Snapper (20 page)

Removed from the rest of the world, the inhabitants of Ramapo had an eerie, inbred quality. They were gruff and suspicious toward everybody. But it was on the football field that their native sons showed their truest colors. There they became completely and utterly ruthless and ferocious.

Ramapo High School’s mascot was a ram – and not because of the
‘ram’
in Ramapo. It came from the way that Ramapo players lowered their heads and rammed opposing players with their helmets.

The Rams were throwbacks to an earlier era. They weren’t high-fivers or ball-spikers. When they scored a touchdown, they simply dropped the ball to the ground or tossed it to the nearest official. If a player – on their team or the opposition’s – had to be carted off, they simply waited for the battle to resume. Football to them wasn’t a game – it was a war. Casualties were inevitable. Part of their success came from the fear they instilled in their opponents’ minds. But as brutal as they were, there was nothing dirty about them. They simply played harder and tougher than anybody else.

When Deena and August arrived at Turtleback Field, the stands were already packed. They had to climb through the crowd and squeeze into a tiny spot in the top row of the bleachers. They could feel the whole structure flexing under the weight of the stomping sell-out crowd.

Pressed against Deena, August could feel the heat of her body radiating right through his corduroys. Their four thighs, squeezed tightly together, became the tray for their coffee and sandwiches.

The game began. The first quarter was a scoreless defensive battle. The second quarter was more of the same until, with less than a minute left in the half and the Rams driving deep into Snapper territory, Bobby Savarese picked off a pass and raced almost eighty yards for the game’s first touchdown.

The crowd stood and cheered wildly. Most remained standing for the extra point attempt. Because of the food on their laps, Deena and August remained seated. They couldn’t see JJ Clayton drill the ball through the uprights. But when the crowd roared, August turned to Deena and said, “I guess we made it.”

“We certainly did,” said Deena with a little smile and wink.

Since their brief summer tryst, August had made no advances toward Deena. He hadn’t even flirted with her. She wished he would.

After the extra point, JJ ran off the field. Ian Copeland greeted him on the sideline with a slap on the back.

“Nice kick!” he said.

“Thanks!” said JJ, taking off his helmet.

“Hey – don’t you think you should put that back on?” said Ian. He nodded toward the field.

JJ turned around. Everyone on the kickoff team was already out there lining up. Everyone, that is, except for the kicker.

“Yeah – right!” said JJ, pulling his helmet back on and reaching down unconsciously to adjust his cup. “I forgot!”

JJ’s kickoff pinned the Rams inside their own 15-yard line. Rather than risk a turnover so deep in their own territory, they took a knee and ran out the clock. Then the two teams headed toward the locker rooms. As the players ran off, the marching band took the field. For the next twenty minutes the blare of brass instruments echoed off the sides of the mountains that surrounded Turtleback Lake.

In the bleachers, Deena and August stood up and brushed crumbs off their pants. The afternoon was perfect. It was crisp and clear – sweater weather. The night surely would be chilly, down in the high thirties – perfect for curling up in front of a fire. Deena imagined herself snuggling up with August on a rug in front of the fireplace in his cabin – the one with the long-handled ax hanging above it.

“How about some hot chocolate?” August asked her.

“Sure,” said Deena, snapped back into the present. “Sounds great.”

As they walked from the bleachers to the refreshment stand, dozens of people greeted Deena. Every few steps, somebody new – a student, a parent, or a faculty member – hailed her with a “Good afternoon, Dr. Goode,” or “How ya doin’, Dr. Goode?” or “Enjoying the game, Dr. Goode?”

And Deena responded to practically each and everyone by introducing them to August.

“Do you know my friend, August Andersen?” she said again and again and again.

The whole thing made August feel awkward. What was everybody going to think – that he and Deena were a couple?

When they finally got on line at the concession stand, August felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around.

“Long time no see,” said Chief Rudolph. “Away on business, Andersen?”

“Just away,” said August.

“And now you’re back?”

“Back for now.”

“Well, August,” said Chief Rudolph, “let me be frank. I’ve been actually kind of hoping that you, because of your special expertise, might help us here with the unique aquatic problem we’re currently experiencing.”

“Believe me, Chief,” said August. “If I could snap my fingers and make the problem go away, I would’ve done it long ago.”

“Actually I was hoping you’d try something a little more scientific,” said Chief Rudolph. “Unless finger snapping is the best method you can come up with?”

While August and the Chief were chatting, Deena was at the concession stand counter buying two hot chocolates. She turned around holding a steaming stryrofoam cup in each hand.

“Oh, Chief Rudolph, hi!” she said, handing August his hot chocolate. “If I had realized you were here – and if I had an extra hand – I would’ve gotten one for you, too.”

“That’s quite all right, Dr. Goode,” said The Chief. “But the extra hand I’m actually looking for belongs to your friend, Mr. Andersen.”

Suddenly a great rumbling, like a stampede of cattle, shook the earth beneath their feet. The two teams – eighty football players – were charging back toward the playing field.

“If I make any headway, I’ll let you know,” said August.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” said Deena. “But shouldn’t we get back to our seats before we miss any of the action?”

Chief Rudolph’s head shook slowly from side to side as he watched the two of them walk back toward the bleachers.

*

The Rams were set to receive the kickoff to start the second half.

JJ placed the ball on a tee at the 35-yard line. The players lined up. At top volume,
Start Me Up
by The Rolling Stones blared through the loud speakers. The cheerleaders raised their megaphones and led a cheer that swelled to a roar as JJ’s leg swung beneath the ball.

It sailed end over end, deep into Ram territory.

