HOMETOWN LEGEND

by JERRY B. JENKINS



BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

"A heartwarming and inspirational tale that
captures the essence of the game where it truly
begins: in the heart."
--Tim Green, author of The Letter of the
Law

The author of the phenomenal Left Behind series
and eight New York Times bestselling
titles, Jerry B. Jenkins is one of the most
widely read and deeply admired novelists of
our time. With HOMETOWN LEGEND he has
written an inspirational tale placed firmly
in the nation's heartland, where football, family,
and faith are everything, and where for one town the greatest
contest has begun.

HOMETOWN LEGEND

Athens City, Alabama, has fallen on
hard times. The town's leading employer struggles
for survival. The Athens City Crusaders,
once a powerhouse high school football team,
are in disarray--as is the school itself, targeted for
closing. When an old, familiar figure
returns to Athens City after a twelve-year
absence, everything begins to change.
Former football coach Buster Schuler, who
left town following a tragedy during a
championship game in 1988, has returned for
one last chance to lead the Crusaders to glory. But
he soon discovers the challenge is overwhelming.
Outmanned and outsized, the Crusaders enter a
make-or-break season, and other lives are
caught up in their quest:
Cal Sawyer, who tells the story and who
is desperately trying to save his company as he
raises a teenage daughter on his own.
Hand-picked as Buster's assistant, he
discovers things about himself that will change his life.
Elvis Jackson, gifted athlete, who
sees Athens City as his last hope--only
to find that his most difficult test lies far from the playing field.
Rachel Sawyer, Cal's daughter, who
becomes an example of faith to the entire town.
Bev Raschke, Cal's assistant, who
fights a personal battle that reveals more about
her, and Cal, than they ever dreamed.
As the Crusaders head for a final
confrontation with their most powerful rival, this last
drive for victory mirrors the struggles of
everyone in Athens City to recapture the heart and
soul of their town.

"His characters have flaws. Their lives are not
easy. Yet they show resourcefulness that serves as
an inspiration. Reading HOMETOWN LEGEND is
like listening to a good country song."
--Ivan Maisel, Sports
Illustrated

JERRY B. JENKINS is a novelist and
biographer whose work has appeared in Reader's
Digest and Parade and dozens of Christian
periodicals. Best known for the
forty-million-copy bestselling Left Behind
series, he has been profiled in TIME, the
New York Times, and USA Today, and
featured on Good Morning America and
Larry King Live. Jerry B. Jenkins and
his wife live in Colorado.










To Shawn Hoffman and Michael J. Patwin
Jr., whose visual storytelling gifts served as
impetus for this book













Acknowledgments

Thanks to Bob Abramoff; James
Anderson; Bev Bahr; Ron Booth; Rick
Christian; Mary Haenlein; Shawn
Hoffman; Dallas Jenkins; Tim
MacDonald; Ken Meyer; Charles
Musfeldt, M.d.; Michael J. Patwin
Jr.; Leslie Peterson; and Rolf
Zettersten.
Miscellany

1913 Paul William "Bear" Bryant
born in Kingsland, Arkansas
1923 Athens City High School founded in
Weeks Bay County, south of Foley,
Alabama; football Crusaders finish
7-j--only new school to ever rank first in
state
1927 American Leather Football Company
founded by Benton Estes in Athens City
1935 Elvis Aron Presley born in
Tupelo, Mississippi
1943 Gayle Eugene Sayers born in
Wichita, Kansas
1947 Roscoe "Buster" Schuler born in
Foley, Alabama
1961 Calvin Sawyer born in Daphne,
Alabama
1969 Buster Schuler marries Helena
Myrick of Kansas City, Missouri
1970 Jack Schuler born
1971 Buster Schuler becomes assistant
football coach at Athens City
1973 Crusaders 8-1, ranked second in
state under new head coach, Buster Schuler
1977 Elvis Presley dies; Crusaders
8-1 behind star sophomore receiver, Cal
Sawyer
1979 Crusaders 8-0-1 ranked first in state
for twelfth time; Sawyer all-state
1980 Sawyer to Alabama to play for Bear
Bryant
1981 Sawyer injured; returns to marry
Estelle Estes of Athens City
1982 Elvis Presley Jackson born in
Kankakee Banks, Indiana
1983 Rachel Sawyer born; Bear Bryant
dies
1985 Schuler wins one hundredth game
1986 Crusaders 13-1 under new play-off
scheme behind sophomore quarterback Jack
Schuler; win state title for fifteenth time
1987 Crusaders 13-1 behind junior QB
Jack Schuler; win state title for
sixteenth time
1988 Crusaders 12-2 behind Jack Schuler;
second in state; Buster Schuler resigns
1989 Estelle Estes Sawyer dies
HOMETOWN LEGEND



Name's Cal Sawyer and I got a story
starts about thirteen years ago when I was
twenty-seven. Course, like most stories, it
really starts a lot a years before that, but I
choose to tell it from Friday, December 2,
1988, when I'm sitting with my kindergarten
daughter Rachel in the stands of my old high
school. We're watching the state football
championship in Athens City, Alabama, almost
as south as a town can be without being ocean.
Estelle, Rachel's ma and my wife, is in
the hospital dying of the colon cancer. I'm
hoping Rachel doesn't know while knowing that she
does and wondering what in the world I'm gonna do
when the time comes, if you know what I mean and I
think that you do. Rachel's about to see something just as
bad, and even one tragedy is an awful thing for
somebody her age. But don't let me get
ahead of myself.
By the time we were sitting there, I was already a
broken-down ex-football player with a blowed-out
knee who nobody remembered but me. Well,
maybe not exactly nobody. I suppose some
recollect that I played three years under
Buster Schuler, the coach out there that night. I
played on one of his state champ teams, made
all-state, and even rode the bench for Bear
Bryant at Alabama before tearing up my leg
and coming back to marry Estelle Estes.
Yeah, that Estes. Her grandpaw Benton
Estes founded the American Leather Football
Company in Athens City. I came back hoping
to assistant coach with Schuler, but when you marry
into a factory family you work there and coach
junior league football if you have time, which is
what I did.
But I never missed watching a high school
game. Not with Buster Schuler on the sidelines.
He says I was the best he ever coached. I
don't know if that's true or he just says it but
I know he was the best I ever played for,
including the Bear (but they might as well have been
twins). Buster played at Bama years before I
did, only he didn't get hurt and he did
well and all he ever wanted to do after that was be just like
Bryant.
This was one of those big rivalry games
against Rock Hill from up the road. We'd beat
em for the state championship at their place the
year before and were fixing to do the same that night at
home. Rachel had her little good luck plastic
souvenir football that American Leather
passes out to everybody who tours the place, and
I had more hair than I've seen in the mirror
since.
I love these games. The night air, the
concrete stands, the rickety light poles, the
ambulance that stands waiting but had been used only
for the broke arm of a visiting player two years
before, the band, the cheerleaders, the banners, the
scoreboard with "Home of the Athens City
Crusaders" underneath it in white on red.
Schuler wore his trademark fedora, sports
coat, and tie. He was smooth-faced with dark,
thinning hair and a black mustache, and this was his
sixteenth season as head coach.
All around us sat moms wearing corsages and
elementary school and junior high boys whose
dream was to play for Buster Schuler and wear the
crimson and white of Athens City High.
Coach Schuler's wife was behind us too, but she
always sat alone. I never saw Helena so much as
clap, let alone cheer.
Now here's why sometimes I think Buster's
only saying it when he says I was his best.
Everybody knows he'd lived for the day he could
coach his only son, Jack--his starting
quarterback now for three straight years.
Number 7 was a beautiful specimen of a
football player, a tick under 6ft 4inch,
about two hundred pounds, and faster than a wait
to face the principal. He could also throw the ball
through a wall, but course he hardly ever got the
chance. The whole time every game, Buster would run the
Bama wishbone offense--that's where the quarterback
runs with the ball until he has nowhere to go and then
pitches to one of his two trailing running backs
and commences blocking for him.
Going into that game the Crusaders had lost
only once each season with Jack at QB.
Oh, the boy could run, and he was a leader, but
everybody knew that if ever there was a kid who
resented that ancient offense and challenged the old
man's authority, it was Buster's own son.
And Daddy wasn't happy. Jack would
behave himself for the first quarter or two, long enough for
Athens City to roll up a big score.
But there was no corraling that colt, and Buster would
wind up slamming his hat to the ground, benching his own
son, and stomping up and down the sidelines like he
was losing instead of winning.
Next game Buster would start the backup
quarterback, they'd struggle till Jack was out
of the doghouse, he'd come in and get the big lead,
start improvising, and get himself benched again.
Somehow it all worked anyway, but Buster would
say, even in The Athens Courier, that his son
was no example of how he expected his team
to play. Jack had his full ride to Bama already
sewed up and everybody knew that the Crusaders and
Buster--frustrated or not--would ride to their
championship on Jack's back.
So anyway, we were there and I was amazed as
always at Rachel's attention span. I mean,
I was a fan at her age, but by the fourth quarter
I was usually playing my own football game
behind the stands somewhere. She always hung in there though,
asked questions, studied the scoreboard, and pretty
much knew what was going on. She knew most of the
players too.
Rachel even knew a little about the trouble between
Coach Schuler and Jack, so when this game got
down to eleven seconds to go and us trailing
28-24, third-and-ten on their 35, she looked
up at me when Buster called his last time out.
A field goal wouldn't do it, and Rock
Hill could smell that championship clear as the
shrimpy salt air wafting up from the Gulf.
"We're gonna hafta throw the ball, aren't
we, Daddy?" Five years old and she's
strategizing.
I smiled at her. "Rachel, Coach
Schuler'd sell his first-born child before he'd put
that pigskin in the air." I honestly don't know
why I said it that way, and don't think I
haven't asked myself more than once in the years
since. Jack was not just Buster's firstborn, he was
his only-born. But I said it and there it was.
I was nervous as everybody else, and I could
hear the crowd whispering the same thing Rachel was
thinking. Surely Buster's got to let Jack
throw that ball into the end zone. Nobody could keep
Jack Schuler from throwing a TD in a
do-or-die situation like this.
We were all standing, waiting, breathing only
cause we had to. Coach Schuler was scribbling
on his chalkboard and pointing at players.
I could see from big Jack's cocked head,
towering over the others, that he was upset.
The rest of the team shouted "Crusaders!" and
hurried onto the field, but Jack stood there
shaking his head as he jammed on his helmet.
Coach Schuler spun and saw his son slowly
getting ready to head back out, and it was clear he
didn't like what he saw. He grabbed the boy's
facemask and pulled him close. I'd been there
enough times to know what he was saying. "I don't
want any fool heroics. This team needs you
now. You're gonna go out and block like a
Buick!"
I looked for Jack to give his dad some eye
contact and show he was getting with the program. Right
or wrong, you do what the coach tells you and you do
it with all that's in you. But Jack just pulled
away. Coach Schuler smacked him on the seat
and shoved him onto the field with both hands.
I shoulda known what the boy was gonna do when a
couple of the players looked to the sideline as if
what they'd just heard from Jack in the huddle
didn't jibe with what the coach had said. When
Jack stepped up over the center, he sneaked a
peek toward his dad, who was locked on him like he
was willing him to stay with the plan.
The ref cues the clock and Jack takes the
snap. As the play unfolds I see immediately
it's the wishbone again, Jack leading the way.
He's supposed to find a hole to run through or
pitch to a back and block, as his father always told
us, like a Buick.
Jack runs to his right, then drops back like
he's gonna throw. Coach Schuler slams his
hat to the ground as Jack spins right and comes all
the way back to the near side of the field, eluding
tacklers, not to mention his own running backs. He
fakes a pass then races upfield, switching
the ball from right hand to left and stiff-arming
Raiders as he turns toward the end zone.
Rachel's toy football digs into my shoulder
as she pulls herself up and stands on the seat next
to me.
The clock has run out and the noise is deafening
and I'm shouting "Go! Go! Go!" as Jack
reaches the 10 and then the 5, where two Raiders
catch him from opposite sides. One hits him
high, the other low, cartwheeling him into the air.
We all fell silent, wondering whether he'd
hang onto the ball and if his momentum would
carry him into the end zone.
But Jack dropped straight onto the top of
his head, his full weight on his neck. In that
eerie silence, I swear I heard the snap of his
spinal cord from fifty yards away. Jack
flopped onto his back like a Raggedy Andy, the
ball slowly rolling free, and I knew. I
knew from the silence of the new state champions and
their fans on the other side of the field. I
knew from the body language of Coach Schuler.
I turned to lift Rachel down and hid her
head in my chest. The crowd started to murmur and
Coach called out, "Jack?" his voice
pitiful.
I glanced over my shoulder to where Mrs.
Schuler stood alone, staring, her hands clasped
before her mouth.
As the teams gathered around the still boy and
paramedics slid a stretcher from the ambulance and
waited for their cue, Coach Schuler ran out from the
sideline. Players on both teams made way
as he brushed a ref aside and fell to his
knees before the boy.
The crowd went silent again, staring, as the coach
wailed, "Son?" He unfastened the boy's
chinstrap. "Come on! Jack?"
He felt the boy's neck, then looked
desperately at the stunned players. Shoulders
slumping, he scolded his son, as if by challenging
him he could force him to rise and defend himself.
"Why didn't you do what I said?" he cried out,
begging with his hands, his voice echoing. "Why
didn't you do what I told you to do?"
He finally broke down, laying his cheek on his
son's chest. His sobs made us turn our eyes
away.
Rachel, still clutching her tiny football,
tried to peek through my hands. "Is Jack going
to be all right, Daddy?"
I was grateful for the crowd between us and the field,
but I had never lied to her. "I don't know,
sweetheart," I said. "It doesn't look
good."
"Is he going to die?"
"I sure hope not."
The coach's wife marched down the steps past
us, ignoring comments and reaching hands. "Miz
Schuler!" I called after her. "Helena,
wait!"
But she headed for the parking lot. I
pulled Rachel along and trotted up to the
woman. "Helena, let me--"
She turned on me, her eyes dark and narrow.
"I've been a football widow for twenty
years. And now, and now--unless you can change this,
Mr. Sawyer, no, there's nothing I'll let you
do."
She rushed to their light blue Mustang
convertible, slid in, and slammed the door. As the
car raced off into the night, Rachel stared up at
me. "She thinks Jack's dead, doesn't
she?"
I pursed my lips and shook my head, but
Rachel was right. And so was Helena Schuler.



The boy woke shivering at dawn in the loft of
his parents' ramshackle house in Kankakee
Banks, Indiana. So he had slept! Last
time he'd checked, it was just after four in the morning,
and he knew Santa would not come as long as he was
awake.
Now he crept to the landing at the top of the
stairs, his tiny feet making the floor creak.
He leaned over the banister far enough to see that the
tree, which had stood bare in the living room for
two days, had magically been trimmed.
At the bottom of the stairs he tiptoed toward
the blinking lights, the strung popcorn, the shiny
balls, the star up top. He had asked Santa
for only one thing, and while nothing under the tree
appeared the proper shape, he believed it was there.
He could smell it even over the scent of the pine.
The boy moved to his parents' bedroom, a
chamber so small they hung their clothes in a
hall closet. The door wouldn't open all the
way without hitting the bed, and he had been warned
to never let that happen unless the house was afire.
He carefully pushed the door, and the light
roused his father. "What'sa matter, El?" he
said, his voice thick.
"Nothing, Daddy. Just Christmas morning,
that's all."
His mother groaned while his father slowly sat up.
"Be right with you, son. Get the Bible."
Elvis not only got the Bible, but he also
found Luke 2, though he could barely read. The
boy had memorized the books of the Bible, and he
could almost recite this story by heart. There
would be no presents until they heard the real
story of Christmas.
He sat staring at the package, the couch
cushion scratching the backs of his legs, his
feet bouncing inches from the floor. "Get some
clothes on, honey," his mother said, squinting,
enfolded in her long robe. "It'll only take
a second."
The boy bounded back upstairs and pulled on
a sweatshirt, jeans, and yesterday's socks.
Back downstairs his dad ran his hands through his
hair and asked if he couldn't have a cup of
coffee before they started.
"No!" the boy said, knowing his dad was kidding.
"Come on, now! Read and let's go!"
Elvis knew Jesus was way more important
than Santa, and he had learned not to complain about
how long it took to get to the presents. His
gifts to his parents were crafts fashioned at
school, but George and Eloise Jackson
acted like they'd never seen anything so special.
"A hanger painted gold," his mother said. "I'll
use it for my winter coat."
"Paint wouldn't stay on till we scratched
the hangers," Elvis said.
He gave his dad a lanyard, perfect
except for two twisted loops. George hung
it around his neck immediately and said he would look for his
whistle later.
They made the boy save the biggest box till
last, and the longer it took to get to it, the more he
worried he might be wrong. Unless he was
imagining it, the smell was stronger than ever. But
would what he wanted come in a square box? Was
Santa trying to throw him off? Surely he
hadn't misunderstood and thought the boy asked for a
basketball.
Finally he sat with the package on his lap and
attacked ribbon and paper. "Who's it from, first?"
his dad scolded, and Elvis searched through the
scraps to see.
"Santa!" he said, and kept digging. The
corrugated cardboard box had a drawing of an
electric space heater on it, just like the one his
mother used in the cellar. But there was no mistaking the
smell of genuine leather. Finally he turned the
box upside down and shook it until a smaller
box tumbled out of the stuffing, brushed his knee, and
hit the floor. This was no toy. It was a
football, the real thing.
Elvis leaped and whooped and hugged his parents,
smiling so big he could barely see. His dad
helped him remove the cardboard casing. "Let
me toss it to you," George said.
"Not in the house," his mother said, so his dad
underhanded the ball to Elvis from a few feet
away. The boy gathered it in as he dove onto
the couch.
He lay on his stomach and turned the ball so
he could read the imprint. "What's it say,
Dad?"
"Let me see," his dad said, but the boy
only tilted it toward him. He wasn't going
to let go of it for a long time, maybe ever.
George Jackson stood over Elvis and
read, "American Leather, Athens City,
Alabama." He started to read the fine print, but
the boy had heard enough.
"That's where Santa got it?" he said. "That's
where they make them?"
"Looks like it."
The boy kept the ball with him all the time. It
rested in his lap at the dinner table. He slept
with it. And until he took it to school in
January, he and his dad played catch in the snow
every day until their fingers were numb.



My daughter Rachel says she knew when her
mom died because I knocked on her bedroom door
and nobody ever did that. I was stalling for time and for
God to give me something to say. Time ran out and
I'm still waiting for how to say it. Fact is,
Estelle's mother called from her shift at the
hospital--we traded off--and told me to bring
Rachel. "She's gone then?" I said, barely
able to speak. The cancer had won after all.
Rachel made it easy for me. She opened the
door and hugged my neck so tight I had to ease
her back so I could breathe.
That had happened only a couple of months after
Jack Schuler's funeral, which his own mother
didn't come to. Story was that the only way
Buster could even hope to hang onto his marriage
was to follow Helena back to her people in Kansas
City, Missouri, and even then he was never able
to keep her sober. He taught some school back
there but never did any more coaching. Even though he
wasn't an old man I guess he just
put in his time teaching and fished every chance he got.
People say Helena was in and out of the hospital for
alcoholism but that was none of my business and it
isn't like Buster and I were ever friends enough that he'd
report that kinda stuff to me. When you play high
school ball for a guy you don't become his pal.
Least that's what I always thought until last
fall.
I had an idea how Coach must've thrown
himself into saving his marriage, cause I didn't
know what else to do myself but keep working and make
sure I was always there for Rachel. I didn't
know Estelle had left me the football
factory until I had to know it and I'm sure
if she knew the grief it brought me she never
woulda done it. But in a way it was good because with me
being in charge I set my own hours. Her people never
forgave me for her giving me the business, which I
could never figure out. I woulda given it to them
cept it was clear she knew what she wanted to do
by the way she worded it, and there was no way I was
going to go against the wishes of a dead woman even if
she wasn't my wife and I didn't love her
with all my heart, which she was and I did.
That caused more than tension, as you can imagine, so
I was pretty much left without help raising my
daughter, which turned out to be a good thing, in a
way. Sure, I would've liked to have a woman in
the house for Rachel's sake. Not for mine,
cause even though I was still pretty young I
couldn't imagine ever actually loving anybody but
Estelle--at least up to recent--but I had to be
both mother and dad to Rachel. Turns out that was good
for both of us--well, I shouldn't speak for her--but
basically I just did what I had to do because I had
no choice. I got to be best friends with Rachel
rather than just her daddy.
Since I was a young man I'd done every job
at the factory from shipping and receiving to cutting
cowhide to sewing and turning and lacing and even
molding and inflating, stamping and painting. So
except for in-law relations who resented me,
everybody there knew I knew how to make a
football and make the place work. They also
knew I wasn't gonna be there till Rachel
was off to school each day and that I would be going
home in time to be there when she got back. I
never woulda seen myself as a briefcase-toting kind
of guy, but I learned to lug a slew of papers
with me so when she was in bed I could keep the
business of the place going and not have to get a
babysitter.
In the summertime when she was a kid, Rachel
came to work with me every day and played with other kids
who came with their parents. I got some kind of
award from the state for childcare innovation, but the
truth is I couldn't see doing something I wouldn't
let other workers do, so I let em bring their
kids and made sure they were taken care of. Now
if I just coulda kept my assistant Bev from
wanting to spend more time around those kids than in my
office ... What can I say? You can't change
a person's basic bent.
American Leather is one of those small-town
factories that's pretty simple and
straightforward. We got one product that takes
a lot a people to produce. It starts out as a
pallet of stacked cowhides cut so clean off the
animals that they look like they could be put back
on like snug jackets. Our supplier in
Chicago does the dirty work, cutting each
hide in as big a single piece as they can, dyeing
em and putting the dimpling on em, even embedding
that tackiness that will make the ball easier to grip.
I'll never forget the first summer I worked there
and learned what "top grain" meant. I'd always
thought it described the outer layer of the hide, but
it's simpler than that. The top grain is the top
of the cow, the part that has the fewest blemishes (which
we in the biz call "blems"), cause the side
of the animal gets the most barbed wire nicks and
parasite holes. Your best footballs come from
top grain.
Cutting machines use a pattern in the shape
of a quarter of a football and chop as many of those out
of every hide as possible. Course, the more
experienced the cutter, the more sets of four
pieces (number-stamped and kept together through the
whole process) we get out of each hide. When
all that's left of the hide are the tiny spaces
between the cutouts, a smaller pattern gets us the
little pieces that make keyrings and such.
Those four quarter pieces are sewed together
inside out with hundred-year-old sewing machines,
then the balls are turned inside out to put the
stitches on the inside. The guys who do that
turning--man, they're the stars. I mean,
everybody has his place in the process, but a
man who can turn hundreds of balls a day is
a wonder of nature. (our top guy,
Lee Forest, when he was young and in shape and
cooking, once turned a hundred balls an
hour for eight hours straight. Bet he slept
that night.)
Course after that there's inserting the bladder,
lacing, inflating and shaping, stamping logos, and
painting stripes. Like I say, it's all we do,
but there's a lot a steps and a lot a people involved.
I love the simplicity of it. You can do it cheap
and careless or you can use the best materials and
hire people who work with pride. Hiring's my
favorite part. Laying off people is the worst, and
I've done enough of that the last few years to last a
lifetime.
Doing what I had to do made me grow up quick.
Though I was an age when I ought to have been grown
up anyway, being a single father made me
serious-minded overnight. I'd always been a
churchgoer, a Christian since I was a little
boy, and Estelle had really showed me what faith
was--right up until the day she died. But I
couldn't see ever being as devout as she was until
I was sort of forced into it by being sadder and lonelier
than a transferred fourth grader. All of a
sudden God and church and other believers went from
being something I sorta liked because I was comfortable there
to being my very source of life. I needed Jesus
for more than my eternal salvation then, and before you
knew it I was praying more, reading my Bible more,
singing like I meant it because I did, and dragging
Rachel to church every time the door was open.
That was nothing but natural to her, because I was now
the way her mom had been and Rachel had never
known different. I had gone along before and been
happy to do it, but I didn't know I would do it
without living with Estelle's example until I
realized I was at the end of myself without it.
Rachel, bless her heart, was just like her mama.
She believed with everything in her that Estelle was in
heaven and that someday we'd see her again. I
wasn't intellectual enough to be a doubter, but it
sure was comforting to know that the more of God I realized
I needed, the more of Him I learned to know.
That's not to say that either Rachel or I were
perfect saints or that we didn't have our
all-night crying sessions. The best thing my
pastor ever told me was that the Bible said we
weren't supposed to grieve like the heathens do--without
hope, that is--but we are to grieve and grieve with
all our might. We did that all right and
sometimes we still do, all these years later. But
Rachel and me sorta grew up together. She's
my whole life, and she knows it. And, oh, how
she's grown to look like her mama, dark-haired and
dark-eyed with perfect skin and a thin little voice.
She's passionate about what she believes in
whether it has to do with God or with saving her
school or our town or the factory.



And now, a dozen years after we somehow numbed
our way through two tragedies inside a few
months, the school, the town, and the factory were in
trouble. Most people traced the whole mess straight
back to the day Jack Schuler died and Buster
Schuler resigned. When you've lost your wife and
your little girl's mama it's hard to place as much
importance on football misfortunes, but it's
hard to argue with the fact that when Athens City High
School football went in the dumpster, the leading
business in town (now mine) and the town itself weren't
far behind.
Last fall Rachel started her sophomore
year and became a Fellowship of Christian
Athletes prayer warrior. She also heard the
rumors that with the dwindling school population and the
loss of business at American Leather, everything
she knew and counted on was in trouble. I had tried
to keep from her my pressures at work, but after a
while there was no hiding that I had laid off
nearly two-thirds of the three hundred
employees we'd had when I first inherited the
company. People without jobs tend to move away, so
businesses were closing, the school getting
smaller, and stories floating about what it all
meant. The problem with the stories was that they were
true.
Athens City High School was nearing a
critical point where if it lost many more students,
the county would shut it down and--horror of
horrors--send our kids up the road to Rock
Hill, which was closer to the popular retirement
community of Fairhope (and its strong tax
base) and closer to Mobile Bay and its
seasonal but healthy tourist trade.
Every time we'd drive or walk through town and
see more boarded-up storefronts, Rachel would
tell me she and God weren't going to let the town
die. "That so?" I'd say.
"I'm praying," she'd say.
I'd become a praying man myself, but I
wasn't sure God cared that much about Athens
City. Surely He had bigger fish to fry. But
I didn't tell Rachel that. If her faith
hadn't been crushed by the death of her own mama,
I wasn't gonna try to threaten it by questioning
God's interest in the things she cared most about now.
And it was easy to see what she cared about because she was
a pack rat, a collector, a--what's she
call it?--a memorializer. Her mirror was
covered with pictures and pennants and clippings.
And on her dresser, under a yellowed newspaper
with the headline "Coach Schuler Resigns," was the
very toy football she had with her the night Jack
Schuler died.
She'd never taken it to another game, but she'd
never thrown it out either. We still never missed a
home game. But, oh, that became a sad chore.
The crowds faded to next to nothing and the team barely
ever strung together two wins in a row. People talk
about how amazing it was that Athens City had more than
twice the state championships of any other team
in Alabama. But to me the most miraculous
statistic was that up until the Jack Schuler
game, in sixty-five years the school had never
had more than three straight losing seasons, and that
had happened only once in the 1930's.
In Buster Schuler's sixteen years as head
coach at Athens City, he had never coached a
losing team. This previous fall the Crusaders,
under their third hopeless coach since Schuler, had
suffered through their twelfth straight losing season.
The county school board had even talked us
into changing our colors to blue and white, as if that
would erase memories of the tragedy we'd seen
on that field. The worst idea had been the
Jack F. Schuler memorial scholarship,
awarded every year to the Most Valuable Player. It
paid one kid's way to Alabama every year, but
choosing the best player on awful teams had
become almost impossible. None of em had ever
been good enough to make Bama's football team, but
they got the free education anyway. I finally
figured out that the only reason anybody ever
came out for football at Athens City High
anymore was that long shot chance at the Bama
lottery. I guess it didn't matter to them how
the team did as long as one kid stood out enough to win
the prize. All I could do, Friday
night after Friday night, was sit there and shake
my head at the absence of team effort. Every kid with
half an ounce of talent was playing for himself.
Rachel didn't drive yet, so she still rode
with me to every game, but she had her own friends to sit with
now. Usually she wound up sitting with Josie,
another FCA prayer warrior. Josie'd been
going with Brian Schuler, Buster's nephew,
who was the hot new quarterback. The kid had
talent, but he was clearly not a team player.
He threw three-fourths of the time and though he had
a strong arm and good speed, his stats were terrible.
He was poorly coached, and the only hope I
saw on the horizon was that the head coach,
believing what he was hearing around town, had already
announced he would not be back.
The search was on for a new coach, but who would
take the job for what would likely be just one
season? Nobody I knew, and that included me.
I didn't even have time for junior leagues
anymore. It was all I could do to keep the
tradition of showing up for home games while
trying to keep American Leather's business from
going overseas and trying to let my daughter go
while still hanging onto her for dear life.
Rachel said she was praying for a miracle for the
school, the town, and my business. Well, she
wasn't the only one. I was already getting
signals from our biggest customer, The Dixie
States Association of High Schools, that their
long-term association with American Leather might
be starting to unravel. That would do us in for good, them
accounting for right around 40 percent of our business.
I believed their president, Chucky Charles,
was more than a client though. We'd been friendly
over the years if not exactly friends, but that was
only because of the hundreds of miles between my office
and his in Little Rock.
So the Athens City Crusaders' 2000
season had been another cesspool in which they'd
missed the play-offs for the twelfth straight time.
Even I didn't know if I'd be able to stomach
one more season, and I admit I sided with those on
the county school board who said it might not be
worth the expense and the trouble to field one more team,
especially if they couldn't find a coach
anyway.
But Fred Kennedy, chairman of the county
school board, had decided that since I ran
American Leather I must know everybody
in the football world, so he'd asked if I'd
try to find someone to take the final season. The
board gave me till the end of the school year.
All I could think of was to ask the freshman and
jayvee coaches of neighboring schools if
anyone wanted to get one varsity year under his
belt before testing the waters elsewhere. I thought it
was a decent idea, and I figured someone might
bite. The board loaded me down with the films of
all the games of the last season, which I thought
might be better to burn or somehow misplace
than show anybody.
But I never got the chance to ask around whether some
bold young coach was even interested in talking about the
job. I guess you could say Rachel's and my
prayers, at least the ones for the football team,
got answered.



So it's a little less than a year ago now and
I'm sitting in my office at the factory with
two things on my mind. The first is sorta never
off my mind and if you've ever been responsible
for a business and more directly lots of people and their
livelihoods, you know what that is. I'm not a
neat-desk kind of a guy and even though I own the
business the only luxury I got is Bev
Raschke, the kid-loving assistant who answers
my phone before I do. (she, of course, really
runs the place, which is the joke I tell every day
and which isn't so funny or far off when you get
down to it.) I don't even have a nice office.
I've only got one window and that looks out past
Bev's cubicle onto the floor.
Anyway, I'm sitting there noodling how
to keep the place alive and not lay off any more people
while still trying to meet the business we do still have coming
in.
My chief financial officer thinks I ought
to be spending more time schmoozing Chucky Charles,
and she's probably right cause Chucky's told
me he's been getting courted by the competition.
Well, I don't know how we could be doing a
better job for Dixie States, and anyway I
think my workers need to see me looking out for them.
I'm down to the really old and valuable veterans,
some a which been with us longer than I have. But I've
already got em overworked and underpd and now I'm
asking for overtime and they're taking it
cause they know if they don't I'll find someone
who will. So that's first and foremost, as old Benton
Estes used to be fond of saying.
Second, I'm thinking about the short drive
north to see Rock Hill in their first playoff
game. I'd like to see somebody give em a
decent contest. We sure hadn't. They'd shut
us out for the third year in a row, cruising along
toward their second straight state title,
undefeated and not even outscored for one half in
all that time. I hate em on principle.
Maybe their snotty coach isn't as bad as he
seems, but he sure likes to gloat. He's
been around for twenty years and he's got to be
enjoying his revenge against so many losses to Athens
City in his early days. They're gonna play
Beach, who might be able to give em a game;
they'd beat us almost as bad as Rock Hill had,
although that doesn't always mean much.
I had my eye on the assistant coach at
Beach, who had to be looking for some other
opportunity because the guy he was coaching under
wasn't much older than he was and didn't look
to be going anywhere soon himself. I couldn't
imagine a coach in a good program leaving for the
thankless job I've got to offer, but stranger
things have happened and some guys'll do pretty much
anything to get a head coach title on their
resume.
I probably wouldn't have gone to the Rock
Hill game if I hadn't wanted to scout this
assistant. Rachel couldn't go cause of some
deal at church and I didn't really want to go
alone. I sighed, looking at another request from
some school group that wanted to tour the plant,
wondering if the kids would wind up disappointed at
how small the operation had become or whether they'd
be at all fascinated by the process. I still
was, but you kinda gotta be to stick with it as long
as I had. We'd been putting off the tours
until we had enough requests that we could group em
and run em through all in one morning or afternoon.
Bev and I were the only ones with the time to take em
through, and I'd just recently dumped assisting the
Human Resources department on her too.
Bev was a handsome woman a couple years
older than me who'd been with American Leather
since she was in high school. She'd never
married, but somehow we'd been spared too much of the
getting-together suggestions that most other
eligible ladies and I get from everybody,
cause even though we go to the same church and work
together, Bev's got a way of acting older than
she is and sorta mothering me, so people just don't see
us that way--at least I don't. Plus she's
got two cats, and that's about all I need to know
about a woman.
Now she's heading for lunch. "You want me
to pick you up something from Carl's Jr.?" she
asks. I tell her yeah, thanks, the usual,
but she says no.
"No?" I say.
"No, sir," she says. "You eat one more of
them grilled chicken thingies and you'll be clucking
before you know it. Now you can't weigh a pound more'n
you did when you graduated high school, so it
won't kill you to have a little red meat."
"It might," I say, proud to have stayed in
shape despite the scrambled knee--and halfway
impressed that she noticed.
"Well, what say we find out? I'm bringing
you back their biggest, meatiest, cheesiest burger
with the special fries and you're gonna danged
well eat it all."
"Can I at least have a diet drink with that?"
"You're hopeless," she said. "All right."
"And you've got to eat the same."
"Now, no! I'm only getting you that cause
I can't. I'm up two pounds and just want
to enjoy it, whatcha call it, vicariously."
I didn't see the two pounds on her but I
wasn't about to say that. I just waved her off. "So
you're gonna watch me eat, is that it, Bev?"
"No, but I'll smell it and know you're
enjoying it. Now promise me you'll ignore the
phone. I got it on the machine and the world will
survive without you for a few minutes."
She was back in less than half an hour,
during which I scoped out a new work schedule for the
lock stitchers and obeyed her by ignoring a phone
call. She plopped the greasy bag and Diet
Coke on my desk, and I said, "There's one
message waiting."
"I noticed. How'd you manage to ignore
it?"
"Learning to obey, Mother," I said. I took
a huge bite of the double cheeseburger while
Bev checked the message at her desk. With the
phone to her ear, she spun in her chair to look
at me. Course the first thing I thought was
Rachel and I was already kicking myself for not having
picked up the phone. I forced the bite into my
cheek and mashed the intercom button. "What?"
I said.
"Might be a crank, Calvin," Bev said.
"But you'd better listen to this."
I grabbed the phone. "Yeah, uh," the
recording began, "I'm sorry I missed
Sawyer, but this is Buster Schuler and I'd
appreciate a call back." He left a
number with no area code and a nearby prefix.
"Where's that number from, Bev?" I said, mouth
still full.
"Was that really him?"
"I'd know that voice anywhere. That number
local?"
"Fairhope, if I'm not mistaken." Bev
was never mistaken. "Shall I dial it?"
I swallowed quickly and shoved my lunch
aside, nodding. "Just tell me when it's ringing."
I didn't want Coach Schuler to think I was
so bigheaded I had to have a secretary place my
calls. Bev dialed, waited a beat, and
pointed at me. I sat up and actually
straightened my tie.
"Fairhope Rehabilitation Center."
"Um, yes, ma'am. I'm returning Bust
--ah, Mr. Schuler's call."
"One moment, please." She covered the phone
and I heard her calling out to him and telling him he
could take it on the house phone.
"Sawyer?"
"Coach?"
"Well, nobody's called me that in ages,
but how in the world are you?"
He'd never been one for small talk and I
knew he'd appreciate me helping him get
to the point. "I'm good. What are you doing here?"
"I'd like to come see you," he said. "But I'm
not ready for people to know I'm in town."
"I'll meet you anywhere."
"Well, I'd like to see you there at your work, and
maybe I'm kidding myself to think people would still
recognize--"
"Course they would, Coach, but if you want me
to tell em to leave you be and--"
"I'd rather no one even knows."
"You got wheels? Well, course you do. You
know the place. Park in the alley between Shipping
and the water tower. I'll be waiting by the
door. You coming now?"
"Right now."
I stood and spun in a circle, wondering how
I could tidy up the place fast. Bev, as
usual, came to my rescue. "You have to eat,"
she said, hurrying in. "I'll scrape the crust
off this place and he'll just have to accept the rest.
Now sit and finish."
I sat and wolfed as Bev swept off my
credenza, the top of which I hadn't seen in years,
and dumped stuff into file cabinets and onto
shelves. "It'll take him twenty minutes,"
she said. "And we're working with years of buildup
here."
I finished ten minutes later and tried to help
her, but Bev just took my arm, pointed me and my
fast-food trash toward a garbage can in the
hall, and kept working. When I returned my
office looked halfway livable and she was
spraying something that knocked out the food smell.
She pointed to my chair, I sat, and she picked
up the phone and called reception.
"Ginny," she said, "keep an eye on the
driveway and give Mr. Sawyer's phone one
buzz when a car pulls in toward the receiving dock.
No trucks, just a car. Thank you."
The wait seemed forever but I knew I couldn't
concentrate on one other thing anyway. When the
buzz came, I leaped from the chair and headed to the
side door. On the way I said, "Bev,
you're the best."
"Yeah," she said, winking. "I know."
There would have been no mistaking Buster
Schuler, especially when he got out of his
ancient blue Mustang. The mustache and
sideburns had gray in em and the eyes were
wrinkled like a man even older than the coach had
to be by now. But he wore the same white shirt and
tie and I daresay the same hat. I don't
believe I have ever seen him without a tie, not in the
classroom or on the field, even during
practice. He looked pale and stooped.
He hurried up the concrete steps and shook
my hand, patting me on the shoulder. "Aren't you
ever gonna get older?" he said, forcing a smile
but having trouble maintaining my gaze.
"I was about to say the same," I said, leading
him inside. "You know I've never tolerated
liars," he said, not unkindly.
Bev nodded to him and took his hat, then
left us alone in my office. I know all that
management stuff about sitting next to a guest rather
than behind your desk so you even the playing field,
but my office wasn't big enough for more than one
guest chair. And when Coach Buster Schuler was
in a room, no seating arrangement would level the
playing field.
I sat, gripping the arms of my chair,
tucked my chin, and looked at him with my
eyebrows raised. We both knew this was no
social call, so I just waited. He leaned
forward and rested his elbows on his knees, then
jerked a thumb over his shoulder in Bev's
direction. "You and her?" he said.
"Nah."
He rubbed his palms together, clearly more nervous
than I was. I knew he'd get to the point.
He'd come this far.
"It's Miz Schuler," he said. "And I
need your help."
"Anything, Coach," I said.
Coach suddenly looked stricken. "Where's my
manners?" he said. "How's that little girl a
yours?"
"That little girl's a sophomore at Athens
City," I said.
"Rachel."
I nodded, impressed.
"And I was so sorry about Estelle."
"Thank you. I got your card."
He nodded, looking miserable. "I'd say
it's been a lot of years," he said. "But,
believe me, I know how fresh a loss like that
feels."
I nodded, waiting.
"Miz Schuler never forgave me."
What could I say to that? I just pressed my
lips together and shook my head.
"Most people don't know that she had a problem long
before we lost Jack. Long before I killed him,
is what she'd say."
"Oh, Coach, no. You know better."
He shrugged. "Sometimes I do. Sometimes I
don't. She was an alcoholic long before that, you
know."
I shook my head. I really hadn't known.
"Well, a problem drinker anyway. We had
a tragedy early in our marriage, couple years
after Jack was born. She always resented my
obsession, that's what she called it.
Football. She only barely tolerated
Jack playing. Did people know that?"
"Some, I suppose."
"She wasn't supportive."
"I know."
"She made me pay by drinking more."
This was painful. It was so good to see him, but I
hated how beat down he seemed. "Don't feel
like you gotta tell me--"
"But I do, Sawyer! I'm here asking for
help, and you gotta know why."
"I don't need to know anything but how I can
help."
"Well, then I feel like I need to tell you,
okay?"
"If listening helps, I'm all ears."
He looked to the ceiling, then breathed a heavy
sigh. "I know everybody wonders why she
didn't know what she was getting into when she married
a football player. She was kind of a society
gal. Prettiest thing I'd ever seen. I
couldn't believe she'd look twice at me, and
like a dummy I thought it was the jock stuff she
liked. Turns out she saw potential cause
my grades proved I wasn't as dumb as I
looked or sounded. How was I to know she was on a
mission to make a businessman outa me?"
I stared at him. What he was telling me was
exactly what I'd been afraid of with
Estelle when we fell in love. A lot of people
probably thought she'd pulled me out of
football and into the business. Truth was she took
me the way I was and would have been just as happy if
I was a coach somewhere. But I didn't think that
way. I would have enjoyed it, but football
wasn't my whole life. She was. And I'd
wanted to give her a life that wasn't so far from
what she grew up withand I'd wanted to prove
to her family that she hadn't married so far below her
class. I don't think I ever convinced them or
me of that, but the fact is I never felt the
pressure Coach was telling me about now.
"I loved her, Sawyer. I truly did.
I still do. But it was unfair of her to try to change
me and then to blame all this on me."
I agreed but didn't dare say so. I
didn't know what he wanted to hear, but I
wasn't gonna take sides against the woman he
loved.
"What happened, of course, proved
her right, at least in her mind. I haven't been
able to reason with her since."
I couldn't imagine a dozen years of that.
"I'm surprised you're still together," I said.
He snorted. "Wouldn't be if it was up to her.
I can't tell you the number of times she's thrown
me out. She sees Jack at the foot of the bed,
says he's blaming her for letting him play
football. You and I both know Jack loved the
game. He was a rascal and I don't know if
I ever taught him a thing, but I never made him
play."
Coach was silent, as if waiting for a
response, but I was still back on the ghost story.
One thing I knew for sure and would never say out
loud was that if Jack had played the way his dad
wanted him to, he'd probably be an NFL
player today. My mind was reeling.
"So, when she, uh, kicked you out, you left?"
"Counselor told me to. Said a woman
who's lost a child is temporarily insane and you
gotta do what makes sense to her for a while,
even if it makes no sense."
I was lost. "So you'd leave and then come
back?"
He nodded.
"She'd what, come to her senses for a while and
ask you back?"
"Never. I'd just stay away a few days and
then after school one day, I'd drive home
instead of to the hotel. She wouldn't even comment, as
if she hadn't noticed I was gone. A few
weeks later she'd get it in her head that since
she never saw Jack in the casket, he's still
alive and I gotta go find him. I try
to reason with her, she imagines a conspiracy, and
out I go again. This here, this is almost a relief."
"This here?"
"What's happened to her now, which is what I
came to tell you. See, I've had her in and out
of alcohol treatment centers, nothing permanent.
Expensive. Where I taught school they wouldn't
cover it because they called it a pre-existing
condition. It never helped anyway. When she
wasn't drunk she was crazy, so I never got
a break."
His voice was shaky and he drew in a breath.
I wanted to cry too, but I didn't figure
that would help. I didn't know what he was looking
for, but it didn't seem like sympathy.
When he got himself together, he said, "I don't
mean to put her down, Sawyer. I'm just trying
to tell ya."
"I know."
"I still love her. I don't even know why.
She's given me no reason for twenty years, but
I was raised that you love your wife and you keep
your commitments." He shook his head. "Course
I always thought I could love her through this and get her
better too."
"Maybe someday."
He looked down. "I'm past hoping," he
said. "Anyway, this last year I can't keep her
sober. Somehow she always finds booze. Lies,
negotiates, finagles, you name it. Typical
stuff, they tell me, but I've never seen
anything like it. I finally got a doctor to tell
me she's a full-blown alcoholic and could
kill herself if she keeps drinking. Insurance where
I am still won't cover it, but God gives me
this idea. At least I think that's where it came
from. I was praying and pretty soon I get this
idea, so two and two equals four or whatever.
I call Weeks Bay County and find out I
worked at Athens City long enough that part of my pension
includes coverage for this kind of a thing. Only
hitch is, she's got to be treated here. Somehow
there's a spot for her at Fairhope Rehab,
and I'm in the car with her the next day, driving
all the way from KC. Had to have her doped up and
restrained just to get her here. Now she, says I
must hate her and want her dead so she hates me
and wants me dead and she never wants to see me
again if I don't get her out of there and all that."
"A nightmare," I said.
"A relief," he said. "God forgive me,
I need the break."
I kinda knew what he meant, but again, I was
just listening, not trying to advise him. "So,
what're you gonna do, Coach?"
"I'm gonna do right by the woman I love."
It sounded so strange it was almost funny. After
what I'd just heard I didn't know whether I was
supposed to laugh or cry.
"I'm serious," he said. "I'm going to find
a room, get me a job, visit her every day
whether she wants me to or not--I mean, I'm not
gonna make a scene, just be faithful and be there so
she can never say I wasn't. And I'm gonna
try to make a life for myself."
"Doing what?"
"I was hoping you could help with that."
"Me?"
"You said you'd do anything."
"But--"
"You run the biggest business in town."
"Coach, I--"
"I'll do anything, Sawyer. I'm not proud.
Put me on the line. I might not still be strong enough
to be a turner, but I can cut or sew or
whatever you want."
"Coach, I've laid off two hundred people
since you left town."
He smiled a sad smile. "That's my
fault too?"
"It's just, how do I justify hiring on
somebody new when so many old friends have had to move
away cause I didn't have a spot for em?"
He stood quickly. "I understand," he said.
"Really, I do. I don't know what I was
thinking. It's not like you owe me anything. I'll
find something."
Now I was standing. "Coach," I said, forceful
as I could muster, "I want you to do me the favor
of sitting yourself back down. Now, I mean it.
I can't imagine telling you what to do, but you came
in here willing for me to be your boss, I need you
to listen to me for just a second. Please."
Coach sat back down and I moved around to the
front of my desk, suddenly grateful for Bev
and her clearing enough of a spot to where I could sit
atop it. "One a the advantages of the position
I'm in is that I don't answer to anybody
anymore. If I want to put you on, and I
gotta tell you, it'd have to be part-time, then I can
just do that. I think I owe you more than you may think,
and even if I don't, this town does. I might
take some heat for it, but that's my choice."
"Sawyer," he said, "I preciate that, I
really do. But the truth is I didn't know how
bad things were here and I didn't know you had to cut
the labor force and all. I couldn't ask you to do
that--"
"But I want to."
"I understand, but it wouldn't be good for either of us.
I don't need much. I'll manage. I was just
checking possibilities and you seemed to be the
place to start."
And then it hit me. I may not be the brightest
bulb in life's marquee, as that guy
Garrison Keillor says on the radio, but this
one finally banged me so hard I had to smack
myself in the head. Unless you're dumber'n dirt,
you'd thought of it before me and probably did.

