Don't Worry About the Kids Read online

  The day before the St. Dominick’s game, Dr. Hunter made a speech in our assembly about how we should be as friendly as possible toward the boys from the other school. They were less fortunate than we were, and he hoped we would all learn something from watching them and meeting them. The speech made me squirm. Words weren’t going to do any tackling for us, I said to myself. But there was something else that was making me uneasy, and that was the way Mother was acting. When I turned to look at her in the back of the assembly hall, her cheeks were flushed, and this annoyed me. A lot of things annoyed me about her during this period, I know—the way she walked down the halls, the way she stopped to look in mirrors so much at home, the way she smiled at Dr. Hunter and the other teachers, the kind of clothing she wore—and the best way I can explain is to say that during this period, for the first time in my life, I was unhappy that Mother was pretty.

  I certainly felt this way when we went to Parents Day together. Very few of the mothers came up to her to ask her questions about their children, but a lot of the fathers did, and the way she smiled, and the way they tried to impress her or make her laugh, bothered me. I kept wanting to go over to her and order her to stop—or to grab her and take her far away—and at the same time I kept wishing she would just pay a little more attention to me, and that she’d ask me about the game and about what our chances were and if I thought I’d get to play.

  We were going through our passing drills when the St. Dominick’s team arrived. They came in a pale yellow school bus, and they already had their uniforms and cleats on when they stepped down from the bus onto the field. Mr. Marcus went over to their coach, who wore a priest’s black shirt and white collar, and shook hands with him, and while they talked we kept going through our drills, trying to act indifferent to their arrival. Their uniforms were black and gold, and I think we were all surprised at how new and clean they were.

  I noticed, too, how serious they were about everything they did, even their jumping jacks. The other thing I noticed, of course, was the blacks on their team. Almost half their squad was black and there were also a few Puerto Rican-looking players. Although we had seven or eight at our school, and a few of the other teams in our league had one or two black players, I felt certain we were terrified by the sheer percentage of blacks on their team. One of the players standing near me confirmed my suspicion by saying that he wished we had “a few of those” on our team. “Can they run!” he exclaimed. I turned to him, wanting to contradict him, but I didn’t say anything because I had to admit that my reaction had been pretty much the same. I assumed that black athletes were faster than whites, and that a team full of blacks would be almost impossible to beat.

  By the time the whistle blew for the kickoff, our spirits were high, though, and the guys were all patting each other on the rear end and everybody was giving everybody else encouragement. On the sidelines the students and parents were watching and clapping for us, and the girls stood together and did cheers most of the guys pretended to be annoyed by. I looked for my mother, but she wasn’t there. We huddled around Mr. Marcus. “They look fast,” he said, “but they’re not very big. If you hit hard on the opening play, the game is ours. Is that clear? Hit hard and keep hitting. Drive, drive, drive! Let the man opposite you know you’re the boss, okay? I think we can win this game. What do you think—?” We yelled back that we would kill them, smash them, obliterate them, and then Mr. Marcus put his hand into the middle of the circle and we thrust our own hands in, pyramiding them until he shouted, “Let’s go!” and then we all let out a big roar and the starting team ran out onto the field.

  We kicked off and St. Dominick’s ran the ball back to the twenty-five-yard line, but on the first play from scrimmage, Charlie Gildea reddogged into their backfield and smashed this little black kid. The ball skittered out of his arms and John Weldon, our left end, fell on it. I threw my helmet into the air and raced down the sideline with the others to get closer to the play. Mr. Marcus tried not to seem excited, but I could tell he was just as thrilled as we were. Charlie Gildea went around right end on the first play after that and gained three yards. Mr. Marcus yelled at our guys to hit hard and I believe they were hitting as hard as they could, but on the next play I watched the way the St. Dominick’s team dug in on defense. They dumped Guy Leonard to the ground for no gain. As I expected, Charlie Gildea went back to pass on the next play. I didn’t watch him, though. I watched the line. The three St. Dominick’s linemen charged through our men as if they weren’t there. Charlie sidestepped one of them but the other two smashed him for a ten-yard loss.