JJ had really nailed it. The ball landed on the five-yard line, took one bounce, and rolled into the end zone. The Rams’ deep back picked up the ball and seemed to consider running it out. Then he changed his mind and began lowering his knee to the ground. The onrushing Snappers racing down the field slowed their charge.

It was exactly what The Rams’ return man was hoping for.

Just before his knee touched the turf, he took off, sprinting upfield. Fooled by his feint, the Snapper’s were a second too slow. He was past them in an instant.

In a flash he was almost to mid-field. And then there was only one player left with a chance of stopping him: JJ.

Coach Lupo had instructed JJ to hang back on all kickoffs – just in case the return man got past the first wave of onrushing defenders. And now it had happened. If JJ didn’t tackle him, no one would.

The return man was racing down the left sideline. JJ ran toward him. He thought he had a chance to either tackle him or force him out of bounds. Then suddenly the runner cut back. JJ tried to stop his own momentum by planting his right foot. At the same time he lunged backward in a last ditch effort to trip up the runner. But the cleats on JJ’s right shoe stuck in the turf. As he lunged and twisted, searing pain shot up his right leg.

JJ crumpled to the ground. Coach Lupo and Coach Jenkins didn’t even wait for the Rams’ player to cross the goal line before they started jogging toward their fallen player. JJ was curled up in a ball when they reached him.

JJ looked up through the bars of his facemask.

“I screwed up,” he said.

“You didn’t screw up,” said Coach Lupo. “I did. Don’t you worry.”

It was the coach’s job to prepare his team for any and every eventuality. If they were fooled, he was the fool. It was his fault.

Lupo knelt down on the field.

“Where’s it hurt?” he asked.

JJ reached behind his right ankle.

“Did you hear anything snap?” asked Coach Lupo.

“I don’t know,” said JJ. “Everything was so loud.”

Lupo looked up at Jenkins.

“We better play it safe, Georgie,” said Coach Lupo. “Get a stretcher. It could be his Achilles.”

Coach Lupo turned back to JJ.

“Don’t worry, JJ,” he said. “This kind of thing can be fixed.”

In his own mind, he was thinking, “But it couldn’t be in the sixties.”

Back then a torn Achilles was the end. Bill knew. His good friend Oscar knew it, too.

A moment later, a stretcher appeared. Two players and Tufton Mason, the team physician, helped JJ onto it. One of the two players was Ian Copeland.

“Hang in there, JJ,” he said. “You’re going to be just fine.”

As JJ was rolled toward the locker room, he heard a cheer from the bleachers on the visiting team’s side. The Rams had made the extra point.

It was the last point scored in regulation time.

*

In the locker room, Doc Mason gingerly removed JJ’s cleats.

“Can you curl your toes up toward your knee?” he asked.

“I’ll try,” said JJ.

They both looked down at JJ’s foot. His toes curled up.

“Good sign,” said Doc Mason. “Now try pointing them down – like a ballerina.”

JJ did.

“Well,” said Doc Mason. “The good new is you didn’t tear the tendon. You may have hyper-extended it, but I think you got lucky. You may get away with nothing more than a sprain.”

Doc Mason helped JJ get off his uniform and equipment, then he elevated the right foot and wrapped an ice pack around the ankle.

“This will help keep the swelling down,” he said. “But your foot’s going to be very tender for a number of days.”

Doc Mason leaned a pair of crutches up against JJ’s locker.

“Until we get the x-ray results, I want you to use these,” he said. “I want you to keep all your weight off that foot. Is that clear, JJ?”

“Got it, Doc,” said JJ. “And thanks.”

*

After Doc Mason left, JJ was alone in the locker room. For half an hour he sat icing his ankle, listening to the crowd sounds that came through the open locker room doors. Then everything became quiet. Sixty minutes were up. The game was deadlocked.

The Snappers came clattering into the locker room, their metal cleats scraping and scratching against the tile floor. There was a five-minute break before sudden death began.

Coach Lupo saw JJ with his wrapped ankle. He walked over to him.

“You okay?” he asked, putting a hand on JJ’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” said JJ.

“You’re a lucky kid,” said Coach Lupo. “Doc Mason told me it’s not your Achilles.”

Then he turned to face the rest of the team.

“Listen up, guys,” he said. “This is what we’ve practiced for. This is why we were out here in August busting our guts running wind sprints. This is why we’re out on the practice field every afternoon instead of hanging out in a booth down at Bonds’. You guys have gotten yourselves this far. Now it’s time to finish what you’ve started. You gotta reach down inside yourselves for everything you’ve got left. Are you with me?”

“Yes!” the players shouted. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Then let’s go back out there and take what’s ours for the taking! Does anybody here wanna be conference champs?”

The players stood and began chanting.

“Snappers! Snappers! Snappers!”

As the players began pulling on their helmets and snapping their chin straps, Bobby Savarese glared through the chipped bars of his facemask. He looked like a wild animal glowering through the bars of a cage. Then he reached down and with the knuckles of both hands he began drumming on the hard enameled shell between his legs. The other players began drumming on theirs. Soon the room was filled with a frenzied hammering of knuckles rapping on the hardened shells of dead snapping turtles.

“Okay, Snappers!” shouted Savarese. “Let’s go, go, go, GO!”

The players crowded toward the door then raced back out onto the field.

*

The first ten minutes of sudden death was just like the game before it: a defensive battle. Each team went three-and-out, twice. The game went back and forth between the two thirty-yard lines.

On the cinder track between the field and the bleachers, the cheerleaders had raised their megaphones and were exhorting The Snapper defense to stiffen.

“Push ’em back, push ’em back, way back!”
they chanted for the hundredth time that afternoon.