When I hit Buster Schuler with the obvious,
he sat straight up, laid his palms on his
knees, and looked me full in the face.
"Fred Kennedy's still school board chairman?
Don't toy with me, Sawyer," he said, his
voice suddenly strong and clear. "This isn't
funny."
"I wouldn't," I said. "It's a one-year
deal, you'd have to teach, and there's no way--no
matter what--that Athens City High stays open
past the next school year."
"Not even if you and I coach em to another
state championship?"
I held up both hands. "Don't include
me. This is all on you."
"No, huh-uh. No way I'd do it unless
you did it with me."
"I can't, Coach. I--"
"Then neither can I. The game has passed me
by anyway. People were saying that when I was still coaching.
Kennedy for one. I haven't been to a live
game since, you know ..."
"You haven't?"
"How could I? The memories, the, the--"
"I can't imagine. Did it spoil the whole
game for you? No interest?"
"Oh, no." He was coming alive. "I sneaked
a peek on TV now and then, but it wasn't the
same. You want the truth, Sawyer?"
"Course."
"I still strategize, plan, play with
lineups, relive old games."
"Coach! Do this! Take this!"
It was as if it was too much for him, like a gift
he'd never even dreamed of. "What would people say?
I couldn't even let Helena know."
I invited him to the Rock Hill game that
night and he threw a hand over his mouth, sucked in
a breath, and began to sob. "I'm sorry," he
said. "Forgive me."
I didn't know what to say or do. Had I
made bad memories rise, offended him? "You
don't have to, Coach. It was just a thought. You just
think about the job."
He grabbed my arm and wiped his face
with his other hand. "That's not it, Sawyer. I
want to go. You don't know how bad I want
to. Thing is, I can't think of anything I'd rather
do. You'd really take me?"
"Nothing I'd rather do either, Coach. Meet me
at the high school at six, we'll get us some
dinner, and you can ride up with me."
"Whoo-boy!" he said, with a rush of air. "You
are without a doubt!"
I sat there waiting for him to complete the thought like
I hadn't heard him use that crazy expression
a million times when I played for him. I
was, without a doubt, what? But I knew he
never finished the line, and he had used it when he was
happy, mad, or whatever.
"I got some work to do," I said, "and I
guess you got stuff to do too, eh?"
He stood and thrust out his hand. "This is
better'n I could have hoped."
"I'm putting you down as our head coach for
next year," I said.
"No you're not."
"Just tell me when I can let people know."
"When you're ready to be my assistant."
"Now, come on, Coach. You know I can't do
that."
"That's the price," he said.
"You were willing to work for me, and now--"
"And now you gotta agree to work for me if this
has a prayer of happening."

I couldn't keep it from Rachel. "Daddy!
You've got to do it!"
"You can't coach unless you're on the school
staff, honey."
"So teach geography. You were good in that."
"Who told you that?"
"You did. were you lying?"
"Course not. But teaching?"
"The kids would love you!"
"Ah!"
She was rustling around in her room. "Take me
to the school, would you? Just for a minute before church?"
"I guess," I said. "I got to get a
key to the field house anyway. I want
to give Coach Schuler those game films."
She came out of her room with her plastic
football and the old newspaper. "Where's the
garden trowel?" she said.
"Garage. What're you up to?"



When they parked at the school, Rachel took
her armful of stuff and headed for the football
field while her dad walked to the small field
house at the other end.
She knelt in the end zone under the ancient
weather-beaten scoreboard with the now white-on-blue
sign beneath it reading, "Home of the Athens City
Crusaders." A smaller wood sign hung from
that one and read, "In memory of Jack
Schuler, No.7."
Rachel used the hand trowel to remove a thin
strip of sod, then dug a few inches into the
moist, dark soil. She pressed into the earth the
old Athens City Courier with the headline
"Coach Schuler Retires."
"Dear Lord," she whispered, placing her tiny
plastic football over the paper and replacing the
dirt, "we need a miracle. Grandmaw used
to tell me there was three things worth believing in:
God, cattle, and football, in that order. I
look around and see everything's changed. Folks have
a hard time believing in anything. This town has one
foot in the grave and the other in a pile of
cattle dip, and if You don't do something soon,
there ain't gonna be nothing left." She paused
and laid the strip of sod back in place.
"Rachel!" Her dad's voice from across the
field. She loved him in his windbreaker and a cap
that covered his almost gone hair. He looked just like
a coach. "We gotta go, sweetheart!"
She waved and nodded, and he strode toward the
parking lot. "So, God," she continued, "what do
You say? It's about time You show up and show off."
Hearing her dad's car, Rachel stood and
pressed the grass down with her boot. He was
going to take the assistant's job, she just knew
it. That meant Coach Schuler would be back.



I swore Rachel to secrecy, which is
probably the only reason the Athens City
stadium was empty when Coach met me. It was
getting dark as he stood there, hands deep in his
pockets. I told him I had the keys. "You
wanna see it with the lights on?" He shrugged, but
I knew he did so I flipped em
on.
"Place has fallen into disrepair," he said,
but I think he was just talking to cover his emotion.
He looked over the whole place and walked slow
down to the scoreboard with its faded blue and the
sign for Jack. "I hate the new colors,"
he said. "And I really hate that scholarship
deal."
"Me too."
"To give money for playing for yourself ..."
I made a face and couldn't hide it. To me
it sounded like he was putting down his own son.
"No," he said, "I just mean--"
"I know. Wanna take time for a peek into the
field house?"
He followed me to the other end of the field and
around the fence where the place, barely big enough for the
varsity, stood next to the concession stand and
bathrooms. The double metal doors opened into a
concrete-floored free-weight room that took
up two-thirds of the space. The rusty bars and
bells were strewn about. "Nobody supervises
these boys?" Coach whispered. He stared at the
long row of dusty team pictures hanging
cockeyed on the wall. "They quit shooting em
after '88?"
I shrugged.
A short corridor led past the showers and a
wall-mounted first-aid kit and stretcher and into a
small, dull, cream-colored room filled with
white wire-mesh lockers and walls covered with a
big green chalkboard, a bulletin board, and
various signs. One read, "That-Every-A-M."
Another that had been there at least twenty years
said, "Play Like a Champion Today." That had
to mock the last dozen teams that changed clothes in
there. The stench brought back memories.
Coach was silent when he noticed above the
drinking fountain a glass case displaying his
son's jersey. The shirt had not been cleaned or
mended but it looked somehow noble and, I have to say
it, too good to be looking down on the guys that had
followed Buster's last team.
I figured that ought to be an alone moment, so
I busied myself peeking into the training room and the
coaches room, separated from the lockers by a
window and Venetian blinds.
I moseyed on out under the "Pride" sign
over the door frame that players had slapped on
their way out for years. Coach soon
followed. "Just the way I remembered it," he
said.

Rock Hill didn't have much trouble with Beach
that night, but it was sure fun sitting there with
Schuler and seeing him come alive. On the way
up into the stands he kept his head down, probably
to keep anybody from recognizing him. Once we
got settled in, he never took his eyes off the
field. And he talked the whole time. He
dissected every play, groused about the Beach Bearcat
coach, his strategy, the laziness of his players,
their lack of discipline, and Rock Hill's
showboating, taunting, boasting. "I mean, they're
good, maybe as good a high school team as I've
ever seen, but what's with all that?"
"Wanna leave?" I asked him.
"I never leave early," he said. "Past your
bedtime?" I laughed and shook my head. "Good,
cause I'm up for more football tonight. I
wanna see those game videos a yours."
"They aren't videos," I said. "We're still
using the same movie camera from when you were here.
Anyway, I saw the games. Believe me, you
don't want to see those."
"How much worse can they be?" he said,
gesturing toward the Bearcat side of the field.
"Coach, we made those guys look like
pros."
"I'd like to take charge of either of these here teams
for ten minutes."
I knew what he meant, but if he felt the
same about Athens City after watching the films,
well, maybe he'd been away from the game too
long.
Late that night upstairs in my house, I
fought to stay awake as Buster watched film after
film on a clacky old projector. "Tell
me who the seniors are," he said, and every time I
pointed one out, he said, "Good. Glad he'll be
gone. Couldn't play for us anyway, could he?"
"Couldn't play for you."
"Us," he said, not looking at me. "I'm not
doing this without you, Sawyer, and we both know it, so
I don't want to hear another word about it. There!
Him! Is he returning?"
"Nope."
"Good! Lazy. Never'd learn the wishbone."
Except for Yash Upshaw, a speedy black
receiver, and Sherman Naters, a
rough-and-tumble linebacker, I thought the
underclassmen looked as bad as the seniors.
Coach kept shaking his head every time one of em either
made a bonehead play or celebrated a good
one. "First guy who so much as raises his fist
cause he makes a sack will sit the rest of the
quarter. Agree?"
"Course."
"That junior quarterback, number 40, who
likes to launch the ball all the time--that's my
nephew, right?"
I nodded.
"He's not gonna like the wishbone."
"None of em are, Coach."
"They'll like winning."
"He wants the scholarship," I said.
"If I know my no-account little brother, his
kid needs the scholarship. He won't win it
playing like that."
"Your brother know you're in town?"
Coach nodded. "He's the one renting me a
room."
"He's making his own brother pay?"
"I told you. They need the money. I'd just as
soon pay."
I was drowsy and rubbed my eyes, then looked
at him. The flickering images reflected off his
eyes as they darted about the screen. "Give me
some speed and teachable kids," he said. "That's
all I ask."
"It's a caretaking job, Coach," I said.
"I'd be a liar if I said different. It's about
putting one last team on the field and seeing one
more kid get the scholarship."
I had finally got his attention. "How do you
turn this blamed thing off?" he said.
"Just crank that to the left."
The room went dark. I turned on a light
and we squinted till we got used to it. "You know
I'm no caretaker, Calvin. If I'm
gonna do this thing, I'm gonna do it with all my
might. We're going out there with one objective.
We're gonna win and keep on winning until
we're state champs."
I couldn't muster a look that said I believed
him, and you know he was searching my face for one.
"I'm with you, Coach," I said lamely.
"You'll come around," he said. "You coach the
way you played and you'll see."
"Well, I gotta admit, there are
a couple of interesting things going for us. First four
games are at home, and I guess somebody
pities us for the end of our school, cause we
get to host the state title game."
"Let's be rude hosts, what do you say,
Sawyer?"
I just nodded and smiled. He wouldn't have wanted
to hear what I had to say.

By Monday the whole town knew what was going
on, and Coach Schuler liked to have drove me
nuts. He was given a couple of hours of health
to teach and allowed to putz around the field house and
start planning for the next season. Fred Kennedy
thanked me for my work and the school board let me
off the hook on teaching geography till the
next fall.
A few days after The Athens City
Courier ran the headline "Coach Schuler's
Back!" the national sports magazines picked
it up. We'd never been so popular, and I
worried that people would have so long to get excited about it
that Coach Schuler would never be able to satisfy
em. Course he thought we were gonna win one more
state championship and wouldn't settle for less
himself, so it was like I was the only one feeling the
pressure.
Before you know it, he'd dolled up a new
playbook he wasn't allowed to show any
players till the next summer, but I got
to read it every night, give him feedback on every
idea, and work with him on the field, the stadium,
everything cept the field house, which, as he said,
needed to stay just like it was.
Rachel asked me one day, "Is he the
miracle we need, Dad?"
I could never bring myself to tell her anything but the
truth. "Sweetheart," I said, "this may do more
for Coach than it does for us. The only thing
that'll save this town is business improving, and
I don't see it."



Buster sat with me in church that Sunday cause
I probably looked lonelier than a skunk
at a picnic. Rachel always either had choir or
her class of girls to teach or her own friends
to sit with, so I was glad for the company and of course
a little proud to be seen with him. I asked
him was he excited and could he hardly wait till
next summer, but before he could answer I felt a
hand on my shoulder and turned to see Bev sitting
behind us with her friend Kim.
"Am I gonna have to separate you two?"
Bev said. "Now hush!" We chuckled, but we
also obeyed.
I'm usually pretty good about paying attention
in church, cause I need it. But something was
bothering me and when I finally got it surrounded in
my brain, I realized it was Kim. She's a
kind of a severe-looking woman, dark-haired and
usually serious. She had a reason. She's in
her late fifties and had raised a couple of
boys by herself cause her husband left her years
ago. And I know the church had prayed for her
dad, who'd had Alzheimer's, for about ten years
before he finally died.
But still, Kim kept her faith and she and Bev
socialized a lot. She came in and met Bev
for lunch now and then at the factory and they often
sat together in church. I always tried to get a
smile or a laugh out of her, cause that was so
rare.
That morning, though, when Bev had teased us, it
seemed to me Kim hadn't been amused. It was just
a small thing, but it was like she was looking the other
way and pretending not to hear. Maybe it was just my
imagination, but it bothered me enough that after the service
I made sure to greet her.
She nodded. "Calvin."
"You taught me in Sunday school when I was
a tiny kid," I said. "You can call me
Cal."
"As you wish."
I was having trouble keeping her eye. "Kim,
you okay?"
"I'm fine."
I threw my arm around her and pulled her
close. She was stiff. "C'mon, you're out of
sorts. Tell me what's up. Kids okay?"
"They're fine."
So I wasn't making it up. "Kim, you mad
at me?" She pursed her lips and shrugged,
backing away. "Kim! C'mon! You know I'd
never do or say anything to bother you."
Everybody else was clearing out of the sanctuary.
Kim stood there with her arms crossed, looking like
she wished she could join em. "You really want
to get into this right now?"
"Course! What is it?"
She studied the floor, then looked around as if
to see if anyone else could hear. "You're a
wonderful person, Cal," she said. "But sometimes
you can be oblivious."
"Oblivious?"
"Blind to things."
"I know what it means, Kim. But what am
I blind to?"
"Bev," she said.
"What's wrong with her?"
"Nothing."
"You're mad at me cause I'm oblivious
to Bev, but nothing's wrong with her?"
Kim looked madder than ever and just shook her
head.
"Talk to me, ma'am. I'm listening."
Finally she looked me in the eye. "Would you just
try to be more sensitive to her? Could you do that for
me?"
I raised my eyebrows. This wasn't the first
time somebody'd said that. Lee Forest, my famous
football turner and the oldest guy on the line,
had told me more than once that I needed to look
after Bev more. Lee's a crusty old guy with good
ideas and loyal as they come, but I'd passed off
what he said cause I figured he just didn't
know better. How would he know how I treated
Bev? She never showed me any attitude, and
she'd got a couple of raises a year ever
since she started working for me. Now Kim thought
I wasn't treating her right?
"Is she saying things?" I said, knowing that was
unlikely. It just wasn't like Bev. Maybe
I didn't know her as well as I thought.
"Of course not," Kim said. "She wouldn't."
"Well, that's what I thought. So what's the
problem?"
She motioned me to follow her out and by the time we
got to the parking lot, we were among the few left.
"You just don't really know her, Cal," Kim
said. "And that's your loss, especially after all the
years she's worked for you."
I had to admit Bev and I weren't what you'd
call friends. We didn't go to each other's
homes, didn't see each other outside the
office or church. But that was the way I thought it
ought to be. She worked for me and you've got to keep
a certain distance, right? "I feel like I know her
well enough."
"Well, you don't, and it's not right."
"So tell me something I ought to know about her."
"I shouldn't have to tell you. You should ask her."
"Ask her what?"
"Like what she does outside the office,
Cal."
I shook my head. What was this about? I almost
caught myself admitting I didn't care. I
figure if Bev wanted me to know what she did
outside work, she'd tell me. "I don't know
that I'd ask her, Kim. Or that she'd tell
me."
"Just as I thought. Why don't you try?"
I wanted to ask why. I shrugged and Kim
gave me that look again.
"All right," she said, "do you know how much
volunteer work she does?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," I said.
"But you don't know."
"I know she does a lot here at church."
"That's not the half of it. She's on the go almost
every night, doing stuff for people."
"Well, that's good."
"Did you know she spent as much time in my guest
room as she did at her own home the last six
years of my dad's life?"
I felt stupid. I'd had no idea. "She
was helping out?"
Kim was through with me. She got into her car and
rolled down her window. "That's the understatement of the
year, Cal. She saw me one day at the
grocery store and noticed I was crying. She'd
been praying for my dad, but she didn't know how
bad he was. She came home with me that day and
just started doing stuff without asking. Did a lot of
shopping for me, talking with Dad, keeping an eye
on him in the night. You never knew any of that?"
Bev worked in my office and I hadn't known
she was doing night duty half the time with Kim's
father. I didn't know what to say. "Who was
watching her cats?"
Kim looked at me twice. "Her cats?"
"If she was at your place so much, I
mean--"
"Does she talk about her cats, Cal?"
"She used to."
"But not for years, right?"
I shrugged. "I guess. I wouldn't ask after
her cats. I'm not a cat guy."
"No kidding."
"It shows?"
"Bev's cats have been dead for years." I
tried to look surprised but I don't think I
convinced her. "Nobody expects you to care about
her cats," Kim said. "But it seems you'd know
something like that."
"Not if she doesn't tell me."
"She probably didn't think you cared. She
was right." She started her car.
"Would you just tell me one thing, Kim? Is this
something you've noticed, or does Bev feel like
I don't really know her?"
"I told you, if you knew her at all you'd
know she'd never say a word. She thinks the world of
you."
"Well, the feeling is mutual."
"Calvin," she said, "you just proved that's not
true."



I divided my time between figuring out how to keep
the company running and working through plans with Coach.
Finally, one August morning, it's time. I've
got a printout from the school office that tells
who's coming out for football--way more than we could
keep, of course, but that's what that scholarship and a
returning legend'll do for ya. I recognize
most of the names, cept the newcomers, and I
figure I'll get a bead on them today, the first
day of tryouts. Just like Coach Schuler, he
announces it for early in the morning the first
eligible day, Thursday the sixteenth. People think
it's cause he wants to see who's committed and
ready to work, but I know he just can't wait.
I wake up in a bed damp from sweat and know that
even after my shower, I'm gonna have that humid
shine all day. Coach and I meet at Sweet
Tee's Diner for early morning coffee. The
owner, Sherman Naters's ma, Tee, is a
big woman with a soft heart and a smile from the
waist up. I'm wondering where she is.
Shazzam, her on-again-off-again boyfriend, is
holding down the fort and he's got the TV going
full blast with some Hollywood entertainment show
that's reminding everybody this was the day The King died
at Graceland in 1977.
Shazzam, who always looks like he's got about
a week's worth a beard and wears a full
camouflage jumper and rubber boots,
pulls from his bald head a grimy cap with fishing
lures hanging from it and puts it over his heart.
"I say he's still alive, boys! I seen him,
I have!"
He pours us some tea and tells us Tee is
setting up a little stand at tryouts. He becomes
solemn all of a sudden. "An honor to have you
back, Coach Schuler, sir. You'll remember
I played for you, in a manner of speaking, when you
was first head coach here."
Somebody hollers for Shazzam to change the
channel, and he finds Sports Center. Next
thing you know, our story comes on and the place goes
nuts. There's a woman with a microphone
strolling in the end zone under our scoreboard,
telling our history and showing pictures of Buster
in his fedora. Shazzam shushes everybody and
turns it up.
The reporter, all serious, looks into the
camera and says, "Athens City, Alabama,
once the high school football capital of the
south, sixteen state championships since
1923. Legendary University of Alabama
coach Paul Bear Bryant once called it the
mother lode of all-American football
players.
"Nearly a hundred students try out for the
Athens City Crusaders football team each
year in hopes of landing the Jack F. Schuler
Scholarship to the University of Alabama.
None of those scholarship winners has ever won so
much as a spot on the bench at Alabama, but as
the town pays for the scholarship, the high school
standouts get a free college education nonetheless.
"The scholarship is named in honor of the
quarterback who was killed in the state
championship game in 1988. Football in this
town has seen better days. They haven't had a
winning season since that infamous game, and county
cutbacks have doomed the school for closure at
the end of this academic year.
"If there was ever a glimmer of hope for this
town, it comes in the name of coach Buster Schuler.
The legendary coach who retired after the death of his
son is now returning for Athens City's last
year. When a legend comes out of retirement, the
football world takes notice."
I look to see what Buster thinks of it all,
and he's gone, like I shoulda figured. I find him
waiting in the car.
We head over to the field and pull up behind the
packed stands. Coach tells me to go on ahead and
make sure the guys are ready to pay attention and
follow instructions and he'll be along in a
minute. Well, I knew that. I'd never seen
him a second late to anything, and he'd already
waited long enough for this moment. I want to say
something profound or clap him on the knee or
pray for him or whatever, but he already has his
eyes closed and is rubbing his forehead. His
clipboard and whistle are on the back seat, so
I just leave him.
I pass by Rachel and Josie handing out flyers
for a meeting in the gym a few weeks later,
something designed to somehow keep the school alive
and keep the kids from having to go to Rock Hill
next year. Josie says, "I don't know why
so many people come just to watch tryouts."
Rachel says, "One word: scholarship."
Josie says, "Two words: no life."
I spot Bev in the stands by herself and wonder why
she's here. Neither of us had ever mentioned the scolding
I got from Kim, and I'm glad she's nowhere
to be seen this morning. I don't wanna
suspect everything Bev does, just because of Kim's
crazy ideas, but course Bev doesn't have a
relative on the field, at least that I can think
of. I tell myself she's just showing support to her
boss. And the town. And the school. Course. That's
it.
Tee Naters has a folding table and a bunch
of pitchers of her famous tea set up under a
sign that offers it for a dollar a glass. Rachel
makes a beeline for her, passing people who appear
to be trying to move as absolutely little as
possible. Hardly a head is hatless, and the men's
caps have heavy sweat rings.
Tee is watching her son on the field.
"Show em what you got, baby! Let the bone
roll!"
So she's done her homework. She's trying
to earn points with Schuler, wherever he is.
Rachel greets Tee and asks if she can
put a stack of pamphlets in the diner. Tee's
warm smile fades. "Sweetheart, it's a
dead end, and I don't want my customers to have
a daily reminder of it."
"Aw, come on, Tee, you've been here forever.
This town's given you a lot. What're you gonna
give back?"
Tee cocks her head and pours Rachel a
free glass of tea. Rachel purses her
lips. "Thanks."
I amble across the track to the field where the
players show curious interest in me. But we all
know who they're looking and waiting for. Stocky,
olive-skinned Sherman Naters looks up and
waves to his mother. "Hi, Mama!"
Yash Upshaw, the lanky black receiver I'd
coach personally if we were employing a passing
game instead of the wishbone, says to Naters,
"She dress you this morning too?"
Sherman pushes a ball into Yash's gut.
"I'll see you when we do tackling drills,
huh?"
Abel Gordon, the biggest kid on the team
at about three hundred pounds, lumbers by and
grabs Sherman and Yash in headlocks. "None
of y'all gonna be laughing when I win that
scholarship, boys!"
Brian Schuler, the coach's squinty-eyed
nephew and returning quarterback, says,
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Abe!! Before you throw it out,
give me a little puffy puff on whatever's making
you hallucinate!" Brian carries himself with the
confidence of a senior. He licks his fingers and
snaps off a long pass.
Suddenly the crowd falls silent. The
players stop, and everyone looks to the tunnel.
Buster moves from the shadows into the brilliant
morning sunlight and stops, fighting a smile, just
surveying the field. I can't believe the
difference in the man. It's as if he's grown
three inches taller and ten years younger. The
shoulders are back, the chest out, the whistle in
place around his neck over the tie, and those
perfect teeth are showing out from under the shadow cast
by the brim of his hat.
Cheerleaders stand still in their practice outfits,
people quit moving in the stands, and players hurry
into a makeshift line. I stand there at attention,
finally accepting that this is really happening and almost as
excited as Coach Schuler.
Buster approaches the players, then suddenly
turns to address the crowd, removing his hat and
holding it with his clipboard. "I want to thank
y'all for your time and your spirit. But right now, I
want anybody not wearing a jockstrap to get off
my field! Don't want anybody out here but
my dawgs!" Nobody moves. "I said
get off my field now!"
The cheerleaders look at each other and scowl,
reluctantly beginning to disperse. The crowd in the
stands stays seated. The coach looks up and, with a
wide sweep of his hand, says, "That goes for
all of y'all too! Thanks for coming, now
bye-bye!"
It's clear people are mad, but nobody's gonna
make waves while their kid is trying to make the
team that might win him a scholarship. They shake
their heads and trudge down out of the stands while
Schuler watches until the place is empty of
everyone but football players and coaches. He
turns to the players, replaces his hat, and hands
his clipboard to me. "Coach Sawyer, line em
up."
Once everyone's in place he unbuttons his
sport coat and puts his hands on his hips,
striding to the front row of players. He
wrinkles his nose and sniffs. "You smell that?"
he hollers. Yash turns his nose to his
shoulder and lifts his arm. "What is that?" Coach
says. He squats and pulls up a few
blades of grass, holding em under his nose.
"Yeah, that's it," he says, rising.
"Everybody on your faces!" A few of the
veterans and a new kid in a red stocking cap
drop to the ground. The others hesitate, and
Schuler shows them who's in charge. "Down on your
faces!" he shouts, and the rest drop. Sherman
Naters whispers to Yash, "Old man's
crazier'n we heard."
"Now breathe, deep! Do you smell it? That,
dawgs, is the smell of death! Over a decade
of dead hopes and dreams, buried right here! The
curse of individualism grows like a weed on this
field--the curse that we call the Jack F.
Schuler scholarship!" He plants his foot
atop a player's head. "I didn't say
lift your head, son. Keep your face in the
grass. The scholarship fosters visions of
grandeur, dreams of personal glory! It
guarantees disunity and prideful
individualism! And worst of all--worst of
all--losing seasons! Hear this, dawgs! I am
the cure to this curse!"

I didn't know who was who yet, but course it
didn't matter. Coach whispered, "Let's
see if we can't get about three dozen of
these pretenders to cut themselves today."
"Three dozen?"
"I'm gonna cut this group to forty-eight
by Monday, and there's got to be near a hundred
here."
I looked at my printout. "Ninety-nine,
Coach."
"No sense cutting more'n I keep if I
can get em to do it themselves. I can spot the
druggies and the boozers from fifty yards, so
we'll start there."
I knew what he was fixing to do. I'd been
there with him and with Bear. You think you're a
football player until you find out what kinda
shape a real coach expects you to be in. We
got those boys hitting, running, and whatnot, and
before you knew it, guys were just flat leaving the
field. They left with their heads down as if they
didn't want to face us, but Coach didn't
put em down. He called out to em, thanking for
their time and their effort. "Just leave your equipment in
the field house, and please support us in the
stands this season, ya hear?"
Some guys were in good enough shape but just too
small. When they went flying from some pretty good
licks, Coach would pat em on the shoulder,
thank em, and send em packing. "You play an
instrument?" he'd ask. "Band practice is in
the gym." One guy couldn't run the tires
to save his life. Coach told him, "Soccer
team needs help."
While Coach concentrated on weeding em out,
I was looking for guys with promise. I knew
Coach wanted tough, fast, hard workers. One
new kid was pale enough to be a Yankee, so I
listened for an accent. Only thing that worried me
bout him was he looked a little light. He was cut
and tough, but he seemed to take hits personally,
his serious, light blue eyes glaring from under a
sticking-out brow at whoever gave him a good shot.
I liked the way he worked and sweat and moved, but
I kept fearing Coach would see his size or his
attitude and cut him on account of one or the
other.
When the guys line up to hit the inflated
blocking dummies, they're sposed to fire off and
bang one, then hit the ground, roll past one and
hit the next. Well, the sun was riding high
by then and a lot a guys had staggered off to quit, but
Yankee smacked harder'n a guy his
size ought to have been able. He made the suckers
pop and everybody kinda looked up. Danged if
Schuler didn't stop the drill and get in the
kid's face. "Son, thanks, but unless you can
kick, I don't want anybody under one
sixty-five." He turned to the rest. "This is
varsity competition. I want boys raised on
meat and potatoes."
As Coach moved away, Yankee grabbed his
arm. That's a no-no sure as you're standing there, and
I figured the kid was history. "I like my steak
rare and my potatoes mashed," he said. A
northerner for sure. "And I weigh one
seventy-three."
As if he'd forgot he had just cut him,
Coach took the boy's hand off his arm and said,
"Son, don't ever, ever stick your paw in this
cage. You're gonna pay for that in sweat." He
nodded toward the stadium steps, and the boy took
off. Far as I knew, that was the first player
Coach ever cut and then welcomed back just so he
could punish him. I watched the boy run up and
down and up and down, never losing steam. I couldn't
believe it. He wasn't six feet tall, but
he ran with long, springy strides. When he
rejoined the others, he led the way in push-ups,
sprints, and loose ball drills. I got
to dreaming we might've actually found us a
player.
The sixty-five or so survivors were finally
cut loose to head for the field house. "Pads
off and don't get a drink till after you've been
weighed," Schuler said. "I'm not recording no
water weight."
I told the boys to line up in
alphabetical order, which might sound kinda
dumb when they didn't all know each other, but if
you think about it, it makes a crazy kind a
sense. It forced em to talk to each other and it
told us which of em knew the alphabet. Gotta
have smart players.
I read names off my list, and if nobody
stepped up, I knew they'd already been cut or
cut themselves. It was hard to see Coach cut boys
for just not weighing enough, and I found myself hoping
Yankee hadn't sweat off too much of his 173.
I mean, there was no way a boy that size woulda
lost more'n eight pounds, even in the Alabama
sun, but there was also no way that guy weighed
173.
When he was next in line, I was past the
H's and I's. I couldn't believe the next
name on the list. "Are you kidding me?" I said
to Coach. "Elvis Jackson?"
"That's me," the boy said, hands clasped in
front of him at the waist. "And yeah, the middle
name's "Presley.""
"Says here today's your eighteenth birthday,"
I said.
He nodded and stepped onto the scale and I
started sliding the bar. "Born on the anniversary
of the king's death," he said.
"That so?" I said, keeping my eyes on the
scale. I wasn't gonna let him distract
me.
"My mama went to his last concert, and when I
was born on the--"
"Yeah," Coach said, "that's more than we need
to know, son. Happy birthday and shut up now."
I was amazed to see that bar slide into the high
160's and then past 170. "One hundred
seventy-one," I said, raising my eyebrows at
Coach.
Elvis Presley Jackson smiled. "Your
scale's reading light." Schuler shook his head
and studied the boy. "You are without a doubt."
Jackson stepped down and headed for a locker.
I entered the figure next to his name then glanced
up in time to see him pull a ten-pound barbell from
under his shirt. I caught Schuler's eye and
nodded toward the kid. Coach didn't turn.
"I know," he said, "Anybody wants to play
that bad is worth one more day."
Several boys later I called out "Sherman
Naters!" and Tee's boy stepped on the
scale.
"The Shermanater!" he said, flexing and
growling, making both of us laugh. But the boy's
face grew tense as I edged the bar past 160
and finally to 165. As if we would've cut him.
He was still the most impressive defensive
player on the field. Naters grinned and breathed
a huge sigh. "That's right, baby!"
* * *
Later, on the way to my car I saw
Jackson. "Where you from, boy?"
"North."
"Figured that. How far?"
"Indiana."
"Daddy get transferred?"
"Not exactly."
"Uh-huh." Another gold digger. Well,
I for one was hoping he'd be worth it.
By Monday Coach had trimmed the squad
to forty-eight, and Elvis Jackson was still with us.



Rachel sat on the floor with other "lady
warriors" at the Fellowship of Christian
Athletes meeting. Some were painting fresh A's
on game helmets, while another helmet was
passed, from which the girls each drew a player's
number. This would be the player each person would
pray for during the season.
Josie sat looking miserable. "One small
step for Athens City football and one giant
step backward for women's rights."
"Uh-huh, sure," Rachel said. They'd
been through this so many times. "Nobody's forcing you to do
this. The girls who want to play sports are
playing sports. The ones who want to pray for
football players are here."
Rachel drew number 99 and passed the
helmet to Josie.
"Oh, no," Josie wailed. "Number
40! Mandatory swap. It's article 3,
section 2 of the ex-boyfriend manual!"
Rachel slumped. "So Brian's your
ex-boyfriend again now?"
"I take a backseat to this lame game four
months out of every year. I'm not going to do it again."
She sat holding the number in Rachel's face.
"I always hated blonde jokes till I
met you," Rachel said, finally trading with her.



"The moment has arrived!" I announced in the
locker room after the first practice following
tryouts. I set the box of game jerseys on
the table and the players cheered as I pulled out the first
one--number 88--and fired it across the locker
room to Yash, who snagged it. "Be bout the
only thing I catch this year, huh?"
At least he was catching on. I smiled.
"That's the way the bone rolls." I pulled out
number 55. "Shermanater," I said, and the boy
stood and gathered it in. "Wear it well, son."
The next jersey in the box was number
40, but as I lifted it out and called
"Schuler," Elvis Jackson pounced, grabbing
it out of my hands.
"Thanks, Coach Sawyer," he said. And as
he moved past he looked over his shoulder, "I
look forward to starting for you, sir."
Cause he wasn't looking where he was going,
he ran right into Brian Schuler, who flashed a
phony smile and said, "Well, welcome
to Athens City." He looked from Elvis to some of
his friends for support. "Uh, ever since I was
little, I been looking forward to senior season. And
ever since I was little, I been wearing number
40. Tradition is real important round
here."
Jackson kept hold of the jersey. "Do you have
any idea who wore number 40?" he said.
Brian shook his head as if he didn't know
or care.
"Gayle Sayers," Jackson announced.
I was impressed. Who would know that about a player
who retired long before he was born? Somebody
named after a dead singer, I guess. He told
Brian, "The way I figure it, the fastest
man on the team should wear number 40. Tell you
what. You prove you deserve this, you can have it
back."
The veterans hooted like they couldn't wait
to see what Brian was gonna do to this brash kid.
I thought about making him give it up myself, but
there's nothing wrong with a little healthy competition,
something to shake things up.
"Hang on just a second," Brian said when
Jackson tried to slip past. "You're new.
I'm not. But I am one heck of a nice guy,
so I'm gonna give you a little friendly advice.
Don't tug on Superman's cape."
"I don't have to," Elvis said, yanking the
jersey away as Brian reached for it. "See,
I'm the one holding it."
Brian pressed his lips together and drew back
a fist, and I started heading that way just as Coach
Schuler stepped into the locker room. The two
boys stood nose to nose as Schuler said, "I
forgot to tell you boys to make sure they know at
home about the two-a-day practices this whole
month." He started to turn away, then turned
back, smiling faintly at Elvis and Brian.
"And if I hear of any altercations in the
ranks, well, Truman dealt more mercy
to Hiroshima and Nagasaki."
As Coach Schuler left, I stepped between the
boys. From the corner, Snoot Nino, our little
kicker, called out, "Who dealt more what
to who?"
"Study your history, doofus," Yash said.



As was their custom on the day the players received
their game jerseys, Rachel and Josie and
several other FCA girls stood in the parking
lot, waiting to announce to each player who was his
prayer warrior for the season. Rachel wasn't
any more excited about being assigned to Brian
Schuler than Josie would have been, but at least
they had no romantic history. She was stunned
to see Brian emerge wearing number 12.
Abel Gordon followed, wearing the number 99
Josie had traded for. Josie's eyes lit
up.
And there came Rachel's number 40. "Who
is that?" she asked as Josie grabbed Abel's
hand.
"Elvis Presley something," Abel said,
telling of the jersey confrontation and warming
to Josie's attention. The new kid apparently
didn't know anyone and didn't have a car. He
hurried past and headed toward town. Since
Rachel wanted to try one more time to get Tee
to put a Save Our School flyer in her diner
window anyway, she followed number 40 from a
distance. When he entered Sweet Tee's, she
decided to make the rounds of other businesses and
come back later. It wouldn't take long. Almost
half the storefronts were boarded up by now
anyway.



Elvis found the place deserted except for
Tee, who was tidying up before closing. As he
moved toward the counter, he heard a car door
slam in the alley behind the diner. In came
Sherman. He pecked his mother on the cheek and
held up his new jersey. Then he threw on an
apron, giving Elvis a knowing look.
Elvis sat at the counter, and Tee said,
"Sorry, son, kitchen's closed."
"Can I just get a cup of hot
water?"
She raised a brow and poured him one in a
coffee cup. He squirted catsup into it and
added salt and pepper. "That's all," he said.
"Thanks."
As Elvis guzzled his concoction, mother and son
glanced at each other with what appeared to be
amusement. "Want some eggs?" the Shermanater
said. "Something else free to go with your jersey?"
Elvis ignored him but wasn't about to pass
up the offer. He looked at Tee, as if to ask
if it was really all right. She smiled. "How do
you like your eggs?"
"Four at a time," he said.
Sherman stood grinning at Elvis as if he
couldn't believe his gall, but Tee smacked him
in the chest and said, "Scramble a family."
While her son headed back to the kitchen,
Tee turned and introduced herself. He shook her
hand. "Elvis Jackson."
She seemed to fight a smile as she studied
him. "Your folks out of work?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "I'm on my own."
She grabbed a clean towel and ceremoniously
handed it to him. "We close down for football
games."
A job here and dinner every night? He slung the
towel over his shoulder. As soon as he'd finished
eating he found an apron and got to work. Tee and
Sherman removed theirs, and Sherman clapped
Elvis on the shoulder. "Nice to be able to leave
early. Good to have you around."
When they got to the door, Tee turned, as if
unable to keep it in any longer. "Child," she said,
"what kind of mama names her baby
"Elvis"?"
He smiled. "What kind of mama names her
baby "Sherman Naters"?"
Sherman looked pained, but his mother led him out the
door, chortling and calling over her shoulder,
"Lock it when you leave."
Elvis scurried about the diner, making sure
everything was gathered up. He carried a tub of
dirties to the dishwasher and loaded it. When he
looked out from the kitchen, untying his apron, the
diner looked tidy. But it also reminded him of an
expansive football field. The tables were
defenders he would have to elude on his way to the
door. And his balled-up apron made a
perfect football ...



Rachel taped flyers in any window where she was
allowed. When she reached the diner again, she taped
one on the outside of the door and one on the
inside, deciding to ask Tee's approval rather
than her permission. Rachel called out for the
woman but all she heard in return was a young
man's voice.
"December 12, 1965! Chicago Bear
Gayle Sayers makes football history with
six touchdowns in one game!"
The voice grew closer, but Rachel had no
time to get back out the door. With number 40's
helmet in her hands, along with the rest of her
flyers, she ducked under a table. And here came the
new kid, a ball of red cloth in his hands,
acting out a football game with his own
play-by-play.
"Touchdown number one came in the first quarter,
an eighty-yard screen pass!" He tossed the
apron-ball into the air and caught it on the run,
high-stepping to the other side of the diner.
"Touchdown two was a twenty-one-yard tear through
four defenders at lightning speed!" He
barreled back in her direction. "Touchdowns
three, four, and five are vintage Elvis,
juking--who's your daddy?--open field improv
--oh, you are, Elvis! That's right!"
As the boy stiff-armed imaginary tacklers and
strutted through the diner banging into tables and chairs,
he raved, "Gayle Sayers, in his prime,
wishes he could keep up with this wild buck!"
Suddenly he stopped, hands on his knees.
"But the sixth ... Oh, baby, the sixth and
final touchdown is a thing of beauty--an
eighty-five-yard punt return."
It was all Rachel could do to keep from bursting out
laughing as the boy tossed the balled-up cloth
into the air again, caught it, and smashed into tables and
chairs. "Oh, he's got it! Touchdown! Oh,
yeah, uh-huh, uh-huh, boom!" He slammed
the apron to the floor and flexed, growling and
grunting. When he finally knelt to retrieve the
apron, he found himself face to face with Rachel
and flew back on his seat, sliding across the
floor.
Rachel felt bad for him. She blurted,
"I, uh, was just looking for Tee, and
she's definitely not under here."



How dare she hide there watching him? Elvis
felt such a fool! He retied his apron as the
girl stood and thrust out her hand. "I'm
Rachel, your FCA prayer warrior." Elvis
shook her hand quickly and reached for his helmet,
wishing he could disappear. She pulled it away.
"Uh, no, I keep your game helmet until
Friday night. It's kind of a visual reminder
than I need to pray for you."
He scowled, trying to punish her with his look.
"I do okay on my own."
She shrugged and moved toward the door, then
stopped and mimicked Scarlett O'Hara. "A
gentleman would walk me home."
So she was that kind. He just wanted her
to remember his anger and forget everything else.
"Let me know when you find one," he said and headed
for the kitchen.
"Elvis?"
He whirled around. What now?
She smiled. "I just wanted to make sure that
was really your name."
He shook his head, disgusted. "Cute."
"Well, face it, Elvis. You're stuck
with me for the season." Then, barely audibly,
"If you make it that long."
Why couldn't she take a hint? Why was she
even still standing there?
"If?"
"I know why guys like you show up in Athens
City. Hate to break it to you, but Brian--the
guy whose jersey you commandeered today--is a shoo-in
for the scholarship. He's coach's nephew, you
know."
"I know."
"Every one of the Schulers has gone to Bama
since the days of Bear Bryant."
How had she turned this around? She was the one who
had embarrassed him. Now she was trying to put
him in his place? "Till this year," he said,
through with her.
She hesitated. "So, what should I pray
for?"
He shook his head. If he told her, she'd
pester him for the whole story. He just wanted her
gone. "I don't care," he said.
"Pray for green grass."



You understand I hadn't really prayed about it.
It's just that when the young woman in the copy center
who puts all the material together for teachers--even
one-class wonders like me--seems friendly and
talkative, I start thinking God's trying
to tell me something or give me something, namely
her. Don't ask me why. Maybe Kim
telling me to pay more attention to Bev--which I have
been doing for months and not noticing anything
different--or maybe hearing Coach talk about his
wife with so much love despite everything she'd
put him through. I don't know. Maybe I was
finally getting ready to move on, way past when
most people thought I should've been ready.
Probably it was just that this woman was really
something to look at. So call me shallow. Her
name's Jacqui and she's a good ten years younger'n
me. But she's real pretty with a nice smile and
bright eyes, and she's the type who holds your
gaze till you gotta look away or smile
yourself. Well, I'm not gonna do anything
half-baked so I make sure the first thing I
ask her is if she's a Christian. Folks
down here know that means more than just whether you call
yourself one but also that you're a churchgoer and serious
about it. Jacqui wasn't from my church but from
another one up the road.
I found myself getting more and more stuff
reproduced and having to come to school a little earlier
every afternoon for my geography class at the end of the
day. I spent a little time talking with her each day
and we learned stuff about each other, like that she
studied library science and wanted to be a
librarian in one of those school districts that could
afford one. I can't think of one in our area, but
who knows what Rock Hill might be able to do when
they combine our school with theirs?
We got familiar enough to ask sorta personal
questions without being too bashful, and I found out she'd
never been married, had a couple of serious guys
in the past that didn't work out, and that some man from her
church liked to sit with her but has never asked her
out. I'm thinking if I'm gonna pursue this I
got to invite her to my church. I mean, I'm not
switching after all these years and a daughter with
another year of high school, and anyway,
if there's competition, I've got to divide and
conquer. Won't break my heart if Mr.
Timid finds out Jacqui's visiting another
church cause a fella asked her.
I'm getting to the place where I'm gonna do
something about Jacqui, but I haven't told one
soul and I feel like maybe I'm in over my
head. So I go to the most logical person I can
think of. Bev takes her break about a half
hour before I leave from the factory for school each
day, and then she's always back a few minutes before
I go so she can be sure I'm up to date on
everything. Since I'm not about to all of a sudden
start asking her about her personal life, I think
maybe if I open up a little about myself, she'll
open up more too. So that Friday morning when
she's in and out of my office with mail and whatnot,
I say, "Bev, could you do me a favor this
afternoon?"
"A favor?" she says, like a big sister.
"Between nine o'clock and five o'clock I do what I'm
told."
I knew what she meant and I knew she thought
she was funny, but I just tell her, "This is more
personal than work." She sat up like she was all
ears and I said, "Would you mind spending your afternoon
break with me, here in my office, so I can pick
your brain?" She hesitated, looking like she had
to think about it, so I said, "Course you could get
your snack and bring it with you."
"Give up personal time for something not work
related?" she said. But there was a twinkle in her
eye.
"Yeah," I said. "Totally up to you."
"I'll be here. Can I bring you something?"
"Coffee," I said.
"With sugar," she said, making a note.
"Caffeine alone wouldn't give enough of a rush."
I figured the mystery got to her. She
wasn't gonna say no if she didn't know
what it was about, and I thought I noticed a little
pep in her step the rest of the day. That afternoon she
put the answering machine on, came in with our
coffees, and shut the door. I leaned back in
my chair and put my feet up on the corner of the
desk as she sat.
"Need a little advice," I said, and I told
her all about Jacqui. The whole time Bev sat
there sipping and peeking at me over the top of her
cup. When I quit talking I took
a big gulp and waited.
"That's it?" she said.
I nodded.
"You wanna know if you should be brave and ask this
exciting young woman to join you at church and see
where it goes from there."
"I knew you'd understand."
"I understand all right," she said. "Finally
admitting you're lonely? You just hit the big
four-oh, you're seeing the end of the road with your
daughter at home, and you're realizing what's
ahead?"
"Guess I'm growing up," I said.
"Seems to me like you're not. You're
regressing, or at least stuck."
"Really?" I sat up and put my feet on
the floor.
"Listen to yourself, sir. You're like a teenager
all goo-goo over a pretty girl. She
sounds nice, but she's too young for you. She's
gonna want a family, she's--"
"Bev! I'm not talking about marrying her. I
just wanna get to know her."
"For what?"
"Well, yeah, okay. I wouldn't mind being in
love again." I blushed, but Bev was too nice
to tease me about it.
"You act like you're out of choices," she said.
"It's not like she's the only eligible woman in
town."
"Yeah, but--"
She sat forward and put her cup on my
desk. "Yeah, but nothing, Boss. You haven't
even dated. Find yourself a--"
"It's not like people haven't tried to set me up."
"You don't need that. Women round here know you.
They know your history, your character. Find yourself
somebody your own age who won't want to be out and
about in twenty years when you'd rather sit on the
front porch and read the paper."
"I hope that's not me at sixty, Bev."
"I'm just saying ..."
Well, I had asked. I had thought she would be
excited for me, tell me to go for it. Now what was
I supposed to do? What if I showed up at
church with Jacqui after getting Bev's advice?
"Thanks," I said, with maybe not enough
enthusiasm.
"For nothing, eh?"
"No, I appreciate it."
"Wasn't what you wanted to hear."
"No, but if I wasn't prepared to think about
it, I shouldn't have asked."
She nodded. "You got another minute?"
"Course."
"Still open to ideas to save the business, keep people
on the payroll?"
"Always," I said. "You know that."
"You want to know what Lee Forest and the people on the
line are saying? Most of it's critical or
crazy or at least impractical. But some of the
old-timers have it in their heads that there might be
another market segment we could compete in."
"Market segment?" I said. "Lee is using
management lingo now?"
She admitted he hadn't used exactly that
term. "But he and some of the others believe they can do
more than make footballs. They'd be willing
to learn new procedures and see part of the plant
retooled."
"To do what?"
"Manufacture baseball gloves."
I sat back. "I like that they're thinking," I
said. "But think of the cost of new equipment, of
training, not to mention trying to compete in a new
market. How can I lay off dozens of people and then
announce a new kind of operation a few months
later?"
"I'm just telling you what I'm hearing," she
said.
"You know most of the companies with the ball glove
accounts are having their manufacturing done
overseas."
She shrugged. "What else is new?"
"Better get me an appointment with Les."
"And his cronies? Those four with seniority tend
to hang together."
"Sure."
She stood. "Well, I figure you're on
your way to school to ask for a date."
"What, you think I don't take you
seriously? Tell you what, I won't do anything
today, and that'll give me the weekend to really think
about it."
* * *
I gotta admit Bev kept me from doing
something stupid. I go to school, excited cause
I'm gonna see Jacqui but kinda relieved
I've decided not to make any bold move
yet. I'm also thinking how much fun
practice has been this week.
So I get there a good half hour before my
class and go to the copy center and trade smiles
with Jacqui. She's got my job finished and
seems free to talk, so we shoot the breeze and
I start thinking that if I was gonna get brave
and ask her to join me at church Sunday, today would
be the day. And then she up and says, "You know,
Mr. Sawyer, I really like talking to you."
"I really like talking to you too," I say.
And she says, "It's so good to have an older
person to bounce things off of. I get a fresh
perspective when I realize that someone like you has
been through what I'm going through, only so many years
ago."
My smile froze and I acted like I was
glad I coulda been some help, but my cotton,
how old did she think I was? It hit me that
I had never told her. Either she thought I was
another ten years older'n her or she thought ten
years was plenty anyway. All of a sudden I'm
feeling like grandpaw the sage and thanking God I
didn't ask her out. What in the world would she have
thought, or said?
Oh, it wasn't my imagination. She had been
so nice and smiley to me--because I was an old
man. I felt like an idiot the rest of the day.