  Going back to pass again, on fourth down, Charlie was pulled down on the forty-two-yard line. It was their ball, first and fifteen to go, and it took them exactly four running plays to cover the fifty-eight yards they needed for a touchdown. The crowd was quiet. The St. Dominick’s coach was yelling at his boys, and none of them were even smiling. Mr. Marcus was angry. “X-15!” he called. “And stop looking at the ground-look into their eyes. I want them to know they’re in a ball game! Pick out a man on the kickoff and lay him flat!” X-15 was a reverse play, and it worked. The St. Dominick’s team charged too quickly, and before they knew it, Charlie Gildea was in the clear, along the far sideline. Their safety man pulled him down on their own thirty-yard line, and we went wild. The thrill was short-lived. After the first play, when Guy Leonard gained four, our guys seemed to die again. As soon as the ball was snapped, the first thing you noticed was that our linemen seemed to move back a step, in unison. I could tell that Mr. Marcus noticed also because he started calling our guys girls, and right in front of the parents.

  A few of us were still shouting encouragement to the guys on the field, but it didn’t make much difference. After we gave up the ball, St. Dominick’s began chewing up yardage again. “What’s the matter?” Mister Marcus yelled. “Didn’t you ever see a straightarm before? Christ!” He smacked his head with the palm of his hand and looked to either side of him. “Eddie,” he called. “Where’s Eddie?”

  I ran to him, my heart pounding. “Go in for Shattuck. Show these girls something, okay? You show ’em, Eddie.”

  I dashed onto the field, pulling my helmet on and snapping the chin strap. “You’re out, Shattuck,” I said in the huddle. St. Dominick’s was on our thirty-yard line. The other guys stared at me and none of them said anything, but I knew they were probably thinking that Mr. Marcus had put me in for spite. I didn’t care. The first quarter wasn’t even over and I was getting a chance to play. I lined up at right end, and when the ball was snapped, something went click inside my head. I took a step back, so as not to be taken in, and then I saw men moving toward me with the ballcarrier behind them. I charged forward, hand-fighting past the first man. The second man hit me with a cross-body block and laid me flat, however, and all I could do as the ballcarrier went by was to reach out with my hand, snatching for his ankle. I missed, and looking up I saw that he was laughing as he chugged by, his white teeth gleaming inside his brown face. Charlie Gildea came up from the secondary and made the tackle. He helped me up. “Good try,” he said.

  “I’ll get him next time,” I said. I heard my name and I looked sideways. Mr. Marcus was having fits. “Eddie! Eddie!” he was wailing. “How many times do I have to tell you? When you see men coming at you like that, don’t try to fight them all—roll up the play and leave the tackle for somebody else. Is that clear? Roll it up!” I nodded and set myself for the next play. They ran the other end and made a first down. On the following play, though, they came my way again, and I did what Mr. Marcus wanted. Instead of trying to fight my way to the ballcarrier, I faked at the first blocker and then threw myself into him, low and sideways. It worked. He toppled over me and the other blocker tripped over him and the ballcarrier was slowed down long enough for Guy Leonard to bring him down for no gain.

  The first half ended with the score 28 to o, in favor of St. Dominick’s. Between halves I lay under this big apple tree in back of the school, alongside the pl
ayers, sucking on oranges. The St. Dominick’s team stayed on the field, under the goalposts. Nobody said much. Mr. Marcus paced up and down, and it seemed to me he had a million things he wanted to tell us and felt frustrated because he’d get to say only a few of them. In the distance I could see some of the fathers playing catch with a football. Beyond the football field I thought I spotted my mother, near where they were serving coffee and hot chocolate. I wanted her to look at me—to watch me sitting with the other guys and to be proud of me. I wanted her to know what it meant to me to have gotten into the game so early, and I wished too that I could just hear her voice—even if she was only laughing at some stupid joke one of the fathers was telling her—but, at such a distance, I couldn’t be sure it was her.

