuck around with Sujin and now with Rainey, but Young had totally different standards.

“One thing I hope you’ll think of,” I said, “is Mikko’s feelings. If you have to let him down, let him down easy.”

“Of course, Chan,” she said. “Of course I’ll think about him. I
love
him.”

I stared at her again. My sister was beginning to surprise me in so many ways.

“They don’t have a crazy house there for nothing,” Kearny was telling us as we watched footage from Moose Creek’s last game: a 36-0 rout of Little Moon. “These folks is nuts—and they get nuttier as the season goes on. Remember last year?”

“Tommy, Leland’s older brother, got a concussion,”
ALL-PRO
told me. “This guy speared him in the jaw on a false start—and didn’t even get a penalty.”

This year, though, I guess we had Rom as our resident nut. He’d been going berserk lately and no one, not even Coach, seemed to be reining him in at all. If anything, they seemed to encourage it.

Last week he’d pulled a drinking fountain out of the wall just to see if he could do it, flooding the hall by the principal’s office. But nothing was done, other than to call the janitor.

And then there was the impromptu scrimmage with the JV squad when their game got canceled. Some of the freshmen on that team don’t weigh a
hundred pounds dripping wet—but Rom ran right through them, as he would a two-hundred-pound tackle. He left one poor center crumpled on the field, crying. The JV coach complained. Kearny dismissed him.

“He’s doing you a favor, really. It’s necessary roughness. Helps you weed out the kids who aren’t tough enough. No crybabies allowed on varsity.”

“What, are you nuts?” said the JV coach. “You think this is funny?”

Kearny leaned back and said, coolly, “Do you want to practice with our championship team or not? You decide.”

The coach said nothing.

Rom also continued to serve in his capacity as our resident stink bomb. You could always smell him, even in the cold air: decaying fish, old socks, sweat, meat past the expiration date, a gallon of milk left out in the sun.

“You should see him during wrestling season,”
ALL-PRO
commented as I wrinkled my nose when we jogged by him, finishing our laps. “Some of the heavyweight guys practically pass out before the match starts. The word
smegma
mean anything to you?”

I thought I was going to hurl.

“My mom makes me and my sister take a bath whenever we have to go see a doctor,” I said.

ALL-PRO’S eyes glazed over. Imagining Young in the bath, no doubt. Jesus.

“The point being”—I slapped him—“that if I ever have to see Dr. Kreeger, I’m not going to bother.”

“Uh-huh.”

In less than a week, Froggie’s had a whole rack of
GO MINERS!
merchandise: buttons, T-shirts, commuter coffee cups, banners, seat warmers, hats, and, of course, Mrs. Knutson’s beloved foam hands. She bought three and gave two away.

O-Ma had placed the stuff strategically by the door of the store. When I worked on Saturday, I saw that a lot of people walked out, saw the display, and then headed back. That meant I had to do twice the math, but I didn’t mind, really.

The coaches told us to wear our “dress” jerseys to school on Friday, as if the whole school didn’t know we were facing down the toughest team in the conference for a berth on the ship heading to state-tournament glory.

All of our pictures were in the paper, and each of us got a column describing his life history. The nervous juices started eating away at my stomach on
Monday, making my chances of actually living until Friday seem somewhat remote.

When the day finally came, it was a blur. In Spanish I noticed that the afternoon sky had darkened, and by the time school let out, a spattery, cold rain was falling from the dun-colored sky.

The Big Guy up there wasn’t making it easy for us.

Mrs. Knutson looked like a gnome in her pink raincoat with the pointy hood.

“I’m going to stay nice and dry—and warm,” she said, modeling for us.

“But Chan,” said Young. “Are they still going to have a game? It looks pretty bad out there.” Indeed, outside, rain was beating on the windows as if it wanted to be let in.

“There are no rain dates in football,” I told her.

“No indeedy, it’s not for the faint of heart—players or fans,” Mrs. Knutson said as she showed us her newest “Go Miners!” acquisition. “Normally these fanny warmers are for hunting and ice fishing. You just break these two packs of chemicals, and when they mix, there’s this chemical reaction that will warm up the pad. Course, you can’t see the ‘Go Miners!’ thing when you’re sitting on it, but that’s the breaks.”

“Is it safe?” Young asked.

“Oh my, yes. It doesn’t get
that
hot.” Mrs. K. giggled. “So you go out and get ’em tonight, Chan!”

“I will,” I promised, checking to make sure I had my soccer shoes, although neither football or soccer shoes worked particularly great on a wet field.

ALL-PRO’S horn bleated outside. Young jumped as much as I did.

“Good luck, Oppa,” she said as I ran out the door into the rain.

It was good that Moose Creek was one of the closer schools—one and a half hours—because you can get awful tired sitting on a bus.

Today’s ride was eerie. No one spoke; we just watched the ghastly green light from the bus’s dashboard, listened to the
squee-squee
of wipers in a losing battle against an army of drops.