"Dawgs," Coach began at practice,
"Athens City football lives by Schuler's
three commandments. Commandment one: thou shalt run the
wishbone offense. Commandment two: thou shalt never
fumble my football. And commandment three: thou
shalt do it my way, all ... the ... time."
As we ran the boys through the paces, forcing them
into a shape they'd never been in, Coach kept
preaching. I could tell by the looks on a lot a
faces that specially the veterans were wondering how
in the world anybody could be MVP and win a
scholarship under a coach so hung up on
selflessness and teamwork.
"For the next four months," Coach hollered
between whistle blows, "your lives will consist of two
simple activities: you will crush with
apocalyptic force anything that moves, and you will
sprint like dawgs until you sweat blood!"
During one drill, Abel Gordon worked so
hard getting that big body a his going that he threw
up all over Schuler's pant leg. The
Shermanater busted out laughing until
Coach grabbed his shoulder pads and pulled his
face toward the mess. Then Sherman vomited.
"The wishbone runs on gain and maintain,
gentlemen! Gain yards, maintain position. Now
go hard, or go home. You think you're gonna
make the playoffs with this blocking I see before
me? You got about as much chance as spit in a
hurricane. You are without a doubt!"
Elvis Jackson stood out if anybody
did, darting around the field with those fluid
strides, able to change direction seemingly without
stopping. You don't expect a running back
to hit as hard as a linebacker, but he did.
You'd never have guessed Coach noticed. He
didn't favor anybody. I knew he liked
the Shermanater and expected him to lead the
defense. And I believe he thought he could
rassle his nephew into running the wishbone from
quarterback, even though it meant cutting out that
awful passing he'd done the year before.
We ran the guys through the gauntlet, hollering
for everybody else to not just attack and bang and
tackle but to also try to strip the ball from the
runner's grip. "Make that ball carrier
violate my second commandment!" Coach would
yell. "Make him earn the right to move that ball
or give up his position to you!"
The guys were hitting and smashing and spending more time
on the ground than on their feet.
"Dirt and dust, dawgs! That is the marrow of the
bone!"
During a water break, Brian Schuler
picks up a ball and nods to Yash Upshaw to go
long. Yash takes off and Brian fires a
half-decent pass, maybe slightly behind
Yash, who drops it right in front of Buster.
Coach picks up the ball, smiles, hands it
to Yash, and says, just like I knew he would:
"Only three things can happen when you throw the
ball, and two of em are bad. Any odds
worse than a coin toss, I don't play."
We went on to Bull in the Ring, a drill
I love. It's where us littler guys can show what
we're made of. Basically everybody's in a
circle with one guy in the middle. The coach
calls out a number, and that player comes charging the
guy. Whoever's left standing is the bull in the
middle for the next call.
Eventually, Coach's nephew is in the
middle, and he proves to be a tough
kid, taking and giving pretty good till number
40 is called. Jackson comes flying in and just
levels him. Brian jumps up and it's clear
he's stunned.
Coach was thrilled. "Did y'all hear that
sound?" he said. "That's the first big bang I
heard all day! That's the sound of percussion! You
a tough guy, Jackson?"
"No, sir."
"Say again?"
"No, sir, I just want my chance in the
middle."
"You floss with barbed wire and gargle with
gasoline, boy? You're in the middle now!"
Coach calls Sherman's number. This oughta be
good. He charges. Jackson stays still till the
last instant, then shucks the Shermanater into two
other players. Schuler calls three numbers
at once, and Elvis somehow handles em all.
I'm liking this kid, and I know Coach can't
ignore him. He calls a number from either side
of the circle at the same time. Elvis drops
one and sends the other flying into Brian, knocking
him over.
"Awright, ladies, that's enough!" Coach
says, and he and I start walking to the next
drill area. I turn to wave the guys along with
us, just in time to see Brian blside Jackson,
spearing him right in the back. Course they wind up
on the ground, fighting. Coach hears the commotion,
and we hurry back to break it up.
"Can anyone here tell me why two of my
players are in a head-on collision?" Coach
says. I know enough to say nothing. I been here before.
"Elvis started it, sir," a lineman says.
"He--"
"Why, thank you, son," Coach says. "You
can go home." The kid shoots him a double take.
"You are off this team!" He shoves the boy. "Go
on now."
Stunned, the boy staggers away. The other
players look at each other scared.
"Anyone else wanna tell me what
happened?" Schuler says. "Come on, now,
fess up. Tell me the truth or I'll make
you run from here to eternity."
Another boy raises his hand. "Brian
speared him from the back."
"Son, thank you. Now we'd appreciate it
if you'd get off our field. Get
out!"
The team is frozen. "Any more traitors?
No one? Is that the game we're gonna play?
Silence is a lie, dawgs. It's a crime of
omission. And in Alabama, crimes get
punished. Follow me. Everybody!"
In his coat and tie, Coach jogs to the parking
lot, puts me behind the wheel of his Mustang, and
stands on the backseat. I slowly follow the team
as they jog through town. And the strangest thing
happened. The kids were mad and I'm sure
feeling unfairly treated, but people in town didn't
know they were being punished. They musta thought this was
another drill by a tough coach, and they cheered as
we cruised by. The kids enjoyed that, a
course, and ran taller, faster. When we neared
the school again, Coach had another idea. "Shut
it down and mash the clutch," he told me. The
guys had to take turns pushing the car the other
way, but again, to the cheers of the townsfolk.
By the time we finally got back to the parking lot,
it was dark and everybody was dragging. Coach and I
hurried past the boys to the field, where we began
picking up the gear. The kids straggled one by one
through the tunnel and past us toward the field house,
most not even looking at us. I couldn't blame
em.
When Jackson jogged past, carrying his shoulder
pads, Schuler called out to him. "Son! We
both know why you're here, so why don't you save us
both a lot of time and energy and limp on out of
here."
Elvis stopped and stared. "I came here
to play for you."
"No you didn't! You came here to play for
you. That's why you view every man on this team as a
threat. Every time I turn around, you're in
somebody's face. You've got one thing on your
mind, and we both know that's the curse, and that
requires playing time. Let me make it
crystal clear for ya. You are not gonna play
one minute for me."
Elvis's face went red and it looked to me like
he was determined not to be drove off. He turned
and headed for the field house.
Brian jogged up and hopped over the fence.
"Coach!" he called. "Uncle Buster!"
Coach got nose to nose with him, pointing.
"Listen to me! Nephew or not, you get treated
the same as everyone else!"
"Coach, are you really gonna just run the old
wishbone all the time? How am I gonna get a
chance at the scholarship if I don't get a
chance to throw the ball?"
"Never mind the scholarship!" Coach said.
"Your last name is not more important than this
team. If you didn't learn that from your cousin--"
Buster turned away, and when Brian ran
off, I said, "Coach, your nephew would have been
only six when Jack--"
"Not now, Cal. Please."

Later, when the players were gone, I heard the
faint squeak of cloth on glass and poked my
head out of the training room. Coach Schuler was
polishing the trophy case that held his son's
jersey.
He put his fingers on the glass real gentle
and stood quiet for a minute. Then he pulled
away, rubbed off his prints, and left without saying
a thing. I waited about a half hour and then tried
to call him, but his little brother's wife told me
he was at the rehab center. "Miz Schuler,"
I said, "I'm just wondering, do you think I should
offer to go with Coach sometime?"
"Go with him?"
"To visit his wife."
"What're you, kidding?"
"No, ma'am."
"She doesn't even want to see him, Mr.
Sawyer."
"I know, ma'am. I mean just to be with him,
maybe sit in the waiting room or even in the
parking lot."
"You'd have to ask him."
"Well, have you and your husband been to see her?"
"Excuse me?"
"No?"
"Not on your life."
I wanted say I was sorry I asked but I
just thanked her. No wonder he never talked about
them. I just wished he'd talk about his wife once
in a while and tell me how she was doing.

I was falling behind at work and so stopped into the
office for a couple of hours. I tried calling
Rachel, but got no answer. When I finally
got home, Bev Raschke was parked out front
and Rachel was getting out of her car. I pulled
next to Bev and rolled down my window.
"These kids today," she said. "Find em wandering
the streets and ya feel obligated to bring em
home."
"I can't keep track of her anymore," I
said, smiling. "You wanna come in a minute?"
She hesitated like she maybe wanted to, but
she said no. "Better call it a night."
So much for not taking an interest in her. I
walked Rachel in. "Where were ya?"
"Just out. Bev gave me a ride home."
"I noticed. Got homework?"
She shook her head, looking puzzled. I
never had to push her on her studies. She was a
way better student than I'd ever been, which
wasn't saying much. Rachel was one of those who
does most of her work in study hall and the rest at
home before she does anything else and gets
straight A's. Obviously got that from her
mama.
Just before I turned in I came out of my
bedroom to get something to read and, not trying to,
overheard Rachel on the phone. "He didn't
even ask," she was saying. "I wouldn't lie
to him, but I'm glad he had other stuff on his
mind."
It was all I could do to not try to hear more.
Rachel'd never given me cause to worry. And
I trusted her. I didn't need to know everything.
Course I didn't.



Sunday morning Coach and I were sitting at the
end of our favorite pew when Bev came and
stood right next to me in the aisle. "Got a
date for this morning?" she said.
"No, ma'am," I said. "Right now I'm
following your advice."
"Well, who'da believed it?" she said. "You
boys scoot down a little and let me in here. I
don't want you bellyaching about having no one
to sit with in church cept a broken-down old
football coach."
"What?!" Buster whispered as we made room
for her.
"I never said any such thing," I said.

The following Friday, September 7, my
geography class was so hard to control, I could
tell the students couldn't concentrate.
I said, "You'd think we were opening football
season tonight," and everybody whooped and hollered.
That didn't help.
The stadium was full when Coach and I showed
up that evening. The Beach Bearcats' bus was already
there. I didn't know if Coach needed anything more
to psych him up, but all he could talk about was
Beach's smart aleck new coach and something he'd
said in the paper. "Did you read it, Sawyer?"
"No, sir."
"He said he wasn't worried about an old
has-been who hadn't coached in twelve years."
I smiled. "He's got a point."
"What'd you say?"
"He got to you, didn't he?"
"You honestly think I care what some rookie
coach says about me?"
"Looks like it."
He waved me off. "Agh!"
The guys were so juiced that Buster told them,
"Most coaching is done on the practice
field, so there's really nothing more for me to say
except execute the plan or the plan will
execute you. You know what to do."
The guys hesitated, then jumped and yelled
"Crusaders!" They charged out of the field house,
touching the Jack Schuler display case, then
reaching to slap the "Pride" sign over the door
frame. Coach and I followed, and as we jogged
together, I said, "What were you going for there, Mr.
Lombardi?"
He said, "What is that thing about planning
to fail?"
I laughed. "You mean "If you fail to plan
you're planning to fail"?"
"Yeah, that's what I was going for."
"You needed a "Get out of platitude
free" card, didn't you?"
"I sure did," he said. "And I had one in
my wallet."
Probably cause I was nervous I couldn't
quit jabbing him. "Use it next time," I said.
"All right, Sawyer, focus. You weren't
cutting up like this when you were a white-knuckled young
Crusader."
"Yeah, well, my coach didn't look like
he was about to throw up either."
"It shows?"
"Does it ever."
"In fact, scuse me a minute."
"Now, Coach," I said, "don't. That's
too much like a bad movie."
"Barfing on the sidelines in my big comeback
game wouldn't give the right impression either.
I'll be right out. Remind the boys about the
refs."
"That the men in stripes have got a job to do too
and all that?"
"You got it."
"That gonna keep you behaving on the
sidelines, Coach?"
But he had ducked into the bathroom.

On the second play from scrimmage, one of the
oldest refs in the league missed an obvious
call. Schuler erupted, and I knew he was
back in business.
"How could you miss the face mask?" he
screamed, running up the sidelines with the ref.
"You are still the worst ref in America! Your
wife and children must be hiding their faces in shame!"
That was all it took--there came the yellow
flag. But that didn't stop Schuler. "Oh,
that's good! That's the first good call you've made in
years! You are without a doubt!"
Coach was totally into the game, but that didn't
help us much. Beach scored on its first
possession. "Yo, line!" Schuler screamed.
"The game is football! Let's act like we
know it!" He was red faced and sweating, and the cares
of life seemed far from him.
Once while he was pacing he bumped
into Elvis Jackson, who stuck his face in the
coach's as if expecting to be put in the game
right then. I gotta tell ya, I wouldn't have
minded seeing that. But Buster has a long
memory. He gave Jackson a look that woulda
put a wart on a gravestone, and I knew the
kid wouldn't be playing that night.
So Jackson took to hanging around me. I
learned to avoid his pleading eyes. A couple
times he mumbled, "Even on defense. Come on,
let me in there."
We might as well have. Our starters were tight
on both sides of the line. The defense was on its
heels. Our offense was pathetic. The wishbone
takes patience and requires playing within yourself.
Buster wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't let Brian
throw, yet the ball spent more time bouncing around in
our backfield than in the hands of our
ball carriers.
At the half Beach was leading 21-0, and
everyone knew it coulda been worse. Our offense
smelled worse than the locker room. As soon
as they got inside the door, the team was at each
other's throats. Nothing Coach hated worse
than blaming somebody else for your own
failures, so I shouted over their screaming and
shoving, "Knock it off! How many times do I
hafta remind you about maintaining your discipline?"
But Buster came in right behind me, madder'n a
duffer three-putting from two feet. "That's all
right!" he shouted. "You go ahead, fight with each
other, feed the curse! Go on! You are without a
doubt! I have bled every possible drop of sweat out
of your bodies, so there's only one thing left
to do. I'm gonna shoot straight with you."
The boys dropped onto the benches and hung
their heads. "You are a pack of pathetic,
curse-infested me-myself-and-I's," Coach
began, "and you are gonna have the worst season in the
history of football unless a knight on a
white horse shows up wearing shoulder pads!"
He glared at one player after another until
they looked away. I'd sat under that gaze. No
one asked if there was some strategy, some adjustment
that would put us back in the game.
"Who's finished?" he said finally. "Who's
done? Anybody wanna go home right now?"
Nobody moved. "Then git those heads up and
git em up now."
One by one they seemed to sit taller, to get the
picture, to catch their breath and get themselves
ready. But the third and fourth periods were no
better, and we fell behind 35-15 with less than
a minute to go and Beach had the ball. Buster
told me to have the Shermanater call time-out.
I said, "Coach, let's just let the clock
run."
I was wrong and I knew it right away.
"Sawyer, we owe it to our opponent to give em
everything we've got till that gun sounds."
I got Naters' attention and had him call a
time-out and hustle to the sidelines. The three of us
tried to come up with some defensive solution, but when
Sherman raced back onto the field, we were
shocked to see Elvis Jackson out there.
"What's he doing on my field?" Coach
yelled. "Get him outa there!"
But as I shouted at Sherman to use
our last time-out, Jackson distracted him,
screaming, "They called in the cavalry,
Shermanater. Now play some defense, you pansy
mama's boy!"
Naters was so mad I thought he was going to come out
of his uniform. He growled and pawed the ground, and the
Bearcats snapped the ball while we were still
trying to get his attention. Naters blew past the
line and straight at the quarterback. As Sherman
plowed him to the ground, he let fly a dying duck
of a pass in the direction of the only clean uniform
on the field--Elvis Jackson's.
Jackson jumped higher than I thought a kid
his size could and picked off that ball at our 20.
With time running out, he started upfield. I
knew this kid was in big trouble. Nobody, goes
without Schuler's say-so, and he was gonna get
it.
Well, I'd never seen anything like it.
Jackson broke free, and I mean free.
He made everybody else on that field look
slower than a classroom clock. He scored
the touchdown and came off the field with a big grin,
holding the ball over his head. Brian batted it
away. "We lost, idiot."
Buster and I hurried to the middle of the field
where the Beach head coach shook his hand. "Nice
try, Schuler," he said. "Breaks my heart,
specially on your big return and all."
Coach was smiling too, just in case anybody
was watching. "You sanctimonious punk," he
said. "We're gonna eat your guts with a spoon
in the play-offs."
Their coach, still smiling, said, "With that Stone
Age offense? Not a prayer, you old bag of
bones."
As we left the field, Coach Schuler
caught sight of Jackson at the fence, handing his
helmet to Rachel. Coach said, "Get that
boy's tail in my office, now."
I jogged over there, but Elvis had his back
to me and Rachel was seeing nothing but him. "Maybe
next time you won't have to sneak into the game," she
said. She handed him one of her flyers. "I want
you at our meeting Wednesday night, no
excuses."
"Jackson!" I said.
"Am I in trouble?" he said, following me.
I snorted. "What do you think?"
"But I made the play."
"Don't be naive."
I left him in the coaches room and stood behind
Coach as he talked to the team. He ran a hand
across his head and let out a big sigh. "Right now
I'm too upset to trust myself to say anything,"
he said. "There's twelve more games before the state
championship, and it's gonna be held on our
field whether we're in it or not. You wanna
watch it or you wanna play in it?"
He was still talking state championship? No
one even looked up. "I'm gonna study the
film," he said, "much as I can't imagine
wanting to see this again. And I'd better see a
difference on the practice field this week or
you're gonna see some wholesale changes in the
lineup." He sat on the edge of the table and shook
his head. "There's no substitute for teamwork. Go
home and forget this game. Take tomorrow off. Rest
of our season starts Monday at practice."
When Coach and I entered the coaches room,
Jackson stood quickly. "Oh, now you're eager
to please, eh?" Coach spat. "Sit yourself
down."
There was nowhere for me to sit but next to the kid.
I wished I could have told him what to say or not
say to have a prayer of staying on the team. Buster
tossed his fedora aside and took off his sport
coat. He sat behind the tiny desk, looking
tired, and folded his hands.
"Let me tell you something, boy," he said.
"Maybe it's twelve years away from the game
that has me sitting here at all, cause it sure
as shooting ain't cause you pulled off a
miraculous play. Coach Sawyer here'll
tell ya that I have zero tolerance for
insubordination."
I nodded, but neither of em was looking at me
anyway.
"You act like you never played high school
football before, Jackson."
"That's right, sir."
My head shot up, and so did Coach's.
"Where you from, boy?"
"Kankakee Banks, Indiana."
"Never played the game before?"
"Not since junior league. Our high school
was too small."
"No football there?"
"Um, well, yeah. They had it."
"But they didn't have a scholarship or
any kinda competition that woulda got a superstar like
you noticed, that it?"
Elvis cocked his head and shrugged.
"I'm onto you, ain't I, Jackson?"
The boy shrugged again and mumbled, "I dunno.
Guess so."
"You keep looking at me, boy, cause this
may very well be the last time you see me. I'm
gonna give you one chance to tell me why I
don't ask for your gear right now."
"I want to play," Jackson said, a tear
in his voice. "I'm sorry."
"I told you you weren't gonna play a
minute for me until I saw a team attitude
in you! You think by sneaking into the game you're gonna
change my mind? I'm incredulous!"
Jackson had nothing to say.
"I want to know something," Coach said. "Are you
telling me you didn't play high school
football till you got here cause the program
there in Indiana was too small for you? Now, no,
I'm not taking your fool shrugging for an answer.
Tell me straight out!"
Jackson looked down and mumbled.
"Eye contact, boy! You're fighting for your
life on this team. That is, if you care."
"I do."
"Then look at me when I talk to you and
answer me so I can hear you."
"My dad wouldn't let me play!"
"Well, there you go. What was he, scared you were
gonna get hurt?"
Jackson shook his head. "Wanted me
to work."
"Help support the family?"
Jackson nodded.
"Why not now? What changed?"
"I came here."
"You ran away?"
"I'm eighteen. I left."
"Your parents know where you are?"
Jackson shrugged but then immediately shook his
head, as if he knew he had to tell the truth.
"So you come all the way down I-65 to play
here, and you're totally on your own."
"Right."
"Where you living?"
"I have a place."
Coach pursed his lips and looked at me. I
didn't know what to make of it either.
"So you basically don't respect any
authority at all."
"I respect you, sir."
"Don't start that. Why do you think you're
sitting here? You don't respect me any more
than you respect your dad, leaving him there to fend
for himself when the family needs you."
"My parents are dead."
"You got to get your story straight, son."
Coach looked at his watch. "I'm sitting here
for five more minutes unless you can keep my
attention longer. You tell me your story, you
tell me the truth, and Coach Sawyer here'n me
are gonna decide your future."
Coach sat back in the squeaky chair and put
his hands behind his head. Elvis Jackson leaned
forward and sucked in a breath. "My real mom and
dad died in a wreck when I was ten. My
grandparents were too old to take me and I guess
no one else wanted me. I was put in foster
homes, but I was mad and scared and everything, so
nobody kept me for long, till this last one where
I stayed four years. We lived in a
double-wide and they had a younger foster kid too, a
girl who's ten now." His voice caught and
Coach and I looked at each other. "I guess
they'd had a bunch of foster kids over the years.
Anyway, I was fourteen and I was a year behind in
school and angry, but they seemed happy when the
county took me there, like they wanted me.
"As soon as the social worker left, though, the
mom went in the other room to watch TV and
Jenny--that's the girl--hid out in one of the
bedrooms. The dad told me to follow him
outside, even though it was the middle of January
and below zero. I can't remember everything he said but
I got the point. He told me I had one
role in my new family and that was to do what he
said, get a job, and give him the money. I
thought I was a tough guy and said something like, "And
what if I don't?"'
"He grabbed my stomach with one hand and
squeezed so tight I could hardly breathe. I
tried to pull away and he just squeezed tighter and
said, "You think I don't know where to hurt you where
it doesn't show?"' I shook my head and he
said, "Make trouble and I'll tell em you
molested Jenny.""
Coach looked as angry as me. "You told
someone, I hope," he said, his voice
thick.
"I told the social worker as soon as I
could, but she said my record was so bad no one was
going to believe me. No one else had ever
complained about the guy before. Everybody said he was
poor but hardworking, a leader in the community and all
that.
"Jenny was scared of him, so any time anybody
from the county came over, she smiled and acted
happy. She was a good actor. She fooled them
like she fooled me at first."
"So, what about football?" Coach said. "You
got some training somewhere."
"My real dad. Gave me a football for
Christmas when I was so young I couldn't even
hold it in one hand. I played junior
football and later read everything I could about the
game. I even worked out on my own and ran
everywhere I could. The social worker finally convinced
me to keep my grades up, and it was actually the
foster mom who put me onto Athens City."
Coach flinched. "How'd she hear about us?"
"Well, she didn't exactly know about it, but
one day she was watching TV and all of a sudden
says to me, "Football story's on." I
couldn't believe it. Usually she just kept to herself.
She was scared of him too. I didn't even know
she knew I liked football.
"I said, "I can watch it?"'
"She said, "If you hurry. My show's coming
on." I hurried in there and saw the thing about you
coming back. I recognized the name of the town from my
football. I've still got it; brought it with me.
Anyway, that's when I started making my plans.
The social worker told me that once I was
eighteen, I was on my own. I left a few
days early because I knew tryouts started that day."
He looked down. "I just wish I'd got
Jenny outa there."
"Any real brothers or sisters?" Coach
asked.
Jackson shook his head.
"Nobody ever helped you through the loss of your
parents?"
"Everybody thought I was all right. Of course
I wasn't all right. My mom'd named me for
good luck and my dad had told me I could be the
next Gayle Sayers."
Coach glanced at me, then back at
Jackson. "Sayers was even before your
dad's time, wasn't he?"
"He only went to one NFL game when he was
like five or so. December 12, 1965."
"I was eighteen," Coach said, looking at the
ceiling. "Wrigley Field. Sayers was a
rookie when running backs also returned
kicks. Six TD'S."
"Were you there?" Jackson said.
"No, but every real football fan knows that
game, son. Let me ask you something. You
telling me the honest-toGod truth?"
"Yes, sir."
"Bout everything, I mean."
"Yes, sir."
Schuler shook his head and sighed again. "You
want to stay on this team?"
"Absolutely."
"You know I gotta punish you for
insubordination."
"I'll do anything."
"You'll do more than anything. You'll do everything.
You'll run a mile tonight. You'll run two
hours a day during the first three practices
next week. Then you'll really face the music
Thursday."
"The music?"
"You'll see."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Don't thank me, Jackson. Show me.
And you're on a short leash. No more
screwups."
"Yes, sir."
"And I want the name of that last family you
lived with."
"Oh, I couldn't--"
"I'll leave you out of it, son, but you got
to think about the girl in that home."
"That's what I'm worried about. What if
he--"
"Just write the name and address for me, and then
don't you give it another thought."
Jackson left to run his laps and Coach and
I just looked at each other. "Story like that could
make a nun swear," he said finally, studying the
name and address.

Coach was gone by the time I walked out to see
Jackson finish his fourth quarter-mile loop
of the track. He didn't even look winded.
He looked eager. "Almost lost your
spot on this team," I said.
"Tell me about it," he said.
I followed him inside. "Can I do something for
you before you leave?" I said.
"Sure. What?"
"Could I pray with ya?"
He shook his head. "You're a born-againer
like your daughter?"
I nodded.
"You can pray for me all you want, but I
won't be praying with you."
"Want to say why?"
"Not particularly."
"I will be praying for you."
"Suit yourself."



Rachel was waiting at home. "I was
worried," she said. I wanted to say that was
fair; I'd been worrying about her lately.
"Losing always takes longer than winning," I
said.
"Want me to fix you something?"
I shook my head. "Thanks. What would
Josie say about that?"
"You know I don't care. For all her
women's rights flag waving, she's now going with
Abel Gordon just to make Brian jealous."
"What's she want to do that for?"
"Says she's taken a backseat to football
long enough."
"But Abel's a footb--"
"I know, Daddy. I didn't say she made
sense."
I asked her how her school crusade was
going.
"I'll know when I see what kinda crowd
shows up Wednesday night. You'll be there, right?"
"I was just waiting for an invite."
"You were not."
"Maybe I wasn't, but lots of people would come
if you asked em personally."
"You think?"
"I know."
And so Rachel did. Over the next two days
she asked everybody she saw, including everybody
at church. Lots of em told her they'd be there.
I didn't want to pop her balloon, but I
didn't expect much to come of it. "I
invited the county school board," she said, "and it
looks like they're coming."
That was a surprise.

Monday morning Bev had that meeting for me with
Lee Forest and a few others off the line. They'd
volunteered to come in for it on their own time but there was
no way I was gonna let em do that. I told
Bev, "Keep track of the time, add a half
hour to it for each of em, and see it's reflected
in their pay."
She looked funny, like she wasn't following.
"Got it?" I said.
"Yes, sir," she said, but she didn't
write it down till she got back to her desk.
A few minutes later she took a call and
asked me if I wanted to talk to a Mr.
Seals from Malaysia.
"Who is he?" I said.
"Wouldn't say, but he's calling from there."
"Long distance?"
She turned in her chair and stared at me through the
window. "That would be a fair assumption," she
said.
I smiled an apology, but I guess she
hadn't seen any humor in my stupidity, which she
usually does. "You reckon it's about
manufacturing?"
"You reckon I'm clairvoyant?"
She wasn't mean. I was just dense. I
pointed to my phone and picked up. "I'll get
right to the point, Mr. Sawyer," the man said.
"You can imagine what time it is over here and I can
imagine how busy you are there, trying to keep your
business alive." He sounded so friendly and
sincere.
I said, "Fire away, Mr. Seals."
"I'm an American, sir, a southerner like
yourself. I even played at Bama, like you did."
"You don't say."
"You're a straight shooter, I can tell.
I'm probably not the first business owner in this part
of the world to approach you, but I'd like to be the last.
I don't want to waste your time, but just let me
say I'd like the opportunity to show you how you could
do your manufacturing here at such a fraction of
your current cost that even with shipping your raw goods
to me--I assume you get them from Chicago like the
rest of us--and my shipping finished product to you,
you would increase your profit per unit by more
than 25 percent."
I didn't know what to say.
"Are you still listening, Mr. Sawyer?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good man. Now I know you're finding that hard
to believe because that shipping cost would be yours, and
you're wondering what you do with your equipment
investment if you let us take over your
manufacturing, though I'm guessing some of your
machinery is more than a hundred years old."
Bev may not have been a mind reader, but this guy
was.
"I'm also wondering what I'm sposed to do with
loyal workers that have been with me for decades," I
said.
"Everybody faces that, sir. But with the profits
you'll be making, you could make them mighty happy
with appropriate severance packages, couldn't
you?"
Maybe I could, but I wasn't about to start
saying yes when he was talking about something I'd
been fighting for years. "Some of my best
accounts--"
"Let me guess," he said. "Those include
certain leagues and bowl games that count on you for
instant turnaround and for specially packaged kicker
balls."
"Exactly."
"We can match and maybe exceed the quality of
your top-of-the-line product and set you up with
sufficient inventory to where you could always be prepared
to ship overnight to those clients. And if you want
to keep your equipment and your top half dozen
tradesmen, you can keep a boutique operation there
for specialty products. Am I making any
sense here, Mr. Sawyer?"
"Some, sure." I didn't want to say too
much. I don't like being bowled over. "I've been
giving some thought to expanding our product line."
"Like any good entrepreneur. Other kinds of
balls? Or gloves?"
He had me. "Gloves."
"You have clients. You know your market. But
don't invest in new manufacturing hardware
until you hear our prices on those as well.
We both know the moneymaking part of your business
is selling to retailers. Your good name stays on
your good product, but we do the dirty work. I can
tell you're a thinking man, Mr. Sawyer, and that
you don't make snap judgments. I
am prepared with two alternatives. Three of
my partners and I will be happy to visit you and
discuss this personally, and I will guarantee none of
them will be Asian."
What was that sposed to mean? "I got no
problem with Asians," I said.
"But you must admit that if an entourage comes
to visit and any one of them is Asian, it could
tip off your troops."
"I see," I said, and he was probably right,
but it still sounded rotten to me.
"Or," he said, "and frankly we prefer this,
I am prepared to bring you and a loved one or one of
your associates here, first class, all
expenses paid, to put your mind at ease about our
workplace, quality control, and ability to handle
your work."
"That's certainly generous of you, Mr. Seals.
But I--"
"Does either of those options sound better than the
other at first blush?"
I cleared my throat. "I spose if I was
ever gonna consider something like this, I would need a
certain comfort level with your operation."
"We'd love to have you and ... Is there a
wife, Mr. Sawyer?"
"No, sir."
"You and anyone you choose--and if you wanted
to bring others, we would work with you to find the most
thoroughly economical way to bring them. Do you have
your calendar handy there, sir?"
"Well, we're getting a little ahead of ourselves
here, Mr.--"
"I would want this to totally be at your convenience.
Of course there's no better time than the
present. I mean, if this is right for your
business, that means that every day you delay--"
"I'm certainly not going to rush into anything,
Mr. Seals. This company has a long
history--"
"Absolutely, and that's the reason I'm
calling only you, sir. We're not interested in
manufacturing for just any--"
"You wholesale yourselves, then?"
"Well, no, sir, but we work with only the
finest--"
"What other stateside companies would you be
manufacturing for, if you don't mind my--"
"Now, Mr. Sawyer, you understand that that would be
highly confidential, proprietary
information. You would enjoy the same level of
confidentiality as any of our clients."
"But I wouldn't be able to sell a product
without "Made in Malaysia" on it, would
I?"
"Unfortunately not, but as you know, that is a
requirement of the United States government, not
of Malaysia's."
"Our government wants people to know when they're
buying other than American-made goods."
"Right, Mr. Sawyer. And while that used
to connote lesser quality or cheap labor, the
sheer number of widely known brand names who
manufacture here has taken away much of that
stigma. Now, with your raw goods coming from Chicago
and being assembled here under your specifications, you
might want to consider another option. You might
want to have the final process handled right there in
Athens."
"Athens City."
"Right. You might want to lace there or
to inflate and mold."
"And what would be the advantage?"
"To be able to stamp "Partially Manufactured
in Malaysia with American Goods" on each and
every product."
"Uh-huh."
"Now, when can we schedule you and someone of your
choosing? I suggest now only because I assume
your specialty manufacturing for the season is
likely finished and it's just a matter of stamping the
correct team names and logos on the balls for
bowl games. Surely the head of the company
doesn't need to be there for that."
"Some days I feel like I ought to lend a hand
on the line, Mr. Seals."
"That bad, huh? I knew your work force had
been decimated the last few years, but I can
only imagine how tough things are getting."
I had the phone pressed against my ear and both
elbows on the desk. I rubbed my eyes.
"All due respect, sir, but most of the people in this
town, when they're not blaming me for our
predicament, are blaming companies like yours."
"Oh, believe me, I understand. That's our
biggest public relations challenge, Mr.
Sawyer. But I hope you can see that we're here
to help. It just doesn't make sense to pay more
than you have to for production when margin is the name of the
game. We cut your cost and improve
your margin."
"And shut down my operation."
"That's one way to look at it. But if I had
a facility costing me more than it needed to,
I'd seriously consider shutting it down."
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the
ceiling. "Mr. Seals, to tell you the truth,
I'm a patriot. Sometimes I wonder why, but
if it comes to selling American-made and me
worrying about who gets enough work to keep their
families fed, you gotta know I'm gonna
look out for my friends and neighbors first."
"That's admirable, Mr. Sawyer. But you're
bearing the entire cost. You do everything you can to keep
your business alive, and as it dwindles, you get
blamed anyway."
"True enough."
"So what better time than now to come and see the
possibilities?"
I told him I was coaching and that the rest of the
season would give me time to think about it. "But I
don't want to waste your time," I said. "I
gotta tell ya, this is a long shot. I
don't know if I could keep living in this town if
I sold out to--"
"Oh, Mr. Sawyer, don't refer to it as
selling out. We don't want to buy your
business. We want to help you to stay in
business."

That conversation was ringing in my ears as the clock
moved toward the meeting with my old-timers. I
sorta wished I'd told Bev to listen in to the
call, cause she's a good sounding board and I
wanted to know if she thought I'd been wimpy.
She was sitting there sorta spacey again. I
mashed the intercom.
"You okay in there, lady?"
She turned slow and looked at me. Bev had
been so low maintenance for so long that I knew
something was up.
"How much longer till Lee and the others come
in?" I said.
She sat there for a second, then checked her
schedule. "They're all on eleven to seven
today."
"I know," I said. "But they're coming in early
to see me still, right?"
Bev stood quickly and bent over her desk, like
she was trying to cover that she was sick or
hurting. "Yeah," she said. "Course they are.
In half an hour or so. Oh!"
She stood straight up and pressed a hand on
her abdomen. I closed my eyes and opened em
slowly. Bev hadn't wanted me to hear or see
that, I was sure. I mean, if she didn't even
tell me what she did on her own time, she
sure wouldn't want me to know about her, you know,
female, feminine, women whatever.
"Mr. Sawyer, I'm not feeling well."
I couldn't remember her ever leaving work.
She'd called in sick now and then, but once she
showed up, I never had to worry she was gonna
change her mind and go home. I felt like a jerk
sitting there when I could see she was out of sorts,
so I got up and went into her area. "Sit down
for a second, Bev. You okay?"
"I don't know," she said, looking pale.
"I don't think so."
"You need to go home?"
"A little dizzy," she said.
"You want me to call someone?"
"No. Let me see if this passes. I'd
like to make it home on my own."
I looked at my watch, feeling like a clod.
"You need me to run you? We can get someone
to carry your car home for you later."
"This is so embarrassing," she said.
"Nothing to be embarrassed about," I said.
"When you're ready, you tell me, and I'll
take you home."
"I don't want you to miss your meeting.
I'll get Ginny to sit in here for me."
"I can have you home and be back here in time," I
said.
She called Ginny and told her she was feeling
under the weather and needed her to fill in for the rest of the
day. "Would you rather she take you home?" I
whispered. I wasn't trying to get out of anything.
I just didn't want her feeling self-conscious.
Bev shook her head and hung up, then stood
slowly. She put both hands on the edge of her
desk. I didn't know where to look or what to do.
"I don't think she could help me if I
fainted," Bev said.
Fainted? What was I supposed to do if she
fainted? She reached for her bag, carefully
slung it over her shoulder, took a deep
breath, and moved away from the desk. I could have
offered her my arm, but I didn't want
her to feel--oh, face it, I would have felt
conspicuous. I musta been blushing, following her
down the hall and out to my car, praying nobody was
watching. It woulda been easy to explain, a
course, but you don't think about that kinda thing at the
time.
"You wanna take some medication or something?"
I said, opening the passenger door.
"Better not," she said, hesitating and
straightening again. "Since I don't know what this
is."
For some reason, that made me feel better.
I didn't know what it was either, but I didn't have
to worry it was something I didn't want to talk
about. I settled behind the wheel while she tried
to buckle herself in, but that took two hands and she
kept wanting to press the one against her abdomen.
"I don't think you need that belt for just a coupla
miles," I said.
"I'd feel more comfortable with it," she said,
looking at me, and I knew I was gonna
hafta help. I held the receptacle in
place but still she couldn't turn enough to get the clip
into it. I grabbed that, but the belt had caught and
tightened, so I had to let it snap back to the
starting position. Now she was holding herself with one
hand and keeping the other out of the way, so it was left
to me to lean past her and do the whole seatbelt thing
myself.
She held her breath as I did it, and so did
I, but there was no way I was gonna avoid
incidental contact, if ya know what I mean.
So I just buckled down and buckled her up,
didn't look at her, started the car, and got
real serious about the rearview mirror. It hit
me that I had worked with the woman for years and years
and had never touched her, even by accident. I
figured she was as embarrassed as I was.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
I drove slow through town, not wanting to look
at Bev to see how she was doing. So instead I
looked at all the closed businesses. I think
they made the town look sicker'n Bev was.
"Ever had appendicitis?" I said.
"No, and this is in the wrong spot for that." She
was so quiet she hardly sounded like herself. "Must've
been something I ate. This is so embarrassing."
"Think nothing of it." I was embarrassed enough for the
both of us.
I pulled all the way up the drive
so I was just a few feet from the front door of
her little house. She kept one hand on her pain and
unbuckled the seatbelt with the other, but the thing started
sliding across her and then just stopped. She looked
at me. I grabbed the clip and shook it a little
until it rolled back into place. Then I sat
there like a doofus.
"I hate to ask," she said, "but could you walk
me?"
"Course!" I said, as if I hadn't
considered anything else. I jogged around the car and
offered my hand. She's a smallish woman, but
she had trouble getting leverage. She seemed even
unsteadier once she was standing. What I shoulda
done, I knew, was put my left arm around her
waist and let her hold my right hand with hers, but
I couldn't get that coordinated soon enough. I
just offered her my elbow and we slowly made our
way to her door. She hung on like she was really
hurting.
"Key?" I said.
"Haven't locked my door in twenty
years." She reached to open it. I didn't know
whether to help her in or what. "Think I'm
okay from here," she said, giving me her car keys.
"Call if you need anything at all, 'kay?"
She thanked me and shut the door. I shoulda
offered to call the doctor for her, taken her
to Emergency, something.



I got back to the factory just in time to pull
in behind Lee Forest. "I'd like to trade for your
hours," he said, looking at his watch.
I held the door for him. "No, you wouldn't."
The three other older workers--Dave, Carl,
and Belle--were waiting near Bev's area,
chatting with Ginny. They kidded Lee the way he
had me--"Glad you could make it," and all that.
Ginny was full of whispered questions about Bev as I
pointed the others into my office. Ginny had thought
to add folding chairs.
"I'll let her tell you," I said.
"Meanwhile, get a couple guys from maintenance
to run her car home for her. They can use mine as
a second car." I gave her both sets of
keys and joined the others in my office.
The four people across from me represented the oldest
long-term workers American Leather had
ever had. Carl reminded me he remembered when
my wife was born. Past that, he and the other two
were with Lee just for moral support. As usual,
he did the talking.
"Mr. Sawyer, we ain't the kinda people who have
a problem with young people being our boss."
"I know and I appreciate that."
"We go back as far as Estes himself, and it'd
be easy to criticize anybody who came after
him."
"Used to do that myself," I said. Every time he had
a problem, a question, or an issue, he started the
same way. My mind wandered as I sat taking in
the signs of a lifetime of leatherwork in the arms and
hands before me. Belle had mostly run the cutting
machines and done lacing and inflating and molding. But
the men had been turners in their younger days, using a
straight or curved metal rod to help muscle
the balls rightside out before the finishing process, and
their biceps and forearms were massive and
rocklike. Their fingers were orange, their
knuckles big and bony, and nobody but their
peers would dream of armwrestling em.
They were all in less strenuous jobs now,
running the sewing machines or inserting bladders.
But they were still eight-hour-a-day piece workers.
They had seen the place humming and been there when the
records were set that now faded on banners in the
rafters.
"I know you can't do nothing bout the past," Lee
said. "What's done is done, and no matter what
anybody says, we know you held out long as you
could before letting anybody go. But you know well as
we do that we're down to where you just can't cut
anymore and stay in business."
"Well, that's my problem, Mr. Forest," I
said. "If more trimming can be done, I'll find
it."
"I'm--we're not trying to tell you your
business, but we been around long enough to know when you're
at the limit."
"Getting close anyway," I admitted.
"It's down to just Wilson and us manufacturing
stateside, ain't it?" he said.
"Yeah."
"How long before they go overseas?"
I shrugged. "They're fighting it tooth and
nail like we are."
"We need something new," Lee said.
"Baseball gloves, I know," I
said.
"That got to you, did it? Well, bless Bev's
little heart." He paused. "You know, sir, you and
her ..."
"I'm studying ball gloves," I said.
"That's all we ask," he said, and the others
smiled. "Glove leather is softer, easier to work
with. More steps, but we can learn it. We can do it
better'n anybody in the world, just like with the
footballs, and we'd love the chance to prove
it."
"Not thinking about retiring?"
Lee threw his head back and clapped both
palms on his knees. "Retirement's for old
people."
We chatted a few more minutes and I wasn't
sure I was doing more than paying homage to loyal
people. But they seemed happier after getting a little a
my time. I didn't promise anything, but I
saw in their eyes that they'd give it all they had
if I was to add ball gloves to the line.
We were saying our good-byes when Ginny
interrupted. "Sir, Alejandro is on your line
and I think you'd better take it."
"I rang the doorbell and then I knocked,
wanting to give Miz Beverly her car keys," the
young man reported. "I thought maybe she was in the
bathroom or asleep and couldn't get to the door.
Stu said to just put the keys inside the door where
she could find them, but when I pushed it open, I
saw her on the floor."
I froze. "Was she, is she ...?"
"Stu went in with me and she looked okay, but
her breathing was real shallow and her heartbeat was
weak. We called the hospital."
"Good!"
"She's there now."
"Memorial?"
"Yes, sir. We're on our way back
to work."
Why hadn't I seen her all the way inside
and helped her lie down? How long might she have
been on that floor if they hadn't found her? I
told Ginny to call the school and tell em I
might miss my class and to tell Coach
Schuler I might be late for practice.
I jogged out to the parking lot, but course my car
was gone. I spun around, and Ginny was at the
door. "You let them use your car, sir." It was
bad enough being an idiot. I hated that it
showed. Luckily, here came Stu and Alejandro.
Twenty minutes later I slid to the curb
at Memorial. Bev had already been assigned
a room, and by the time I got there she was looking
better. I wouldn't say perky, but she was okay
enough to start apologizing. "You didn't have to come,"
she said.
I wished I hadn't. The sickening alcohol
and cleaning supply smells were already starting
to overwhelm me. Any time I got close to a
place like that it reminded me of Estelle's awful
final year. But I couldn't just bolt.
"What're they telling you?" I said.
"They drew blood and are running some tests.
They might have to use a scope. They're guessing
some kind of infection, bladder or intestinal,
something."
"Serious?"
"They don't think so. See? Not worth any
fuss."
After what I'd gone through with Estelle, I
stayed away from hospitals as much as I could.
Even when Rachel was a tomboy and needed
patching, I was in and out of there too fast for
memories to start kicking in. I had panicked
when it looked like something could be seriously wrong
with Bev, but now I just wanted out of there. I
guess she could tell.
"You go on now, Calvin. I'll get back
to work as soon as they'll let me."
I stood in the doorway, lightheaded and
miserable. "Take your time and take care of
yourself," I said, trying to cover my restlessness.
I don't guess I succeeded. She waved
at me with the back of her hand, shooing me out. I was
grateful.