  “Do you know what the trouble is?” Mr. Marcus asked, his hands on his hips. “Do you?”

  John Weldon shrugged. “They’re too fast,” he said. Some of the players covered their mouths and giggled.

  “I see,” Mr. Marcus said, nodding up and down. “I see. They’re too fast. They’re too fast. What else?”

  Somebody to his left mumbled something. Mr. Marcus whirled toward him, then seemed to catch hold of himself, and when he spoke he did so firmly. “Would you mind repeating that for the other boys, Phil?”

  Phil Siegel looked at the ground. “They got all those jigs on their team,” he said. Everybody laughed.

  “Do you know what the trouble is?” Mr. Marcus said again, ignoring Phil. “Do you know what the trouble is?—You’re not hungry ballplayers.” He sighed, as if he knew how useless his words were. “Damn it, pay attention!” he snapped, and he grabbed John Weldon by his shoulder pad, yanked him from the ground, and then shoved him back down.

  “In your little fingers you guys don’t have—you don’t have… Oh, what’s the difference—” He looked around and his eyes flicked from one side to the other. He took a deep breath, concentrating hard, and then he spoke again. “Do you want to know what else? Do you? I’m glad you’re getting beaten. How’s that? This is probably the last time any of those boys will ever beat you at anything. When you’re coming back here someday, watching your pansy children run around the field against the latest group of orphans or deprived kids, the boys you’re playing against will be, will be…” He threw up his hands. “—God knows where! And while you and you and you,” he said, pointing, “will be reminiscing about that time those jigs slaughtered you, none of them will even remember what the Fowler School was.” He stopped. He seemed very tired suddenly, and I wished more than anything that I could help him. “Okay,” he said, blinking. “This is the way it’s going to be. I’m giving every one of you a chance to play, because I want every one of you, for once in your lives, to know what it is to get hit and to get hurt. Is that clear?” Nobody said anything. I was angry, and I wondered for a second if this was really what Mr. Marcus intended—if he’d only wanted to get us angry enough to go out and play hard-nosed football during the second half.

  “That was a most interesting speech, Mr. Marcus.” Some of the boys started to stand up. “Sit, boys. Please. Sit—” Dr. Hunter said. “You’ve been playing hard and you need the rest.” He smiled, and when he did I looked at Mr. Marcus and the anger in his eyes made me imagine for a split second what my father’s eyes might have looked like when he was moving in for a ball on the handball court, moving in to kill it. “I just wanted to wish you luck for the second half, boys. I know you’ll do your best.”

  Mr. Marcus muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?” Dr. Hunter asked.

  “Nothing I haven’t said in other words,” Mr. Marcus answered.

  “Fine, fine—well, I’ll leave you to your discussion.”

  Dr. Hunter left. Mr. Marcus waited a few seconds, then started off toward the playing field. “Follow me, girls,” he said. “Don’t be scared, now—”

  The guys really hated him then, and during the second half they showed it. By the fourth quarter, when almost all the parents had stopped watching, they’d called their girlfriends over and were standing with them, wisecracking and showing off. One or two of them even took drags on cigarettes and necked with their girlfriends. It hardly affected Mr. Marcus. He just kept yelling at us and mocking us and he was true to his word about putting everybody into the game. For their part, the St. Dominick’s team kept coming. At the time I would have given anything, I think, to have been one of them. And I kept hoping, all through the second half, that before the end of the game one of them would speak to me—would say something about how hard I was playing, about how I was hanging in there—would make some gesture toward me. None of them did.

  When the game was over, Charlie Gildea and I were the only players who stayed on the field and shook hands with them. I shook hands with as many of them as I could, even though they hardly seemed interested. They huddled at the far end of the field, gave us a 2-4-6-8 cheer, then walked to their bus and left. The final score was 54 to o.

