War and Watermelon (7 page)

Hey, Dad, I was just along for the ride. And you told us it was okay. It was Mom who was against it.

So I lie on my bed and listen to WMCA all evening. They play “Honky Tonk Women” every thirty-seven seconds.

I'm not looking forward to summer ending. I've spent seven years at Euclid School around the corner; now I'll have to walk another six blocks to Franklin. That school's just for the seventh and eighth grades, so we'll be the little kids again. Plus we'll be joining up with the kids who went to Lincoln Elementary. I know a few of them from football and the swim club, and they seem weird and dumber than the people on this side of town.

I doze off and probably sleep for an hour before Ryan opens my door and turns the light on. “Spinning Wheel” is just ending, and Ryan says, “Switch to the Mets. You won't believe this game!”

So I turn the dial and hear Ralph Kiner saying, “Top of the fourteenth.”

“Fourteenth
inning
?” I say.

“Yeah. And it's scoreless,” Ryan says. “Marichal has pitched every inning for the Giants.”

“Who's in for the Mets?”

“McGraw. Gentry pitched the first ten.”

I've never heard of such a thing. Thirteen innings without any runs? When I played Little League, people were scoring constantly.

Ryan sits on the floor with his back against the wall, knees up. “The Mets are totally happening all of a sudden.”

I shrug. They've flattened my enthusiasm too many times before. “Dad stop yelling at you?” I ask.

He waves his hand sort of disgustedly. “He never really yelled. Just acted like I'm stupid and irresponsible.”

“Acted?” I remember Dad saying those things pretty directly.

He strokes his chin, where the soft, thin hairs are about a half-inch long and curling under, and lets out a sigh. We listen to the game for a couple of minutes before he speaks again. “Big changes coming, Brody.”

“A pinch hitter?”

He laughs. “In the world.” He takes a sheet of paper out of his pocket; it's the flyer we picked up at the concert. “We've had it with this war, the establishment—everything. Woodstock was just the start.”

“What can you do about it?”

“Stick it to 'em,” he says. “Protest.”

Dad pushes the door open; Ryan didn't shut it tight like I always do. He steps into the room but doesn't say anything.

Ryan ignores him. “Our brothers are dying over there, Brody. Forty thousand dead, and Nixon would double that if he had his way.”

Dad clears his throat. He and Ryan look at each other, not exactly glaring, but not too friendly, either.

“Ryan,” Dad says, “you are so full of crap it's coming out your ears.”

“It's an unjust war, Dad.”

“It's
our
war,” he says sharply.

Ryan shakes his head and looks at the ceiling.

McGraw has retired the Giants, so it's still scoreless going into the bottom of the fourteenth.

Dad picks up a stack of baseball cards from my dresser and looks at the top one. “It'll be
your
war if you don't smarten up,” he says.

Ryan will turn eighteen on September 9. Mom's been worried sick. He'll be eligible for the draft.

“You didn't go,” Ryan says, staring at the radio.

“I'm forty-two years old, bub.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dad got excused from military service. Asthma or something like that; the heart trouble came later. He sets down the cards and stares at Ryan. “College students get deferments.”

“I'll go to Canada.”

“Oh yeah, that's a great answer. Freeze your nuts off in an igloo when you could be getting an education.”

We went to Canada a couple of summers ago for the World's Fair: Expo 67 in Montreal. It wasn't cold at all. Then again, it was the middle of the summer. We pitched a tent in a giant field in the city with a thousand other tents and trailers. Everything was wet and the entire area smelled from the portable toilets.

“The war is immoral,” Ryan says.

“You're so full of—”

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, well you never listen anyway.” Dad sits on the edge of my bed and looks at the radio. The Mets already have one out, but Agee is up. Marichal is
still
pitching.

Dad turns to me. “So what's your excuse, Lucifire?”

“For what?”

“For living.” He's joking around now. That's his way—cut into Ryan, then try to take the pressure off through me.

I start to speak, but the radio catches our attention. “Well hit and deep. This could be—that ball is gone! Tommie Agee with a walk-off homer in the bottom of the fourteenth, and the Mets win their fifth in a row!”

“Amazing!” Dad says, standing up.

Ryan raises a fist. “Freaking out!”

“Who are these guys?” Dad says, grinning broadly. “It can't be our Mets.” He holds out one palm and Ryan slaps it, then Ryan holds out his own palm for Dad.

“We gotta get to a game,” Ryan says. “No more talking about it. We gotta
go
.”

“Well . . . we'll see,” Dad says. “Where's a schedule?”

I go over to my dresser and take a schedule out of the top drawer. “They got a few more home games, then a long road trip,” I say. “They'll be in California until September.”

Dad slowly rolls his head from side to side. “Brody will be in school by then,” he says. “But there's always the radio and TV.”

“Can't we say
maybe
in September we'll go?” Ryan says.

“Maybe. But not likely.”

“Of course, by then they might lose ten in a row,” I say.

Dad laughs. “I got a good feeling this season, buddy. Agee, Seaver, Koosman—these guys are the real thing.” He raises his voice and it gets kind of squeaky. “That ball is
gone
!”

He leaves a few seconds later—whistling “Meet the Mets”—and Ryan pushes the door shut. He looks at me and shakes his head, but he's smiling. “What was that all about?” he whispers.

“I don't know.” But I kind of do. Dad's been riding Ryan hard all summer, but I know it's because he's worried about him. Every morning on the radio we hear about the bombings and the invasions while Dad eats his stale pound cake for breakfast. We all know the days before Ryan's birthday are ticking like a time bomb. He hasn't done anything about applying to college.

We listen to the post-game, then I switch back to music. We catch the end of Stevie Wonder, then they play “Honky Tonk Women”
again
.