The players didn't say anything about
Jackson running laps all during practice.
I can tell you he didn't just put in his time,
half running, half walking like most would have. He
jogged at a pretty good clip, and every once in a
while he would sprint a hundred yards or so.
Then he would run the stairs. Nobody told him
to do that. Coach pretended not to notice, but I know
he did.
He spent most of his time hollering at the kids
and talking about what he'd seen in the game film.
I had watched it with him and was amazed that it looked
even worse than I remembered in the
live game. I couldn't even talk with him about
it, it made him so mad. He got angrier every
day, and I hate to say it, but we didn't see
any progress on the practice field.
"I'm worried about myself," he told me as
we left practice. "I don't even want
to talk to this team anymore."
"There's plenty to say."
"It's just that the more I study that film, the more I
see how far we've got to go."
"So tell em that."
He shook his head.
"Coming Wednesday night?" I said.
"Nah."
"You don't care?"
"I don't, Calvin."
"But if the kids somehow pull this off and the
school stays open--"
"Ain't gonna happen and you know it."
He was right.
"Anyway," he said, "I'm seeing the wife
tonight."
"Oh, sorry."
"Me too."
I didn't know whether to ask, so I did.
"No progress there either?"
He shook his head and I left it alone.

I had learned to go to public functions
separate from Rachel. She never seemed to mind
being seen with me, but I knew not to push it. We were
already pretty close for a dad and a teenager, but
she was energetic and had her own mind and didn't
need to have me with her all the time. I was as scared as
any other dad that maybe I only thought I
knew my little girl, but we'd had the talk--you
know what I mean--and I trusted her. I know
parents always think their kids are perfect, but if
she was fooling around while also going to church and
praying and reading her Bible and living like a
Christian, well, she'd have more to answer to than
me. I don't wanna be blind or naive, but,
no, I'd've known.
Rachel and her friends had decorated the gym with a
huge flag behind a small platform that had enough
chairs for the school board. In front of that was a
small wood lectern facing a couple hundred
folding chairs, and the whole place was decked out with
saving-the-school banners and posters.
I found a spot four or five rows
back, across the aisle from where Rachel sat in the
front row with Elvis Jackson. When no one
sat near me I remembered how unpopular I
was with people who had had a friend or relative lose his
job at the factory. Even those who still worked there
didn't want to rub it in by looking chummy with
me. I glanced around and no one met my eyes
cept Bev's friend Kim, who was sitting near the
back. I kinda wished I'd noticed her on the
way in so I could tell her about Bev. But the
way she looked at me made me figure she
already knew.
Pretty soon everybody hushed and
Principal Ferris stepped up and read a
note: "We regretfully inform you that the members
of the county school board will be unable to attend
tonight's meeting. Please accept our
apologies."
All of a sudden the mood changed. People were mad
and griping out loud. Everybody seemed to be
looking at the back of Rachel's head, including
me. I don't know what kind of a program
she'd planned, but I knew it was pretty much
for the benefit of the county board. Her hope had
been to get some sorta commitment out of em.
Elvis whispered to her; she nodded and went to the
podium. I was nervous for her.
Rachel smiled shyly when people applauded, and
she pushed her hair behind her ear. I could only
imagine how self-conscious she felt. I woulda
been even worse.
"You know," she began, "if the county's not
gonna support us, we have to do it ourselves." Many
clapped. "A lot of people have been leaving this town
over the past few years, but the people in this gym love
this town ..." Now they were cheering. "... and they
love this school! And some of us students don't
want to be bused to some other school. Everybody
is always saying to put your money where your mouth is.
If we show we are willing to do our part, the county
board will know we're serious."
Shazzam hollered, "Oh, boy, here we go
with the money pitch! You're sounding like church now,
girl!"
"No, no, no," Rachel said. "I'm not
asking you folks for a dime. We've already got the
money." That got everybody's attention. "It is
called the Jack Schuler Scholarship Fund."
People gasped and groaned. She had lost her
audience. "There are thousands of dollars
in it we could use toward saving our school!" But
people were waving her off and standing to leave. "Now come on
folks! Some of you have younger kids! Do you really
want em going to Rock Hill?"
People were leaving in droves. Even Elvis
Jackson stood and stared Rachel down. "We can
help hundreds of kids instead of just one
football player!" she tried, but people booed.
Jackson rushed past her. She grabbed him and the
mike picked up her saying, "Elvis, I'm
sorry."
He turned on her. "Save your prayers.
I don't need em. And I don't want a
groupie."
She looked like she'd been kicked in the gut.
I wanted to gather her in or punch out
Jackson, not to mention everybody who'd walked out
on her. But I just sat there so she'd know I was still
with her. When it was finally just her and me, I said,
"Need a ride home?"
We didn't talk till we got in the
door. "I'm not gonna win this, am I,
Daddy?"
"No. But I love you for trying."
"You want me to go to Rock Hill next
year?"
"Course not. But they're gonna have one heck
of a football team with our underclassmen."
"That's not funny."
"Sorry."
"They don't need our guys anyway," she
said.
Couldn't argue with that.



Thursday Coach showed up for practice
angry as I'd ever seen him. He wouldn't look
at me, wouldn't look at anybody. I couldn't
imagine what had happened. It had to be something
at the rehab center. I mean, how long can you
stay mad over a bad game, a bad game
film, bad practices? Maybe he was finally
getting it that high schoolers just weren't the same as
they used to be.
I didn't even get a chance to tell him about
Bev. He starts in the coaches room telling
me to have the players sit in front of their lockers
with their gear on the floor. Once I had got
em set, he came in, ears red,
barely able to control himself. He wrote on the
chalkboard the score of the first game, put his hat
on the table, and began soft. "The other team is not
your enemy. The spirit of division--that's your enemy."
He picked up a football program and
leafed through it. "Here is a vision of unity.
Rock Hill. Undefeated for two years and,
get this, not even outscored for one half in all that
time! This team is a well-oiled machine, a
Detroit V-8 screaming down the highway to the
state finals. This team has mastered the
fundamentals, but you dawgs have not. Now some of you
may be joining them next year, but until then
..." and he slammed the Rock Hill program
to the floor, "... we are gonna do things my
way! That means we start over again and go all the
way back to the beginning when God created
football."
Coach picked up a ball and waved it in
front of the boys. "This is fifteen ounces of
pure, gen-us-ine American leather, sewn around
a rubber sack, eight laces across the top."
He slammed the ball into Brian's lap,
picked up his shoulder pads, and smashed them to the
floor. "These are shoulder pads!" He grabbed
a thigh pad and slammed it down, then a knee
pad. "Thigh pad! Knee pad!" He picked
up a helmet and pushed it into Yash's stomach.
"Helmet!"
The players recoiled with every throw and shout.
"Each one of those things has its own specific
function, and you all are going to rediscover your
own specific function on this team!"
He put his hat on, said, "Coach, I'll
see you outside," knocked over a water
bucket, and kicked a football on his way out.
We followed him to the tennis courts. It was an
old tradition at Athens City that independent
players got their minds right there.
"First we crawl," Coach said. "Then we
walk. Then we walk together. Then we run the
bone."
The two courts were made of hard-packed
dirt, with a fence separating them. Coach placed the
ball down and told the offense and defense to line
up. "Jackson," he said, "you come in at
halfback. You want in the game, you're gonna
learn the bone. We're gonna learn the
old-fashioned way. Crime gets punished in
Bama."
He put me in charge of the offense. "Call
Formation Left 39 every time," he told me. The
only way that play works is for the runner to turn
upfield when he gets the ball and follow the
quarterback and the blocking guard. Start
improvising or get tempted by what looks like
lots of daylight if you skirt past them to the
outside and, well, the play breaks down and
you're toast. On the tennis court, the fence either
helps a runner avoid that temptation or
becomes the price he pays.
The defense was inspired because Jackson was
carrying the ball every time, and they were led by the
Shermanater--who Jackson had tricked
into letting him stay in the game. Time after time
Naters let his teammates key on the blockers
while he shot through and drove Jackson into the
fence.
"No, no, no!" Coach would scream.
"You're running thirty to gain five! Trust your
blockers! Turn upfield! Follow them!
There's nowhere to go out here. Those dawgs are working
to make a hole for you. Your job is to follow them
and when you get there, trust the hole's gonna be
open. You ignore them, they become useless.
Line up and do it again."
Again and again and again. "Trust your blockers.
One more time!"
After one smash into the fence, Coach grabbed
Jackson's facemask and pointed him first to his
left, then upfield. "Not that way! That way!
Gain and maintain!"
Jackson bled, arms shredded. Finally I
whispered to Coach, "You always said we squeeze
coal to make diamonds, not tear it to pieces."
"We got a colt needs breaking," he said.
"Do it again."
After a bunch more times getting blasted into that
fence, Jackson couldn't get up. Coach said,
"One more time." Jackson didn't stir. Other
players bent over, sucking wind. Buster stood
over Jackson and hollered, "Water break!"
Elvis started to stir, but Coach put a foot
on his shoulder pad and held him down. "Not for you,
dawg. Until you learn to trust your teammates,
you're not good enough to drink with em." He knelt and
knocked on Jackson's helmet. "Whatsa
matter, Jackson, you on empty? Is that all
you got? I don't need a quitter. Turn in
your gear."
Coach stood and stepped back, and Jackson
came flying to his feet. "No!" he shouted.
"This is not over! I am not off this team! Do you
hear me? One more time!"
Coach, squinting, shot me a glance.
Jackson ran back into position. Coach blew
his whistle and announced, "Let's go home."



Rachel waited for Elvis after practice,
determined to confront him. But as he limped past
ahead of Abel, he didn't even look up.
"Elvis!" she called, alarmed at his wounds.
"What happened?"
"Tradition," Abel said.
Rachel would not be put off. She followed
Elvis on foot but lost him a couple of
miles out of town as he jogged through a cotton
field. She found herself at Orville
Washington's farm, holding her nose at the
sweetly acrid acres of manure spread
amid the crop. She had sweat through the back of
her blouse and it stuck to her.
There was no sign of Mr. Washington, a
generous-sized black man who lived alone and
tended the farm with a passel of day workers. Rachel
crept between the barns and outbuildings and was soon
forty or fifty yards from the farmhouse near a
rickety stable, clearly past its use.
She jumped when she heard Elvis. "You're
trespassing. Now go away."
Rachel stepped inside the stable and peered up
at the loft. Elvis was silhouetted against the dim
light. "Unless Mr. Washington knows you're
here," she said as she climbed planks nailed to the
wall, "you're trespassing too."
Elvis busied himself with a bucket of water and a
rag, dabbing his scraped forearms. His clothes
hung on makeshift lines attached to the
rafters. "What are you doing following me?"
"I was afraid you were hurt."
He rolled his eyes. "Ah. And let me
guess--you wanted to pray for me."
"As a matter of fact, no," Rachel said,
stepping close and staring into angry blue eyes.
"I am not trying to steal your scholarship, and whether
or not you like it, it is my job to pray for you, so you
might as well get used to it."
He glowered. "Why don't you just
admit you betrayed me?"
"Why don't you just admit you're acting like a
three-year-old?"
"All right," he said, plopping onto a cot
in the corner. "I accept your apology."
Rachel sat next to him. "Wow, this little
groupie is just overwhelmed." He was clearly not
amused. "I'm on your team, Elvis. Long
before I laid eyes on you I thought we could use
that money for the school. I didn't want to hurt
you." She studied him. "What happened to you today?"
Elvis shrugged. "Good old Athens City
tradition."
She took the rag from him, working on one of his
deeper scratches. "You know, last time Coach
Schuler was here, our school was the envy of the state.
You could learn something from him." Elvis met her
gaze, then looked away. "Listen," she said,
"I'm not gonna say anything to my dad or
anyone else about you living up here."
"Thanks."
"So why are you up here?"
No response.
"Why are you up here, Elvis?"
He seemed to realize Rachel wasn't going
to let him off the hook. "This is my last shot,"
he said. "No money for college. This phony
address could be my ticket."
"That's how you registered for school?"
He nodded. "Farmer scratches his head and
writes Return to Sender on stuff from the
school that comes in my name. I snag it before the
mailman comes back for it."
Rachel handed the rag back and moved toward the
ladder, wondering if her dad knew any of this.
"Know what?" she said. "I believe there's more to you
than you think."
He looked curious. "I've never met
anyone who believes in things the way you do," he
said. "What is it with you?"
Rachel hesitated. Elvis had made it
clear he wasn't interested in prayer, let
alone God. Maybe if she didn't push now,
a better time and place would come. "I'm a
Crusader," she said.
22

Coach and I stayed late to rechalk the lines
on the field. The custodial staff had been
cut deep, so we couldn't expect them to do it.
It felt good doing manual labor again. Something
about desk work had always bothered me.
I was surprised when I got home to find a
note from Rachel. "Daddy, I'm sure you know
Bev is in the hospital and not well. I'm
visiting her. Her friend Kim will bring me home."
Not well? Someone must have got old information.
But when Rachel wasn't home an hour later,
I called the hospital. "We're unable
to provide information to other than immediate family
members," they told me.
"I'm her employer."
"You might like to come down, Mr. Sawyer."
"What's happened? I thought--"
"Really, sir, I'm prohibited
by policy--"
I almost had to sit down. "She's taken a
turn--?"
"Please feel free to come down, Mr.
Saw--"
"Tell me she's still alive."
"I can tell you that, yes. But you won't be able
to see her. She's in ICU."
I sped to the hospital feeling something I
hadn't felt for a long time. I ran from the car,
hurried past the desk, and took the elevator
to the Intensive Care Unit. Rachel and Kim
stood in the hall, their eyes red. Rachel hugged
me but Kim seemed the same as she'd been
Wednesday night. I explained that Bev had
seemed fine and had told me to leave. "What in
the world happened?"
"If you cared about her," Kim said, "you'd have
stayed and you would know."
That hurt, but I didn't want to defend myself
by telling her I had feelings I couldn't
explain. Rachel gave Kim a sharp look but
knew better than to correct an elder. "The
tests found, um--"
"Diverticulitis," Kim said. "Serious
enough, but treatable if caught early, and this was."
"So she's fine then?"
"Yeah," Kim said. "That's why we're here."
I didn't figure I deserved her being
sarcastic.
"Daddy," Rachel said slowly, as
if she knew she was about to embarrass me, "they
found this diver-whatever with a probe."
"Okay ..." I said.
Kim turned and walked into the waiting room.
I looked to Rachel as if to ask what I'd
done. Rachel shrugged. "They made some kind of a
mistake. The scope punctured her colon."
The place was getting to me again, and that news
didn't help. I needed to sit down, so I
stumbled into the waiting room where Kim looked up
from praying. I wished she'd pray for me. I
didn't want to talk to her and was glad to see
Rachel had followed me in. She sat next
to me and took my hand.
Kim stood and stared down at me. "This is not
about you, Calvin. Whatever you're feeling, Bev
is fighting for her life. I'm surprised you
thought her worth the trip."
How could Kim know what I was feeling when I
didn't? She had lost her dad, but would she
remember what my Estelle had died of? I
didn't know if somebody whose doctor had poked
through her colon was supposed to live or die.
How did they treat diverticulitis and an
injury like that at the same time?
I hadn't figured out yet why I'd felt so
panicky when I heard the news. Was it cause
here was another woman in my life with a problem in
the same part of her body? Or was I being
selfish, worried how I'd get along at the
office without Bev? Ah, it was more than that. I
had to know whatever I could know and do whatever I had
to do to make sure she would be all right.
"Has the doctor talked to you?" I said.
"Either of you?"
"Not for a while," Rachel said. "I'll see
if I can find him."
"Leave him alone," Kim said. "Let him do
his work."
"I won't keep him from his work, Miz
Kim," she said, an edge in her voice.
"Feeling guilty?" Kim said when Rachel
had gone.
"You're doing your best to make me feel that
way."
"Calvin, there are no secrets in this town.
Bev falls ill, you run her home--
surprise of all surprises--and you're back
to the office in time to stay on schedule. You have
somebody else take her her car or she
might have died in her own house. You come by here when
you find out--another shocker--but again it was fortunate
for Bev you were between commitments."
"I do have commitments."
"To a class and football practice, both
of which would have survived without you."
I stood. "She didn't need me, Kim!
What could I have done here?"
She shook her head. "You don't get it.
After all those years of serving you, she wouldn't even
ask that you sit with her a few hours. Did either
she or you know what was wrong with her when you left?"
"They hadn't injured her yet, if that's what
you mean. She said they were running tests. I
couldn't have stopped whatever happened."
"Calvin! Listen to yourself. If you were Bev,
wouldn't you have felt better knowing someone was standing with
you, would be there when you got your test results?
No, she couldn't have known something would go wrong, but
it would have had to make her feel better to know someone
was here with her."
"She told me to go."
"And you were glad to. I'll bet you couldn't
get out of here fast enough. Did you even think
to call me?"
"It crossed my mind. But I know you're
busy."
"Not as busy as you, apparently. Calvin,
she's my dearest friend. She stood with me for
years, asking nothing while my father slowly died.
You think I wouldn't have taken a personal day
to sit with her a few hours?"
What could I say? I hadn't even known how
much I cared for Bev until a few minutes
before. Kim was not the person to tell.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I should have called
you."
"More important, you should have stayed with her from the
minute she started feeling bad. It should have been
obvious this wasn't her period or the flu."
I nodded. "Maybe I learned something," I
said.
"I would love to think so."
"Give me a break, Kim," I said. "You
want me to learn from this or don't you?"
She stood and moved to the window where she stared out
into the darkness. "Maybe I've given up on you
after all this time."
"After all what time?"
"All the years Bev has invested in
you and you've been oblivious."
"There's that word again. Well, if I'm
oblivious to one loyal worker, I'm probably
oblivious to a lot of them."
Kim turned to face me. "That's not your
reputation. People love you, Cal. You've had
to make some tough decisions, but they forgive you because
they trust you and admire you."
"Everybody but Bev."
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are you saying?"
"She feels the same about you that everybody
else does."
Where was that doctor? "So you're the only one
who knows I'm a phony?"
"I didn't say that either."
"I wish you'd tell me what you're saying,
Kim. I'm feeling pretty beat up here."
"Poor Cal," she said. "All right, sit
down and listen." I did. "Here's what
happened. I was going to be late meeting up with
Bev the night she got sick, and when I called
to tell her, Ginny-somebody from your office told
me what had happened. When I got here she had
come back from the colonoscopy. Over the next
several hours she had some pain and some bleeding, which
I was told were not uncommon. But then she
developed a high fever and wouldn't eat. Her
pulse went up and her blood pressure down.
"The doctor kept telling me this could still be a
diverticulitis flare-up, but when she became
nauseated and her abdomen tender, he had to start
paying attention. Next time he examined her, her
abdomen was rigid and hard and I heard him tell
someone there were nearly no bowel sounds. I asked
a nurse what that meant, and she said infection and
inflammation must have spread."
"From this divertic--"
"Well, they thought it was something called
peritonitis and they did some kind of a CAT
scan or something and found air in the abdomen.
Calvin, she was lying there with her knees flexed and
her breathing short like the pain was excruciating."
"Oh, man!"
"They did a quick exploratory surgery and
discovered the hole in the colon. I knew they were
upset by how long they feared she had infectious
material in there."
I sat shaking my head. "Well, thanks for
telling me, anyway, Kim." She just
walked out.

Guess by now you can tell I'm not what you'd
call self-analytical. I was sitting there
trying to pray and more clueless than ever about what was
going through my brain. The waiting room was far enough from
the patient rooms that I ought not to have been bothered
by the smells, but my nose must have a memory. The
place was making me sick, but no way was I
gonna walk out on Bev. For one thing, I
wanted to know from the doctor exactly what was going
on, and besides, Kim was right. This wasn't about me.
I don't like flower shops either cause I can't
shake the memory of the smell at Estelle's
funeral. But I know I'm not alone in that and you
can't live your life avoiding normal places
just because you took one in the chops years ago at a
place that reminds you of this one. I mean, the
smells just brought back bad memories. It
wasn't like they were as bad as a locker room or
even the Chicago cowhide plant I'd been to so
many times. I had to decide to put up with the
hospital smell. There was enough to think about without
dwelling on Estelle, and I told myself she'd
want me to think about her in heaven anyway, not in
a hospital bed.
Rachel finally dragged the doctor into the waiting
room, and that brought Kim back too. He
looked apologetic. "Like I was telling the young
lady, I can give you a general update because you
are apparently her closest support group here,
but as for a specific diagnosis or prospects
for recovery, I'd need her permission to share that
with other than blood relatives."
I was glad to see Kim turn her guns on
somebody besides me. "We already know about the
diverticulitis," she said. "And we know about the
malpractice too, so--"
"Now, ma'am," the doctor said, "if you're
going to take that tone and go that route, you're going
to find me unable to say anything. We have
acknowledged our responsibility for a procedural
error, but--"
"That's a nice way to put it. Some bozo
turns an early-caught case of
diverticulitis into a life-threatening situation,
and--"
"So," the doctor said, "you'd rather talk with our
attorney than with me."
"No," Kim said. "Trust me,
Beverly is not the type to file suit regardless,
so--"
"Oh, that will put our counsel's mind at
ease. "Her friend says she won't sue us.""
"Okay, truce," Kim said. "Her parents
are elderly and live in Virginia. If they can
afford the flights, they might be here late tomorrow.
In the meantime--"
"Kim," I said, "that's not an issue.
Soon as we're done here, you tell em to book
the next flight they can and American Leather will
cover it. We'll even have someone pick em up in
Mobile."
"You're American Leather?" the doctor said.
"I thought I recognized you." He shook my
hand.
Kim said, "Why, thank you, Calvin. I'll
call them right now."
When she left I appealed to my new friend.
"Doc, Bev's worked for me for more than ten years
and she's like family. It didn't skip past me
what you said there about prospects for recovery.
Now I gotta know if that's just words you use or
if you're saying there's some question about her even making
it."
He pressed his lips together and stared at the
ceiling. Then he glanced at Rachel and back
at me. "My daughter," I said.
"The next forty-eight hours are crucial,"
he said, sighing. I felt that feeling of panic
again. "We're keeping her in intensive care so
we can keep an eye out for complications."
"She could die is what you're telling me."
"We certainly hope not and we don't
expect that."
"But it could happen."
"It could. Now, if you'll excuse me ..."
I dropped back down into a chair. At least
with Estelle we'd known she was dying; we just
hadn't known when. I reached for Rachel's hand and
she sat with me again. "Prayer changes things,"
I said. "We can at least do that."
"I prayed for Mama," she said.
I looked at her. "You know she's better
off."
She nodded. "I'm not gonna quit praying,
Daddy, but I'm not gonna pretend we always
get the answers we want. I'm praying for the
school, for the town, for Elvis. You know I'm
gonna pray for Miz Bev. You
should've told me yesterday. I've been praying
for her ever since I heard."
"How did you hear?"
"Kim."
"I didn't even know you knew Kim."
"Daddy! Everybody knows Kim. She was my
Sunday school teacher once."
"Mine too."
"I know."
"But why would she call you?"
She let go of my hand and ran her fingers through
her hair. "Cause Bev and I've been doing
stuff together."
"Stuff?"
"Going places. Doing things."
"That's where you've been?"
"A lot of the time."
"You didn't think I'd want to know that?"
"She didn't know what you'd think."
I squinted at Rachel. "What were you doing that
neither of you thought I ought to know?"
"Volunteer stuff."
"All right," I said, "I want more'n one
sentence at a time. What're you talking about?"
She sighed. "Everybody loves Bev, right?"
I nodded.
"She visited the youth group one Sunday
night last spring. She was just telling us her
story, you know, how she was raised in a good
Christian home but had to choose Jesus for
herself."
"Just like you."
"Just like anybody. That's what got my
attention anyway. She told us how when she got
out of high school and started working at the factory,
she kinda drifted. From the Lord, I guess."
"I don't remember that. What was she doing?"
"Nothing bad. Just kinda being a Sunday
Christian is what she called it. Going to church
but not really thinking about it the rest of the week. Not
wanting people to know she was a Christian, that kinda
stuff."
"I think everybody goes through that," I said.
"That's what she said. And she was trying to keep
us from it. She said that even though she didn't do
anything terrible, she felt like she wasted a lot of
years before she really gave herself to God. She
went on some kind of a college and career group
thing and heard a guy talking about choosing up
sides, making a commitment, deciding
whether you're in or out. It just got to her somehow.
She started really feeling nervous when he talked
about being a Secret Service Christian, kinda
covering your bases by believing the right stuff and going
to church, but keeping your identity private, you
know."
I nodded.
"Anyway, Daddy, she really put it to us.
She said we were old enough to decide for ourselves whether
we were really sincere, and if we were, it ought
to show. She asked for kids to raise their hands if
they wanted to get serious and start acting out their
faith and making their lives count. A bunch of us
raised our hands, but Miz Bev pushed even more.
She said there were all kinds of things we could be doing
for God, even though we were busy. She told us
there were people who needed stuff done for em, old people who
liked to be read to, sick people that needed
visitors. I thought everybody got excited about
it like I did, cause so many of the kids looked like
they were really listening. I didn't expect to be
the only one who actually started going with her a
lot."
"Where?"
"Like she said, the old folks home, poor
people's houses, the rehab center."
"In Fairhope?"
Rachel raised her eyebrows and nodded.
Kim rejoined us. "Bev's parents will be here
midmorning tomorrow," she said, "thanks to you. Really,
Calvin, that was--"
"Can we stay with her?" I said.
"Close by."
"What shift you want?"
Kim looked surprised. "I'll take
first," she said. "You take Rachel home and get
some rest, and then you can be here when Bev's parents
arrive."
I got their information and left a message for
Ginny to have someone pick em up and get em to the
hospital. I told Kim I'd spell her
at dawn. I couldn't believe how exhausted I
was.
"Rachel," I said as we drove home,
"tell me why I shouldn't be hurt that both you and
Bev kept this from me."
She hesitated. "That was Kim's idea. She
worried that you'd think Bev was trying to get to you
through me."
"Get to me? For what?"
"Oh, Daddy."
"What?"
"Don't be dense."
"Too late. I'm lost."
"That's what's got Kim so upset with you."
"She thinks I don't treat Bev right."
"What she thinks is that you don't get it."
"All right, I'll bite. Bev's taking you
away from me somehow cause I did something she
didn't like or didn't do something she wished I'd
done?"
"No! Not that kind of getting to you. She knew
you'd like it if she got me really interested in
helping people and doing something about it."
"You've always been that way. You got it from your
mama."
"But Bev didn't want it to look like she was
trying to impress you by showing so much interest in me."
I parked next to the house and Rachel reached for
her door handle. "Just a minute," I said.
"Bev already impresses me. She's the best
worker I've ever had, does everything for me,
takes care of me. And it does make me
feel good that she's taken you under her wing. So what
would be wrong with my knowing that?"
The evening was cool and Rachel looked like she
wanted to get inside, but I wanted to finish this.
I'd never claimed to be a smart guy, but
I've got enough a what they call street smarts
to have kept a business alive longer than it shoulda
kept breathing. What was I missing here? "Tell
me," I said.
"Daddy, don't you have feelings for Bev?"
Well, there was some good timing, cause I
didn't know what to think of how I'd felt when
I thought Bev could die. And since I couldn't
get any more optimism outa that doctor, I was
still worried about her, and probably more than I
shoulda been about someone not related to me. "Course
I do," I said. "I appreciate her more than
I can say right now, and her being sick has made
me realize that."
"That's it?"
"For now."
"What's that mean, Daddy?"
"I'm just trying to figure it out myself is
all."
"Have you figured out if she's got feelings for
you?"
"I know she does."
"You do?"
"She takes care of me, Rachel. She's
always been like a big sister. She listens. She
tells me what she thinks. She knows the kind of
stuff I like for lunch and break."
"Wow, isn't that amazing after working for you for ten
years?"
Rachel wasn't sarcastic often. "Well,"
I said, "okay. But she's great, you know? I
couldn't ask for better."
"You ever wonder why she's never dated?"
I shrugged. "Busy? Picky, probably.
Knows her own mind, knows what she wants. Never
found the right guy."
"Yes, she did."
"Well, see, there's something you know that I
don't, cause you've been spending time with her.
But course that'd be kind of an embarassing thing
to talk about with your boss, personal stuff."
"You don't talk to her about your personal
business?"
"Naw," but as soon as I said it I realized
how short my memory was. It hadn't been that
long since I told her about Jacqui.
"Well, not much."
"Why? Cause it's not right to do at the
office?"
"Sorta."
"Why not take her out and talk personal
stuff?"
I shook my head. "We don't see each
other like that. She's older, and--"
"How much older?"
I was thinking six or seven years and almost said
that when I thought back real quick. I had been a
sophomore in high school when she was a senior.
And it had been just a couple years since her big
fortieth birthday bash. "She's, um, two years
older, but see I see her as--"
"Two years is nothing for old people," Rachel
said.
Now I was getting cold. She looked
relieved when I got out of the car, and we hurried
in to the warmth of the front room. She sat on the
couch like she was ready to keep talking. I wanted
her to get her sleep, and I hoped I could rest
too, getting up so early.
"Daddy, you don't know what Bev thinks of
you, do you?"
"I think I do."
"Well, I know I do, so you want
to guess?"
"I think she likes working for me, and she always
treats me with respect and I'd say even
admiration."
"Admiration?"
"Some people find me admirable. Is that so hard
to imagine?"
"Daddy, Bev is old-fashioned. She's not
gonna make a move until you do."
"Make a move?"
"She's desperately in love with you."
Rachel couldn't know that. "Get off it," I
said, trying to keep from smiling.
She stood and headed for her room. "You heard
me," she said.
"You and Kim are dreaming," I called after
her.
"No, we're not," she said. "We're
listening."

I was supposed to sleep after that? I set the
alarm and stretched out, my hands behind my head.
Somewhere deep inside I had known where Rachel was
going, but I couldn't let on. Trouble was, how
bad was this? If I didn't feel the same, was
I going to lose Bev as my assistant too?
And wouldn't Kim love to hear me talking about that!
I admit I missed Bev when she wasn't
there or I was traveling. I couldn't remember not
wanting to get to work every morning, even when there was
nothing but turmoil cause of the layoffs. What
else would I be looking forward to than seeing her?
Besides being great at her work, I always felt like she
was glad to see me and happy to do whatever it took
to make my work easier.
How long had she felt this way?
Old-fashioned is right. Unless I totally
insulted her by never picking up on it or treating
her like a big sister instead of somebody I really
cared about, she'd probably stay another twenty
years and never, like Rachel said, make a move.
I rolled onto my side. A light from behind
the house shined through the edge of the curtain onto
Estelle's picture. All I could make out was
the shape of her shoulders and hair. I forced myself
back to high school and remembered the eyes of a
teenager. But I couldn't conjure the face of the
woman I'd married. I stared and stared and worked
at it, but the face in my mind was
Bev's.
The panic, the concern, the shame over just dumping
her at her house--I knew what that all was now.
It wasn't selfishness. It wasn't worrying
how I'd replace her at the factory. I
didn't want to be without her. If she should die
in the same hospital and from something similar
to Estelle ...
Well, that didn't matter at all. This had
nothing to do with Estelle except that she'd been
gone so long. Bev made me happy. Bev was
a bigger part of my life, of me, than I had
let myself think. I couldn't lose her. And for all
my total embarrassment over the idea of even
putting my arm around her the other day, all I
wanted to do now was hold her. Who else would care
as much? Who else should be standing with her now? I
lay there praying for a good block a time between when I
traded places with Kim and when Bev's parents
showed up.
ICU rules and regulations or not, one of these
days I was gonna get in to see Bev. She'd
need her energy to get better and I didn't
want to mess her mind with something we wouldn't even
be able to talk about till later. But I wasn't
gonna hide my feelings or pretend I
didn't know about hers. If nothing else, I was
gonna somehow let her know that nothing mattered to me
more than her getting better. The reasons and the
details could wait.



I was early, but Kim seemed relieved, and
she brought me up to date quick. Bev had had a
fitful night, but she never woke up enough for
anybody to tell her Kim was there. The nurse
said that whatever good might come from Bev knowing someone
was with her would be outweighed by her need for sleep.
"Should she wake up today, Calvin, would you
tell her I--"
"Course, Kim, and she won't be
surprised. I spose she'll mostly be
surprised that I'm here."
"I was about to say the same, but you are here, and that
means a lot to me, so I know it will to her too.
Do me a favor. If she asks why you're here,
don't say anything, not one word, about work."
"Work?"
"Even if the reason you're here is
because you think she's the best employee you've ever
had, it'd mean more to her if she thought--"
"It's because I'm her friend. Give me a little
credit, Kim."
"There's hope for you yet."
"You gonna be able to get a little shuteye before
heading to work?"
"Probably not," she said. "But thanks for
asking."
"You want me to call you if--"
"That'd be great. I'll probably go home
at noon or so and sleep until evening visiting
hours. Will you still be here or do you have to get to the
factory?"
"I'll be here," I told her. "Praise the
Lord for phones, huh?"

I couldn't believe how long it'd been since
I'd seen the Raschkes. They'd moved out of
Athens City about a month after Estelle died.
I never knew em well, but everybody knows
everybody in a town our size. One thing was
sure, they looked their age. Course they
probably hadn't slept and they were worried. I
couldn't get anything but the simplest greeting out
of the old man and I soon saw that he had some
kind of dementia. The missus took charge, got
the head nurse to bring the doctor, and she and her
husband spent quite a while with him in a little office.
Mrs. Raschke talked to me like she thought she
knew why I was there. "I've heard a lot about
you, Mr. Sawyer, and we so appreciate how
good you've been to Bev." She told me what the
doctor had told her, which was what I'd heard the
night before. When she talked to her husband she put
her face right in front of his and held both his
hands. He seemed like he was on the edge of tears
the whole time and didn't understand much. Somebody
told em they could go in and see Bev for ten
minutes if they did their best not to wake her.
I watched them tiptoe in and go to either side of the
bed. They carefully put a hand under each of hers.
Bev didn't stir. I was so jealous I could
hardly stand it. I wanted to go in there and slip my
arm under Bev's neck and draw her to me, telling
her she was gonna be all right, that I loved her and
would always be with her. Talk about waking her up. That
probably would've killed her.
* * *
It was all I could do to switch gears
and think about football, but the Raschkes said I
should go and fulfill my responsibilities to the
team. I slipped away praying Bev would wake
up soon but sort of hoping she'd wait till
I was there.
We played our second and last nonconference
game that Friday night, September 14, against
the Plateau Pirates. In warm-ups and early
in the game it was obvious they had a good club.
Just like in the first game, everything started out wrong,
specially on offense. Our defense was getting
chewed up too, but somehow we kept em out of the end
zone. Brian couldn't get anything going when we
had the ball. I didn't want to nag, but I
kept looking at Coach like it was time to try
Jackson. Coach kept throwing his hat down and
rubbing his head every time we failed to move the ball
and Snoot had to punt. Finally Coach shrugged and
nodded.
I called for Jackson. He looked up from
the bench like he was startled. I said, "Yeah, you!"
"You like running through fences, son?" Coach said.
"Now's your chance. You run through the hole, boy,
or your next practice is gonna be on a bed
of nails."

At the half it was scoreless, but Coach was still
mad cause the Pirates were making us look
bad. "Hello, Crusaders," he began in the
locker room. "Anyone awake? Can anybody
explain how they can cut through our defense--
except for Naters--like a hot knife through
butter? Abel! I require a reply!"
"Coach, you told us that if--"
"If? If! If my mama was my daddy, I
wouldn't be here. Why don't you go running. Go
run and take Yash with ya."
He lifted them off their seats and pushed them
toward the door. Yash said, "Coach, we're in
a game!"
"Not anymore you're not. Now go!" They would
wind up running laps the entire second half.
Coach whipped his jacket off and turned to his
nephew. "Brian, what kind a sport is
football?"
"Contact sport, sir!" Brian said.
"Contact sport? Everybody agree with that?
Let me see a show of hands." Coach smacked
every hand he could reach. "Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Football is a collision sport!"
He knelt before Brian and pointed in his face.
"You're supposed to be a leader on this team,
son, and you are running our offense like a fat man
on a frozen pond!" He pointed at Elvis.
"Now until I say otherwise, every play is
gonna be a handoff to Jack!"
Everyone froze, including me. We'd all
heard him call Elvis Jack, but I studied
his face on the way back out to the field, and
Coach never seemed to realize it.

The second half was Jackson left,
Jackson right, Jackson up the middle.
Coach roamed the sidelines shouting, "Let the
bone roll!" But even with Elvis racking up
over a hundred yards, we still couldn't punch it in
for a score. With fifteen seconds left, it was
still nothing-nothing, third and goal on their 4-yard
line. We'd played a pretty lousy game
overall, but it sure was fun to be in a close
one and have the fans screaming.
I thought we should let Snoot kick a field
goal, but Buster called time out and told Brian
to send Jackson up the middle. "Coach,"
Brian whined, "they're waiting for that!"
"Jackson up the gut."
But Jackson didn't run up the gut. When
the hole closed he ran right, then circled
back, got tripped up, and fumbled. Brian,
who had stayed put like he was supposed to,
picked up the loose ball. With time running out,
he ran it in for the win.
The crowd and the team went crazy. Elvis ran
to the end zone and jumped to celebrate, and a big
lineman from Plateau sent him sprawling. The
Shermanater pile-drove the Pirate to the
ground, and a huge brawl broke out. Three
guys from our bench raced onto the field and got
into it. Yash and Abel finally quit running and
Yash joined the fight.
When it was finally over and the Pirates were on their
way back to Plateau, Coach told me,
"Remind the boys this wasn't much to celebrate.
And I want everybody on the field once
they're dressed."
I got em out there and Coach started grabbing
guys one by one. "You," he said, pulling Brian
and then Elvis out of the pack and pushing them onto the
sideline, "and you, line up over there." He
kept grabbing guys. "You, and you, and you,
over there."
Finally fifteen guys were separated from the rest,
and I think pretty much everybody'd figured out
that he had picked all the ones who'd been in the
brawl. He turned his back to the others and said
to those fifteen, "I do not believe that fighting
makes you tough." They looked down.
Then Coach spun and pointed at the rest of the
team. "But I know, I know that standing on the
sidelines watching makes you a coward. Now the
rest of y'all don't know what it means to be a
team, and I don't want to see you on my
field again. You go on and go home. Go on!"
It was like the air went out of everybody, me
included. Abel, who had watched from the sideline
when Yash raced onto the field, said, "You've
got to be kidding."
Coach turned his back on him.
I could hardly believe it myself, but I knew
one thing: Buster Sawyer never said anything just for
effect. He had just fired thirty-three guys
off his football team. That just left Brian
Schuler, Sherman Naters, Yash Upshaw,
Snoot Nino, Elvis Jackson, and ten other
guys who, as Coach said, knew what it meant
to be a team. Well they'd really be finding out
now.
Coach stepped in front of Elvis. "You
fumble my ball one more time, and I will not give you
a second chance." He paused. "See y'all
Monday."

I spent every spare minute at the hospital,
but now they were telling me Bev was intentionally being
kept in a coma. The hospital wasn't saying
much--covering their own tails if you ask me--but this
was sounding more serious than I feared.
I sat outside Bev's room most of the day
Sunday and finally went to church that night. After the
service, where we prayed for Bev, Coach told
me, "Got to face the music in the most public
place we can."
"We?"
"You're not still with me?"
"Course, but I got enough enemies in this town.
Former employees, for instance."
"So, I'm on my own."
"What are you asking me to do?" I said.
"Sit with me at breakfast at Tee's before
school."
"That's pretty public, all right."
"That's the idea."
"At least Tee's boy is still on the team."
Back at the hospital that night, I told
Rachel. "I'll be there too then," she said.
"Rachel ..."
"I will. Anybody with a brain knows Coach
did the right thing."
"Cept the kids who got booted and their
parents."
"They're wrong, that's all."
"Yeah, but the man kicked kids off the team for
not fighting, Rachel."
"That's why I'll be with him and you tomorrow morning,
Daddy."
I called Coach and told him.
"Well," he said, "she won't be the only
teenager at our table. My nephew will be there
too."

Next morning, Tee's was packed and people were
waiting for tables. But like she'd known we were coming,
Tee left one open, and Elvis pointed us to it
when we walked in the door. The place went
quiet, but Coach, cool as a poker player,
ordered as soon as he sat down across from
Brian.
Just over my left shoulder at the next table
sat Abel Gordon, his dad, Andy, and
Josie. Out of the corner of my eye I sensed
Andy's hateful stare. He didn't say anything
till our food arrived and we had just looked up
from praying.
"Schuler's a danged lunatic," he said,
loud enough for everybody in the place. Several
obviously agreed. "You don't punish players
for not fighting, especially during senior season
when college is on the line."
"Pass the salt," Buster said quietly.
"And that assistant coach is softer than a
Georgia peach with rain rot."
Now I'm a Christian, but I confess that's
not what I was thinking just then. Rachel's mouth was
thin and tight and her eyes had narrowed. I kept
chewing, trying to be an example. Brian was
looking between Coach and me, as if wondering who was
gonna be the one to shut the guy's mouth.
"No wonder Schuler's own son--"
Rachel dropped her fork and it clanged so loud
everybody jumped, and Big Mouth
actually shut up for a second.
"Ain't it funny," Rachel said aloud, "how
the dumbest people always have the most to say?"
Coach stared at her with admiration, and Brian
looked like he was about to burst out laughing. Andy
Gordon's chair scraped the floor and he
stood. "You ought to teach your daughter to keep her
mouth shut!"
I swallowed. There's a limit to what a man
will take, and Mr. Gordon had just stepped past
mine. I've had laid-off workers and their
families call me everything in the book, but you
say something about Rachel, you're gonna answer
to me.
My heart was racing, and as I stood, so did
Brian, but Coach stopped him with a gesture and
he sat back down. Now all I could see was
Andy Gordon's sneer. "Maybe you ought to watch
your mouth," I said, and he stood there with his eyes
locked on mine, hands on his hips. I'm
afraid what I mighta done to him if he'd
made a move.
Coach stood and whispered, "Sit down now,
Sawyer. This is not the place for this."
He gave me an out, and I took it. But he
wasn't finished with Mr. Gordon. "You know,
Andy, if your boy had the fight you had
twenty-five years ago, he'd still be on my
team."
"My son belongs on that football team!"
Andy's voice was shaky. "You just cost him his
only chance at a scholarship."
"Oh, now there it is!" Coach said. "The
trouble with you people is that you see me, you see this team,
as a gate to greener pastures. But until you
succeed right here, you don't deserve greener
pastures. Your boy and I have different
definitions of success. And I see where he got
his."
Mr. Gordon slapped a bill on the table
and walked out, Abel rising slowly to follow.
He stopped halfway out and came back to get
Josie, who sat there with a red face, tears
streaming. As she stood she looked at Rachel.
"This is why I hate football," she said.
* * *
That afternoon in the fading twilight, Coach and I
stood facing the fifteen remaining players. They
looked scared. On the way out, Coach had told
me to say something inspirational.
"Inspirational?" I said.
"You teach Sunday school, don't ya?
Give em something from one a your classes, then
I'll take over."
"Thanks for the time to think about it!"
"More time I give you, Sawyer, the more you
worry and look for reasons to get out of it."
I couldn't argue that. And now we were standing there,
and he was looking at me. "Boys," I said,
"Gideon went to war against an army of thousands with
only three hundred soldiers, because they were the
only men with the guts to fight and win."
As if we'd rehearsed it, Buster took
over. "I can go to war with even less than what's
right here in front of me. So if any of you are
afraid of getting hurt, or of losing, you can
leave right now."
They sat still except for Elvis Jackson,
who got up off the bench and slipped past Coach
and me. He stopped on the field, jamming on his
helmet and fastening the strap.
Coach came alive. "You know, that's just what
I thought! There is not one quitter on this team!
Now the last one off this bench is gonna run
laps. Let's go!"
The rest leaped up and whooped and hollered. They
gathered around Coach and he barked assignments.
He told Brian, "Outside linebacker," and
Elvis, "Safety."
As Coach continued through the group, Brian edged
up to Elvis and pressed his facemask against
his. "It's gonna take more than speed now,
boy. You're gonna have to show some brains."
"Just call my number," Elvis said.
Coach finished and noticed Snoot Nino off
to the side, sitting on his helmet.
"Snoot," he yelled. "C'mere boy!"
Snoot trotted over, but Coach reminded
him, "Bring your helmet."
As Snoot was strapping it on, Coach said,
"Outside linebacker and wide receiver."
Snoot shot him a double take. "You saying
I'm gonna play? I mean, during the first
three downs?"
Buster put a hand on either side of Snoot's
helmet and pulled him close. "It's time to run
with the big dawgs, son."
"But, Coach, I'm a kicker. I just
kick."
"You line up on the outside, and if
someone throws the ball, you catch it. Now, go!"
He turned to the rest of the team, held his hand
out, and said, "Get a paw in! On three,
Crusaders! One, two, three!" And I swear
I saw more emotion in those fifteen guys than
I'd ever seen on a full team anywhere.

I wished I could've told Bev about it. I
spent time outside her door again, wanting her
to wake up so bad I could taste it.
When I got home Rachel said Elvis had
told her at school that none of the guys thought
they'd win another game with just fifteen players.
I nodded. "Probably can't, but like you said,
Coach did the right thing, so all we can do is the
best we can." I thought a second. "How much are
you seeing of Elvis?"
She looked at me funny. "Just around
school. You know I'll tell you if I start
seeing anybody serious."
I nodded.
"Mr. Kennedy called, looking for Coach."
"He's probably at the rehab center.
What'd Kennedy want?"
She shrugged.
A few minutes later Coach called.
"Kennedy get hold of you?" I said.
"That's why I'm calling. School board had
a meeting tonight and wanted me there. Glad I was
unavailable. They want to meet after school tomorrow
in the gym."
"No practice?"
"Right. And what does meeting in the gym tell
you? Bet everybody'll be there."


Word got around about the meeting, especially when
practice was canceled, and the team wanted to be there.
Coach told em absolutely not. He was sure
some of the kicked off players would be there, and he
knew a lot of their parents would be. Sherman
Naters told him, "We don't have to be
afraid of them. They're the ones who don't
fight."
I was frustrated to where I wanted to burst.
Only place I wanted to be was the hospital.
Rachel said she'd go. "I thought I'd have to talk
you out of going to the big board meeting," I said.
"Nah," she said. "They don't come to mine,
I don't go to theirs. Remember every detail
though, Daddy. Oh, I can't stay long at the
hospital either because of a project."
I made the mistake of asking her if the
project included Elvis Jackson. She
held up a hand and looked me in the face.
"Daddy, you've got to stop this. I would not be
seeing a boy without you knowing it, and certainly not
Elvis. If I tell you I'm running errands
or on a project, then that's what I'm doing.
You used to trust me."
"I'm sorry, honey," I said. "I still do.
It's just that I know he's got to be interested in you
unless he's blind."
"Don't be so sure."
"Anyway, he's not our kind of a kid."
"What does that mean?"
"You said yourself he's not a Christian."
"He's more than not a Christian, Dad.
He's anti-everything about it."