The bullet-holed glass still hadn’t been changed in the school’s door. It was déjà vu all over again as Leland crept into the shower and Mikko sat around with his Walkman on.

Before we went out, Coach called for a prayer.

“I don’t do that stuff,” said Jimmi. “I’m Indian. I don’t pray to no white man’s god.” He looked at me. “How ’bout you—don’t you pray to Buddha or something?”

I thought of the long, elaborate graces Abogee said.
Heavenly Father, we thank you for our home, for the children, for Korea, for this food, for Chia pets, etc…. etc.

“Jimmi,” I said, “I have this feeling they’re all the
same guy—or whatever—somewhere down the line. Prayer’s fine with me.”

Coach gave me a grateful nod and said a quick prayer, not to Jesus, or Muhammad, or the Great Spirit, or anyone in particular, just to that force that was watching over us. He hoped he/she/it would give us strength.

Leland Farrell kept his eyes closed the longest, after Coach finished up.

Outside, the rain drummed steadily on our bare heads as we stood, helmets tucked beneath our arms, for the National Anthem. I was cheered to see the stands on our side almost as full as the Moose Creek side.

We lost the toss. It was going to be an uphill battle all the way.

The coaches positioned the defense for Moose Creek’s classic drives up the middle. But after the first play, they saw that the Spartans were copying our wishbone offense. Coach quickly grouped more guys to the outside.

We held them at their thirty, and they punted.

The kick was short because of the wind, and Jimmi squatted like he was catching a pumpkin. Before anyone knew what was happening, he had gone twenty yards through the slop.

“We’re set up perfectly, thanks to Beargrease’s nice
return,” Coach said. It was third down, on Moose Creek’s five-yard line. “Chan, you’re going in at halfback. We’re going to run that short play-action pass we ran Thursday.”
ALL-PRO
was put in as quarterback with me.

ALL-PRO
called the signals. I was the primary receiver; the wide receiver was going out as a decoy. I prayed he would get double coverage.

“Hike!”

A big old hole opened up. Thank God for Rom. I ran through, then evaded another Spartan by faking right while twisting. A classic soccer move. The guy got a handful of air.

I careened into the end zone, turned.

The football, a most gorgeous object, was heading right for me.

Please, God. Don’t let me drop it….

Right between the numbers. It was wet, and I bent my entire body over it and squeezed as hard as I could.

“Yaaahhh!” I didn’t realize I was yelling.

“Yah!” from our side. Toots of sonic horns.

Then I lined up for the extra point.

“Gonna get you,” snarled one of the Spartans as he panted. “Chink.”

When the ball was snapped, Moose Creek converged on me like a pack of wolves. It was hard for me to plant my foot in the mud and slippery grass,
and the kick went wide, dinging off the left upright, something that had never happened to me before.

“Hoser!” someone from the other side called.

“Don’t worry, Chan,” Coach said. “We’ll make it up later.”

But when was later? The Spartans drove us back for a touchdown, 6-7, ahead now because
they
made the extra point. We rallied to make it 13-7, but it was 13-14 going into the half.

“It’s up to you, gentlemen,” said Coach quietly. We were all sullenly staring at the lime-green walls, trying to get up the courage to go out there and play the second half.

Kearny stepped forward. He didn’t look so happy.

“I don’t want to hear any complaints about the weather, either,” he stormed. “It’s raining and blowing on them just as much.”

He suddenly whirled and grabbed Leland’s face mask, pulled him eye to eye.

“So what’s with the dropped snaps, Farrell? This is not the time to be making such stupid mistakes.”

“Yes, sir,” Leland said miserably.

Coach stepped in.

“I know you’re all wet, tired, and cold, but do you want to go home as wet and tired conference champs, or losers?”

It was obvious, to us.

The rain had not let up at all. In fact, if you looked up at the stadium lights, it appeared to be coming down in sheets. I didn’t understand how the air could be so cold and still not produce snow.

The band people and the fans were miserably huddled under ponchos. I made out the pink, pointy head of Mrs. Knutson, Mr. Ripanen’s blaze-orange parka.

We
couldn’t
lose. There were too many people counting on us.

In the third quarter we spun our wheels on offense. On a third down Leland came back to the sidelines with his right hand cupped inside his left.

“Some weeg stomped on it in the pile,” he growled. “Where the hell are the refs?”

“Son, that finger’s dislocated,” said Doc Larson. When he held it up to the light, Leland’s pinky dangled like a Vienna sausage.

Coach stalked down the sideline, haranguing the zebras. When he came back, the game resumed. No call for unnecessary roughness.

The rain drummed on my helmet. We were going to need an ark to get home if this kept up.

Time to punt. My fingers were so cold, they felt like carrots as I caught the snap, barely managing to hold on to the ball. My left foot searched desperately for traction on the slick ground as I got it away.