“I'm getting a little tired of that one,” I say as it ends. Ryan gives a half smile and nods. He hasn't said anything for a while, just sitting there. I don't envy him.

The Youngbloods come on. My favorite song this week.

Vietnam. He could be there by Halloween.

Hell, he could be dead by then.

He wouldn't be the first.

And we all know it.

F
errante's calling signals as he looks over the helmets of the linemen, directly at me: the middle linebacker.

Peter Sarnoski limped off the field a second ago, and Coach Epstein pointed to the first guy he saw on the sideline to take his place. It happened to be me.

Ferrante slings a short pass over the middle, right toward me. The tight end is coming my way and he steps in front of me and catches the ball. I wrap my arms around his legs and another linebacker helps me finish the job.

They'll be working on me, that's for sure—thinking I'm the weak spot. I brush some dirt off my thigh.

I glance at the sideline. There are three or four people kneeling there who probably should be in here instead. Tough luck. I got it.

Ferrante's no dope. He calls that same pass route from the opposite side, and I see it coming but don't have time to react. Eddie Lorenzo grabs the pass and tries to stiff-arm me, but I duck under and get hold of his leg. He drags me a few yards, but he goes down.

I've made two tackles in two plays, but we're backing up fast.

Coach calls time and huddles up the defenders. “This is where tough guys toughen up!” he growls. “First and goal, backs to the wall. Let's see what you've got.”

Coach grabs my face mask and glares at me. Then he turns to Finken, who's at middle guard. “They're coming right at you two, and you know it!” he says. “Smashmouth football, right up the gut. Let's stop 'em cold!”

“Readeeeeee,” Ferrante calls, hunched over the line. “Ready, set . . . hut, hut.” He takes the snap and cradles the ball, lunging behind the center as Finken is shoved aside. I step into the gap and meet Ferrante head-on, standing him up just long enough for help to arrive and stop him for no gain.

“They're coming at you again, middle men,” Coach says. “What kind of candy are you made of?”

I let out my breath hard. This isn't so bad. It's like playing in the lot up on Roosevelt Avenue. Only difference is the matching uniforms and the coaches.

Come at me again. I'm ready.

Ferrante drops back. Lorenzo's in my face, reaching for the pass, but I duck under his shoulder and deflect the ball to the ground.

My hand stings. I shake it. Lorenzo yells, “Pass interference,” but Coach waves him off and says, “Get back to the huddle, pansy.”

These guys are big and quick and have a lot more experience than I do. They're busting my chops on every play, expecting me to fail.

Keep coming at me.

Same play again? Lorenzo is running toward me like a freight train. I pivot, timing my hit so I'll get there just as the ball does.

But there's no pass. Lorenzo comes up from under me with a brutal block. I see stars as his forearm meets my mouth, and I fall backward to the dirt.

I lie there for a few seconds, in the end zone. Esposito is standing over me with the ball. He scored.

Coach pushes Esposito aside and looks down at me. “You all right?” he asks.

I sit up and spit out my mouth guard. I reach for my jaw and it feels okay, so I nod. But my fingers are bloody when I take them away. I can taste the blood, too, but just on the outside of my lip. No big deal.

“Better sit out until that stops bleeding,” Coach says. “Offense's ball at the twenty, going the other way.”

Sarnoski comes back onto the field, so that'll be the end of it for me. I join Tony and the other subs on the sideline.

 

Nobody says anything about my performance, but I'm feeling good about it as we leave the field after practice. They came at me on every play and I held my own. I stuck 'em right back.

My lip is stinging and I can feel it starting to swell, so I check it in the side mirror of Coach's Wonder Bread truck as we pass through the parking lot.

There's a crust of dried blood and dirt covering about a third of my lower lip. No way I'm wiping that off.

“Lucky break today,” Tony says. “Getting in there with the first string.”

I shrug. Lucky or not, I made the most of it.

“How's your face feel?”

“Feels all right,” I say. “Looks good, too.”

“Looks awesome.”

We reach the Boulevard and turn right. It's a twelve-block walk home (two more for Tony), but I don't mind. I like being seen in my football stuff. Football is big here; we're one of the few towns in the county with a lighted field for Friday night high school games. Most of the other high school teams play on Saturday afternoons, and the junior football teams play on Sundays. We go Saturday nights for our home games, and the crowds are big. Not like Friday nights, of course, but big enough.

Tony grabs my wrist as we're approaching Corpus Christi. “Look over there,” he says, jutting his chin toward the other side of the street. Janet and Patty are sitting on the steps of the church.

“Let's cross,” he says.

“You really want to keep bugging them?” I ask.

He frowns and gives me a light shove. “Who's bugging who?” he asks. “You think they don't know when practice is over? That we walk past here every day at a quarter to six?”

Maybe he's onto something. I touch my lip, feeling the crust. I swing my helmet at him and we cross the street.

“Ladies,” Tony says.

Janet turns her head as if she's looking for the ladies he might be referring to. But she looks back and says, “Men.”

Tony puts his foot on the bottom step, in front of Patty. I glance up at the church, which is huge and mysterious and kind of freaks me out. Seems like everybody I know goes here except us. I mean, there are at least six Protestant churches in town, too, but all together, I think the Catholics way outnumber us Methodists and Lutherans and Presbyterians. The guys I know who go here are scared to death of the priests.

“Looks like you got beat up,” Janet says to me.

Tony waves her off. “You should see the other guy. We hammered 'em good today. Blood all over the place.”

“You got some on your shirt,” Patty says, finally speaking.

I look down. There's a small streak of blood above the 3. (My practice number is 43; I don't know what my game jersey number will be yet.)

“I'll survive,” I say. And I don't know why, but I take a seat next to Patty, not close or anything, but on the same step. I stretch out my legs and look at the traffic.