I was amazed how different the gym looked for the
emergency board meeting from what it had looked like
for Rachel's save-the-school deal--no posters
and no big flag. And Coach was right. There were
lots a parents there, and they weren't happy.
The board sat at a straight table in front
of everybody, and the five men and two ladies,
plus their attorney--Mr. Callman, shared
four microphones. "We have just one agenda
item, Mr. Schuler," Fred Kennedy said,
getting right to it. "We're directing you
to reinstate the thirty-three football players
you suspended Friday night."
Buster, next to me on the front row, stood.
"Is there some reason this directive could not have come
to me in private or by phone?"
"I'll take responsibility for that,
Coach," Kennedy said, and he was squirming. "I
don't guess I figured you'd obey."
"And you thought by trying to embarrass me in
public in front of the parents of the very boys you
say I suspended, you'd get a different
reaction to your directive?"
Kennedy started to answer, but Freda Slater,
taking notes at the far end of the table, interrupted
him. "Excuse me, Mr. Schuler," she said,
"but are you implying that you did not suspend these
players?"
"More than implying, ma'am. I did not
suspend them."
"Then perhaps the reason for this meeting is moot."
"Perhaps."
"So they're back on the team?" Kennedy said.
"This was just a temporary disciplinary measure?"
"Would that be acceptable?" Coach said,
surprising the life outa me.
Kennedy looked like he could breathe again and started
gathering his stuff like he was ready to adjourn and go
home. "Absolutely," he said. "Everyone
agree?"
The board members and the attorney nodded and a
few parents even clapped.
"So you're saying," Coach said, "that if I
suspended em for a coupla days, that's okay, but
if I expelled em from the team, that's not okay."
Kennedy looked up and down the table. "Yes,"
he said, but he was kinda tentative, like he was
afraid of some kinda trap.
"Well, then," Coach said, "you might want
to deal with the fact that I did not suspend these
boys. I booted em."
Kennedy cleared his throat. "You heard our
directive."
"I heard you agree they deserved discipline."
Kennedy sighed. "It's wrong to fight, Coach
Schuler. And thus it's wrong to be kicked off a
team for not fighting."
"You said yourself the boys who watched were in the
wrong."
"I, we, said nothing of the sort."
"I thought you just finished telling me that if I
suspended em that was okay."
"Yes, but--"
"So you agree they were wrong and needed
discipline."
"Don't put words in my mouth, Mr.
Schuler. I--"
"I misunderstood you then, sir?"
"No, I--"
"So we're just debating the severity of the
punishment?"
"Well, yes, I suppose."
"All due respect, sir, but my contract
calls for autonomy in dealing with discipline on
my team, even to the point of dismissing players."
Kennedy glanced at the board again. "Anyone have
a copy of Coach Schuler's contract handy?"
They shook their heads, including Attorney
Callman. "Not having it in front of me,
sir, I'd have to review that, but regardless--"
"Mr. Kennedy, are you telling me you asked
me to cancel practice for my very shorthanded team
to discuss my employment, yet you did not come
prepared with a copy of my contract?"
"The purpose of this meeting was not to discuss your
employment, Coach. It was to direct you to--"
"It's not? If I disobey your directive,
you're not gonna take action on my
employment?"
"We did not expect you to be
insubordinate."
"According to my contract, you are in violation of our
agreement; I'm not."
"Sir?"
"You're overruling my contract, usurping my
authority to carry out discipline. Can the county
afford the lawsuit I would file if you continue in
this?"
Kennedy huddled with Callman. "To clarify,
Coach," he said, looking grave, "if we force
you to reinstate these players, you would quit?"
"Oh, no, sir."
"Then we understand each other. For you to continue in
your current role, you are directed to put those
players back on your team."
"I respectfully decline."
"Then we will be forced to ask for your resignation."
"Then I will be forced to sue for breach of
contract."
The crowd murmured, and Kennedy asked for
another few minutes with the attorney. When he
turned back, he asked, "Mr. Schuler, did
you bring a copy of your contract?"
"I would never start a game without a game
plan."
"May we review it, please?"
Coach pulled his contract from inside his sport
coat and delivered it to the table. Kennedy and
Callman sat close, looking at it together.
Coach said, "Page four, paragraph six,
sub point B."
They passed the contract to other board members
while Kennedy and the attorney whispered.
Callman looked like he was really trying to be
persuasive, and finally Kennedy announced,
"We'd like a five-minute recess to confer as a
board."
I half expected people to come up to Coach during
the break and tell him that they either hated his guts
or they were standing with him. But nobody did. I
said, "What do you think's gonna happen?"
"Truthfully? I think I'm gonna get
fired."
"Can they do that?"
"I'd beat em in court eventually, but Athens
City would be merged with Rock Hill by then. What
would that get me but a lot of expense and lost
time?"
I hoped the board was wondering the same thing.
When Mr. Kennedy took the floor again, he
said, "Mr. Schuler, we appreciate your
helping us clarify this issue. We have acted with
advice of counsel as follows. Miz
Slater?"
She stood and read from her steno pad: "Moved
by Mr. Little, seconded by Miss Jarvis, and
carried unanimously that Mr. Kennedy be
authorized to respectfully ask that Coach
Buster Schuler consider the board's most earnest
and sincere request that he reinstate to the Athens
City High School varsity football team
all thirty-three players dismissed Friday,
September 14, 2001."
She sat and Kennedy stood. "Would you do me that
personal honor, Coach Schuler?"
"Of considering your request? I surely will."
"And when might we expect the courtesy of your
decision?"
"Oh, forgive me," Coach said, "but I
didn't hear in that motion a requirement
to report back."
Kennedy scowled and bent to Callman, who
whispered to him. When the board chairman
straightened again, he said, "I'm asking as a
personal favor that you would report your decision
to me within twenty-four hours. Can you do that?"
"Certainly. I can even save you the mystery
and the time. I appreciate your couching your counsel
in the form of a request rather than an illegal
directive. In light of that, I'm happy
to report that I've considered your request and will not
be complying with it."
"Mr. Schuler!"
"I will, however, continue with utmost diligence to perform my duties as contracted and assigned.
I will, to the best of my ability, make my
priority educating and shaping young lives while
hopefully also building a winning team that will make
this city and this county and the school board proud."
"Now, Buster--"
"And I would also like to earnestly request that the
board and parents and students--regardless whether they
agree with my decisions--would do me the personal
honor of continuing to support this team by showing up
at the games and rallying behind the boys."
Someone yelled from the crowd, "I'll save you
the mystery! Forget it!"
People laughed and applauded. "Well, that's
fair enough," Coach said. "At least both
sides got to put in their respectful requests.
Now if there isn't anything further, I have a
big day tomorrow."
A board member mumbled, "Move that we
adjourn," but before Mr. Kennedy could even ask
for a second or a vote, the board up and left.
The crowd mostly booed. I asked Buster if
he wanted to skip out the side door.
"They can mob me there as well as here," he
said. "Let's go. Heads high."
We walked out with everybody else, and scared as
I was, I noticed no one had the guts
to confront Coach. Mostly they ignored us or
talked to each other loud enough for us to hear. When we
drove off, Buster let out a big breath and said,
"I didn't know if I'd be back or not."
Rachel was already home when I got there. I
told her about Coach's bluff and she smiled.
"He's taking a lot a heat at school.
Kids think he's lost his mind. There's gonna
be petitions, kids boycotting the games, all
that. There's gonna be a small crowd at
homecoming."
"Too bad. First league game.
Dickinson's gonna be tough."
"I'll be there."
"Well, figure the Shermanater's ma and her
boyfriend, and that's three. How much noise can
y'all make?"



Mr. Raschke slept most of the next afternoon in
the waiting room. His wife, after thanking me too
many times for their airline tickets, spent most of
her time in with Bev. I was still not allowed in her
ICU room, but through the glass wall I saw
her with her eyes open for just a few minutes when
she talked to her mama some. I wished I was in
there, but when Mrs. Raschke took a break, she
told me Bev wasn't making sense anyway.
"Couldn't understand a thing," she said. "I don't
think she even knew she was talking to me."
"Does she know I'm here?" I said.
"I thought she knew that already, Mr. Sawyer.
I didn't say anything. I don't believe
she was really awake anyway."
Rachel showed up after school and Mrs.
Raschke held her close. "I'll never forget
somebody singing that old Jimmie Rodgers song
at your mama's funeral and you crying your eyes
out, poor thing." Then she broke down for the first time
and I figured she was remembering her own daughter
as a little girl.
The floor nurse joined us and said, "The
doctor is hopeful the repair procedure was
successful and they won't have to go in again. They
don't expect her to be lucid until about
midday tomorrow, but barring any other complications, she
should be out of the woods."
I was so relieved I could hardly speak.
"What about out of the hospital?"
"That may be another week, and she'll need bed
rest at home too. But they're optimistic,
provided she has a restful night and everything
stays positive."
I thanked her and turned away. It'd been a
long, long time since I'd cried. Rachel had
to notice, but she didn't say anything. "God
still answers," I said. She nodded.

I didn't know for sure when Bev would be
conscious and really out of danger, but we had
to talk. At least I did. Only thing
I was afraid of was that maybe she hadn't really
told Kim she cared for me. Maybe Kim was just
assuming based on somethin else Bev said. What
if I went telling her I realized I loved
her and it sent her back into a coma?
The next morning I shaved, showered, ate, and
was out of the house in twenty-five minutes. I was
kinda surprised to find nobody waiting at
ICU, but the night nurse, about to come off her
shift, told me Kim had just left and the
Raschkes were expected by mid-morning.
"The doctor says Miss Raschke should be
awake today."
"No kidding! She doing all right?"
"He's encouraged. Her temp is normal.
They've cut back on the meds, so she's
sleeping on her own, and when her body tells her
she's rested, she'll wake up."
"How long, you figure?"
"Not long. She should be back in a regular
room tomorrow."
I pulled a chair next to Bev's door.
The walls and the doors of all the rooms in
Intensive Care were glass to give the nurses a
good view. I turned the chair to face her and just
sat watching. I don't think she moved for the first
twenty minutes or so, but when the day shift came
on, a couple of different staffers went in to check
her charts and readouts, and I think she knew things
were happening. She looked to be trying to turn
over, then gave up cause of all the tubes and
stayed flat on her back.
I was tempted to make some noise and wake that
woman up. She had to get hungry though,
didn't she? "What time's breakfast come round?"
I said.
Nobody answered. I turned to find the
nurses' station empty for some reason. That wouldn't
last long, but this was my chance. I looked up and
down the hall, then hurried in. Bev had those
little plastic oxygen feeds in her nose, and her
lips looked dry. Her right hand was bruised from the
IV, and her fingers were the only things moving. If
they'd cut back on her medication, she was gonna
start feeling worse all over. Bev closed her
mouth when she breathed in, and when she breathed out her
lips made a little pop.
I found a clean washcloth in the bathroom,
soaked it with warm water, and wrung it out good.
Soft as I could I pulled it slow across
Bev's lips. She pressed her lips together,
licked em, and exhaled again. I dabbed her
forehead, pushing her hair out of her face, then
drew the cloth across each cheek and over her chin,
folded it, and caressed the back of her hand on either
side of the IV feed.
When I returned from putting the washcloth
back a nurse was at the station, but she was on the
phone and didn't seem to notice me. I stood
at the foot of Bev's bed and watched her
sleep, hisses and tones coming from the machines.
I hated that she was here. She had to feel
miserable and uncomfortable. I missed her,
mainly. For days I hadn't talked with her. There
was a fragile quality about her I'd never seen.
I moved to her side and slipped my hand under
hers, careful to not touch the IV tube.
How could I ever explain how I'd missed
what she meant to me? I wanted to cup her face
in my hands and kiss her, but I had no right.
Maybe Bev cared for me too, but I wouldn't
steal a kiss while she was sleeping.
"Breakfast!"
I jumped and let go of Bev's hand. So this was
how they woke em up. I figured I was about
to get booted, but the aide chirped a good morning
at me and started pushing buttons on the bed
to make room for the tray. "You wanna get her
sat up?"
"Excuse me?"
"Take her hand and put your other hand behind her
head while I raise the head of the bed, 'kay?"
I hesitated. "C'mon! Don't let her
breakfast get cold."
The aide mashed a button and smoothed out the
sheets near Bev's feet while I followed
orders. Bev squinted, her eyes still shut, and
put her left hand down to help push herself up.
"Morning, Miz Raschke!" the aide said.
"Breakfast time, honey!"
Bev looked at her, bleary eyed. "I can
eat?" she whispered.
"I'll keep the shades pulled and that light
off till you're ready, ma'am. Just tell hubby
when you can stand some more light."
I said, "Oh, it's, I'm not the--ah ..."
Bev slowly turned to look at me. "I can
eat?" she said again.
"Call us if you need us," the young woman said
and was gone.
Bev's chin dropped to her chest and she shut her
eyes again.
"Let's see what we've got here, Bev,"
I said, lifting the cover off a pitifully
small bowl of oatmeal. Next to it was one
piece of dry toast, cut in half.
She tried to turn her head to look at me again
but all she could manage was to tilt toward me.
"Want me to help you?" I said.
"Time is it?" She sounded drunk.
"Seven."
"Morning? No dinner last night."
"You remember last night?" I said.
"Felt bad for you."
"Bev, this is Friday morning, September
21."
"No, it isn't."
I put her spoon in her hand and tried to curl
her fingers around it.
"Rag doll," she said. "No muscles."
"May I feed you?"
"Oh, Mr. Sawyer, no--" She seemed
to be coming around.
I put a finger under her chin and moved her face
so she could look directly at me. "No more
"Mr. Sawyer,"" I said.
She tried to smile. "No? Then what?"
"Whatever you want to call me."
"Boss."
"I don't think that'll work either, lady."
"You called me lady yesterday at the
office."
"You weren't at the office yesterday. Neither was
I."
"I was sick."
"That was days ago. I don't remember
calling you anything."
""You okay, lady?"' you said."
"Did I?"
"Um-him." She sighed. "Bite."
I took the spoon and scooped a small bit
of oatmeal, touched the bottom of the spoon to my
lips to make sure it wasn't too hot, and
held it to Bev's mouth. "Wait," she said,
laughing weakly. "What'd you do?"
"Checked the temperature. It's okay. You
want me to wipe off the germs? You think I got
cooties?"
She shook her head, looking weary enough to fall
back to sleep. "That's how you kiss
somebody with bad breath."
"What?"
"You kiss something else and touch their lips with
it."
"I was just making sure it wouldn't burn you.
Now, c'mon, open up."
"You don't wanna kiss me?"
There was nothing I'd rather do, but I had no idea
if she'd even remember this.
"Don't," she said, "cause I need
mouthwash first."
"Beverly!"
"You're embarrassed?" she said. "How'm I
gonna feel?"
I put the spoon to my lips again, kissed it
loud enough for her to hear, then fed her a bite. Bev
seemed to have to remember how to swallow. "Plain,"
she said. "But good."
"More?"
"Mm-him."
I held another small bite to her lips.
"Check the temperature," she said.
I kissed the spoon and fed her some more. Four
or five more bites, all with a kiss of the spoon,
and the oatmeal was gone. "Toast?" I said.
She shook her head.
"Anything else?"
She nodded.
"What? What do you want, Bev?"
"Kiss, boss."
"You sure, lady?"
"Find me mouthwash first."



Needless to say, I couldn't wait for the next
day, but there was this matter of a football game that
night. We took a 1-1 record in
nonconference games into our league opener, which also
happened to be Homecoming. Actually, every game
at Athens City was Homecoming, because not that many people
left after high school, and if they did, it was
cause they'd lost their job at American
Leather and couldn't afford to come back anyway.
Families and friends of the fifteen players were there,
of course, and a bunch of students who didn't
care one way or the other but came out of
curiosity, I think, to see if anything would
happen because of all the guys Coach booted. I
didn't see any of the kicked-off
kids, and a lot of their friends must have boycotted us
too.
All that to say we had a pretty small
crowd. The band and the pom pom squad were down
too, and we'd lost one cheerleader whose brother was
a benchwarmer who wouldn't have played anyway.
Otherwise it looked like Homecoming. There were
the usual banners, even one for the team to break through
when we headed out onto the field. But the
Dickinson Dolphins had to know something was wrong
when they had as many fans at the game as we did.
Normally I don't let anything get in the
way of my focus at a game, but when I
looked to see where Rachel was, she seemed so
happy I had to look again. She was motioning me
to come see her. The band was setting up for the national
anthem, so I jogged across the track to the fence in
front of the stands. Carrying two boxes full of
papers, Rachel hurried down from her seat near
Tee. She was laughing. "Tee was wondering if you
and Coach were gonna suit up," she said, but I
think she could tell from my look that she coulda told
me that later at home. "I'm sorry,
Daddy," she said, "but two things real quick."
"Real quick," I said.
She opened the top box for me and there was a
whole pile of signed petitions from people willing
to see the Jack Schuler Scholarship go to saving
the school. I could've told her that the people who
hated Schuler for what he'd done to the team had
signed those cause they didn't care if nobody
got the scholarship now. But I didn't want
to spoil Rachel's fun. She'd finally started
seeing progress.
"Don't know what I think about that, honey,"
I said. "Now what else?"
"Elvis asked if he could take me
to TAG."
"TAG?"
"The After Game," she said. "A little
Homecoming dance in the gym and some snacks, that's
all."
"It's like a date, you know."
"That's why I'm asking you. We'll be home
by midnight."
"You want me to say no so you'll have an out?"
"I'd like to go."
"Be wise."
"Is that a yes?"
"Sure, but we're clear on this
boy, right?"
"Yes, sir. I'm trying to be a good
influence on him." The anthem started and I turned
to head back to the team. "Thanks, Daddy."
* * *
We were awful. I don't know how else to say
it. The whole first half it was Buster throwing his
hat, kicking over coolers, throwing his
clipboard. Nothing was working. Seemed like every
series it was three failed plays and Snoot was
punting. We never even got close enough for a
field goal try, and the Dolphins scored 14
in the first quarter and 7 in the second.
I felt sorry for the kids. It wasn't like
they weren't trying. We were just asking too much of
too few. Eight of em had to play on both offense and defense, and quick as they were, they
hadn't learned yet how to make the adjustment without
a break. Trying to give somebody a breather,
Coach sent Snoot in on defense. The
Shermanater pointed him to the line and set him up
against a monster. Snoot stepped across the line of
scrimmage, pointed in the guy's face, and
yelled, "I'm gonna rip your head off!"
The monster threw his head back and laughed. And
when the ball was snapped, he drove Snoot to the
turf and rolled him over. The little guy had to be
helped off the field, all the while hollering,
"Leave me out there! I wasn't finished with him
yet!"
With us down 21-0, there was nothing to say at
half time. Coach just sat there staring, and I saw
a look I hadn't seen since he came back.
He would open his mouth to say something, then press his
lips together, shrug, and shake his head. Finally he
just pointed at me and I led the team back out
onto the field.
The second half was even worse, and Coach
was furious. At one point he swept everything
off the table behind the bench, cooler, paper cups, and
all, then tipped over the table. Dickinson's
coach put in his scrubs when the game was out of
reach, and we lost 34-0.
Our guys were so beat up at the final gun that
they just collapsed on the field. Some sat, some
lay on their backs, all yanked off their
helmets and sucked wind while our little crowd
clapped for em out of courtesy.
I stood waiting for em to get up. When they
got off the field, Coach and I would
give em their due. I thought. But when I turned
to say something, he was gone. I turned in a
circle and saw him marching out toward his car. I
ran and caught him as he ripped off his whistle and
threw it into the Mustang.
As he dug for his keys I said, "Coach! You
can't just walk out on these boys."
"They won't listen," he said.
"So you're done?"
He reached for the car door. "I gave it a
shot. It's over. It's what the board and
everybody wants anyway."
"You're a coward," I said. He laughed.
We both knew it wasn't true, but I had
to get to him somehow. "When people don't listen to you, you
quit. You did it twelve years ago, and you're
doing it right now."
"Now, you watch it, Sawyer."
"No! What about not moving on until you
succeed right here? What about "The spirit of division
is our enemy." I believe those things. That's
why I'm still here."
He got in the car. "You should have left years
ago, Calvin."
"Look," I said. "All I know is that when
you left, this town started to die. And this town, this
team, Elvis, they need you. And you need them."
He shook his head. "Well, they don't get
the wishbone."
"Then teach em something else."
"I don't know nothing else," he said, and we
both had to chuckle.
"Coach, this team's like your Mustang; they're
fast and quick. You can't keep driving em like they're
a two-ton truck." He looked straight
ahead, and I didn't know what else to say.
"Would you just sleep on that?"

I never relax till Rachel's home, so
I sat on the porch strumming some chords of my
favorite John Prine stuff. I'm no
picker, so the neighbors were probably glad when
Rachel came up the walk just before midnight and
I put the guitar up. I squinted past her and
waved at Elvis Jackson. He saluted
shyly and kept walking.
Rachel sat and laid her head on my
shoulder. "He'll be in love with you fore you know
it," I said. "Careful."
"You've always trusted me, Daddy."
"It's not you I'm worried about."
"He knows enough to worry about you too," she said.
I laughed and told her about Bev. Well, not
all about what happened, a course. Before she could
start bugging me about it I changed the subject
back to Elvis. "How was the, what'd you call
it? TAG?"
"Boring. We went for a walk. I've been
trying to get him to see the bigger picture. I
took him to the train cars."
Three abandoned cars sat on a stretch of
track about a block long at the edge of town.
When Athens City had started dying, so had the
rail line. The doors had been welded open so
kids couldn't get locked in. The walls had
graffiti all over em with names and years of
graduation and stuff.
When Rachel was younger, she often asked me
to walk her there and let her sit and look at the
names. She'd run her fingers over the names and
make up stories about the people. If I let her,
she'd spend hours.
"That's as good a place as any to give a guy
the bigger picture, as you say."
"I think he was impressed, Daddy. Hard not
to be with all those memories on the wall. That
boy's got memories he doesn't talk
about."
I didn't know how much I should say. "Just between
me and you, I checked with the registrar to see where he
was living and he's listed at Orville
Washington's address. Something tells me Mr.
Washington doesn't know that."
"Why?" she said.
"Cause his boys played when I did and he
used to come to the games. Don't you think if he was
putting up a football player, he'd be coming
again?"
Rachel shrugged. "Elvis washes his own
clothes."
"That so?"
She nodded. "Could he use our washer and
dryer?"
"He asked?"
"My idea. I haven't said anything."
"I wouldn't want you doing his wash for him."
Rachel laughed. "Neither would I! I'd just
tell him he can use our machines."
I stood and she followed me inside. "So,
is he open to anything you're saying?"
"He's listening. I promised to help him with
history. I won't hold back, Daddy.
I'm not gonna waste time on a guy who's against
what's important to me."
"Atta girl," I said.
The phone rang. "Am I calling too
late?" Coach said. I told him it was okay and
he said, "You got an offense that'll work with
fifteen beat-up kids?"
"Yes, sir."
"I spose it's some sorta newfangled
passing game."
"Yes, sir."
"Agh!"
"I can keep it simple and have playbooks
copied by Monday practice," I said.
There was a long silence.
"Do it," he said. Least that's what I thought
he said.
"Beg pardon?"
"You heard me, Sawyer."
"Need to make sure, Coach."
"I said, "Do it." Even saying that feels
like swearing. Can I have em by tomorrow?"
"You're gonna call a Saturday
practice after a loss on Homecoming
weekend?"
"I spose not. Fact, I'm going to see
Helena tomorrow morning."
"How early?"
"Early. Why?"
"I, uh, would just be happy to go along if you
needed company, but course if you don't and you'd rather
I butt out, I can do that too. I need to be
back by late morning anyway."
Coach was silent a little too long. Then,
"Why don't you just come out and ask me what an
old alkie looks like, Sawyer?"
"Now, Coach, you know me better'n that. I'm
offering to stand with ya during a tough time is all.
If you're no-thanking me I'd preciate it
if you'd just say so."
Another long pause. "Calvin, forgive me.
That was uncalled for. I apologize."
"Don't mention it."
"No, now I was out of line. I'm sensitive
about Helena and--"
"I understand."
"Actually, I would appreciate some company
tomorrow."
"Count me in," I said.
"Okay, but I'm still gonna need a copy of
your new offense so I can start studying this
heresy."



Morning came early, and on the drive
to Fairhope Coach told me it was unlikely
Miz Schuler would want to see me or even know
I was there. "She doesn't even want me there,"
he said. "Doesn't want her-self there."
"Is there a waiting room?"
"You can wait in the hall. Actually, I
wouldn't mind you hearing how we talk. Or don't
talk. Maybe you got some ideas. I'm out."
"She still mad at you?"
"I wish. She doesn't talk to me at all
now."
We pulled in a few minutes later. "She
sleeping?" Buster asked the receptionist,
removing his hat.
"No, she's been up pacing already. She's in
her room now, though."
Coach motioned me to follow, grabbing a
straight-back chair from the lobby. He set it
outside her door for me and went in.
"Hello, darling," he said, and I heard him
slipping off his jacket and a chair squeaking.
"Hope they're taking good care of ya and that you're
getting some rest. Need anything? Nothing? I can
get you what you want or call somebody for ya.
Nothing? Okay.
"Teaching's going all right, but kids ain't like
they used to be, ya know. I try to make it as
interesting as history can be coming from a guy who
looks like he was there when it happened. You were always
good in history, weren't you? Well, you were always
good in everything."
I heard nothing for a while and checked my
watch. He sat in there more than ten minutes without
saying a thing. I thought I heard him sniffling.
Finally he says, "You ought to see Cal
Sawyer's girl. Remember her? Rachel.
She's a junior now, a beautiful young woman
and a wonderful Christian." There was another long
pause. "Well, love, I won't keep ya.
Just wanted to check in. You let me know if you
need anything, hear?"
She was still ignoring him, and his pain
came over me so fast I could feel my face
scrunching up to keep from crying. I lost the
battle. But just as I heard him turning to leave,
she spoke. Her tone was so cold it made me
shudder. "You think I'm blind and deaf besides drunk
and insane?"
"Of course not, Helena. And tell me you're
making progress."
"You think if you don't tell me you're back
coaching, I won't know?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have told you
myself."
"Why didn't you?"
"I didn't want to upset you."
"So it's better I find out elsewhere."
"I apologize."
"Typical," Miz Schuler said.
"I'm sorry?"
"Typical jock logic."
"All I can say is I'm sorry, darling."
"Won't be satisfied until you kill someone
else's boy?"
I don't know how Coach kept from responding
to that, but maybe he didn't trust himself to say
anything civil.
"You don't need to keep coming here, you know," she
said.
"I come because I want to, Helena."
"You don't care what I want."
"Of course I do."
"Then you wouldn't come."
"I have to do what I think is best for you."
She swore at him, and again he said nothing.
Finally, "I'll see you again soon."
"Don't bother," she said.
"It's no bother."
"It bothers me."
"I know. You said that."
"If you'll excuse me," she said
sarcastically, "I need more sleep." And the visit
was over.
In the car I said, "You want me to keep my
nose outa this?"
"No, go ahead. Got an idea?"
"I was just wondering if she means it. How about
not showing up for a while and seeing what she says?
The staff would tell you."
"What? You think she'd start asking for me?"
I shrugged. "It's none of my business."
"No. It's a thought."
Coach took me home and I sent him off with a
new playbook. He thanked me but left shaking
his head.
An hour later I was leaving the house for the
hospital when I took a call from Mrs.
Raschke. "They tell us Beverly is out of
danger, so Clifford and I are going to have to get
back home," she said. "I wanted to thank you for
every kindness." I offered to have them driven
to Mobile, but she wouldn't hear of it. "I
don't know if Clifford has another trip like this
one in him," she added. "But I believe he
understands she's on the mend now, and I'm glad they
were able to see each other."
She told me Bev was to be moved to Room
316 by noon. I changed into a suit and tie.
That would surprise her. I took a bunch of work
with me in a leather portfolio, including some
baseball glove catalogs. I got there
early and found 316 empty, so I set my portfolio on the window ledge, sat in the
visitor's chair, and started going through my stuff.
A nurse's aide showed up about half an
hour later and made up the bed. "This room will be
occupied soon," she said.
"With Miss Raschke," I said. "Right?"
She pulled a printout from her apron.
"Right."
"I'll be feeding her lunch," I said.
"Oh," she said. "All right, then."
Pretty soon a techie rolled in some
machines. "You waiting for Ms. Raschke?" he
said.
"Sure am."
"Shouldn't be long."
The words were swimming on the page and I was almost
dozing when two men and a woman, all in dark
suits, stepped in. "Morning," I said.
"Hello," one of the men said. "You represent
Miss Beverly Raschke?"
"That would be correct," I said, standing.
"You people don't waste any time, do you? You
local?"
"I am," I said. "And you are?"
They all produced business cards. I took
them and patted my pockets. "Didn't bring
mine," I said. "Name's Sawyer."
"Mm-him," the woman said. "I don't
suppose we'll have an opportunity to talk with
Miss Raschke."
I sneaked a peek at her card and noticed
she was with a law firm. "Not for a while," I said.
"Better give her several days."
"Days?"
"I'd make sure she's at her best," I
said. "You wouldn't want even more trouble, would you?"
They looked at each other, nodded to me, said,
"Mr. Sawyer," almost in unison, and left.
When Bev was finally rolled in and transferred
to the new bed, it seemed like forever before everybody was
gone. "Nice suit," she said, trying to smile.
"That good news or bad news?"
"We're not gonna talk shop for a few
days," I said.
"Yes, we are. I'm hurting, Cal, but I
want out of here."
"Slow down."
"I know, but I'm tired of lying around. And you
and I have to talk."
"We do?"
"Don't play dumb with me, cowboy. I had
a dream about you."
"Tell me."
"You wanted to kiss me."
"So sort of a nightmare?" I said.
"I wasn't dreaming, was I, Cal? Seems
so long ago."
"It wasn't."
"I was so out of it. You caught me at a weak
moment."
"I did?" I said. "You were the one making
demands."
"What?"
I reached into the side pocket of my suit
jacket and produced a huge bottle of
mouthwash. She pressed both hands on her
abdomen.
"I'm not supposed to laugh!" she said,
gasping.
"Sorry."
"You are not."
"No, I'm not."
"Give me some of that," she said.
Bev was able to feed herself that day, but I sat
close and watched. Once in a while she fed me
a bite. I said, "Am I gonna catch
diver-tickle-eye-tis?"
"You deserve it," she said. "But don't
worry. I'd drive you home and leave you to fend
for yourself."
"Ouch."
"Serve you right if I never came back
to work."
"Ginny's doing fine."
"Calvin! Would you do something for me?"
"Anything."
"Fire her."
"How bout I just send her back out
to reception?"
"'Kay."

The next day I whispered to Coach in church,
"You read the playbook?"
"Of course, what do you think?"
"Okay, so?"
Coach pulled a pencil out of the pew back and
scribbled on his bulletin: "The game has
passed me by." I just shook my head.

Monday afternoon before practice I was excited.
I sent the kids out and gathered up my stack of
new playbooks.
When I came out of the coaches room I found
Buster standing there perfectly still, gazing at
Jack's jersey. When he noticed me he
straightened up and started chewing his gum again.
He pointed at the display case. "People say it
was my fault, don't they?"
"Folks say a lot of things," I said. "That
don't make it the truth." He looked at me,
then back at the jersey. I held up my
playbooks. "You ready for this?"
He fought a smile. "I can't tell."
"Coach," I said, "the Bear himself said
football changes, and so do people."
He nodded but looked doubtful. "If I
abandon the wishbone, you think God'll still let me
into heaven?"
On the field the guys stared at my stack of
books. Coach said, "Go on, pass em out."
I said, "Boys, the key to our new offense
is how the receivers spread out. This'll give us
more ways to move the ball and it'll give Brian
a chance to throw to the whole field."
Brian grabbed his copy and started leafing through it
like a madman. "Throw?" he said. "Throw?" He
grabbed Yash's jersey and pulled him close.
"Throw!"
Yash said, "As in pass?"
I said, "About thirty-five times a
game."
"Not a lot of plays for halfbacks,"
Elvis said. "What happened to Coach
Schuler's commandment one?"
"I play the hand I been dealt," Coach
said. "You boys have five days to learn and
execute every play in that book, so I suggest we
get started. Now!"

It was a rough week, and as excited as the boys
were, they still didn't catch on to the new offense
right away. They missed passes all over the
place. When they were open, Brian threw behind
em. When he was on the money, they had
butterfingers. Coach kept shaking his head, but I
knew that when they got it, things would really come
together. Buster would tear a page out of the book and
hold it up, showing everybody the diagram, where
they were supposed to be, what they were supposed to be
doing.
Elvis found out that even though the halfback
didn't run the ball much, he received passes out
of the backfield a lot. Rachel told me she
was helping him run through the formations in the diner after
hours. "Even Tee gets into the act sometimes,"
she said, laughing. "You should see her, playing like
she's Brian, hollering out the snap count and
passing Elvis the ball by the front door."
On Thursday Yash missed a pass cause
he ran the wrong route, and Coach tore out the
page and mashed it into his facemask. "Don't
show up until you know the plays!" he screamed.
"I swear I'm gonna stick with the bone if we
don't get this."
Rainbow 46 Gold was a pass to Elvis that
Brian finally started connecting on. It called
for a wishbone setup and Elvis going into motion as
if he might take a pitch or make a block
but instead sneaking through the line. Brian seemed
to be able to tell with a glance where Elvis would go.
I kept telling Coach, "That play's gonna
work."
"I'll believe it when I see it," he said,
and maybe I was dreaming, but I heard hope in his
voice. Even Rachel and Tee knew the
Rainbow 46 Gold and often worked on it with
Elvis.
Friday, September 28, we showed up for
our fourth straight home game with a 1-2
overall record, 0-1 in the conference,
and a chance to even our record against the Fort Geneva
Falcons. Coach and I were always the first ones there
by a couple of hours. Normally Buster dolled
up a game plan starting early in the week and we
tweaked it till kickoff. This week he hadn't
showed me a thing yet, and I figured it was because we
were working out of the new playbook. I asked him a
couple times if he wanted me to suggest a game
plan based on the new offense, but he never
picked up on it. Just like he didn't answer
anymore when I asked if he wanted me to go with
him to the rehab center again. "You been going without
me?" I said, but he just gave me one of those
looks and I left it alone.
Now we were sitting in the coaches office and he
ceremoniously dropped a laminated sheet,
plays typed on both sides, onto the desk in
front of me. I don't know what made me so
emotional all of a sudden, but I was so disappointed
I almost cried. I just looked at it, read it,
turned it over, studied it, kept my mouth shut,
and looked up at him.
"It's all wishbone," he said.
"I can see that."
"You don't approve."
"No I don't," I said. "I thought you bought
into the new offense."
"You know me better'n that, Sawyer. It's
worth a try, but we're not there yet."
I shook my head.
"If you think I'm wrong," Coach said,
"say so."
"I think you're wrong."
"Fair enough. But we're going with my offense
tonight."
"You still wanna win the state championship?"
I said.
"The state championship?! Calvin, the last
time I looked we were 1-2 and 0-1 and outscored
69-27."
"That's right, and if we go 0-2 in the conference
right outa the gate, we're gonna be in too big
a hole to have a prayer of making the play-offs."
"Man," Coach said, "I really made a
believer outa you, didn't I?"
He was making fun of me cause I had bought
into his dream? Well, of course he was right.
What was the matter with me?
We had even fewer fans that night,
probably cause we didn't look like a good
football team. Nobody likes to watch a
loser. I gotta admit Fort Geneva wasn't
a winner either. They were 1-2 just like we were, and
watching em, I couldn't imagine who they'd beat.
We led 14-7 at halftime, and Buster tried
to be upbeat, but considering the opposition, he
knew better. We were slopping our way through a
game against a lousy team, and we should've been able
to hold on and win.
In the second half the Fort Geneva coach
finally got a clue and all of a sudden we were
running into each other, calling time-out in the huddle,
twice getting called for delay of game.
Late in the fourth quarter they take a 17-14
lead. With just a few minutes left on the
clock, we take over first and ten on our own
20. I keep looking at Coach and I know he
sees me, but he won't look my way. He
knows what I want. We're not gonna wishbone
our way close enough to give Snoot a chance to tie
the game with a field goal, and I want us to try
something from the new playbook.
But, no. Soon we're under a minute to go, and
I'm mad. I'm still looking at Coach, hands
on my hips, scowling. Now we're fourth and one
and have to go for it. I raise both arms at Coach.
He ignores me. Elvis gains a yard for the
first down, but we've only got time for just one more
play.
Coach finally looks up at me and nods.
"Time-out!" I scream, and Brian comes
scampering off the field. I pull him close and
say in his ear, "Rainbow 46 Gold."
"Are you kidding me?" he says.
I shove him back onto the field and I can
see the guys get psyched up in the huddle when
he tells them. Waiting for the end of that time-out was like
waiting for Santa Claus. On the snap the
Falcons start chasing Brian around in the
backfield, knowing that as soon as he goes down
it's game over.
Elvis streaks downfield wide open, but
unless Tee and Rachel figured out the play, I
don't guess anybody else in the stadium was
even thinking about him. All of a sudden Brian
stops and fires the longest pass of his career.
Elvis catches it in full stride and the place
goes strangely quiet as he scores.
We were even for the season and in the
conference with five league games to go, four of them
on the road. Now if I could just get one
stubborn old coach to change his ways.



Bev's recuperating at home, I'm seeing
her regular, and practices are even getting
fun again. We're running the new plays every day,
nothing from the wishbone anymore, and the kids are
psyched up cause we're tied with a couple of
other teams in the middle of the league. The top
two are 2-0, a few others and us are 1-1,
and a couple are 0-2. We haven't played
well yet and maybe it's silly to think we could
actually compete for first place, but at least we
weren't out of it yet. With just fifteen guys, most
people thought we soon would be out of it, but for now we
could enjoy the dream.
On the bus to our game that Friday night,
Coach Schuler was in an unusual mood. He
told the guys to stay aboard when we arrived so
he could give his pregame speech. "We're a
new team with new life now," he told them.
"Season's even and we can determine our own
destiny. We don't care what anybody else
does. If we can win again and keep winning, we can
go places. We're gonna take the wrapper
off the new offense and show it tonight. You know this team
has scouted us and thinks we're an old wishbone
ball club. If nothing else, we'll
surprise em. Let's see how long it takes
em to adjust.
"I'm asking a lot from y'all, most of ya
playing both ways. But like I always say, you got
to play the hand you're dealt. This is us. Let's
see how far we can take us."
The kids were inspired and played one of the most
complete football games I'd seen in ages.
Snoot was connecting on his kickoffs, his punts,
his field goals, and his extra points. He
even caught a few passes and made a couple
of tackles. Brian threw well, the
Shermanater was a terror on defense, and
Elvis--well, Elvis was something else.
He'd given us glimpses before of what he was
capable of, but I don't think any of us had ever seen anything like what he did that night. Any time
he had the ball he was a holy terror, juking,
dancing, stutter-stepping, eluding
tacklers when he had to, lowering a shoulder into em
otherwise. And that speed! "Man among boys" is a clich`e, but that's what he looked like.
And this time, the other team was good. We got em
back on their heels early, didn't let em
score til late in the second quarter, and led
em all the way. We won 40-6, so the ride
home was fun.
We rolled into Athens City about midnight and
Coach told the guys to take Saturday off.
They already had Sunday off, so they went away whooping and hollering. Just before I left I saw
Coach on the phone and he held up a finger
to ask me to wait a minute. When he hung up,
he asked if I'd ride with him to the rehab
center. "Tonight?" I said, looking at my watch.
He nodded. I called to make sure Rachel was
in and safe and said sure.
On the way to Fairhope, Coach finally
admitted he had taken my advice and left
Helena alone for several days. When he'd
called to check on her that night, the woman at the
desk had said she'd like to talk to him in person.
She was an older woman who introduced herself as
Mrs. Knuth. She sat with us in soft chairs
away from the desk but close enough to get to the phone.
"Now, Mr. Schuler," she said, "we have
volunteers who come most every day to visit people who
otherwise don't get visitors. They often come
after their own workdays, so part of my job is
to assign them, keep track of who's here, and
document when they leave.
"Now you didn't discuss with me any strategy
with your wife, but we all know her situation and that you
had been a regular visitor. You were so
predictable that we never assigned any
volunteers to her."
"She probably would have been awful to em
anyway," Coach said.
Mrs. Knuth nodded. "When first you missed a
day, then another, I thought you might be away on
business. But I follow the papers. I know your
profession and I know you've been working your team out
since last you saw your wife. I assumed you had
either become discouraged by her response to you or you
had decided on some new course of action."
I could tell Coach was about to tell her she was
exactly right, but Mrs. Knuth waved him off.
"You need not report to me," she said. "But I
feel obligated to report to you. You
see, your wife has made some progress. She
had a very rough time of it early and, as you know, tried
to escape a couple of times. And you remember we
once caught her on the pay phone trying to order
alcohol from a liquor store. As if they would have
delivered it here.
"But as she dried out, her counseling and group
therapy began to concentrate on her mental rather than
alcohol-related issues. Often times those are
difficult to separate until the patient has
been sober for some weeks. Well, Mr.
Schuler, her very silence in group therapy has
been encouraging. At first she was so agitated and
complained so vigorously that she was removed from the
sessions during the first few minutes each day,
though she was brought back the next day for another
try every time.
"When she was finally silent and sat there, staring
or listening--no one was quite sure which--well, we
took that as a sign of progress."
"I would too," Coach said, looking to me for
agreement. I had nothing to compare it to, but I
nodded anyway.
"Sir," Mrs. Knuth said, "I must tell
you what happened at the beginning of my shift some
weeks ago. I thought your wife might have told
you, but I realize now that she did not. It was a
quiet evening and the only visitors were
volunteers. I was reading but keeping an eye on
the corridor, because when one of the patients heads
my way, I must be sure to trip a lock on the
front door that keeps them in. I saw your
wife coming my way in her robe and slippers, but
she looked as if she had combed her hair and
seemed to be walking, while very slowly, with some
dignity.
"She greeted me pleasantly and then leaned
idly on the counter. I said, "Is there anything
I can do for you, Miz Schuler?"' and she said,
"So you know my name." I said, "Of course
I do, ma'am." And she said, "You know I'm
Coach Schuler's wife.""
Coach recoiled as if he'd been punched.
"She said that?"
"She did, sir. Frankly I was afraid
she was going to go into one of her rants about your son
or say some of the things she often says to you when you
visit. But she just said, "You know he's going
to abandon me.""
Buster's eyes filled and he cupped
his face in his hands. "Abandon her?"
"That's what she said. We have to be careful how
we interact with patients and not expect them
to make sense, so I didn't want to annoy
her, but I knew she had become more lucid
lately, so I countered her. I said, "Well,
frankly ma'am, if I were your husband, I would
have thought that would please you." She looked me
full in the face and smiled faintly. She said,
"The only reason I mention it is that I'm
wondering how one gets visitors."
"I was shocked, of course, and I said,
"You'd like visitors?"' She said, "I would.
And I would behave." I'm telling you, Mr.
Schuler, it was the most encouraging thing we've heard from her since she's been here."
Buster was still fighting tears. "You assigned her
some, I hope."
"Of course. A middle-aged woman and a
teenage girl were just coming out of someone else's
room, and I asked if they could pay one more
visit before they left. Your wife seemed quite
pleased to walk them to her room. When they emerged
half an hour later, they reported that they had
read Scripture to her, prayed with her, and that she
had told them too that you were her husband."
Coach shook his head and asked if he could
leave Helena a note. Mrs. Knuth
produced a pad of paper, and he wrote, "My
Darling, I was here late after our away game and
was sorry to miss you. I love you and will look
forward to seeing you Sunday afternoon. Love,
Buster."
"Mr. Schuler," Mrs. Knuth said, "I
can't guarantee she will be any more hospitable than
the last time you were here."
"I understand. But it helps so much to know what
you've told me."
"You wouldn't prefer to see her tomorrow?"
He shook his head. "I hope I'm giving
her something to look forward to."

I didn't know how much I should tell Bev
about what was going on at the office. I spared her
the worst of it, knowing she would find out everything when
she finally came back to work.
The church was still praying for her, a course, and
I'd rather been sitting with her Sunday than Buster
Schuler, but what're ya gonna do? I was
disappointed when Coach told me he
wanted to go to the rehab center by himself that afternoon, but
I understood. The reason I wanted to go was
probably the reason he didn't want me there:
he might make some progress with his wife. Good
thing I stayed home. Rachel asked Elvis
over. He needed to get some laundry done and she
was gonna help him with history.
I was trading off napping and watching football
when he showed up, so when I stood to greet him
I was lightheaded. This was the first time I'd let a
boy see Rachel in the house, and I didn't
know what to say. Well, I knew what I
wanted to say, but I just said, "Son."
He said, "Coach."
"When you finish your washing and studying, come watch
the game."
He smiled like that was the furthest thing from his mind.
I was only being polite anyway.
It was hard to keep my eyes open, watching a
blowout, hearing Rachel explain the washer and the
dryer and that she was just showing him, not doing it for him.
Then, from the kitchen, I heard just their voices.
Sounded mostly like history to me and she did most
of the talking. I imagined him just looking at her,
trying to see if she'd gaze back. Wouldn't
surprise me to know she was sweet on the kid.
He was well behaved and good looking, but she had
stuff to get settled with him. I wanted to tell
him that Coach had contacted authorities up in
Indiana and that somebody was bound to shake up his
old foster family, but that wasn't my place,
and anyway, nothing had come of it yet.
When the ball game was over, I drifted off
and didn't wake up till Rachel cleared her
throat and asked if it was okay if she walked
Elvis to the highway. He was standing there with a
canvas bag over his shoulder. His laundry, I
guess. "Usually the boy walks the girl,
right?" I said, knowing that sounded dumb.
"Daddy," she said.
"Should I come looking for ya if you're not back
by school tomorrow?"
Elvis laughed, but Rachel didn't. I
waved em off. I knew she'd come directly
back. I'd begun wondering where she was a lot,
but it was time to start letting go. I hadn't quit
being her dad, but if I couldn't trust her by now,
I never could. And I did. In the worst way I
wanted to believe that all the times she was gone in the
evening, she was still doing church and school
stuff and not running off to see Elvis without
telling me. I figured now that they were kinda out in
the open and becoming at least friends, she'd tell me
if she was seeing him more regular.
I was trying to keep myself awake so I'd
sleep that night and be able to get a full day's
work in Monday and still get some time with Bev. So
I put a schematic of the factory on the
kitchen table and got out my geography class
stuff too. I got my lesson planned and
started studying a section of the plant that had been
busy during our heydays but now was just a place for
storage. I could find another place to store
stuff if we got serious about retooling that area
for another kind of manufacturing. I wasn't
able to noodle it long, though, before Buster Schuler
pulled up out front.