  After I got dressed in my regular clothes, my gray flannel slacks and blue Fowler blazer, I went back to the field to look for my mother. Most of the parents were gone by now, and I couldn’t find Mother anywhere. I walked over to the school building, and went inside, but it was deserted and her homeroom was locked. I came back outside—the sky was starting to turn orange from the sun—and, scared suddenly of being left alone, I found myself wondering for a second if she’d gone off with some other guy’s father, if maybe one of them was divorced or a widower and if they were already sitting together in some plush lounge, having cocktails. I kicked at the ground and then got angry with her for not having told me where she’d gone, and for making me think such stupid thoughts and see such stupid pictures in my head. Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might think things like that if you went off and left me alone? I wanted to shout at her. Didn’t it? Didn’t it…?

  Mr. Marcus saw me walking across the field, and he called to me and asked if I wanted a ride home with him. He had an old 1966 green Dodge Dart, and when I sat next to him we didn’t say anything to each other. He smoked one cigarette after another, and since I’d never seen him smoke at school or practice, I was surprised. I gave him directions to our house, and when we got there I was relieved to see Mother’s car in the driveway, and lights on in the kitchen. I asked Mr. Marcus if he wanted to come inside. I told him Mother could make us some coffee or hot chocolate.

  “Some other time, Eddie. Okay?” He put his hand on my head and he stared at me for what seemed like ages, his mouth slightly open and a cigarette stuck to his lower lip. His eyes didn’t shift or blink at all. Then he seemed to wake up. He looked at his hand as if he were puzzled to find it resting on my head. “Christ!” he said, ruffling my hair. “You’re a sweet kid, Eddie. Now get inside, take a nice hot shower, and stay warm.”

  “Thanks for the ride home, sir,” I said, when I was out of the car.

  “Sure,” he said. He backed the car out of the driveway and I started toward the house. Then he honked and I turned toward him. He looked out of the window and waved to me. “You played a good game, Eddie,” he called.

  On Monday I looked for him at school but he wasn’t there. He didn’t show up all week, and in assembly on Friday morning, Dr. Hunter announced that owing to illness in his immediate family, Mr. Marcus had been forced to leave the school for the remainder of the term. He said he hoped Mr. Marcus would be returning for the spring semester. When the spring semester began, Mr. Marcus didn’t return. No announcements were made, and I was probably the only student in the school who even remembered what Dr. Hunter had said. I was feeling pretty upset, and when, on the evening after the first day of classes for the new term, Mother told me that Dr. Hunter was calling for her and that she’d have to leave me alone in the house for the evening, something inside me went click.

  I stalked off, but while she was dressing, I walked straight into her room and asked her if she was going to marry Dr. Hunter.

  “You should knock before you c
ome in, Eddie. I might have been undressed.” She looked into her mirror and fastened an earring.

  “Are you?” I asked again. “I’m serious. I have a right to know!”

  She kept working at her earring, as if I hadn’t said a thing, but when I saw her mouth open slightly, I didn’t give her a chance and I spoke before I even thought about what I was going to say. “How—how could you ever marry a man with a gimpy arm?” I demanded. “How could you—?”

  She turned toward me and looked at me sternly for a second or two. Then her face broke into a big smile. “Oh, Eddie,” she laughed. “Of course I’m not getting married.” She stood and came to me and hugged me. Her perfume was strong, and I struggled to get loose. “You know you’re the only man in my life.”

  “I’m not,” I said, freeing myself. “I’m your son. You should get a husband while you’re still young and pretty.”

  She backed off and looked at me for a long time after I said that, and I kept having these alternate feelings—that I shouldn’t have said it and that I should have. I think she wanted to kiss me and hug me again, but for some reason she seemed afraid to do it now. She simply closed her eyes, nodded once, and then opened them. She turned back to her mirror. “Will you finish the dishes while I’m gone?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said. And then: “How come Mr. Marcus didn’t come back this term?”

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “Can I ask Dr. Hunter why Mr. Marcus didn’t come back?”

  She sighed, then smiled again, but in a much easier way than she had a few minutes before. “I don’t think that would get us anywhere, do you?”