Rachel had draped a bulky sweater over her
shoulders. Elvis strode along in a
short-sleeved sweatshirt, toting his laundry
bag and a couple of books.
"Aren't you cold?" she said.
"This is cold to you because you grew up here. In
Indiana this would be like springtime."
"Want me to carry something?" she said.
He handed her his books, pulling them back when
she reached with both hands. "Left hand," he said.
"You're strong enough, aren't you?"
The book spines just fit in her palm and she
held them at her side. With his free hand he
reached around her waist. She stopped briefly and
gave him a look, then wrapped both arms around
the books.
He reached for her again, and when she hesitated
he wrenched the books back. "It's not like I
need you to carry em," he said. "I just wanted
to put my arm around you."
"I'm still getting to know you, Elvis."
"I'm not asking you to sleep with me."
Rachel stopped and he turned to face her,
scowling. "Not attractive," she said.
In the fading light Rachel saw his face
darken. "Sorry," he said. "But, I mean, come
on."
"So that doesn't mean anything to you?"
He shrugged. "It's not like some kind of a
commitment."
"Then I don't want to."
He shook his head. "So now I've done
something wrong? You don't want to walk with me?"
"Not if you're gonna get pushy."
"Rachel! What century are you from? You
don't want to know what I did with my girlfriends
in Indiana."
"You got that right," she said.
"I don't mean that," he said. "But this? This
is junior high!"
"Then you won't miss it."
He sighed. "You're kidding me, right? You think
this is a big deal."
"Bigger than you think, looks like." Elvis
stared at his feet. "So I guess I'll see
you around."
She squinted at him. "That's it then? You got
your laundry done and help with your homework, but you
can walk the rest of the way yourself?"
"Man!" he said. "What is it with you?"
Rachel stepped closer, knowing she was making him
uncomfortable. "Make me out the prude if it
makes you feel better," she said. "But don't
think I'm gonna run home and cry over you."
"You wouldn't miss me?"
"That's the point, Elvis. How would I know
unless I get to know you?"
"Lots of girls want me to ask em out.
I can tell."
"There you go, big guy. Why waste your time on
me when so many don't even care if they know
anything about you."
That stopped him. "Well, wh--what do you
want to know?"
"Some-thing. Any-thing. All I know is you
can really play football, you grew up in a
foster home, and that you came here to--"
"I didn't grow up in a foster home."
"You lied about that?"
"I had real parents until I was ten."
Rachel stood waiting. "That's what I mean.
I'm listening."
"That's all. Got shipped to different foster
families. Left when I was of age." Elvis
looked miserable, like he wished he hadn't even
offered that much.
"Would you sit a minute," she said. "Come on,
right here."
She took his laundry bag and laid it on the
grass near a tree. She sat on one
end and pointed at the other. He set his books
down and sat while she slipped her arms into her
sweater and buttoned it up. "Tell me if you
get cold," she said.
"I don't get cold," he said.
"I told you about myself," she said. "Didn't
I?"
He nodded. "About your mom dying, yeah."
"So tell me about your parents." He looked
away and shook his head. "C'mon," she said.
"Friends tell friends stuff. Even stuff that
hurts."
"You didn't," he said.
"You don't think it hurt to lose my mother?
What kind of a person do you think I am?"
"You didn't say it hurt. You don't act
like it hurt."
Rachel could barely speak. "It still hurts,"
she managed.
"Of course it does."
"You remember her like some queen, and you're going
to see her in heaven someday."
Why was he being cruel? "That's what I
believe, Elvis," she whispered. "I couldn't
go on otherwise."
"And you've got this great dad who's made
everything all right."
"He's been more than I could have asked for.
I'm sorry if you didn't have the same."
"Yeah, well, me too."
They sat silently and Rachel avoided
looking at him. Finally she said, "So, your
parents. What--?"
"I gotta go," Elvis said, standing. He
picked up his books and reached for the bag. She
moved awkwardly and let him take it. He
hesitated. "I'll see ya," he said.
"Elvis," she said, "I want to be your friend.
I really do." He pursed his lips and nodded.
But he walked away without looking back. As she
hurried home, brushing away tears, Rachel
realized she had told him the truth. She was not
crying over him. She was crying for him.



I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing
at how Coach wanted to talk about everything
except what he knew I wanted to hear. I
mean, the man had just seen his wife for the
first time in days, and I was dying to know how it went.
All he wanted to talk about was the new offense.
"Calvin," he said, "I got to hand it to you,
son. This passing game fits our boys and the
fact that we got only fifteen of em. I
believe we can win us some ball games."
I nodded, expecting more. "Uh-huh."
"We could win the conference, Sawyer, and I'm not
just saying that. If we stay healthy and get some
breaks--"
"Come on, Buster," I said. "You sound like every
coach ever interviewed. Keeping fifteen guys
healthy the rest of the season will be enough of a
miracle."
"Not for me," he said. "I'm here to win, win it
all."
"Good. But you didn't drive over here to thank
me for the new offense. How's Helena?"
He shook his head. "I can't figure her
out."
"Took you thirty years to see that modern
football is about passing. So, what, she make
you pay for not showing up for a while?"
"Got the cold shoulder. She says, "Thought
you were never coming back." I said, "Isn't that
what you wanted?"' She said, "Go ahead,
abandon me and blame it on me." I told her
I'd do whatever she asked." His voice got
thick all of a sudden. "She said, "You won't
give up coaching football.""
"She would ask you to do that?"
Coach nodded. "I told her I'd given it
up for twelve years and I would give it up again
if that would make her happy."
My eyes must've been bugging out. "Don't
tell me you're quitting. You couldn't be, coming
over here and bragging me up about the new offense.
You can't break your contract after you threatened to sue
the county if they breached. You said, "We could
win the league." Tell me you're not here to try
to give me this team."
"Cool your jets, Sawyer. You are without a
doubt. I told her I'd quit if that made
her happy and I meant it. I was scared to death
she was gonna call me on it."
"She didn't pick up on it?"
"She said she wanted me to quit only because I
wanted to, and I told her I didn't want
to. She said, "I want you to hurt as bad as
I hurt." I've learned not to argue
with her, Cal. I know better'n to start competing
over who hurts the worst. I told her,
"Helena, I'll do whatever you want. Quit
coaching. Quit coming to see you. Or keep coaching
and keep coming to see you."
"She looked disgusted like she couldn't stand me, but
she just said, "I know you're going to do what you
want to do anyway, so do what you want." I
said, "Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow." And
she said, "Suit yourself."
"On my way out I see Mrs. Knuth and
she tells me that Helena actually showed her the
note I had written her, not knowing that it was
Mrs. Knuth who delivered it to her box.
Mrs. Knuth said, "Isn't that nice?"' and
Helena told her, "He's a fool." But you
know what, Sawyer? She says Helena went
back to her room and still had the note with her,
slipped it into her pocket on her way down the
hall."
"That's good, isn't it?" I said.
Coach nodded. "Coulda been worse."
* * *
He was gone by the time Rachel got home, and it
was a good thing. Something had happened and she was ready
to talk. "I won't be seeing Elvis much
anymore," she said. "He was just using me to get
his laundry done and get help with his history."
"You're not even gonna be friends?"
"I don't think he wants a friend."
"Maybe he's shy. You ought to try to draw him
out."
She took off her sweater and leaned back against
the door to her room. "Daddy, we don't talk
about the bad times too much, do we?"
"The bad times?"
Her shoulders slumped. "Yes," she said, as
if I'd just said the stupidest thing she could
imagine. "I'm sure you remember."
"God brought us through it," I said.
"We just concentrate on that, don't we?"
"Try to stay positive, sure."
"But Daddy, it wasn't easy. I had awful
days and lots of them."
I nodded. "So did I. Still do sometimes."
"We should talk about those, because sometimes I think
we're pretending there's only one way
to remember Mama, and it's just the good stuff."
I stood and stretched. What had brought this on?
"Your mother was the finest--"
"See, Daddy? I know that! And I'm not
trying to remember anything bad about her. But
we're so used to saying that God brought us through and that
we're gonna see her in heaven again someday--"
"And we are."
"I know, but let me finish! We say all that
so much that, it makes me forget what I went
through."
"I'd rather not remember, honey."
"Me either, but that's just it! It isn't real. I
mean, I know it's true about God and Jesus and
heaven, but who can believe us when we talk about Mama dying and act like it was the best thing that ever
happened to us?"
"The best this--?"
"You know what I mean! Sure, we'd rather she
was still with us, but we act like it's okay because we'll
all be together again someday."
"I believe that, Rachel."
Suddenly she was sobbing. I reached for her, but
she covered her eyes with one hand and held up the
other to keep me away. "I believe it,
Daddy! But I was so young! I understood my mom
had died and yet I didn't really understand, and
sometimes I still can't! It was like someone had sucked the
air out of the world and I couldn't breathe. I kept
expecting to see her, and lots of times I thought
I did. I dreamt about her. And I wanted
to talk to her about how hard it was!"
"I did the best I could, Rach--"
"Daddy, you're the best and I love you and I
don't know what else you could have done. But I
remember years, years of a blackness inside
me, a hole I couldn't climb out of. And I
couldn't shake the feeling that it was my fault."
"Rachel!"
"I know it doesn't make sense, but I
didn't know it then, and I couldn't talk to you about
it. But if I had been a better girl, if I
had obeyed more or been more quiet or more helpful
or--"
"Rachel, don't!"
She finally let me embrace her. "Daddy,
I know. I wasn't responsible and there was nothing
I could have done, but when you're that young you don't
know. I said the right things enough times that I believed
them. I know Mama is better off. I know
she's with Jesus. I know I'm lucky to have a
dad who loves me. But I don't think other people
realized what we were going through. It's not
their fault either, but I don't want to pretend it
wasn't awful."
I was rocked. She'd always been such a good
kid that I thought she was tougher than I was, that
she had dealt with things better than me. Maybe
I hadn't handled her the way I should have. I
wanted to ask her what had brought this on from walking
with Elvis Jackson. But she was through talking.



Rachel awoke at 5:30 in the morning and
wrote a note to Elvis Jackson.
"It hurt me to feel awkward around you
yesterday, and I could tell you were uncomfortable
too. Can't we talk? Doesn't our argument
seem petty now? I want to be your friend, but that
takes two. Though it hurt, you struck a nerve
when you implied I was unrealistic about my mother.
You're right. I've hidden the truth. I don't
know what happened to your parents and I don't need
to know unless you want to tell me. But it's clear
you have not glossed over your pain. It's made you
angry, but my dad tells me that most people's
strength is also their weakness.
"Well, that must work both ways, because if what
you've pushed down inside you and won't talk about
has made you angry, it's also made you driven
and persistent. I can't see your eyes when you run
with the football, but I imagine that the look on
your face when you're refusing to be caught and
tackled is the same as when you refused to tell
me about your parents and when you accused me of
pretending I wasn't suffering. I'll make a
deal with you. I'll tell you the truth about what
it's been like for me if you'll promise to do the
same.
"You can take your time. For all I know you
haven't ever been able to tell anyone. You were young,
and if your relatives wouldn't take you in, they
don't seem like the type of people you'd open up to.
And since you kept getting passed to different
foster families, well, obviously that wasn't
the right kind of atmosphere where you could talk with people.
And you said you ran from the last family, so ...
"What do you say, Elvis? I'll be in the
courtyard at lunch. If you don't want to join
me, it's okay. And like I said, I'll do the
talking this time. You'll learn you can talk to me.
It'll be just between us, and I won't ask
you again to tell me what you're feeling. I don't
know if this makes any sense, but I sure hope
I see you at lunch."
Rachel would pass Elvis in the hall after first
hour and hand him the note. Paying attention in
calculus was impossible. What if he went a
different way to avoid her? What if he wouldn't
look at her, like yesterday? Well, if it came
to that, she knew where his locker was. She could
stick the note through the vents and hope he saw it
in time to decide what he wanted to do at noon.
Rachel's heart thundered as she headed for
second hour, the note folded small in her
palm. She spotted Elvis from a distance and thought
he saw her too, but as they got closer, he
flushed and she couldn't catch his eye. He was
fumbling with his books. Scared as she was,
Rachel was not going to let the moment pass. She
angled toward him and stood in his path. When he
stopped, forcing a smile, she thrust out her note
--just as he handed her one. Both notes dropped
to the floor. They both knelt to grab them and
banged knees. She said, "This reminds me of
when we met."
He laughed. "Don't remind me. Gotta
go."
"Oh!" she said, realizing she had picked up
her own note. They traded and she ran to second
period. She felt like a junior higher, using
her textbook to hide the note as she unfolded
it at her desk.
When she saw the simple printing, she pressed
a hand to her neck and a sob rose in her throat.
"Dear Rachel: I'm sorry about what I said.
Will you forgive me? I just want to be friends too and
you don't have to feel any pressure. Let me
know. Love (as a friend) Elvis P.
Jackson."
Rachel put the note away, only to slip it
out again twice more before the end of class. Each time
she unfolded it she was overcome with a feeling that
Elvis was in some ways stuck at the age when
he'd lost his parents.
She knew nothing would be longer than her
classes before lunch. Elvis would come, she knew
it. But lunch break was so short. She wanted
to say enough but not too much. Above all she wanted
to give him a glimpse of her real self and get
him used to telling the truth about his deepest
feelings. She pressed her fingers above
her eyes and realized this would be new to her too.

Though Elvis had quickly become one of the stars
of the football team, Rachel noticed he
didn't seem to have any friends. She had eaten
lunch with him a few times, finding him by himself eating
a snack, never a meal. Though he worked at
Tee's, and Rachel knew he wasn't paying
rent, he had apparently decided not to spend his
money on lunch either. Once she asked him how
he could get enough fuel and energy for football
practice with just a bag of chips for lunch.
He'd smiled. "I can't," he'd said, "without
this," and he held up his carton of chocolate
milk.
"Yech!" she said. "Corn chips and
chocolate milk?"
"Two chocolate milks," he said, and though
he grinned as if he enjoyed repulsing her, she
knew he had to be self-conscious. "Lunch of
champions," he added. Rachel tried not to look
disgusted. She wondered how he could look so
healthy and strong and clear-skinned. "I make up
for all this after work every night," he said. "Tee
fixes me what ever I want, and I always want
the same. Rare steak and mashed potatoes."
Rachel had wondered what he did for breakfast,
but it was none of her business.
Today, as she sat in the courtyard with her lunch
and an open book in front of her, Rachel
couldn't eat. She couldn't read either. Josie
came out from the cafeteria and invited her in.
"Tomorrow," Rachel said. "Thanks anyway."
"C'mon!"
"Can't today."
"Well, sor-ry!"
Rachel laughed it off. If Elvis showed up
soon, Josie would see why she was unavailable.
And here he came.
Rachel smiled and waved, but that seemed
to embarrass him. He carried one chocolate
milk, and she guessed he had already eaten his
chips and drunk the other carton. "Do me a
favor, would you?" she said, as he sat across from her
in the grass. "Throw this sandwich away for me? I
had too big a breakfast, and I'm not gonna
eat it."
"You sure?"
"Unless you want it. I hate to waste it."
"If you're gonna throw it out," he
said.
"Please, really."
He unwrapped it while she pretended to finish
reading. She, had made the sandwich from leftover
chicken, lettuce, and a little butter and
mayonnaise. He seemed to shudder with the first big
bite, and he ate fast. "I can hear you," she
whispered.
"Sorry," he said, his mouth full. He
took a gulp of milk. "Great. This is great!"
She shut her book and smiled. "I'm glad
you came."
He looked away, his face red. "So you
forgive me?"
"I do," she said. "And I want to talk to you
about, you know. But we don't have much time." He
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded.
"I figured out why I sounded phony about
losing my mom," Rachel said.
He raised his index finger. "I didn't mean
phony, but--"
"Sure you did, and you were right, but Elvis,
I've been doing that for so long, I didn't even
know. I think I talk like that because of my dad. Not
that he makes me but just because I know it might hurt
him if he knew how hard it really was for me."
"He doesn't seem like that kind of guy,"
Elvis said. "The way he looks at you and
talks to you, he seems all right."
"But we usually only talk about my mom
having been so wonderful and being in heaven now."
"I know. It bothered me because I thought you were just
being, what's the word ...?"
"Unrealistic?"
Elvis nodded and looked away, busying himself
with the lunch trash. "I wasn't saying it wasn't
true, because I guess if you believe it, that
makes it true. I just couldn't believe you could,
I don't know, take it so well with what you've
had to go without and all that. Maybe you are okay with
it after all these years."
Rachel stacked her books and sat up
straight. "I want to admit something to you,
Elvis, but can I argue with you too?"
He smirked. "You already proved that."
She looked at her watch. "We're not
gonna be able to finish this now, but--"
"I was hoping we'd have to talk again."
She felt her face flush. "I just want
to say that you were right. I don't only
remember good things about my mom's death, but for so
many years I've said what people want to hear and what
my dad wants to hear. I believe it cause
it's true, but you hit my problem right on the
head. I've kinda pushed down my other feelings
about all that. They try to come back now and then, but
I just start smiling and talking about how much God
loves us and has taken care of us, and I keep
ignoring the bad memories and the stuff that really
hurts. And I don't think that's good."
"It's not honest, anyway," Elvis said.
"True. But I disagree with something you said--that
if I believe something, that makes it true."
"Seems like it."
"Even if it's not true?"
He cocked his head. "It's not like I've thought
it through. It's just that there's stuff I used
to believe and I don't anymore. It's not
true to me."
"But it's true to other people?"
"If they really believe it."
She stood and gathered her things. "We better
get going. My next class is in Corridor
D."
"I'm in C. I'll walk you."
"So, let me ask you, Elvis. Is something
true if you believe it but not true if you
don't?"
"Uh-huh."
"So my mom's in heaven with God and I'll
see her there someday if I believe that. But if
I don't believe it, she's not there?"
They stopped at Elvis's class. "You
might be too smart for me, Rachel."
"No," she said. "But I might be more
logical. By your reasoning, if something's true
because you believe it, then it's not true if you
don't."
"I guess, yeah."
"So if I get killed in a car wreck tonight,
I'm only dead if you believe it?"
Rachel thought she had drilled home her
point, but Elvis clouded over as if she had
punched him in the face. "Don't even say that!
Why would you say something like that?"
She was flattered. He didn't want to think
about something awful happening to her, but he had to see
that whether he believed it or not had nothing to do with
whether it was true. "I'm sorry," she said,
smiling. "I'm just saying--"
"You're saying nothing to me!" he said. Just
forget it!" And he left her standing there.



Rachel stopped in to see me after my class and
asked if I would drive her to Tee's Diner after
practice so she could talk to Elvis.
"I thought you weren't gonna--"
"Daddy, please. Will ya?"
"Course."
"But I don't wanna be seen waiting for you.
How bout I visit Bev and you pick me up
at her house?"
I nodded and started to walk her out, but she
wasn't finished. "Daddy," she said, "what
happened to Elvis Jackson's parents?"
I had to think about that one. "I know what he
told Coach and me," I said, "but unless he
wants to tell you himself, I don't guess I
ought to."
She told me about their notes and their conversation.
I looked at the floor. "You were trying to get
him to tell you about his parents?"
"Eventually. I know it's too hard for him
now, but if I can be honest about Mama, he'll
open up. But I said something wrong. I was just
trying to show him he was being illogical about what's
really true or not."
"Let me just tell ya, you chose the wrong
example."
"They were killed in a wreck, weren't they?"
I nodded. "You can't let on that I told you
that."
* * *
I had to run to catch up with the team as they left
the field house for practice. "Glad you could
make it," Coach said. "Should I make you run
laps?"
"Probably," I said. "It'd only be
fair."
"Hey, how's that secretary a yours doing?"
I'd've been hung out to dry if I called
her a secretary in the wrong company, but I
didn't need to get into that with Coach. I brought
him up to date. "She got a case against
Memorial?" he said.
"Probably," I said, "but she's not the type
to go after em. She'll say everybody makes
mistakes."
"Quite a mistake," he said. I nodded.
"Anyway, glad you're here, Sawyer. You
wouldn't a wanted to miss my Longleaf Pine
speech."
I chuckled. "Heard that one three years in a
row."
"You wanna give it?"
"It's all yours, Coach. I wouldn't want
to steal that thunder."
"It inspired you, though, didn't it? C'mon,
tell the truth. Did I waste my breath on that
one?"
"Nah, it was all right."
"Just all right? I always thought that was one a my
best."
I smiled, remembering how some of the guys
snickered behind his back.
"What? Now, come on. That speech carried me
to a lot of championships."
"Then I know you'll do your best with it today."

The guys were finishing up a scrimmage when
Coach called em around. "Take a knee!" he
said. "Helmets off. I wanna tell ya about
one of my favorite trees. That's right, this is
a tree story. I've long loved this tree, not
cause it's so beautiful, but because if you know something
about it, you gotta respect it and learn from it."
"Learn from a tree?" Sherman Naters said.
"Why don't you wait till the end of my
story till you decide whether it's got anything
to teach you. I been talking bout this tree for
years, but it wasn't until nine years after I
left Alabama that the state legislature
proved they were smart as I was and named it the state
tree. Who knows what tree I'm talking about?
Anybody? Nobody? Come on, you don't
remember this? I heard about it in Kansas City
forevermore, and they didn't teach you kids about it?
Who can guess?"
Yash raised his hand. "Some kind of pine."
"Yes, sir! Some kind of pine, all right!
What kind?"
Nobody spoke.
"Coach Sawyer, tell em what kind of a
pine we're talking about."
After all my bragging about memorizing his speech
I couldn't remember. And he had just told me.
All I knew was that it had real long needles.
"Long-needle pine!" I said.
"Oh, Coach Sawyer, I should make you
run!"
"Longleaf Pine!" I said.
"More specific."
I shook my head.
"The Southern Longleaf Pine, gentlemen!
What's so special about this tree? I'm gonna
tell ya! The Southern Longleaf Pine can get
big around as four feet and stand 150 feet
tall. That's a big tree, but you know what it
looks like before it's five years old? Anyone?
Before it starts shooting up and developing
foot-long needles and cones big as a cob a
corn, it looks like a little lump a grass.
That's right. The top is just needles, and all the
growth those first few years is happening under the
ground. Know why I'm telling you this? Huh?
Anyone?"
"Cause we're out of our trees?" Snoot
said, and everybody shook laughing.
"Well, you are, but that ain't it," Coach said.
"Bear with me. I'm serious now. If that tree
can hide itself and do all that secret growing and
establishing a foundation that can withstand 150 feet of
height and four feet of diameter, how about you?"
Boy, did that bring back memories! Coach
hadn't forgot a thing. By the time I was a senior,
we coulda said that "How about you" line in unison
with him. "Well?" he thundered now. "How about you?"
"How bout us?" Brian Schuler said, looking
around, fighting a grin. "Ain't we something?"
Guys giggled and elbowed each other, but
Elvis Jackson shouted, "Shut up! You
guys stupid or something? The point's obvious.
We're little more than nothing now. Nobody even
sees us building. We started out losing and then we
were even, then we lost again and won again, and now
we're one game up on the season and the league.
It feels a whole lot better at 3-2 than
it did at 1-2, doesn't it? But we're the
only ones who know we're heading toward the league
championship, then into the playoffs, then the state
championship. We're nothing but a clump of
fifteen needles right now, but come the finals
we're going to be towering over everybody else.
We're going to be 150 feet tall and four
feet around. We're going to be the big old
Southern, what'd-you-call-it, Coach? Man!
This would have been so much better if I could have
remembered the name of that tree!"
The team laughed so hard most of em were crying,
including Coach. "The Southern Longleaf Pine,
Jackson," he said. "And I couldn'ta said it
better myself, cept I woulda remembered the name."

I stood in the long shadows watching the end of that
practice and remembering the day when Buster
Schuler would've tore some heads off before he would
let anybody laugh at one of his inspirational
stories. But he had gone past that. He not only
let em laugh, he laughed with em. Course, it
helped that Jackson got the point and pretty
much taught it to everybody else before missing his
exit there. But what had happened to Coach? First
he'd let me doll up a new offense, and now he was allowing boys to get the point and get
motivated without his bullying em?
We always ended practices with suicides, a
series of sprints that really tested who was in shape
and who wasn't. There was a way of faking how hard
you were going, of course. Any coach worth his
salt could tell. Sometimes you made guys run more
when you thought they were dogging it. Other times you let
em off cause they'd played hard and practiced
hard and you didn't wanna run em into the ground
before the next weekend.
Strange thing that day, though. Nobody dogged
it. They seemed to enjoy it. Elvis always outran
everybody, but Brian and Yash would give him a
run for his money, and they usually wound up working
harder trying to see who came closest to him. Today
they did that and so did everybody else. I swear
everybody was faster, working harder, and seeming to have
fun doing it. Course even Jackson had
to turn it up a notch, cause he would not be
beat, no matter how psyched up everybody else
got. Heck, I even got into the action. I
forgot how old I was, how gimpy the knee
was, and how final-exam tired I was. I
used to be able to run pretty good and still had a little
spring in my step. Course I took off about ten
feet ahead of the guys, then turned around and ran
backwards till they almost caught me, taunting
em, making em holler about me cheating. "Come on,
ladies! Can't catch an old man?"
After all that, as Coach and I were picking up the
gear, the guys raced each other to the field
house. That wasn't something we told em to do. In
fact, it wasn't something we expected. After a
good hard practice and a long round of
suicides, the guys usually dragged their tails
in.
"You see that, Sawyer?" Coach said, heaving a
bag of balls over his shoulder.
"I see it, but I don't believe it."
"Something's happening with this team, son. They're
coming together."
"I think it was the speech, Coach."
"Okay, Sawyer."
"I do. I think you got em believing they can
be like the Southern what-was-the-name-of-that--?"
"Shut up."

We liked the feeling in the locker room, and
after the boys cleared out, Coach and I sat
talking. "You know what, Calvin, I been seeing
a little progress with Helena."
"Seriously?"
"She wants to see you."
"She does not."
"I'm not lying. She can still be cantankerous, but
there's some kinda softness coming back, something I
haven't seen for years. That Mrs. Knuth says
Helena is still sometimes telling people--when I'm not
there a course--that she's my wife. I mean, more
people. I'm not sure what that says, but it sure
doesn't seem like she's gonna keep hounding me
to quit."
"Why she want to see me?"
"We've been talking a bit about the past. I
keep trying to steer her away from the bad stuff, you
know. But she remembers you, and I talk about you a
little. She remembers Rachel."
I should've told him I thought she'd already seen
Rachel, though she probably didn't know it.
I'd let Rachel tell him, if she wanted
to.
"She's curious about other people too," he said,
"and ones I'm sure she'd like to see. But she's
embarrassed about where she is and doesn't want
to see em till she starts getting out a little. But
she knows you know where she is anyway, so ..."
"I'll come soon as I can," I said.
"I've got some other news for you, Sawyer.
News from Indiana." He grabbed a manila
envelope out of his desk drawer and slid out a letter
and a form and picture. "Is that a face or
what?"
It was a little girl with big, sad eyes, kinda
greasy hair, smiling bravely. The
form said her name was Jennifer Lucas.
"Jackson's foster sister," Coach said, his
eyes bright. "Look at the letter. They got her
outa that trailer."
"Where to? Another foster home?"
"They've got her at some kinda central
home."
"Ugh. Like an orphanage?"
"I guess. But that's better'n where she
was."
"We hope."
"Listen to this. "We appreciate your
interest, Mr. Schuler, and you may rest assured
that we will do all we can to insure the safety of every
child under our jurisdiction. You may also let young
Mr. Jackson know that we will keep confidential
his general whereabouts, as he is now of age and
entitled to his privacy. However, I would
consider it a personal favor if you would inform him
that Jennifer asks about him and would undoubtedly be
encouraged to hear from him. I would be happy to pass
along any messages and he may feel free
to call the following number without fear that anyone will
determine his whereabouts."
"Jackson see this yet?"
"Thought we'd tell him together," Coach said.
"But I'm sure he's already run off."
"Yeah. To Tee's. Rachel's gonna see
him there tonight. I'll have her tell him we wanna
see him during his afternoon study hall tomorrow."
"You can come early with all you got going on?"
"I'll make it work."

I drove to Bev's feeling like I'd downed a
cold drink on a hot day. Besides the news for
Elvis, the team was up, Coach was encouraged, and
Bev was slowly getting better. I was still raising
a kid on my own and watching the slow death of a
business, a school, and a town, but nobody ever
promised everything would be rosy. Anyway, I was
in love.
Rachel was there, waiting for me to take her
to see Elvis. I didn't expect to see
Kim, but it was okay cause she seemed to be
easing up on me. Bev was asleep, so Rachel
went to the car and Kim and I talked in the living
room.
"You're doing more than could be expected,
Cal."
"More than you expected, you mean?"
"I'm sorry I've been so hard on you.
It's just that you mean so much to her."
"Well, she means a lot to me too, Kim.
I'm just sorry it took something like this to make me
realize it. I don't know if I was her whether
I'd have waited that long for me to get a clue."
Rachel seemed put out when I got to the car.
"I don't want to miss him, Daddy. They
close early and he gets outa there as soon as
he can."
Driving over there I told her to tell him
Coach and I needed to see him the next afternoon.
"I'm not sure he's even gonna talk
to me," she said.
"He'll talk to you."
"You don't know everything."
She hadn't said it as mean as it sounded. I
gave her a look, but it wasn't like she said
something that wasn't true. I didn't come close
to knowing half of anything. "Who could shut you out,
honey?" I said.
"He's pretty mad."
"He can't think you said that on purpose. How
could you know about the wreck?"
"How did you know?"
"He told me. Told me and Coach."
"Then he probably thinks that's how I know."
I pulled up just south of the diner.
"Speaking of Coach, Daddy, there's something I
need to tell you."
"Shoot."
"Bev and I saw Miz Schuler at the
rehab center."
"I figured."
"She didn't know who we were and we didn't
tell her. She said we looked familiar and that
she bet we were from Athens City. We just told
her we were friends and that we wanted to read some Bible
verses to her and pray with her."
"Yeah?"
"Then she said something weird and Bev and I just
looked at each other and didn't know what to say.
On the way home we decided we wouldn't tell
anybody, but there's not much I don't tell you."
"Cept that you and Bev had become buddies.
Did you promise her you wouldn't tell me what
Miz Schuler said?"
"No, but you have to promise not to say anything."
"To Coach, you mean? Is this something he should
know?"
"If it's true, he knows. I don't know,
maybe you already knew this. Maybe he told you.
For all I know, she could have just been babbling."
I was curious, but I wasn't going to make
Rachel tell me.
"Bev was reading Luke 145 to her, something
Bev says she likes to read to women when she
doesn't know where they're coming from as far as what they
believe and all."
"Remind me what it says."
"Oh, let's see, it's that one about Mary that
you hear at Christmas. "Blessed is she who
believed, for there will be a fulfillment of what the
Lord told her." Something like that."
I nodded.
"That really got to Miz Schuler somehow. She
looked real sad and dazed. I figured maybe
she was disappointed in God, like that promise
wasn't for her, you know? But pretty soon she
interrupts us and she says, "The Lord gives
and the Lord takes away." I thought I knew
what she was talking about."
"Jack."
"Sure, but she wasn't. She said, "God
took my baby girl." Scared me to death,
Daddy."
"Her baby girl?"
Rachel nodded. "Bev says, "You lost a
baby?"' And Miz Schuler says, "Before she
was even born." That's when Bev and I looked
at each other and Bev asked if she could pray.
Miz Schuler didn't say anything, didn't
bow her head or close her eyes or anything.
She just kept staring, and Bev prayed for her. Then
we left. Did you know anything about that?"
I shook my head. "And it's not the type of a
thing I could ask Coach about either."
"Should I have told you?"
"It's okay."
I told Rachel I was willing to wait, but
she said, "I hope Elvis and I will talk
awhile, Daddy. If we do, maybe I can get
him to walk me home. If I can't, I'll
call you."
"I'll be sound asleep soon, hon."
"Well, if I don't call in half an
hour, I won't need a ride."
I couldn't really sleep without Rachel safe
and sound in the house. I sat by the phone, still
dressed and nodding off. Finally, she
called. "I just wanted you to know you could go to bed,
Daddy. He's gonna walk me and we'll
talk on the porch."
"Everything's all right, then?"
"I didn't say that, but this is a start."



Rachel had found the door locked at Tee's
but the lights were still on, so Elvis had to be there.
She knocked and knocked until he emerged from the
back. He stopped dead and frowned, then
unlocked the door and backed away, dragging a
chair out from a table. He sat and looked up at
her. "Thank you," she said. "I'll seat myself."
He said, "I've still got a lot to do here."
"Then let me help you. I'm not done talking
to you, and I need you to walk me home so my dad
doesn't worry about me."
"And you think all you have to do is say the word and
I'll do that?"
"Elvis, I'm sorry for whatever I said that
made you mad. But you have to understand that I don't do
this stuff on purpose. I asked you to tell me
about your parents the other day and you blew me off.
I used a stupid story to make a point today and
set you off again. I thought I knew how to talk
to people. Most kids like me and don't get all
bothered by what I say, even if it's something
dumb. So can you give me a break? If I
insult you, can you just assume I didn't do it on
purpose? Cause I wouldn't."
He looked down and she thought she might be
getting through. "Elvis, I see something in you that you
don't see. You've got this shell around you that
keeps you from, I don't know, seeing stuff."
He sighed.
"I know that sounds silly," she said, "but it's
like your world is small. I mean, this is a small
town, maybe smaller than where you came from, but
you're all tied up inside yourself and you're missing
stuff you could be excited about."
"You're back to "Everything's beautiful"
now?" he said. "You admitted losing your mom
wasn't some Sunday school story you could tell
all your life."
"You're right and I was being phony, even if
I didn't know it. But look at you. Do you have
any friends?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"See? I'm not trying to put you down. It's
just that I see this guy who could be so cool, who people
would love if you'd give em a chance. You've
got so much going for ya, but you've also got this
attitude. I know more about you than anybody in
town, but I hardly know you at all. You won't
let me in. Does anybody know how you got
here? Where you're from? That you didn't have parents?
Okay, you had parents until you were ten. But
see? You're looking at me like I'm saying
something to hurt you, and I just want to know you." She
stopped and shook her head. "Come on, give me
a towel or a broom or something and let's get
this place done so we can talk at my house,"
Rachel talked as they worked, feeling as if she was
building a fragile wall that kept falling around
her. "All I'm asking is that you give me a
chance, Elvis."
"A chance? You didn't even want me to touch
you!"
"I thought we were past that! I told you, I
don't take that lightly. If you'd think about it,
look outside the personal little fort you've
built, you'd let me know enough about you that I'd
believe you really want to be my friend. Who knows?
I might even hold your hand." Elvis scowled.
"C'mon! That's a joke. Give me a laugh,
at least a smile. You're not gonna treat me
like some girl from back home, because I'll bet they
didn't know you either. Am I right?"
He was wiping down the counter. "Yeah," he
said.
Half an hour later, as they walked to her
house, she said, "Okay, I'm starting, but one of
these days, it's gonna be your turn. You wanna
know the truth about my mom? I was only five, but
I knew it was coming. She was real sick, and then
she went into the hospital. I don't know how I
even knew about people dying or getting better, but I
wasn't hearing the answers I wanted when I
asked my dad or my grandmaw when Mama was coming
home.
"They'd say they didn't know or they weren't
sure or they wanted her home as much as I
did. I never believed that. I wasn't good at
putting things into words, but nothing was like it used to be.
Grandmaw or my dad putting me to bed just
wasn't the same. They didn't hug the same.
They didn't smell the same. They didn't
read me the right stuff or sing me my
song.
"Every night they tried harder and must've got
hints from her. I don't know. They probably
told her I wasn't sleeping well or that I
was getting up in the night, and they'd all of a
sudden start reading me the same stories Mama
read me or singing the same song. But that wasn't
what I wanted. I wanted my mom back and
I didn't want to wait any longer." Rachel
looked at Elvis in the darkness. "You sure you
want to hear all this?"
"If you want to tell it," he said, emotion in
his voice.
"I got to see Mama about once a week, and
she looked worse every time. Somehow I knew she
wouldn't be coming home unless she started to look
better. I'd say, "Mama, you're white!"
and someone would tell me not to say that. I'd say,
"You got more tubes than before," and I'd be
told not to say that. I'd say, "I want you
home," or "Sing me Sunshine," and I'd
get shushed. Finally I got so mad at
everybody telling me not to bother Mama that I just
started crying real loud. I was hysterical."
Rachel's eyes stung. "Grandmaw and one of
my aunts were saying, "Don't make Estelle
go through this. Take her out." Daddy picked me
up and I was yelling, "I just want Mama to sing
Sunshine to me!" He was crying when he set
me down in the hall and held onto me so I
wouldn't run back in, but next thing you know,
Mama was calling for me. I said, "She wants
me! Daddy! She wants me! Let me go!"
And he made me promise to be quiet if he
took me back in.
"I would have done anything, anything to not get
dragged away from her, no matter how sick and
tired and pale she looked. My dad took me
back in, holding my hand, and Mama reached to me
from the bed, saying, "Come here, sugar."
"I looked around to see if it was okay, and
even though the big people all looked at each other and
shook their heads, Mama kept reaching. Daddy
lifted me up and held on so I wouldn't put
too much weight on her or get tangled in the
cords. I didn't care about the medicine smell
or how I could see her veins through her skin. I
was with my mama again and I was doing more than just giving
her a quick kiss or letting her hold my hand.
"She put her arms around me and tried
to pull me close, but she was so weak. Daddy was
still holding me so I wouldn't hurt her. And then
she started singing. "You are my sunshine.""
Rachel's throat caught and tears streamed.
""My little sunshine. You make me happy when
skies are gray."" She whispered now.
""You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away.""
Rachel couldn't go on. She wanted to tell
Elvis how her mother was never able to do that again and how
even though Rachel had promised, she couldn't
help crying and screaming again when her dad finally
had to pull her off her mother. She had taken those
words to heart and believed with everything in her that she was
her mom's sunshine and that Mama didn't want
anyone to take her away.
Rachel stopped walking and tried wiping her
face with her hands. Elvis had turned away and
his shoulders heaved. "May I use your
sleeve?" she said.
He turned, sobbing, and offered his arm. She
bent and wiped her face on his shirt and he
embraced her. He cried and cried on her
shoulder, then backed away and wiped his own face.
Finally they walked on. "See?" she
managed. "Truth hurts. It's easier to just
remember that when my mom died she was finally not
sick anymore, she was with Jesus. It was what
I'd been taught and needed to believe so bad.
That was sure easier than what I just told you, which
I haven't even talked about to my dad since the
day it happened. I don't know if he even
remembers it."
They reached Rachel's house and sat on the
front steps. "Let me tell you something,"
Elvis said. "I'll bet you anything he
remembers everything about it and that it hurts him just as
much as it hurts you."
They sat inches apart for several minutes and
finally Rachel leaned over until her shoulder
touched his.



I never really sleep till Rachel's
home. I heard her and Elvis on the front
porch till late that night. I couldn't make out
their words, but she did most of the talking. That girl
can talk to anybody. Wish I was as good at it.
Wish I had her faith too. Rachel
really believes God answers prayer. I do
too, course, but not like her. Even keeps a
prayer list. I'm on it. So's Elvis and the
school and the town, even American Leather. I
don't know how she keeps it all straight and I
worry when she doesn't get the answers she
wants. She just keeps it up anyway.
I dozed off and on for a couple of hours and
thought about going out there and telling them to call it a
night, but finally Rachel came in and Elvis
left.
It didn't take me long to conk out. Next
thing I knew the alarm was going and it didn't
seem I'd moved a muscle all night.
Man, I needed that. Ginny had things under control
at the office, and as usual I arrived to dozens
of notes asking about Bev.
"Mr. Charles for you," Ginny said over the
intercom.
Chucky Charles. I grabbed the folder
labeled "Dixie States Association of High
Schools," not that there was a thing in it I didn't
know by heart. Chucky was their commissioner, a big
man with huge hands who liked smacking his friends on
the back. I'd received my share of good-natured
whacks over the years. I picked up and asked
him how were things in Little Rock. Unlike
usual, he wasn't small talking.
"Calvin, am I a straight shooter?"
"Nothing but, Chucky. Fire away."
"I ought to do this face to face, but I can't get
down there and can't expect you to get up here before you
might hear it from somebody else. I can't have that."
"Uh-oh," I said.
"Yeah," Chucky said, and he swore.
"We're going a different direction starting next
fall."
I couldn't speak. This was it. This was the company.
They say your life flashes before your eyes before you
die. Well, I saw hundreds of faces of people
I'd worked with.
"I know we're a big part of your business,
Cal."
He didn't know the half of it, and I sure
wasn't gonna tell him now. "Worldwide,
Inc.?" I guessed finally. They were hurting
everybody.
"Yeah. And you gotta admit I told you we
were being courted."
"Too late to counter? We can't
sharpen the pencil, look at some ways to--?"
"You can't compete with em, Cal. I wouldn't
ask you to. They gotta be losing money on us the
first two years. And even when their standard pricing
kicks in during the third year, it's so much
lower--"
"They manufacture in--"
"Korea, yeah. I went over there, Cal,
because we don't make changes like this lightly. I
had to be convinced they could match your quality. I
wouldn't have switched otherwise. It's a bottom
line thing, bud. I got people to answer to."
The longer I sat there the harder it hit me.
We hadn't taken Dixie for granted. They were
the core of our business. He was shutting us down
and didn't even know it. "I appreciate you being
straight with me," I said.
"Never had complaint one with you guys, Cal.
You know that. You fixed problems on the spot. And
I'll never forget you driving those balls up
personally during the shipping strike."
"So, nothing we should learn from this?"
"Well, yeah. You know you got to go overseas,
pal. Handwriting's on the wall."
"I know. Thanks for telling me yourself."
"Only wish I could've come there. But I just
came outa the board meeting, and you know this is
gonna get out quick."
"You have to announce it?"
"Better than just letting it get around, hey?"
"Yeah" I said. "Wish you could give me some
time so I could tell my people myself."
"They know about individual accounts and care that
much?"
"They know about yours, Chucky. Everybody here
was proud to be your supplier."
"You'd better do it today then."
"Gonna miss you."
"Well, Cal, thanks. Anything goes sour
with Worldwide, we'll come crawling back in three
years."
To what?
Ginny didn't know me well enough to tell I'd
just got the factory's death blow. She brought some
mail while I was staring at the ceiling, trying
to imagine breaking the news to the company. "Find
me the number for Mr. Seals in Malaysia,
would you?" I said. "International Athletic something
or other. And before I call him could you get
Marion Grant on the phone for me?"
I ran a hand through my hair, waiting to talk
to my chief financial officer. I wouldn't just
roll over, but I'd been through this before, trying
to keep the place breathing as business went
overseas. It didn't take a genius to know we
were out of options. The intercom crackled. "Mrs.
Grant is in a meeting, sir."
"Tell her it's an emergency."
"Tell me it's not Bev, Calvin,"
Marion said a minute later.
"She's better today."
"Thank God. What's up? Ginny said it was
an emergency."
"As in Dixie High Schools."
"Oh, Cal. No."
"I wouldn't kid ya."
Her sigh made me feel better, but not much.
"You know we're remarkably profitable, Cal,
but we haven't got enough to carry us a quarter if
we can't replace that business. And where do we
find--"
"We don't. Can you imagine how many new
accounts it would take to--"
"No," she said. "You're right. Dare I
suggest the O word?"
"No choice but overseas anymore, Marion.
I know this won't be scientific, but can you tell
me what the numbers say if we outsourced the
rest of the business at half the production cost?"
I heard her tapping her keyboard. "We could
make that work," she said, "but we've always known that.
Our reserves would be eaten up with severance
packages."
"I know."
"You considering that?"
"If I have to let everybody go anyway?
Might as well make some money on the accounts
we have. I wouldn't lay people off because I was going
overseas, but if I laid em off cause
business was down, somebody's gonna get our
accounts anyway."
"We're going to have a public relations
nightmare."
"Not if I give the profits back to the
workers."
"Cal, don't be rash. Everybody knows
you're fair, but you mustn't feel obligated
to--"
"Sure, I do! I'm not saying I'll give
it all away. But, Marion, these people
have, have--" I couldn't go on. The emotion of years
of fighting washed over me. "They've hung with
me."
"Of course," she said. "Let me do some more
crunching here."
When I hung up Ginny knocked and poked
her head in. "Excuse me, but could I ask
what the emergency is? It's not Miss
Raschke, is it?"
I shook my head. "Just business. I'd
appreciate your confidence in this."
"You mean not tell people something's going on?"
"That's what I mean."

I wasn't gonna sit there doing nothing. I
can stand being a victim for only so long. My mind
was reeling with what I was supposed to do about
everybody who ought to know. I had to tell Bev;
I sure didn't want her hearing it somewhere
else. And what about Rachel? She'd been
praying for American Leather.
Maybe if I cashed in on the deal I could
donate money to the county to keep the high school
open another year. That would get Rachel through. I
was mad at the people who had signed her petitions.
She didn't know it was mostly parents of the
kicked-off football players making sure no
one got the money. Anyway, if you could believe
the newspaper, the fund wouldn't begin to fill the
hole the school was in. I had to face it.
Business was going belly up, school was closing,
town was dying. Only thing we had left was a
ragtag football team starting to show promise,
but I was probably kidding myself about that too. Had
we beat anybody good yet? Could we win the
conference and get into the play-offs without getting our
helmets ripped off?
I called Mr. Seals in Asia and woke
him up, but he came alive quick. "Have you thought
about a trip over here with an associate, Mr.
Sawyer? Can I pencil you in for--"
"Let me cut to it," I said. "I need some
numbers. I'm gonna fax you info and you're
gonna keep it confidential or every contact I
got in the business will know you're not trustworthy."
"You can count on me, sir," he said, sounding
hurt.
"I assume I can," I said. "I'm just
trying to impress on you how important this is."
"I got it."
"I wanna know, if I start having my
cowhide supplier send you the raw goods, dye,
tackiness, and texture built in and ready for
cutting, what the bottom line is."
I could tell he was scribbling and I could hear
him breathing. "Um-him," he said. "Okay.
Yes?"
"I'd have to lay off my staff, cept for
sales, and finance severance packages, unload
my equipment, which--as you know--is probably
worth something only to one other company in North
America. Then I'd have to sell my building and
property, which is fast declining in value cause
the loss of this business is gonna kick the last
crutch out from underneath a crippled town."
"Yes ..."
"But I basically become the middleman, my
sales guys brokering the pretreated raw goods,
you assembling em to our specs and quality
satisfaction ..."
"Absolutely."
"Then you ship to our accounts and handle all the
billing and collection."
"Got it."
"What I need to know is my profit per
unit."
"You understand it will vary with quantity."
"Of course. I'd need those breakdowns."
"And we're doing everything?"
"Even customer service and account
management," I said.
"Turnkey. Which carries a cost."
"I understand. How long would it take to get a
figure from ya?"
"I'd say twenty-four hours from when I have
your numbers in hand, Mr. Sawyer."
"Fine, but I want a notarized document
verifying that it's not a quote, not a
guesstimate, not a first offer. We're not
negotiating. If I don't like the number,
I'm not gonna come back and ask for a higher
one."
"I don't understand."
"Course ya do. You give me your best deal
right out of the box or I take my business
elsewhere."
"You don't want to haggle?"
"No, sir."
"Never heard the adage, "The first offer ought
to embarrass both parties"?"
"Heard it. Like it. Probably started it. But
that's not how I wanna play this one. You know
well as I do that you got neighbors right there in the
Pacific that'd be happy to take a run at your
offer. I'm not giving business away."
"I respect that," he said, "but I have a
caveat too."
"A what?"
"Call it clarification. I need you to tell
me on good faith that you're not just fishing. Our best
people will come up with an offer I believe you'll find
most acceptable, but I would like to know--since you've
been forthright with me--that this represents serious
interest on your part. You're not just satisfying your
curiosity."
"I'm not making any promises, if that's
what you mean."
"Yet you want an iron-clad offer."
"That's right."
"Just so we understand each other," he said.
"Well, if you want to understand me, Mr.
Seals, I still hate the idea of an American
like yourself taking all this business into a depressed
economy and taking advantage of people who will work for
next to nothing. If I didn't feel like I was
beating my head against a wall and accomplishing
nothing but having bricks fall on me, I
wouldn't even consider this."
"I wish I could convince you that we are a
legitimate business that benefits Americans
by keeping costs down--"
"But you know you'd probably just start to rile
me, so--"
"Exactly."

Marion Grant is a warm but no-nonsense
lady, and she looked surprised to see me
buzzing around energetic-like after hearing death in my
voice on the phone. "I'm not laying anybody
off," I said.
"Calvin, slow down," she said, printouts in
her hand. "Emotion has no place here."
"That's the trouble," I said.
"Perhaps, but we'd be remiss if we did
anything rash."
"I just did," I said, and I told her about the
fax to Mr. Seals.
"That doesn't sound rash at all," she said.
"And if we get an acceptable offer, we can couch
the announcement in favorable terms.
While the plant is closing, business will continue
and the profits will, in part, serve to benefit our former
workers."
"I'm gonna do it by length of service."
"Tenure, of course."
"Some people will make as much as if they were still working."
"Calvin, that's not sound."
"I'll sleep on it."
"At least."
"But I won't change my mind," I said.
"You know me."
She snorted. "Who but you would have hung in this
long?"
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Same way I praise my grandson for his
energy."



I wasn't in the habit of taking calls from
Kim. I worried she was calling about Bev, but
she started by asking how I was doing. This was the worst
time for a chat.
"You don't wanna know," I said.
There was a pause. "You're right, Calvin. I
don't, as long as Bev still has a job when
she's better." If she only knew. "Just
wanted you to know," she said, "we have one motivated
patient today. This girl wants to get well and
get back to work."
"Well, that's good, but it'll be a while,
won't it? What's the latest from the doctor?"
Kim ignored the question. "What have you been doing
to make her so perky?" she said. That stunned me.
Bev hadn't told her about us.
"Couldn't tell ya," I said. "Just trying
to be a supportive boss, you know."
"Liar."
"It's the truth."
"Okay."
"And you might not want to tell her this, Kim,
but Ginny has really been working out well here.
Bev should take her time and not worry about a thing,
and if Ginny proves irreplaceable, well,
I'm sure we can find something for Miss
Raschke."
"Go soak your head, Calvin."
"Anything else?"
"Not till I get some details about you
two."
"What's Bev say?"
"Not enough."
"Well, you're not gonna get a thing outa
me."
"Cal!"
"You didn't call just for that."
"Actually I did. No details?"
"Thanks for calling, Kim."
"Give me some-thing."
"Bye."

I was dead in the water till I heard back
from Seals, and I figured the longer I hung
around the office the more likely someone would see from
my look that something was up. I wouldn't deny we'd
lost our biggest account, but it was way too soon
to be playing taps for American Leather. We
had to finish supplying the football season, even
for Dixie High Schools, and I could
truthfully say I was working to do right by my people--even
if I couldn't tell em what that meant yet.
I left for my meeting at school with Coach
and Elvis, telling Ginny where to call me in
case we got a fax from Malaysia. It went
totally against my grain, but I dug my cell
phone out of the charger--where it'd been for at least
three months. Most folks in Athens City still
avoided em like sushi. If I had to carry one,
it sure wasn't gonna be where anybody could
see it. And I set it to vibrate instead of ring.
Let people think I was running to the head if that thing
started humming. Your reputation could be ruined by one
custom ring in public, especially if it was some
melody from a New York musical.

Elvis came in to Coach's office looking
scared. "I'm studying," he said, sitting across from
Coach and me. "I don't know what else I can
do. Coach Sawyer knows I got the best tutor
here."
"You're teetering academically," Coach said,
"but you're eligible. That's not what this is about."
He slid the envelope from Indiana across the
desk and let Elvis take the stuff out himself.
The boy moved his lips as he read. Then he
straightened up and laid the picture of Jennifer
Lucas on the desk next to the letter. "You understand
what they're saying?" Coach said.
"Pretty much," he said. "They got some kind
of, um, restraint--"
"Restraining order to keep the dad away.
Yeah."
Elvis's hands were shaking. "I almost brought her
with me," he said.
"Count your lucky stars you didn't pull
something like that," Coach said. "You'd been up to your
neck in it, boy."
"But I told her I was going to, then I had
to leave before she knew I was gone."
"That been working on ya?"
He nodded and his chin quivered. "I almost
didn't make it as it was. She would have slowed
me down."
"You stay on sixty-five all the way?"
He nodded.
"They'd had you before you got outa Indiana,"
I said.
Coach nodded. "And Lord help ya if you'd
crossed state lines with a minor. Mercy."
Elvis covered his eyes. "I couldn't call
her. Not at home."
"Well, you can now."
"She's going to cry. She'll want to come
here."
"No way."
"I know. So what's the point?"
"She wants to hear from you."
"It'll just make it worse."
"Maybe a letter."
"Yeah, I'll do that." He looked at the
stationery. "This address?"
"They'll get it to her."
"Why'd you do this, Coach?"
Schuler waved at him like it was nothing.
"Cause I said I would. I keep my word."
Jackson dropped his head again. "I
don't."
"What do you mean?"
"I gave her my word I'd get her out of
there."
"She's out. She's safe. Be glad and
don't muck things up."
"But I promised her."
"You shouldn't a done that."
"But I did."
"You didn't have the right. You promised something you
couldn't deliver."
"Story of my life."
Coach stood and looked through the blinds into the
empty locker room. He turned
back with a sigh. "Don't be doing that now. Keep
your head up. She's gonna be all right."
"You don't understand."
"Don't understand? You don't know who you're
talking to, boy."
"She's the age I was when I got stuck in
foster homes," Elvis said. "She'll be
praying every night that somebody will take her,
wondering why I lied. She'll turn out just like
me."
"And how's that?"
"Can't trust anybody."
"I ought to be offended," Coach said. "You
don't trust me?"
"I'm starting to."
"I should hope you are. I tell you something, I
do it."
"That just makes me feel worse."
"Jackson! You'd have never seen that girl again
if you'd tried to bring her with you. You'd be
incarcerated in Indiana somewhere and she'd
probably be back with that same family. You
did the right thing. You got out, you told somebody
who could do something about it, and you made her life
better."
"She won't see it that way."
"Someday she will."
I leaned forward. "What'd you mean you almost
didn't make it?"
He shrugged. "Hitchhiked. Got sunburn.
Blisters. Ran out of money."
"What'd you eat?"
"Not much, once the money was gone."
"You steal?"
He shook his head. "Almost. I was already scared
a picture of me was circulating. I couldn't
risk it. I was at a convenience store where this guy
I was riding with was buying food for his dog. I
almost slipped something in my pocket, but there were
mirrors and, for all I knew, cameras. I
rode in the back of the pickup with the dog, and the guy
opened the dog food and poured it in a bowl before he
started driving again. Stuff was like meat-flavored
marbles."
"You ate dog food?" I said.
Elvis gave me one a those teenage looks.
"No. I asked the dog what it tasted like."
"Git back to class," Coach said.
"Thanks for doing this," Elvis said.
Coach waved at him again. "You
write to that girl now."
"What can I tell her?"
Coach cocked his head. "About what?"
"About what we're going to do for her."
"It's been done, son."
"You're leaving her in an orphanage. She's
not going to get adopted. She'll wind up in
another foster home."
"There's good foster homes, Elvis."
"Maybe. Guess I just wasn't lucky."
"There's only so much you can do."
Elvis looked shocked. "Man, that doesn't
sound like you," he said. "Didn't see that one on
the wall in the locker room."
"Git."
"Coach, really. I don't want to sound like
I don't appreciate--"
"Go on now."
I held the door for Elvis and he whispered,
"Isn't there something else we can--"
"Scuse me," I said, grabbing my pocket.
"I gotta run. We'll talk later."
"Where you going, Sawyer?" Coach said.
"Be right back."
I waited till Jackson was out of sight,
then grabbed the phone. "Mr. Seals is trying
to get hold of you in a bad way," Ginny said.
"I didn't figure you wanted him to have this
number."
"You figured right. Let me have his and I'll
call him in a little while."
I slipped back into Coach's office. He
was in his chair, facing the wall. "Kid's a
piece a work, ain't he?" I said.
He spun back around and banged his hand on the
desk, and on that big ol battleship-gray
metal job it sounded like thunder. "He's getting
to me with that little girl," he said. He scratched his
ear like he does when he doesn't want people
looking at him. But I couldn't help it.
"You've got a daughter, Sawyer." He
pointed to the picture. "Isn't she sticking in
your craw?"
"High schoolers think we have unlimited
means," I said. "They think everything's
possible."
"We do have unlimited means compared to them," he
said. This from a guy living in one room of his little
brother's house, tapped out by the co-pay on his
wife's treatment.
"Yeah, I've got a daughter," I said.
"What your excuse?"
He tipped his head down and peered up at me.
"I know what it's like to be a parent," he said.
"I remember."
"I'm sorry I said that, Coach. That was
stupid."
"Just don't forget about that little girl," he said.
"I don't guess you'll be letting me."

I had an hour before class, so I sat in a
corner of the smoky teachers lounge and called
Mr. Seals. As I was waiting for him to come to the
phone, Jacqui from the copy center peeked in and
waved at me. I nodded and wished I hadn't.
She hurried over. "You on hold?" she
whispered.
"Sort of."
"Hadn't seen you for a while. Wondering what you
were up to."
"Oh, just senior club activities, you know.
Shuffleboard and bingo at the home."
"You're senior class sponsor?" she said.
"No, I meant, me, you know, senior--just a
minute, Mr. Seals."
"I have a problem, Mr. Sawyer," he said.
"Just hold a second, sir." I turned
to Jacqui. "Long distance."
"You live in a home? I thought your daughter
was a junior."
"I was just kidding. I'll talk to you, h'm?"
I turned back to the phone. "Mr. Seals!"
"Sir, I don't understand the figures you
submitted. I was under the impression you were talking
about shifting your entire operation here."
"That's what I'm studying, yes."
"And this represents the extent of your
business?"
"Too small for you?"
"Well, it might be, I mean, for us to give
you the most competitive per unit rate. I was
expecting something substantially larger."
"And why was that?"
"Mr. Sawyer, you must realize that I'm not a
telemarketer. I don't do cold calling,
hoping to find an interesting business. We do our
homework. We have your annual report. We
study the trade journals and the appropriate
Internet sites. According to my research, the
prospectus you faxed us today
represents little more than half the business you
grossed last year. Am I reading it wrong?"
"If the copy is legible, you're reading what
I sent."
I wondered if I'd lost the connection.
"Hello?"
"I'm here, sir. I, uh, just want to say that
we will do our best to come up with as attractive an
offer as we can. But if we were basing this on what
we thought were the parameters of your operation last
year, we could have been much more competitive."
"Mr. Seals, if the parameters of my
operation were close to what they were last year, I
wouldn't be looking to sacrifice a hundred jobs
to slave labor."



Practice that afternoon was another eye-opener.
"I could get used to coaching just fifteen
players," Schuler said.
"It ain't the number, Coach," I said.
"It's the kids."
He made a noise and moved away from me,
and the boys, looking crisp, ran through a bunch of
plays. I caught up with him. "What? I say
something wrong?"
"Naw. I just thought you were gonna say it
wasn't the number, it was the coach."
I bowed from the waist, hands raised. "That goes
without saying, great one."
"Sawyer, you are without a doubt."
After practice Coach and I stopped at
Tee's before going to see his wife. Elvis kept
glancing my way while clearing tables. Finally
he motioned me to come talk to him. "Okay if I
come over and see Rachel tonight?"
I was gonna see Bev after visiting
Helena. "Long as you stay outside till I
get home, probably about nine."
He nodded. "She there now?"
"She doesn't know you're coming?"
"No."
"Don't you think you ought to arrange this with her
first?"
He looked down. "She gave me kind of a
standing invitation to finish a talk."
"Uh-huh. Well then, be sure you stay
standing."
He quickly looked up at me.
"That was a joke, Jackson."

Coach and me were the last ones out of Tee's, and
Elvis was still working. We got to the rehab center
a little after six-thirty and I waited outside
Helena's door while Coach greeted her.
She sounded different but awful tired. "It feels
so strange to be fully conscious," she said.
"I'm getting tired of this place."
"They tell me we can start taking you out on day
trips in a week or so."
"That long?"
"We'll start slow and take it easy."
"Did you bring Mr. Sawyer?"
"He's here. You wanna see him now?"
"Of course I do."
I don't guess he wanted her to think I was
standing right there listening. He stepped out and put a
finger to his lips and we stood there for a second.
Then he pulled me in. "Here he is, darling."
"It's been a long time," she said, and I almost
didn't recognize her. She'd aged twenty
years in twelve and people could easily mistake her
for Coach's mama.
"Miz Schuler," I said, shaking her hand.
Her firm grip surprised me. "Coach
tells me you're coming along real fine."
"For an insane old drunk, h'm?" she said,
but she was smiling.
"Oh," I said, "he may be insane, but
I've never seen him drunk."
Coach said, "She wasn't talking about--"
Helena threw back her head and laughed. "I
like that, Calvin! I don't remember your being
funny." She lowered her voice but still spoke
loud enough for Coach to hear. "Explain it to Buster
later." She turned to him. "Would you mind
terribly if Calvin and I had a few minutes
alone?"
He looked as surprised as I was, but
course he said sure and asked if we wanted
anything while he was gone. "Some kind of clear
soft drink," she said.
"Cal?"
I shook my head and he left. Helena
pointed to a chair next to her bed and I sat.
"You've been good to Buster, and I
appreciate that."
"I owe him," I said.
"You do? Why?"
"Coached me. Taught me. Was a good
example. Had a big influence on me."
"That so?"
I nodded and she looked toward the window, but the
blinds were shut. "Me too," she said.
"Ma'am?"
She turned back. "Buster's had a big
influence on me too."
I sat there awkwardly. I wasn't about
to quiz her. "Good man," I said idly, the
silence hurting my ears.
"Your daughter was here recently," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
"It's lovely that she's a volunteer. We
had a good long talk. First time I saw her I
didn't know who she was. She looked
familiar, heaven knows. I still see some of the little
girl in her. Do you, or are you too close
to her?"
"Oh, I still see it," I said. "See her
mama in her is what." Helena nodded. "I
heard about Esther. I was so--"
"Estelle."
"Of course. We were so sorry. Buster sent
a note, I believe."
I nodded.
"Unfortunately, I was going through my own
particular pain. Just know we were thinking of you." She
rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Doing
nothing can certainly be exhausting."
"Coach seems encouraged with your progress."
She smiled weakly. "Progress here is
measured in lucidity. Everything happens in
stages. I don't even remember coming here. I
don't want to think about what I put Buster
through. Pieces of it come back to me now and then, but
mostly from Kansas City. I must have hit rock
bottom for him to bring me all the way here."
"You're feeling better though?"
"That's the problem, Calvin. They detox you.
In my case, they dried me out. But I was still on
lots of medication. Gradually they wean you off of
that. I was very aware of the stages. I don't know
if you know anything about this, but there's a bargaining
stage. Very ugly. Very deceptive. My life
revolved around getting out of here and getting
medicated again. That's the polite way of saying
it. You know what I mean."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then, as your body slowly adjusts
to sobriety, there's the remorse. They tell me
it's necessary and helpful, but I find it depressing
and draining. Do you understand?"
"Tell me."
"You start to see where you are compared to where you've
been. I should be happy to be sober, and in many
ways I am. They tell me what's
important now is getting your mind off yourself and
starting to look outward. Put your attention on
other people and their needs."
"Makes sense."
"No question, but it's awfully hard to look in that
mirror and see what I've done to myself and to so
many others. There's no making up for it, no going
back. But there is a way to hide from it, a way
I know all too well."
"And you don't want to do that."
She swung her feet off the side of the bed and
straightened her gown. "My heart doesn't
want to do that. My head sure does."
Buster knocked. "For you, darling," he said,
handing her a glass. "Need a few more minutes?"
"Just a few, Buster. Thank you."
I felt bad for him. It seemed she talked
more to me than she had to him.
"Your Rachel is so lovely."
"Thank you, ma'am. And a good girl."
"That's obvious. She's been keeping me up
to date on Beverly. She going to be all right?"
"Looks that way."
"I loved her."
"Excuse me?"
"I didn't know she was your assistant, but from
the first day she came in here, I was captivated.
So loving, so precious. I realize now she must
have known who I was, but that never came up. She
talked to me like I was someone she cared about, and even
if she did know me from years ago, she sure
didn't know me now. She encouraged me, read the
Bible to me, prayed with me. Well, prayed for
me. Rachel didn't say much that first night, but
she had that look, you know, of real compassion. I
didn't feel pitied or like some object of
fascination. I don't know why, but it seemed to me
those two, particularly Beverly at first, didn't
do this out of some obligation. It is something she
enjoys doing because she truly cares about people, even
strangers."
"And that wasn't even planned," I said.
"Oh, I know. I requested a
visit and was just lucky it was those two. They came
back each day for a while. Then I learned what
happened. If I wrote Bev a note, would you
deliver it?"
"Of course."
"I'm afraid I burdened her."
"Ma'am?"
"I let her pray but I didn't join in.
And I blamed God for a tragedy I endured."
I nodded.
"Oh!" Helena said. "Did she tell you about
that?"
"Bev? No. I didn't even know they were
volunteering here then."
"I'm sorry, Calvin, but would you help me
to that chair?"
I helped her off the bed. She pulled a box
of cards and a pen from her dresser and began
to write, talking between sentences. "If I was
to start getting out of here and was to turn my attention
to someone else, where would you suggest I begin?"
I was in over my head. "Well, I don't
know. I--"
"Come now, son. Who could I help the most?"
"Coach," I said before thinking.
She looked up and put down her pen. "And
what would I do for him?"
"Tell him what you told me, about him being a
big influence on you."
She seemed to study me. "Let him back
into my life, in other words."
I shrugged.
"No, now you go on. You know what you're
talking about. But this has to be more than things said.
We're talking about a project here, something I
do. I leave this place temporarily and I do
something for someone else. Buster's a good choice.
But what do I do for him?"
"Come to a game," I said. "He'd love that.
Rachel would sit with you. Bev too, when she's
better."
What was I thinking? Her face went blank and
she picked up the pen again. "A game," she
repeated flatly, then finished her note. She
didn't look at me as she slipped the card
into a small envelope. "That would be a mighty
costly way to do something for Buster," she said, still
looking away. "You may send him in now."
I reached for her hand, thanking her for her time.
But she just handed me the note.



Elvis was sitting on her porch steps when
Rachel walked up. "You got time or you got
homework?" he said.
"Both," she said. "Scoot over."
"Something's not adding up with you," he said in the
darkness.
"Still? I don't know how to be more honest. I
went from what you called "everything's beautiful"
to the ugly truth."
He sat shaking his head. She waited him out.
He began slowly, "It's just that what you said about
how you really reacted made sense. I mean, I
don't care who you are or how you're raised, you
can't help but be that way when something so awful
happens to you."
"Yeah?"
"But now it's been, what, like twelve years and
you seem fine with it."
"I wouldn't say fine," Rachel said.
"I've learned to cope. And let's face it,
Elvis, I have a lot of things going for me. My
dad mostly, but my church, my friends--"
"Hold on. That's what I'm talking about."
"But, El, I can't stay angry and scared and
crazy because I lost my mom. Who can live that
way? What kind of a person would I be?"
"An honest one."
"No! If you think the "everything's
beautiful" is the lie and what I suffered is the
truth, you've got it wrong. Everybody's got
something they could be angry about. Maybe not losing a
parent or both parents, but what kind of a world would
we have if nobody ever got over it?"
"You're over it?"
"No! I still have my days. And lots of times
I have questions. But nobody but God wants to hear
that. I can ask Him "Why me," and don't
think I haven't. But I don't expect Him
to write it in the sky." She deepened her
voice. "Miss Rachel, I took your mama
so you would be a grief counselor someday. I'll
make it up to you in eternity."
"Not funny," he said.
"I'm trying to make a point. I didn't
lose my faith in God, and I do feel like
He's bringing me along to where I'll be okay."
"That's what I don't get. You still
believe in God."
Rachel felt stupid. So that's what this is
about!
"Nothing's gonna change that," she said.
"Nothing?"
She shook her head.
"What if your dad died too?"
"Don't say that."
"Couldn't take that, could you?"
"Don't be mean."
"No! I'm making a point now. What kind
of a God do you believe in? Somebody who is
supposed to love you but takes your mom away?
Sometimes I think how dare you be happy and cheerful
and a little Goody Two-shoes? Is it that much easier
to lose only one parent?"
"Wow," she said. "You've got it bad."
"I grew up like you, you know, only worse."
"What do you mean?"
"We were Christians. The best little
Christians you ever saw. Church every Sunday. People
getting saved all the time. Is that what you are?
Saved?"
"Kind of an old-fashioned term," Rachel
said, "but yeah, I received Christ, was saved from my
sins. Yes."
"We called it accepting Jesus," Elvis
said.
"Same thing, I think. So you did that?"
"No."
"Didn't buy it? Didn't like church?"
"Actually I loved it."
"But you didn't believe in God?"
"I bought the whole package. I just never got
saved."
"Why?"
He shrugged and looked away. They'd come this
far. He was driving at something.
"What happened, Elvis?"
He hesitated, then pulled a cheap wallet
from his back pocket and removed the plastic
photo insert. She leaned so the porch light shone
on it. "That your dad?"
"Yeah."
He was a good-looking man with short hair,
prominent ears, and a toothy smile. "What'd
he do?"
"Mechanic. Huge football fan.
Bears."
"And your mom, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"Pretty."
"Yep."
"She work?"
"Part-time. Grocery store and she did some
people's hair, but mostly just friends and at our house."
"She's the one who named you?"
"Didn't have a clue what I'd go through, I
guess."
"There's other people named Elvis."
"Nobody you know."
"There's that football player, the
quarterback. And another singer. Costello."
"You know either of em?"
"No."
"See?"
He was stalling, but she didn't want to push.
"This your sister?"
"I told you I didn't have any brothers or
sisters."
"That's what I thought." She stared at the
picture of the dark-haired little girl, then turned
it over. "Jennifer," she read.
"Jenny Lucas. She's older now. Ten."
"Related?"
He shook his head. "Foster sister I guess
you'd say. Last people I stayed with ran a bunch of
kids through their family, but she was the one who was there
when I got there and still there when I left."
"Close?"
"Used to be. Probably never wants to see
me again."
Rachel froze. "You do something to her?"
"I lied to her. Told her I'd get her out
of there, take her with me when I left. Chickened
out."
"You couldn't have taken her, El. You'd have never
got away with something like that."
"Tell her."
"Were they Christians?"
"Said they were. Went to church. I didn't
believe it. The guy was a hypocrite. Nothing
like my real parents."
He stuck two fingers deep into the wallet and
gingerly pulled out a yellowed, crumbling
newspaper article. He unfolded it and placed
it in her hands as if it was his most prized
possession.
"Couple Killed in Crash; Son Spared,"
it read. "George A. Jackson,
31, and his wife, Eloise W. Jackson,
32, of rural Kankakee Banks,
Indiana, were killed on U.s. Route 30
Saturday afternoon in a head-on collision with an
eighteen-wheel cab and tractor trailer. Their
10-year-old son, Elvis P. Jackson,
was thrown from the vehicle but suffered only minor
injuries.
"Eddie Burns, 56, an over-the-road
veteran and employee of Peak Cartage,
Muskegon, Michigan, was uninjured and not
charged in the incident. "Looked like they pulled out
to pass before they saw me," he told police.
"I didn't even have time to hit the brake. I
seen that little guy fly out of that car, and I never
expected to find him alive." The shaken
Burns said he had never before been involved in a
fatal accident.
"George Jackson was an auto mechanic
at ..."
Rachel swallowed and began to fold the paper.
Elvis carefully took it from her and she covered
her face with her hands. "Elvis," she whispered,
shaking her head. He put everything back into his
wallet. She wiped her face. "Do you
remember it?"
"All I remember is following a truck and
driving toward the sun. I don't remember my
dad pulling out to pass. You'd think I'd
remember the sounds or something. We were on our
way to a gospel singing convention, one of those
all-night deals with the southern quartets."
"I love those," she said.
"I used to," he said. "I'd try to stay
awake as long as I could, but they always wound up
carrying me out to the car and I'd wake up in my
own bed."
Rachel leaned over and embraced him. "I
can't imagine," she said. "Losing them must have been
so hard." He didn't seem receptive, so
she backed off.
"Thing was," he said, "I was just starting to get
it."
"Get what?"
"The Jesus thing. I had started asking a lot
of questions and both my mom and my dad tried
to explain it. I told them I wasn't saved and
they said they knew that but wanted me to really know
what I was doing and understand. They said there was no
rush and I said but what about all those
scary stories about people who wait till it's too
late and then they get killed or something? My
dad finally told me that if I understood grace
and what Jesus did for me, I was ready. I
should make a decision and go forward in church and
pray and get saved. But they always had an
invitation, an altar call, at the quartet
concerts. I wanted to do it there. I wanted
to surprise my mom and dad."
Rachel said, "Didn't almost getting killed
like that make you want to do it all the more?"
Elvis stood and walked down the steps to the
yard. He turned around, his hands deep in his
pockets. "I was in the hospital. Our pastor
came after church the day after the wreck and he and the
doctor told me about my mom and dad. He
started right in with how he knows I have this hope because
I'm a Christian and God will see me through. I
wanted to ask him what kind of a God takes a
kid's parents, but you don't ask questions like that."
"Sure you do. Elvis, nobody expects a
kid to go through that without grief and anger."
"The next Sunday the pastor told everybody
I was brave, that I had cried, sure, but I was
going to be okay. But, Rachel, the last place
I wanted to be was in church where everybody kept
saying I should be grateful I was alive, that I
could be used to tell everybody how good God 	was.
They said my mom and dad must have been so good God
wantedthem early. What did that make me? If
there's a God who takes little kids' parents,
why would I want anything to do with Him?"
"So you don't."
"I don't want to put down your faith,
Rachel. I mean, you're really into it. But you're
serving a God who took your mom from you--or at
least let her die."
"I didn't say I understood Him, El.
Who does?"
"I don't want to understand Him! If that's how
He is, I don't want Him to exist.
Guess I'm with those who say God didn't
create man. Man created God."
"So I'm a fool," Rachel said.
He shrugged. "Your beliefs give you some kind
of comfort."
"Yours do the same for you, Elvis. God
doesn't run the world the way you want Him to,
so you decide He doesn't exist, and poof,
He's gone."
"I guess."
"One of us has to be wrong," she said.
"Why can't we both be right? God exists for you
because you believe in Him. He doesn't exist for
me because I don't."
"Because that doesn't make sense."
"And what does? God taking my parents the
day I'm supposed to get saved? Having no
relatives, none, who would take me? Sending
me to foster homes where they pretend to be
wonderful and they're worse than no parents at
all? Letting a little girl live in a place like
that and sticking her with a guy like me who winds up
dumping her just like everybody did me? You believe
what works for you and I'll believe what works for
me."
Rachel stood and looked down at him in the
yard. "How's it working, El?"
"What?"
"How's that working out for you?"
He stared at her. "For a nice girl, you can be
kind of mean, you know that?"
"I'm not trying to be. You choose not to believe
in God because you can't make it make sense any
other way. But it's not working, is it?"
"I'm not happy, if that's what you mean. But
I don't expect to be. That way I'm not
disappointed."
"You're so disappointed you can't stand it."
He showed her both palms. "Well, there you
are. End of discussion."
"Don't say that."
"I've got no more to say. Do you?"
"Well, I was just wondering. If you really
think stuff is only true if you believe it,
why don't you quit believing your parents are
dead?"
He looked at her like she'd lost her mind.
Rachel was sinking. Why had she gotten into this?
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just trying to get
you to see--"
"Either they're really dead or they left me
too."
"Elvis, forget what I just said. I'm not good
at this."
"You're right about that."
He walked away. Why was this so hard?
Everything she tried made things worse.
Rachel jogged to catch him. She reached for his
hand, but he wrenched away. "Don't,"
he said. "Just leave me alone." He jogged off,
and Rachel felt she had failed again.



I patted my pocket on the way home from the
rehab center. "Scuse me for a minute,
Coach," I said, pulling out my phone. I
called Bev but talked low cause I wasn't
ready to make clear to Buster what was going on between
us. "Just checking in on you, Miss Raschke."
"Oh, you are, are you? How's my
sweetheart?"
"Fine, and you?"
"Aren't we formal? You on your cell phone?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Surprised you know how to use it. You're with
someone, aren't you?"
"That's correct."
"Who?"
"Coach Schuler and I are on our way back
from visiting his wife."
"How is she?"
"Fine, ma'am. More on that later."
"Tell me you love me."
"More on that later too. Glad to hear you're
doing fine."
"You rascal."
"Yes, ma'am, looking forward to your getting
back to work one of these days."
"I'll bet you are. I love you, Calvin."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"With all my heart."
"All right, then."
"I wish you were here so I could kiss you."
"Me too, ma'am."
"I want you to hold me and--"
"Okay, then, Miss Raschke, I'll
check in on you again."
"When, Calvin?"
"Bye, ma'am."
"When, Calvin?"
"Sooner than you think. Bye."
The light was on in the front room when Coach
pulled up to my house. "I'd better not find
Jackson in there," I muttered.
"H'm?"
"Nothing."
"I heard most of your conversation with Helena, you
	know," he said.
"I figured."
"Guess I should be encouraged."
"I'd say."
"Long road ahead," he said. "But she's
worth it."
"Attaboy."
"She tell you she miscarried a coupla years
after Jack was born?"
"No."
"We never told anybody. It was a girl."
"I'm sorry, Coach."
"Tore me up, but it just about did her in."
"Never went through that," I said. "But I understand
it's hard."
"Made her almost smother Jack. I was afraid
he'd be a mama's boy."
"Never seemed that way."
"No, but you can see why it was hard when he--"
"Yeah. Sorry bout what I said to her about
coming to a game."
"I was touched. You know me too well."
"But I wasn't thinking, Coach. Expecting
her to watch a football game that would bring back
all those mem--"
"You meant well."

I found Rachel sitting on the ottoman, her
head in her hands. I stepped over her and sat in
the chair. "I hurt when you hurt, baby," I
said. "Talk to me." She climbed into my lap and
cried on my shoulder. We told each other about
our evenings.
"Well, we both seem to have the right idea,"
I said. "But we don't close so well, do
we?"
She laughed through her tears. "What am I
gonna do, Daddy?"
"Nobody's gonna explain God. Best
we can do is try to show what He's like by doing what
we think He wants us to."
"But can I show Elvis that?"
"Sounds like you tried."
"I'm not gonna quit."
"I believe that."

I'd had Ginny call every employee from both
shifts to a meeting at the plant at 8:00 the
next morning. Almost every one of em showed up. I
was in a suit at work for the first time in years. We
put the answering machines on in the
offices and shut down the lines in the shop.
Everybody crowded into one end of the old brick
building. The stillness was so strange. I stared
at men and women who came to work every day in
sneakers, jeans, and T-shirts. Some of em had
goggles hanging around their necks. The turners and
stitchers wore adhesive tape on their fingers,
even after years of building up calluses.
"You know I don't call everybody together for
good news," I began. "I could do that at the
company picnic." Man, I was looking into some
pale, stony faces.
Someone hollered, "Is this about Bev
Raschke?"
"No. She's doing better and she sends her
greetings. Early this morning I told her what
I'm about to tell you, so let me get right to it.
We lost our biggest account yesterday. Dixie's
done with us at the end of this season."
People started mumbling and I held up a hand.
"Stay with me now. We all know that should put us out
of business, and maybe it will. But you know I
won't go down without a fight, and I know you
won't either. I'm looking at every angle to see
what we can do, and, hear me now, that does not
include more layoffs. Now, hang on! I'm not
saying we'll still be open in ninety days, but if
we are, it'll be with everybody I'm looking at
right now. Either we all make this happen, or it's
over for everybody.
"Some of you may not be able to live that way, and
if you feel you have to move on and find something
solid, no offense taken. But if I sell this
place and split the profits, it'll be with everyone
who stayed to the end. Do I want to sell? No!
Am I looking at adding product? Yes. Do
I have a clue what's gonna happen? No.
"I'll promise you this. You'll know within
twenty-four hours of anything happening. My top
priority is taking care of the people who have taken care
of this business, and that's you. Yeah, I could sell
it and close it and wish you the best. But you know me
better'n that. If anybody benefits from what's
happening, we all do. Fair enough?"
They applauded.
"Questions?"
"Would you send manufacturing overseas?"
"I won't deny considering every option, but I'll
tell you this: If it comes to that, somebody's gonna
pay through the nose, and you're all gonna
get a piece of it."
"We trust you, Mr. Sawyer!"
"Yeah!"
"Yeah!"
"All right," I said. "I appreciate that,
and I'm asking you to stick with me. Squelch
rumors. Don't believe what you read in the
paper. And don't believe anything about
American Leather unless you hear it from me.
Okay? You know, Gideon went to war against an
army of thousands with just three hundred men, because they
were the only ones with the guts to fight and win."
"Yeah!"
"And let me tell you a brief story about the
Southern Longleaf Pine. You know, that majestic
tree--"
"Hey, boss! You ain't the only one what
played for Buster Schuler!"
"Then you know this a good one! Now, shut up and
listen!"

Bev got a kick hearing me recount that
meeting. And course she was more eager than ever
to get back to work and help. But she was being told
she needed several more weeks of bed rest. I
spent most of my mornings with her, through lunch, then
worked with accountants, bankers, consultants,
efficiency experts, and suitors--a fancy name
for the vultures that start circling a dying business.
Mr. Seals and his International whatever were
history. We weren't big enough for em now that
Dixie had left us. Didn't break my
heart. I just hated to see the sea of money
rolling out with not much to show for it.

Helena Schuler finally started getting out of the
rehab center once in a while, and where did she
wanna go? Straight to Bev's. And she wouldn't
be driven there by anybody but Rachel, who had
finally got her license but was technically too young
to be responsible for her. That meant I had to be
along, which I didn't mind, cause it gave me
another reason to go to Bev's.
Problem was, it was always ladies' day when
Helena was there, cause that meant Kim came
too. They would shoo me out and gather in Bev's
bedroom or around her easy chair and do whatever it
is women do when men aren't around. Plotting something
if you ask me, but I was accused by more'n one of
em of being sexist when I suggested that.
So I shut up.
	Rachel kept trying to reach out, as she called
it,to Elvis. One of her schemes was to fix him
a lunch every day. I said, "He can come over and
make himself a lunch from my groceries, but you're
not gonna be preparing a meal for him every day and
call me sexist." Fortunate for me, the other
ladies agreed. That was another thing I learned
about being in love with a woman who knows my daughter
and my coach's wife and whose best friend kicked me
in the seat till my eyes opened up: a man
has no secrets. They all know about my every thought
and decision, and they all got opinions. Mercy.
Before you know it, they all know Elvis's
history and they're weighing in on that. It's all
Coach and I can do to keep the boy focused on his
school work, cause he ain't gonna be going
to college for the academics, if you know what I
mean. Anyway, all he wants to do is carry
the football, and the way he practices and
lifts and trains and, best of all, plays,
there's nothing we want more than to let him have at
it.
The kids stay motivated, and Buster's at his
best and getting better as his wife's doing more than
giving him the time of day. Four weeks and four
games later, Bev's serious about coming back to work, at least part-time. Everybody, even
Coach, knows we're seeing each other, and the
football team's got the whole town talking.
Heck, the whole state. Seriously. Even the
kicked-off kids are coming back to watch.
We win four straight conference games to go
6-1 in our league (7-2 overall) and two
teams knock off Dickinson for us, so we're in
the play-offs. Elvis is setting offensive
records people haven't even dreamed about, and we're
getting talked about on TV again.
Bev tells me she'd like to come to our first
play-off game. It's gonna be at Beach, and
course I've told her what their smart aleck
coach said to Buster after they whipped our cans in the
opener.
"Are you sure it's all right?" I say. "You
supposed to be out? It could be cold and I don't
think their stands are any softer'n ours."
"It's a Saturday afternoon game, Cal," she
says. "And Kim and Rachel will watch out for
me."
"How about Miz Schuler?"
"That's not gonna happen. Don't think we
haven't suggested it. I think it's a miracle
she even cares what happens with his team. And I
sure wouldn't want to be reminded of what she
saw twelve years ago."
I nodded. "Looky there," I say, pointing
at the TV. It was a reporter strolling our end zone again.
The graphic shows Athens City ranked in the
top twenty in the state, and the reporter is
saying, "Do not adjust your TV. The
half-strength, high-scoring Athens City
Crusaders are defying all odds by striking down
one Goliath after another. Two months ago we
reported that after twelve losing seasons the
football world had given up on Athens City.
Well, don't tell Coach Buster Schuler and
his miracle squad of just fifteen players. In
their final season of play, the Crusaders have their
eyes set on the state championship. And like we
said, when a legend comes out of retirement, you'd
better take notice, Alabama."
They show clips of our team winning here and there,
us charging out onto the field, Buster walking
taller, shoulders back, chest out, determined
look on his face. Man, he looked like he
believed we could beat anybody.
The reporter continues, "People in every corner of
Alabama are asking one question: can lightning keep
striking Athens City? Everywhere they go, stands are
full, people are signing petitions to keep the doomed
school alive, and kids are asking the players for
autographs."
It was true. It was all we could do to keep our
kids' minds on the games what with the TV
cameras, out-of-town newspaper reporters, and
all the talk about the school. They interviewed
Fred Kennedy on TV and he just smiled real
nervous and said, "We're grateful the team is
doing well and giving us something to remember about
Athens City. The closing of the school is,
sadly, a done deal. I'm not a popular guy,
appearing to ignore hundreds of names on
petitions, but this is not about money anymore.
We're not going to accept the Jack Schuler
Scholarship money, and even if we did and it was
ten times what we know it to be, Athens City
High is history at the end of this school year."
Seemed like most of the time we were home,
Elvis Jackson was there. It was clear nothing was
going on between him and Rachel. They didn't so much
as stand close to each other in public. For sure
he wasn't gonna pass up the free lunches,
even if I still insisted he make em himself. It was
just them studying, him doing his laundry, and him
fixing a lunch, every time I turned around.
One night after he left, I asked Rachel,
"You all right with me and Bev?"
"Are you kidding? I love her, Daddy."



Our little band of Gideonites showed up at
Beach Saturday, November 10, and I swear
there are as many Athens City fans as Bearcat
fans for the first round of the play-offs. Biggest kick for me was Kim and Rachel bringing Bev.
She looked a little tentative, but she also looked
as happy to be there as I was.
Buster gathers the team around after we're all
warmed up, and he tells em what the other coach
said to him after they beat up on us at our place,
opening night. "I told him we were gonna eat
their guys with a spoon in the play-offs. And here
we are boys. I wanna eat guts, not crow."
That psyched the kids up, but when they ran onto
the field, I said, "Coach, you remember what
he said back?"
"Course I do."
"He was right, you know."
"What're you saying, Sawyer?"
"You're not gonna do it with a Stone Age
offense."
He smiled. "Don't tempt me. I might
whip these guys with the wishbone."
"Don't you dare."
He didn't, but he sure got excited.
He was running up and down the field, keeping
pace with Brian and Elvis and Yash. How these
kids stayed strong, playing both ways all those
weeks, I'll never know. That day we grabbed the
early lead and kept pulling away. It was
sweet.
I was proud of Coach after the game. Their
coach shook his hand, giving Buster a look that said
he knew he deserved a tongue-lashing. But
Coach just said, "Your boys played hard and you
coached a good game. Good luck to ya."
Tired as she was, Bev hosted one
of her ladies' bashes that night. So I had
Coach over to our place, and Elvis showed up
to do his laundry. "No date, no parties, no
movie with the guys?" Coach said.
Elvis shook his head.
"You don't hang with anybody, do you?"
"Too much on my mind. Just want to pass
history and stay eligible."
"What do you hear from Jenny?"
"She only wants me to write. No calling
anymore. I couldn't stand hearing her cry
anyway. She just kept saying that I promised.
I don't know how many ways to apologize.
There's nothing I can do now. I swore I'd
get up to see her when school's out, but she
doesn't believe me, and why should she?"
"So, you'll surprise her."
"If I can stand it. She'll hang on and never
let me out of her sight. She said two kids
got adopted last month, but both of them were about
five, and she didn't even get interviewed."
"You know, Jackson," I said, "we all
care about her."
"Lot of good that does her."
"The women that Rachel is with tonight--"
"Pray for her, yeah, I know. They've got
a picture of her on the wall, the whole bit.
It's made a big difference, hasn't it?"
"I wouldn't underestimate God."
"Too late," Elvis said.

The next Saturday we really shocked the
state by winning our sectional. It was our eighth
straight win and seventh on the road, but I was
worried. I should be more than satisfied to have got
this far, but for the first time since we started winning, it
looked to be taking a toll. Our guys looked
tired. I know they're teens, and I know they're
resilient, but we were way past where we deserved
to be, now one of the last eight teams in the state,
and I'm finding myself more worried about how they're
gonna deal with disappointment than with trying to stay
on track and win it all.
The quarterfinals were set for Friday night,
November 23, another road game. Bev had
been back to work for a week by then, and it seemed
most of our time was spent squelching rumors about the
company. We were both happy to confirm the rumors
about us. Everybody wanted to know when the big day
was, but I hadn't even asked her
yet.
I worried about her strength, wondering if
maybe she should be working only half days for a
while. She worried about my stress. I tried
to tell her I could handle it.
What could I do but weigh every option? "Right now
it looks like we sell lock, stock, and barrel
to some broker on the last day of the year and split the
profits with the employees."
"You're gonna go down as the most generous man
Alabama's ever seen," she said.
"That's my goal, all right."
She laughed. "I know you just wanna stay in
business."
"I'm so tempted to try the ball glove
thing."
"Does it make sense, Cal?"
"Course not. It would take the rest of our
reserves. We'd go belly up anyway, then
there's nothing for anybody."
She sat wearily, looking into my eyes.
"I've loved you for ten years, Calvin. But
never more than now."
I like to talk, but I'd learned to just shut up and
kiss her when she said something like that. "There is
something I need to tell you," she said. We'd had
so much fun the last few weeks, I could tell
when she was serious.
"I'm listening," I said.
She held my hand in both of hers, and I could
see the pulse in her neck. "I didn't tell
you everything that went wrong at the hospital."
My brain almost shut down. If she was gonna
tell me she was still sick, or worse, that she was
gonna--but she must've seen the fear in my eyes.
"I'm okay," she said. "But there was some
permanent damage done too."
I wouldn't have even been able to ask her what.
I loved her so much by now I couldn't bear to hear
she'd been hurt any more. "Permanent?" I
mouthed, but no sound came out.
"I don't like talking about this stuff either,
Calvin," she said. "Plain as I can say it,
when the doctors perforated my colon, my
abdomen was filled with stuff, you know, that neither of us
wants to talk about."
"Yeah, awright, I get the picture."
"Well, there was some scarring of the fallopian
tubes."
"Uh-huh."
"You know what I'm saying?"
"I think. I mean, I know what those are, but
no. What're you saying?"
"The lab report called it
"scarringstdestruction.""
"Of your, um--"
"My reproductive organs," she
whispered.
I didn't know what to say. I wanted
to tell her it was all right cause no matter what
happened with us I didn't count on having another
baby in the house. I can't tell you how many times
I've thanked God I kept my mouth shut.
It was all over her face how hard this was on her.
She told me, "I'm not saying starting a
family was something I still hoped to do anyway.
It's risky at my age and you and I would have to work
through the whole idea, you having almost raised a
daughter already."
I nodded.
"But I sure would've liked to have had the
choice."
"Course," I said, holding her.
"A few years ago I pretty much
resigned myself to never being a mother," she said. "I
figured my time was past. But there's something about
knowing it's not even an option anymore. I love
kids so much."
"I know," I said.
"Anyway, I would've felt dishonest not
telling you, Cal. I didn't want
to misrepresent damaged goods."
I pulled her closer. "Don't ever say that
again, Bev. Please. I would never think of you that
way."

Bev, the other two women, and Rachel had
started taking turns writing to Jennifer Lucas.
Elvis told Rachel he appreciated it, but
he was still worried folks were gonna figure out
where he was by the return addresses.
He oughtn't to've worried though. He was
looking for help with the little one and he'd mostly
quit contacting her for all the grief and guilt it
raised in him.

People say a couple in love ought not to try to work
together, but that didn't prove true with Bev and
me. We'd been working side by side for so long,
it only seemed natural. Course I
was more attentive than I used to be. Other words,
according to Kim, I finally had a clue. Bev was more
than my assistant now. She was becoming a
partner. I knew she had my best interest at
heart, and so I included her in all the discussions
and decisions. She liked to kid me that if I'd
done that all along, we wouldn't be in the mess we
were in now. She was probably closer to the truth
than she knew.
One night before Thanksgiving we were sitting on
the couch in my living room, and Rachel was in the
kitchen, doing her homework and waiting for Elvis
to come and do his laundry and lunch thing. I said,
"Bev, you know the history of this knee, don't
ya?"
She said, "If I say yes, will you spare me
the story?"
"I think you're up to speed on it."
"Whew!" she said, hugging me.
Nothing an old jock'd rather discuss than his
career-ending injuries. "I just wanted you to know when
the time comes why I don't get on my knees."
"When the time comes for what?"
"C'mon, Bev. This is hard enough for an
oblivious kind of guy."
"Can't you bring knee pads or a cushion or
something?"
"What're you, serious?" I said.
"I just want to be sure you've planned
ahead, thought it through."
"Me?" I said. "Have you?"
"Only for ten years or so."
"So you're primed," I said. "You're
ready."
"Say I'm ripe and you'll be sitting here
alone."
"I'd just like a hedge against rejection."
"Like I'm prepared to reject you," she said.
"You know I want all your tms."
She pulled back to get a better look at
me. "That wasn't bad," she said. "Really, coming
from you, bad knees and everything, that was all right."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, but don't stop now,
cowboy."
"H'm?"
"Bring it on home."
"I'm asking," I said.
"Preach it."
"Bev, I love you with everything that's
in me, and I mean it. I can't even imagine
living without you anymore."
"And so?"
"And so I want you to be my wife."
"When?"
"Two months from Friday. That would be
Wednesday, January 23, 2002."
"That's not a minute too soon, Calvin, but
you know I've got to ask."
"Why that date?"
"Exactly."
"Not that I plan on forgetting my
anniversary, but who could forget 1-23?"
"Let me tell you something, Calvin. First
off, the answer is yes. Second, you're never
gonna forget the day you marry me."

Well, it didn't take long for that to get
around, and it somehow encouraged people at American
Leather. Nobody thought I'd close the
factory just before I got married. Fact was,
I wanted the football season and the business
stuff behind us before the wedding.

If getting past the first two rounds of the
play-offs made us a big deal, you can't
believe what winning the quarterfinals did. Now
we had a problem of overconfidence, of all
things. It's one thing to get a little swagger in a
team, but put a hopeless little bunch into the
semifinals and they think they can beat the Super
Bowl champs. We were beat up, hangdog,
limping, and wishing we hadn't had so much for
Thanksgiving dinner the day before. But y'd've thought
we'd already won the state title. Course there was
the matter of two undefeated teams first. The
Palm City Panthers at their place the next
Friday night and, if we somehow survived that,
guess who? The Rock Hill Raiders on
Pearl Harbor Day.
"I think that's the only thing we got going for
us," Coach told me. "We're gonna have
to surprise em at dawn to have a prayer. They still
ain't been outscored for one half, going on
three years now."
"You're doing something I've never seen you do
before," I said, "and I don't like it."
"Don't worry," he said, "I know. And I
won't do it around the kids."
"What?"
"Looking ahead. We even get as far as
December 7, we should thank the Lord for the day we
strapped on our pads."
"Amen," I said. "These kids have had an
unforgettable season already."
"Way more than we deserve," Coach said.
"Same way I feel about Helena."
He could change subjects faster'n a kid with
stolen cookie crumbs on his lip. "Say
what?"
"The way Rachel and them have befriended her,
Cal, I'm just so grateful. You know, she's on
pace to get out of there before you get married."
"Seriously?"
He nodded. "My little brother's wife isn't
too excited about having her in the house, but
we'll find something."
"Bev and I ain't gonna need but one house.
Take your pick."
He laughed. "Been a long time since you been
married, hasn't it?"
"Pardon?"
He could hardly talk over his giggles.
"You'd better consult your fianc@ee on that one,
Sawyer."
He had a point.
"Almost gave my house away, did you?"
Bev said later.
"I didn't know which one I was giving away,"
I said.
"Do the math, Cal. Move a husband and a
stepdaughter into my little house and I gotta
move out."
"Well, that won't work."
"Good thinking."

The night we bought her ring she told me,
"I'd like to take a few days' vacation week after
next."
"What's your boss gonna say?"
"You're a laugh a minute, Calvin. Is it
okay?"
"Course. Going somewhere?"
"Kim and I thought we might take Helena
somewhere."
"Rachel's gonna feel left out," I said.
"We already told her. She can't get off
school."
"You'll be back in time for the championship
game?"
"When's that, again?"
"Stop it."
"Course we will, Cal. You expect to be in
it or you want me to save seats for y'all?"
"Truth is, sweetheart," I said. "Coach
and me been watching films of this Palm City
team."
"I was just kidding."
"I'm not. They been averaging almost forty
points a game."
"Uh-oh."



It was a strange week, leading up to the Palm
City game. The press somehow got hold a my
number at the plant and we had to finally tell
Ginny to not let any more of their calls through. That
made it hard, cause Buster had done the same
thing at school, so nobody could talk
to anybody. More calls than I can remember were
getting through to Bev, and I knew she was having
to make personal arrangements for her trip and
taking Helena and all. A couple times I had
to pick up when she was on the other line, and once
Ginny told me it was the lawyers again.
I said, "Again?"
She said, "Not the business ones or the bank
ones or the finance ones. The other ones."
"We got more lawyers?" I said.
She said, "Miss Raschke's lawyers."
I pretended I knew what she was talking about
and left a message for Bev. "Your lawyers
called about the prenup."
"Very funny," she said.

All week at practice, Coach is
stressing offense, offense, offense. I'm going,
What is this? Palm City's gonna
steamroll us if we don't have some kinda
strategy on defense.
"What's the old adage?" Coach says.
"I know."
"Tell me. Say it."
""Best defense is a good offense.""
"Bingo."
"But you can't let em run over us and expect
to--"
"Sawyer, get a grip. You've seen the
films. We've got one kid on
defense that can compete with their offense."
"Naters."
"Right. I don't want Jackson or my
nephew or Yash or anybody else trying
to play over their heads when we need em so bad
on offense."
"It's your call."
"You disagree?"
"And what if I did?" I said, laughing.
"Let me call the paper and tell em I have a
better idea than Buster Schuler how to play
Palm City. They'll say, "Scuse me?
The same Buster Schuler that coaches the
miracle team, the fifteen guys who are still in it
with two weeks to go? You must have the wrong
number.""
"You ought to take that on stage, Sawyer," he
said. "Vaudeville. Really."
Well, course he turns out to be the genius again. It's cold on Friday night, November
30, in Palm City. We can see our breath,
and we can also see the Panthers are monstrous. A
lot a experts are picking them to mop the field
with us and beat Rock Hill for the state title
too. Our kids were standing there with their eyes bugging
out. Those other kids looked like adults. Bigger
than adults. I'm glad nobody asked me,
cause I wouldn't have given us a chance.
Oh, they were good. They scored and kept
scoring, but our kids--man, you should've been there.
The place was going nuts. I'm lying if I
didn't see most of the workers from American
Leather there. There were people from the hospital, the
bank, everybody we ever see at Tee's.
Yeah, there were a few parents of kicked-off
players probably not there, but I'd be
surprised if many of our students didn't show.
We were matching em strike for strike. They were
hurting us on the line, and our kids were staggering off
the field. But it takes more than size and strength
to stop a dang good passer and receivers like Upshaw
and Jackson. Only thing is, Palm City was
a little better by late in the fourth quarter, and when
we needed a touchdown trailing 35-31, we just
couldn't punch it in. Snoot kicks a short
field goal to put us within one at 35-34, but
I didn't see how we were gonna get the ball
back. I was actually thinking that this is like winning,
coming within one point of a team like that. Athens City
ought to be proud.
Well, Snoot kicks off a squibber, one
of those short onside kicks you pray the other
team'll bobble so you can fall on it. Doesn't
happen, but we smother the return guy at their
30. First play from scrimmage they're just
playing safe like we would do in the same situation,
and the Shermanater goes berserk, blasts into their
backfield, and somehow the ball is loose. I
was so happy for Brian when he fell on it. It
hadn't been easy for him, being Coach's
nephew, having the season of his life, and taking
a backseat to Jackson's miracle year.
So here's our chance. But course Palm City
isn't about to give in. They stop us twice and
then it's third and ten on their 30 with just a few
seconds left. Coach calls time-out and tells
Brian to try a short screen pass
to Jackson and tells Jackson to be sure
to get out of bounds to give us one more play.
We've got one time-out left, but what if we
don't call it in time?
I grab Buster. "Coach, I can't believe
you. Our whole season's on the line right here.
We have got to throw deep."
"That is exactly what they're expecting us
to do," he says. He spins and grabs Brian
by the facemask and it's just like twelve years before.
"This team needs you. Now you be a Buick!"
With the snap of the ball, I'm dying, jumping,
wanting something to happen. Brian gets off the
short pass to Jackson, but Elvis is still in the
backfield. Unless he gets lucky, he's
going nowhere. But he doesn't even head for the
sidelines. He's hammered at the line of
scrimmage. Brian is screaming for a time-out.
We all are. I'm just sure that clock's
gonna run out. But we finally get the whistle with the
clock showing one second. But fourth down at the
30? What're we gonna do?
I'm looking to Coach to see what he's
gonna say and I see him go pale. I follow
his eyes and see Jackson is still down. The ref
signals to us that we can go out there. We find
Jackson moaning and holding his right wrist.
"Let me see it," I say. He lets go,
then flinches when I barely touch it. "Sharp or
dull pain?"
"Sharp."
I look at Coach. "Busted?"
Coach shakes his head. I can see the
game, the season, and twelve years ago on his
face. "Why didn't you listen to me?"
"Sorry," Elvis said, and it sounded like he
really meant it.
"Help him up," I tell the others.
"What's Snoot's best kick?" Coach
asks me.
We're on the 30. Add ten yards for the end
zone and several for him to set up. "Half of this."
"Snoot!" he hollers. "Start stretching that
hamstring."
As we pass Snoot, Elvis says,
"Bail me out."
Snoot Nino's a good kicker for a little guy.
But he's not a long kicker. High school kids
don't kick forty-plus-yard field goals as
a rule. But here's what it sounds like. The stands
are silent. Then come the grunts on the line as the center snaps the ball to Brian, the holder. You
hear the ball smack his hands just as the gun sounds
to say time has run out. Once this play's over,
the game's over, the season's over for somebody.
Then comes the sound of shoe on ball, and that's
when I knew. Somehow that little guy got the distance.
Every thing would be perfect if it could just stay on
line.
And then I heard all the cheering from behind us, on
our side. I just stood there, shaking my head.
We were going to the state championship on our own
field in seven days. And our best player had a
broke wrist.

If you've ever lived through one of those crazy
situations where a whole town gets behind a team, you
know what it was like for us that week. The David and
Goliath stories got so old I'd've choked
on one more. Banners, signs, chants, a pep
rally, front page stories.
Coach gave the guys Monday off, so they
hadn't been on a field for three days when they
showed up Tuesday. Talk about your walking
wounded. Elvis sat on the bench with his wrist in a
tight, elastic cast. When people came by, he
shied away, making sure nobody even brushed
him.
I liked that he was there--moral support and
all. But the guys were dragging. I don't think
we had a player who didn't have some kind of
wound. They could run a little, but they couldn't walk,
if you follow. Worst of all was the
look on their faces. It was sad, really. I
wished they could've enjoyed what they'd done. The
whole season was unreal, course, but that win
Friday night--I mean, come on. That alone would
make a season.
But these guys were done. They really were. There
was nothing left. Even the Shermanater, who
everybody looked to when the tank was empty, had a
glazed look. They were scared. They were spent. And
I don't think they had another game in them.
I expected Coach to jump all over em, but
after watching em limp through a few drills, he just
called everybody over to the bench where they sat on
the ground in front of Jackson.
"Well, we've had a heckuva ride,
boys," he said. "I've told you since the first
day you stepped onto this cursed field that coaching
is really done before a game. Once we're in
it, I'm just there to steer. I can't do it for ya. And
I can't get you excited either. Now you're hurt,
I know. We're wounded. One of our limbs has
been amputated. But there he sits. He's not a
quitter, and neither are any of you. If I'm
wrong, let me know and I'll just phone in the
forfeit to Rock Hill.
"Life isn't fair. Every one of you has
proof of that somewhere in you. I gave you the worst
handicap when I fired most of your teammates.
And I dare say we wouldn't have come this far if
we'd had those cowards with us. In the crucial,
turning-point play you might've let up I
percent and counted on somebody else to do what
only you could do, and we would've lost. Think of the
games we could've lost if any one of you had
let go your grip on the rope.
"Well, here we are, and it ain't fair. It wasn't fair to line you fifteen rascals up
against a team like Palm City. But what did you
do? You showed me. You showed them. You showed
everybody. We went from being this novelty
shorthanded team that won more games than we should have
to now having a legitimate shot at a state
title. Think of it.
"But now there's just fourteen a you, and--let's
face it--that one we lost was more than one-fifteenth
of this team. Two weeks in a row, a challenge
like this? I ought to be ashamed of myself for asking it of
ya. Well, here's my take on it. We got
ourselves into this and we can get ourselves out of it. I'm
dead serious. You had enough, I'll let
em know. You think Rock Hill wants to face
you? They win and everybody says, well, a
course! They got nothing to gain and everything
to lose.
"I gave you three days off and you still limped out
here like you was through. I don't blame ya. I
really don't. We can call it quits right here and
I'll still say I'd rather have coached this team right here
than any other group a guys that ever strapped on
a helmet for me. I'm gonna let you go home
now, and I want you to think about it.
"Because whoever shows up on this field tomorrow afternoon
is who I'm gonna put on the field Friday
night. And if you're here, I don't care what
you look like. I don't care where it hurts. I
don't care if I ought to have my head examined for
going to the well one more time. I'm gonna use you
as if you're ready to go. Just so you know.
"If you'll suit up one more time for Athens
City, come Friday when it's all over, the
score won't make a bit a difference. Win,
lose, or draw, you'll still be the best team in
Alabama to me. Now go on."

At the crack of dawn Wednesday, Coach and
Rachel and I saw Helena and Bev off. Kim
was driving, and they all thought it was cute to never
tell us exactly where they were going. "North," was
all they would say. Well, shoot. You can't go
far south from Athens City.
"Don't worry about us," Bev whispered as
I kissed her good-bye. "Helena has to be
back to the center by Friday afternoon, and you know I
wouldn't miss the game."
When I dropped Rachel off at school I
said, "You know, don't you?"
"Know what?"
"Where they're going."
"Maybe."
"So, what's the big secret?"
"What's it worth to ya?"
"What's it gonna cost me?"
"Wow, Daddy. That makes me wish I really
knew."

The team that showed up for practice Wednesday
and Thursday didn't look any different than the
one that had limped out there Tuesday. But they were
there, at least. "Is this team beat already?" Coach
asked me in the locker room Thursday
night.
"They look it, don't they?" I said.
"Finished, I'd say. I don't know what
else to do. They know the plays. They know how
to win. It's just whether they believe they can do it one
more time."
As he and I left the field house I
realized we didn't look any more confident than
the boys. But what can you do?
Put on a happy face? The game was
gonna be won by the team that wanted it the most.
Well, maybe that was overstating it. That might've
been true last week. We could want it bad as
we could and there was still a team on the other side of the
ball.
Dan Ferris, the principal, was waiting
outside. "Got a minute, gentlemen?" he
said.
"On our way to dinner," Coach said.
"Wanna join us?"
"Thanks, no."
He stood there until the last player was gone,
then we followed him back inside to the weight
room. Dr. Ferris kept running his hands over
the tops of his ears like he was smoothing down hair
that wasn't there. "We customarily announce the,
uh, scholarship after the last game of the season.
The problem is, the county board has never wavered
on their decision. I have known, and I sense you
two have as well, that there was really no recourse for
Athens City High. Our students will be merged with
Rock Hill next fall, and there are, of
course, tremendous financial benefits to the
school population. In anticipation of that, the
state has decided--"
"Scuse me, Doc," Coach said. "All
due respect. Could you just give me the bottom
line. I'm exhausted and hungry and I got
to start focusing on tomorrow."
"Of course, certainly. There is no
scholarship fund. We're broke. All our
reserves have been frozen by the state to go into the new
situation next year."
Coach slapped his palms to his knees and
stood. "That's it, then. Thanks for letting us
know."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be, Dan. I never liked that
scholarship idea anyway."
"But it being named for your son was meant
to be--"
"I know. It's all right. Okay? We done
here?"



Rachel sat at the kitchen table with Elvis,
taking a short break from studying. He held his
hands in place like a goalpost and she flipped a
tiny makeshift paper football through them with her
fingers.
"She shoots, she scores!" he said.
"Okay," she said. "Halftime's over.
Back to history."
He smiled, then fell serious. "Okay if
I pick up my laundry tomorrow on the way to the
game? I'd rather not try to lug it home tonight with
this." He flexed his right hand and winced.
"You're not thinking of playing tomorrow."
"Scholarship's within reach."
"Championship, you mean."
He looked embarrassed. "Right."
It hit her all at once. "No wonder you
didn't get out of bounds like you were told."
His eyes flashed. "A championship
doesn't guarantee me the next level."
She shook her head. "I can't win. If you
lose the scholarship, you're gone. If you get the
scholarship, you're gone. You want me
to apologize for my idea, something people are starting
to believe in. Most people want to believe in
something. Even you."
He smiled and leaned in, whispering, "I
love a good fight. But you do make a guy want
to believe."
"Elvis, I wish you'd dare believe there's
something bigger than you."
He sat back. "Like you said, halftime's
over."



Friday afternoon Elvis hung around after school,
flexing his fingers, telling himself his wrist was
stronger, that he could play. He wandered the
stadium, watching the pep club hang banners and
affix streamers. A couple of hours later, people
would start lining up for the game.
He stood in the shadows near the concession stand and
saw that Coach Schuler was also unable
to stay away. He unlocked the field house,
spent several minutes inside, then came out,
leaving it open. Elvis waited till Coach was
out of sight, then went in and put on his practice
uniform. It wasn't easy alone, especially
with a tender wrist.
He retrieved his old football on the way
out, the American Leather logo now just a faint
imprint. He thought of the day he got it, and he
thought of his dad.
The sky was darkening and someone had turned on the
stadium lights. Elvis jogged onto the
field, feeling the pain with every stride. When he
felt warm and loose, he ran up and down the
field, gingerly switching the ball from hand to hand.
He couldn't hold it in his right for long, but Rock
Hill didn't have to know that. What would a tackle
feel like? What if he landed on his wrist? Or
forgot and used his right hand to push off the ground to get
up?
The pep club was gone. A lone figure sat
in the stands. Coach. Elvis walked up the
stairs and sat a couple of rows down from Schuler
and to his right.
"Looks a lot different from up here,"
Elvis said.
"You trying to play tonight?"
"Think of it, Coach. My dad went to one
pro game in his entire life and it happened to be
the Gayle Sayers game when he was five years
old. One of my favorite memories was
listening to him describe that game. He always
told me I could play like that someday. Got one more
chance."
"You know, Jackson, you and I are a little bit
alike. Did you know I too was stuck with a first
name I couldn't live down?"
"Seriously?"
"Why you think I go by Buster? You don't think
that's my given name."
Elvis shrugged.
"You think "Elvis" is a tough one, try
going by "Roscoe.""
"Roscoe?"
"Tell a soul and you're history."
Elvis shook his head, smiling.
"But we are alike in other ways too,"
Coach said. "When I was a kid, my parents had
to constantly keep an eye on me. One winter
day I ran across the street to a
neighbor's frozen pond. The ice couldn't have
been more'n a couple inches thick. My dad
had to stand at the edge and plead with me to get off.
The more he pleaded, the more I wanted to stay on.
He was just looking out for me, but I couldn't see
it. My boy never learned that lesson either.
"Son, I don't know exactly why you're
here. We all play for different reasons. But
I've never seen anybody who can do what you do
on the field. If you can learn what Jack
didn't, you won't need his scholarship."
Elvis closed his eyes. "I didn't get
it, did I?" "There ain't a dime in my
boy's fund. Town's broke. I just found out
yesterday. Sorry."
Elvis couldn't breathe. He heard Coach stand
and sensed he had paused behind him. But then he
moved on and down the steps and disappeared in the
tunnel.



Rachel's dad had told her after school about
the scholarship. So that was it then. The petitions
meant nothing. She was glad she hadn't known
earlier. Elvis would have been able to tell something was
wrong by the look on her face.
Rachel left the pregame FCA prayer
warriors meeting early and, surprised by the chill
in the air, sadly moseyed the mile and a half
home to get her jacket. She couldn't wait
till Bev got back. If she had to spend
another minute with the vacuous Josie, she'd
scream.
The Rock Hill team bus passed, and the
players leaned out the windows, banging on the side
and hooting at her. It would be so great to beat them.
The light was on in the front room when she
mounted the steps, making her hesitate. Her dad
had to already be at the stadium. She slowly opened
the door and found Elvis angrily stuffing
laundry into his backpack.
"What're you doing?" she said. "You should be at
the--"
"Didn't you hear?" he said. "We both
lost."
"Well, I'm not leaving town."
"Let's just say I don't have what you have."
"But you could, Elvis! You're here and it's all
right in front of you."
"I'm glad I gave you and your school one
last go round, but in the end, I got nothing but
used."
"Cause you didn't get the scholarship?
That's all there is?"
Elvis slung his bag over his shoulder and
stuck his face in hers. "Get out of your
fantasy world! The Crusaders are going to get destroyed tonight, and this town will disappear. And God,
Schuler, and your silly little petitions aren't going
to change that!"
He pushed past her and stormed out, slamming the
door.
Rachel pulled on her jacket and walked
back to school. Cars lined the streets a mile
from the field. The band boomed in the distance. She
arrived to a crowd like she'd never seen. Pickups
ringed the place, backed up to the fence,
tailgates facing the field, families,
dogs, and cats jammed in to watch. Only
Rock Hill was on the field, their fans singing,
chanting.
She found a spot near the top of the stands where
there'd be room for Bev and maybe Kim. And here
came Josie. Rachel couldn't hide her
tears. How long had it been since she had
prayed in that end zone? And what had been the
answer?



Coach tells me it's tradition that he and his
assistant wrap players' ankles themselves before a
championship game. Like I couldn't remember from
my playing days.
The guys, pale and looking terrified, seem
impressed. When everybody's dressed and ready
to go, he gathers em and says, "Tell ya what:
Supreme Court or not, I'm praying." He
removes his hat and kneels. "Anyone who
wants in, take a knee."
Afterwards, we head out to an ovation I'd only
dreamed about. I wanted to tell the guys to enjoy
it, cause it might be the last of the night. We
lose the coin toss and kick off. Within a couple
minutes we're down 7-0, and I gotta tell
ya, we look like a junior high team against the
Crimson Tide. It's like the Raiders are in
our backfield. We don't gain a yard in the
first quarter. Not one.



Elvis trembled with rage as he marched out of
town to the Washington farm. If this was it, if this was
all there was, he was going to do something. He would
hitchhike all the way to Indiana, get Jenny
out of that orphanage, and fight with his bare hands
anybody he had to.
He climbed into the dark loft to grab as much of
his stuff as he could carry. A full moon
streamed through the hay mound door, making him
pause. He stepped to the opening. "All right,
God," he said. "You got something to say to me?"
He waited a beat. "Didn't think so."
He felt around in the shadows for matches,
grabbed a lantern, and slid up the glass top
to light the broad wick. When the light invaded the
loft he flinched, noticing something in the corner.
"What the--?" A slew of homemade pies
and cakes covered the wood floor. Taped to each
were handwritten notes, many written in crayon
by kids.
"Sorry about your arm."
"Get better soon."
"Good luck."
"I'm gonna play like you someday."
A voice behind him made him jump. "Always
nice to be needed."
Orville Washington was at the top of the
ladder.
"How did you know I was--?"
"Got an inkling when the third pie turned
up. Finally figured out why I kept getting
mail addressed to you from the school."
"Where'd all this stuff come from?"
"People in Athens City take care a their own.
By the way, as your landlord, I took a customary
fee." He smiled and Elvis had to chuckle at
the blueberry filling in his teeth.
Elvis sat on his cot, overcome. People in the
diner? Fans? They cared this much?
"Hey, boy," Mr. Washington said, "you
late for the game, ain'tcha?"
"Guess I am."
"Come on. I'll give ya a ride."
46

I wish I could tell ya this was one of them
Disney movies where we pull off the impossible
and some heathen, hockey team gets humiliated
by a bunch of thirteen-year-olds.
Unfortunately, this was high school football in
southern Alabama, and we were getting it handed to us.
I mean, it was a disaster. Only time we had the
ball past the 50-yard line in their territory was
after they already had us down 27-zip early in the
second quarter. They tried some trick reverse
play on one of our punts and the ball came
loose and who should fall on it but Snoot. I
think he was sorry he did, with all the piling
on. But three plays later, when we'd lost
six more yards, he up and kicks a field
goal.
That just irritated these monsters, and their scrubs
scored ten more before halftime. Now we're getting
killed 37-3, and that wasn't all. If you can
believe it, it was worse than it looked. We
had nothing going. We couldn't stop em and we
couldn't move the ball. We were overmatched on every
single play, and you could see it all over every kid.
If I was a quitter, I'd've taken em off
the field to protect their psyches.
Besides that, Coach and I were actually distracted.
We were trying to stay in the game, stick with the
plan, call plays, all that, but we were also
peeking into the stands now and then too, cause I
hadn't seen hide nor hair of Bev, and I
know Coach wanted to know she was here so he could be
sure Helena was safe and sound at the center. I
caught a glimpse of Rachel, but she was with that
airhead--scuse me, girl--she can hardly stand,
and I couldn't even coax a wave out of her.
If ever a game was over at the half, this was
it. We get in the locker room, and you can
imagine what the guys looked like. Most of em
seemed on the edge of tears and I wouldn't've
blamed a one of em if they'd just broke down and
sobbed. Coach looked like he'd been out there himself
and got in the way of that killing Rock Hill
football machine.
I passed out orange slices and the guys were
guzzling water, but mostly they just sat staring at the
floor. I mean, some things can be dealt withand some
things you just have to suck up and take. Coach walked
over to Sherman. "Coupla great hits, boy. That
quarterback'll be sore for days."
He found Nino. "Snoot, nice boot.
Really sent that one into orbit."
He clapped Upshaw on the shoulder pad.
"Yash, a nice catch under pressure. Fingers
of glue, son." The poor guy had picked up
maybe two yards on a throw over the middle.
"Gather round, boys," Coach said, the wind
gone from his sails. They shuffled over. "We're
gonna lose, make no mistake. This'll
probably be the worst rout in Bama play-off
history. But this year's been worth it anyway,
and don't think it hasn't. I've loved it and
been honored to see you boys come together as a
unit, one body. You resurrected something that had
been lost. You've made me proud."
"You on empty, Coach?" We all look
up. It's Elvis in street clothes. "Is that
all you've got?"
Straightening up, Coach smiles. "Y'all
started without me," Elvis continues. "Coach,
may I?"
Well, Coach nods, and Jackson takes
a deep breath, looking at his teammates.
"Look, I think we all know why I came
to Athens City. It wasn't for this school or
even this team. I never believed fifteen players
could get this far. And we get here only to find out
that none of us is getting the scholarship, the
school's still closing down, and we're playing a
team we can't beat. Doesn't seem worth it.
"But for some reason the stands are packed, the
fans are still cheering, and I've got enough "Get
well" pies to last a year. These people are here because
they believe in Athens City tradition again, and
we had something to do with it. I don't know about you, but
being part of something like that is new for me."
Sherman Naters stands and starts pacing
furiously.
Brian stands too and says, "When people
remember football in Athens City,
Alabama, let's make em think of the next
twenty-four minutes. We got something left!"
"Rock Hill hasn't been outscored for a
half in three years," Elvis says. "We
win this half, we got our pride."
Now Sherman's pumping his arms and waving his
helmet. "This game starts over right now! Heads
up! Act like champions!"
I look at Coach and we shrug. They
wanna pretend its nothing-nothing, why
not? Coach says, "Awright then, if we're
gonna put one more half in the books, let's do
it right." He walks into the coaches' room,
drags out an old trunk, and hoists it onto the
table. I open it and find the crimson jerseys from
the state title game of 1988. Who'd a
thought?
Coach disappears for a minute, so I start
passing out the jerseys. When I give Jackson
number 40, he turns to Brian. "Think I
got your number," he says. Then he mocks
Brian's accent. "Tradition's real
important round here."
We hear banging on the field-house door.
"You guys got thirty seconds!"
Coach reappears and walks up to Elvis with
his son's jersey out of the display case. "This
one's seen some action, but it's got two more
quarters in it. My boy's watching, Jackson.
Give it all you got."
"Coach," Elvis said. "I just can't--"
"--turn this down is what you can't do."
"Gonna get blood on it."
"That's why it's crimson."
Brian helps him suit up, then it's all
hands together. Coach says, "Don't get
fancy. Just hit em. Let's show em some
barnyard football."
When we get out there, one of the refs has already
dropped his flag for delay of game and we were
close to getting disqualified. "Pick up that
flag now, John, and I mean it," Coach
tells him. "They don't need any more help."
"Listen, Schuler, you can't change jerseys in
the middle of a game."
"Course you can. Rule book just says you got
to keep the same numbers."
"Well, a couple of these don't even meet
that criteria."
"C'mon, John. This is the last game for
our boys. We ain't gonna win. If Rock
Hill pitches a fit, tell em we forfeited.
This is just for pride."
It's clear our fans are stunned at the new
jerseys. And a bunch of em spot Elvis. I
hear em chanting his name and I turn to see
Rachel running down from the stands and up to the fence.
Elvis hollers, "Pray for me!"
She calls out, "Why are you doing this?"
"I'm a Crusader!"
I'm telling ya, if I had an orchestra
...
Rachel waves at me and points back up
to where she'd been sitting. Course I spot
Bev first, sitting there with Kim, and I'll be
dogged if there isn't a little dark-haired girl.
I want to quit right now and get up there to see
what's going on, but that's when I spot Coach's
wife. I shoot her a double take and grab
Buster, turning him and pointing. He spies her
and his hand comes up to his mouth and he sucks in a
breath like he can hardly stand it. She gives him a
shy little wave, and I thought I was gonna have
to coach the second half.
Snoot and Brian have carried out the big green
chalkboard from the field house and put it under the
scoreboard. Brian draws a line down the
middle and puts the team names at the top. When
he puts a big zero under each team, our fans
erupt.
"Coach! Coach!" We turn to see Abel
Gordon and his dad. "We'll keep score!"
Buster nods.
All right, I admit I had to check the paper
to see if I was making this part up, but it happened.
Rock Hill kicks off, and guess who runs
it all the way back for a touchdown, carrying it in
his bad arm? Okay, so maybe he carried it in
his good arm, but anyway, it was almost too good to be
true. Snoot kicks the point after, so now it's
37-10. But the chalkboard reads 7-0, us.
Our guys are jumping around, smacking each other
on the back. Rock Hill just looks puzzled.
"Team is back," Coach says.
A couple minutes later, Rock Hill
puts up another seven. The scoreboard reads
44-10, the chalkboard 7-7. All of a sudden
Buster is really into this one, strategizing, telling
me who to have run a slant, who to line up in the
slot, saying who'll be wide open, and course
being right every time. "Chess match on grass," I
say.
Elvis is wide open for a huge gain, and I
see the Rock Hill coach and his assistant
arguing, pointing at each other. Their coach
bellows so I can hear him all the way from the other
side, "You see that, Raiders? We are in a
war!"
Elvis scores to make it 44-17 for the
game, 14-7 us for the half. Rock
Hill strikes back quick to tie the half at
14 and lead the game 51-17.
In the fourth quarter the Shermanater breaks through
to lay a huge lick on their quarterback in their
own end zone for a two-point safety, so now they
lead 51-19 for the game but we lead 16-14 for the
second half.
Rock Hill starts picking on Elvis,
probably seeing he's hurt. But they try
to pass his way once too often and he intercepts
one and runs it in for his third TD. The
game's out of reach, course, at 51-26, but now
we're up 23-14 on the chalkboard.
Then it was like the Raiders got tired of toying
with us. They break back for two fast TD'S,
and now they lead 65-26 with just minutes to go. It's
hardly possible to score that many points in
forty-eight minutes. We're deflated, cause
after all our work we even trail the half now,
28-23.
We need a touchdown, but their defense breaks
through on a blitz, and Brian is chased to our
sideline and crushed right in front of us. Coach
and I kneel over him. "Where does it hurt?"
"Everywhere. My hair hurts."
Coach says, "I'm proud of you, Brian.
Let's call it a night."
"Coach, please. I don't want to walk
off this field till the gun sounds. I can't
throw, but maybe I can still run."
Elvis says, "What's Schuler's commandment
number one?"
"Let the bone roll," Coach says.
With less than a minute to go, Brian keeps
pitching out to Elvis, who keeps gaining yard after
yard. Once I heard a Raider defender
grunt, "Stay down!"
Rock Hill's coach is screaming, "We will
not lose this half to a team of fifteen
players!"
Our guys are racing to the line with no huddle,
and Rock Hill, who should already be celebrating
their third straight undefeated season and state
title, are sucking wind and trying to keep from
losing this half. With less than twenty seconds
on the clock and us inside their 10-yard line,
Rock Hill calls a time-out. Nobody's ever
heard of a team ahead by thirty-nine points
calling time-out. We hear Rock Hill's coach
ranting, "I will not give them the
satisfaction."
Coach tells our guys, "This is it.
Maybe two more plays in Crusader history.
Use what you've got and do it any way you can."
Our crowd's chanting, "El-vis!
El-vis!"
Raider fans are shouting, "De-fense!
De-fense!"
Brian pitches to Elvis, who gets blasted
out of bounds and over the Rock Hill bench.
Five seconds show on the clock. Even the
Rock Hill coach is urging him to stay down.
But he gets up. Rock Hill players are
shaking their heads.
Brian pitches back to Elvis and he starts
one more run, barely eluding defenders as the gun
sounds. The world goes into slow motion. The roar of the
crowd deafens me and I feel like I'm alone before
the biggest high school crowd ever. The lights, the
color, the action all swim together and somehow
I've got the time to realize how ludicrous this
is. Elvis can't get back to the line of
scrimmage, and I'm yelling I don't know
what, pumping my fists and hopping down the
sidelines, trying to will him to get somewhere, do
something. We've been slaughtered, but a touchdown
will give us this half, and there's nothing in the world that
matters more.
Out of gas and stumbling, Elvis is swarmed
by Raiders. They look as whipped as he does.
Somehow, some way he twists and keeps his arm
free as they climb his back, drive into his
knees, and grab him around his neck.
I'm dying, screaming, hopping. And as the best
high school football player I've ever seen
finally buckles under the bulk of all that weight and
starts to crumble to the turf, he launches a
desperate pass. At first I don't even
follow the ball. I don't believe he's
unleashed it. He disappears under hundreds of
pounds of Raiders, and I'm guessing they think
it's over too. But there's no whistle. The
ball's still in play.
I search the sky and pick it up, a pitiful
dying quail of an end-over-end toss that
doesn't look to have a prayer of getting past the
wide-eyed Rock Hill defenders. They quickly
crouch and leap, trying to tip the wobbly ball
away. But it somehow eludes em.
Brian Schuler is running like a
madman, snaking through the secondary, eyes
wild, mouth wide open, desperately looking
over his shoulder. Inside the 5-yard line the
ball drops just behind him. He slows and stretches
and reaches and it hits his shoulder pad and bounces
just above his helmet. Now he's fair game and a
corner back drives his helmet into Brian's
back and wraps his arms around him, just above the
waist.
So now they're both flying across the goal line,
the force of the blow pushing Brian's hands out in
front of him. The ball drops into his arms as
he's slammed to the ground. The whistle blows, the
ref signals touchdown, and I drop to my
knees overcome at the best loss I've ever
suffered as a player or coach.
The Crusaders are all over the field,
high-fiving, piling atop one another, and I run
out to meet em in the end zone where they're hugging
Brian and Elvis. Rock Hill has won
65-32, but Andy Gordon has scribbled on the
chalkboard Crusaders 29, Raiders 28.
Rock Hill looks beat. State champs and
they're dragging. Their fans are silent. A
Raider pulls Elvis out of the scrum.
"Don't you guys get it? You lost!"
"Not this half, we didn't," Elvis says.
The Raiders trudge off the field while our
fans gather around the goal posts and start
to climb. Soon the goals come toppling.
Rachel shoots past me into Elvis's arms.
"I am so proud of you," she says. "Look
who's here." Jenny Lucas jumps on Elvis
and brings him to his knees.
That was about all I could take.
Coach was off looking to see where Kim had
taken his wife. Bev grabbed me from behind and I
had to remind myself she was still recuperating.
"Guess you know I got a million questions," I
said over my shoulder.
"All in good time, cowboy."



Turns out I'm marrying a lot more woman
than I ever dreamed. Kim says it's cause
I'm still basically oblivious. I tell her
I'm not oblivious, I'm Protestant, and she
says, "That was mildly funny the first time." My
vote against her being in the wedding will
likely go unheeded.
Anyway, if you could believe the rest of
Bev's bevy, this was all her idea. Soon as
she learned about Jenny and made her the point of
all their meetings, they started conniving to do something
about her. It took all kinds a legal
rigmarole just to get permission to take her out of
Indiana to visit strangers who cared about her.
I guess all of us were checked out by the
authorities, and one of the rules was that the girl
couldn't be under the sole care of a lady still in
treatment for alcoholism. Course it turns out
Jenny hit it off with Miz Schuler as well as
anybody, maybe cause Helena was older and
seemed like a grandma.
Jenny just knocked us over. The fact that she was
scared and shy and tired didn't keep her from stealing
our hearts. She had those huge, curious eyes,
and she was so glad to be with Elvis again, you could
tell she was fighting to stay awake. She
eventually lost the battle and Rachel put her in
her bed.
Elvis wasn't much more comfortable with all us
oldsters around, but he mustered enough courage to thank
the ladies. Best of all, and he said this in
front of us though he was talking to Rachel, "I
don't want to get all dramatic and I
don't want a big fuss, but Jenny wants
me to take her to church Sunday."
Bev and me and the rest of us traded glances but
tried to pretend we hadn't heard that. Naw, there
shouldn't be much of a commotion when the best football
player in Athens City history and its resident
atheist shows up in church. "I don't want people
expecting me to come running down the aisle or
something," he said.
"At least not without a football."
That was Coach and he looked mighty proud of
himself to have got a laugh. I heard Rachel
whisper to Elvis, "People will let you move at your
own pace. You're on your way, but God won't
push you."

Course Jenny had to be back to Indiana by the
middle of the following week, and that was hard. You
sure had to feel for the little thing, especially when she
had to say her good-byes. I'd hardly had much
time with her, but I couldn't keep from crying. What
must it be like to have all these new friends and then hear
promises you've heard before and be
expected to believe em?
We told her we'd call. We told her
we'd write. We told her we'd come visit
sometime and even bring her back down to Athens
City. She hugged our necks so tight we
wondered if we could peel her off, and I can still
feel her hot tears running down my neck.

Bev hadn't been back from Indiana
twenty-four hours before she told me we had
to talk. "I don't wanna catch you when you're
vulnerable or make you think this is the only way
to make me happy," she said. "But you know I
did my homework. You've just about raised your
daughter, Cal, and this may be the last thing you even
wanna consider, so stop me now if it's out of the
question."
I knew what she was talking about. Course I
did. But when I didn't say anything, she had
to wonder. Maybe she was hoping I'd grin from ear
to ear and tell her I was hoping she'd suggest this.
"I mean it, Cal," she said, studying me. "This
is no light decision, no easy thing. This is a
long-term commitment."
"I made one of those recently," I said.
"And that may be plenty for now."
"No, I'm listening."
"Don't let me waste my breath," she said.
"Because if I'm to let this go--which I'm willing
to do, and I mean that--I don't want to invest
any more emotion in it. I love you, Cal, and
I'd be thrilled if it was just you and me and Rachel
for the rest of the time we've got together. If that's
what you want, I leave this right where it is."
I gathered her in and she lay her head on my
shoulder. Her heart was racing. "What'd you find
out, sweetheart? What'd they tell you?"
"Cal, I'm not asking for a decision right now,
but I'm serious--I don't want to get
into talking about this if there's not even a chance."
"And you wouldn't see me as the guy who stood in
the way of your dream?"
"You are my dream, Calvin. And I know
I'm naive. I know this couldn't be easy. There
may be days when we regret it. We don't know
what this girl brings with her, what she's suffered,
how that'll play out. And sometimes I think I get
enough mothering satisfaction just interacting with Rachel.
The Lord knows that girl has accepted me already, and
that can't be easy. But if this thing is not
going to be, I need to know now so I can start
shifting gears."
"I don't understand the maternal thing," I said.
"I don't know how that feels. All I can do
is try to imagine not having Rachel. Being her
dad is who I am. I think back about what
life would've been like with Estelle and no baby,
and my mind won't even conjure it. And then when
Estelle died, well, I couldn't've gone on
without Rachel. I wouldn't be quick to deny you the
raising of a child."
She shifted her weight. "I've gone
forty-two years single and childless," she said.
"I imagine I could keep going."
"Not single you couldn't," I said. "I'd have
to sue you for breach of promise."
She put a finger to my lips. "Legal stuff
comes later."
I had no idea what that meant, but I told
her I was willing to hear her out about Jennifer
Lucas. She pulled a folder from her bag and
began running down the prerequisites for an
out-of-state individual to adopt a child. "Parents
have to be no more than forty years older than the child,"
she began.
I said, "Hey, that leaves out the Schulers."
"So does Helena's condition," Bev said,
"but did she ever come alive with Jenny. And
Coach loves her."
"Godparents?"
"That's what I was thinking." Bev's eyes were
afire. "If we hadn't worked together all these
years, I might worry about bringing a little one
into a new marriage. And it still won't be easy.
But it'll be worth it, don't you think? Or were you
looking forward to an empty nest? Am I messing
everything up, Cal?"
"Course you are! Kid or not, the nest ain't
gonna be empty with you here."
We talked about it all afternoon, and it seemed
Bev couldn't think a nothing else for days. She
was obsessed with Jenny, and I was getting there.
My mind was clouded by the business falling apart, but
come Christmas I finally found out what Bev
meant about legal stuff. While she was arranging
for the adoption, I was resigning myself to the fact that
American Leather was dying, while
still--recklessly, I know--keeping one eye on the
ball glove market.
Bev and I drove down to the shore
for a Christmas Eve dinner, and she looked
beautiful. We'd talked with Jenny on the phone
that day and told her the news. She could move in with
Bev by the middle of January, and we would become
a family on the twenty-third. No matter how
the business deal came down, I wouldn't have to work.
But that wasn't me. I told Bev, "I
gotta start reading the want ads."
"That sounds like a cue for my present," she
said.
"I didn't bring it," I said. "It's under the
tree."
"I meant my present to you," she said. But she
had carried only a small purse. "Is now
okay?"
I nodded and she pulled out a business-size
envelope. It was from an insurance company and
addressed to her. She had crossed out her name and
address and written in, "To my darling Cal, with
love forever. Merry Christmas 2001. What's
mine is yours and what's yours is ours."
"What's this?" I said, studying it in the light
of the table candle.
"I don't know, darling. Maybe you should open
it."
Inside was a memo on the insurance company's
letterhead, regarding Athens City Memorial
Hospital, Inc. "Ms. Raschke, enclosed
is your portion of the settlement with the above-named
corporation. It has been our pleasure serving
you. We wish to remind you that the details herein
are, by binding agreement, confidential. With your
acceptance of the enclosed, you absolve the
corporation and its staff, in part and in whole, from
any legal liability related to your case. For
purposes of public knowledge, you are stipulating that the
corporation admits no guilt or fault in the
matter.
"While the award enclosed could never compensate
for your pain and suffering or permanent physical
damage, we hope that it in a small way
helps allow you to put behind you a difficult
season in your life.
"Cordially ..."
I looked up at her, afraid to peek at the
"enclosed."
"I, ah, never thought you'd pursue this, Bev.
I really didn't."
"You know me well, Cal. I wouldn't have. I
listened. I said I wasn't the type
to bring action. I said everybody makes
mistakes. I said there was no way someone did this
with intent. They said, "You almost died. That
colonoscopy almost killed you. And before they
repaired the damage, the poison in your system
took away your most natural female
ability." I told em I understood but that I
would not be making a claim against the hospital."
"So what's this?"
"They asked permission to withhold my wishes from
the hospital while they pursued their own claim.
They said, "We're not about to pay for the further
procedures necessary to keep you alive, which were the
result of their error." I told em that sounded
fair enough and that I was sure the hospital would
waive those costs."
"This is waiving costs?"
"Cal, their attorneys went in there with a
handicap. I was a victim unwilling to file.
But with my permission not to reveal that, as long as they
didn't imply otherwise, they started
negotiating with the hospital corporation's
lawyers. They established the case for
malpractice, just to make clear that they knew
well what had happened.
"They tell me the corporation's lawyers
advised the hospital to settle. I argued with
em, Cal. I told em to get back in there and
tell em it was unnecessary, cause I wasn't
gonna file anyway. They said, "You can do
what you want with your part of the money. If it were up
to us, we would treat this as a first offer and try to get
more." I said, "Let me see that," and they
slid it across the desk. They said I could make a
generous donation to the hospital if I wanted
to. "Give it all back," they said. "We
don't care. But we'll be keeping our
portion." Cal, you can see I could give half
of it back and still have more than enough."
I slid the check out from behind the memo and stopped
breathing. I've been in a high ticket business
all my life and I'd never personally seen so
many zeroes on a check. "Bev," I said, "you
can't take--"
"I didn't ask for it. They offered it because of
what they did to me. I like that hospital and I
hope you'll think about a generous donation."
"Beverly, you can't give this to me. I--"
"I can and I have," she said, lifting her hands
to show she wouldn't take it back.
"There's nobody I'd trust more with it,
sweetheart. Think of it. Think of the church, the
hospital, the bank, the town, the factory,
Rachel, Jenny, us."
"The factory?"
"You been having trouble getting through to that
liquidator, right?"
"Yeah, what's with that?"
"I told him we were going a different
direction."
"We are?"
"Ball gloves, Cal. You know everybody
wants to do it. Everybody has a job, morale
goes up, we have a new challenge."
"But it's bad business, Bev. You don't
pour money down the drain just because you can. We can't
compete with the other manufacturers anymore."
"You'll find a way to make it turn, Cal.
It'll start making a profit sooner or later.
And if it doesn't, who says it's money down
the drain? People have jobs. Customers have quality.
American Leather stays the best equipment
manufacturer in the business. Everybody
benefits. It helps the Athens City
economy. The town stays alive."

Mrs. Raschke coaxed one more trip out of
Clifford, and he was able to get down the aisle
to give the bride away. Kim was Bev's maid
of honor. Coach was my best man. Elvis and
Rachel were witnesses. Jennifer was junior
bridesmaid. Helena hosted the reception.
And the runners-up to the state high school
football championship, all fifteen of em,
stuffed an entire bag of marshmallows into the tail
pipe of my car.
I didn't shake the last of them Crusaders
till I was nearly outside Mobile.











Epilogue

The day after the wedding, Rachel left Elvis at Kim's to play with Jenny while she took a
walk into town by herself. Later she would visit
Coach and Mrs. Schuler in their new home, where
Bev used to live.
She reached the high school football stadium
and strolled into the end zone near the scoreboard.
"Lord," she said silently, "when people talk about
Athens City's last chapter, and the Crusaders'
last half, and about Schuler's last stand, please
help them remember it was You who showed up and showed
off."

THE END