Cubs Game

At the farthest edge of the campus, under a clear, cerulean sky, beside a cow pasture where a solitary Holstein lazily rubbed her bottom against the trunk of a persimmon tree, the Cubs were about to lose their third game in a row when a mad howl bellowed from the bottom of a dogpile in the middle of the field.

“OWWWWW! GET OFF! GET OFF! GET! OFF!”

The referee blew his whistle, stopping the clock, and motioned to Coach Deemer on the Cub sideline. Legs and arms untangled from the pile, and the boys from both teams stood up on either side of No. 57, who lay writhing on his back. Henry bent down to look inside the player’s facemask.

“Are you okay, Grimes?”

Bobby Grimes opened his eyes wide and screamed up into Henry’s face, just two feet above his own. “NO, GODDAMMIT!! I’M NOT OKAY! I BROKE MY FUCKING BUTT! MY BUTT IS BROKEN GODDAMMIT!!!!”

Henry looked to his bench and saw Rev. Deemer jogging over.

“What’s the problem, Palmer?”

“Grimes says he broke his goddamn butt.”

Deemer shook a finger at Henry. “That’s two demerits, Palmer.”

Henry pointed down at Grimes, who had closed his eyes again and was still screaming. “That’s what he said.”

Deemer took a knee next to Grimes and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder pads. “Grimes. It’s Rev. Deemer. Can you stand up?”

Grimes opened his eyes and stared up wildly at his coach. “No. I can’t. My butt’s broke.”

Deemer motioned to the sideline for two players to come onto the field. He leaned back over Grimes. “We’ll help you off the field.”

Grimes shook his head. “No. Uh-uh. I don’t want to move. It hurts!”

Deemer patted him on the shoulder pads. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll help you up, get you back to the locker room, put you in the whirlpool and you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to get up! I need a stretcher!”

Deemer patted his shoulder pads again and motioned the two boys over. “You’re going to be fine.”

Grimes cast a frightened and bewildered look from Deemer to Henry. Henry shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t get up! Get a stretcher!”

Deemer continued to pat his shoulder pads, until Tom Wales and Bob Wobbly arrived from the sideline. “Wales, you get on that side, and Wobbly you take this side, and on three we’ll lift him up.” Deemer stood above Grimes’s head and bent down to lift him up by the shoulders.

“No!”

“One.”

“NO!”

“Two.”

“NOOOO!!!”

“Three.”

“OWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!”

Henry watched them lift Grimes up off the ground as Grimes screamed. Once Grimes was upright, Deemer pulled Wales and Wobbly away so that Grimes was left standing under his own power. Grimes staggered, caught himself, took a couple steps forward, and looked at Deemer in surprise. Deemer pointed to the sidelines.

“Off you go. Wales, tell McMullen to take Grimes’s place at center, and you take McMullen’s place at tight end. Wobbly, you walk with Grimes up to the locker room and make sure he gets in the whirlpool.”

As Wales trotted over to the offensive huddle, Henry watched Wobbly walk off the field with Grimes. In the last three weeks Wobbly had been demoted from J.V. to J.O. to Cubs. When he broke the news to Henry that he was joining the Cubs, Wobbly had acted apologetic, as if this meant that Henry would be losing his job as starting quarterback. But after one practice, it was clear to Henry and everyone else that Wobbly was a sorry excuse for a football player. He had no arm strength, and no amount of padding could induce him to throw his body in front of anything moving. He made a lot of noise on the blocking shed; he made even more noise when he was the tackling dummy. So far he hadn’t seen any action — not even on special teams — and Henry couldn’t help but notice that Wobbly’s spirits seemed to lift when Deemer told him to accompany Grimes to the showers rather than take his place on the field.

Deemer placed an arm over Henry’s shoulder. “It’s fourth down, and we need a little more than a yard. We’re out of timeouts. So let’s go with Bulldog twenty-one, get a first down, then throw outs to Nelson. If time’s running out, send everyone to the end zone and throw a Hail Mary. Got it?”

Henry nodded. Deemer slapped the top of his helmet and jogged back to the bench. Henry checked the scoreboard. The score was 17-12 and there were 0:31 seconds left. They were on the 40 yard line and down five points. Bulldog 21 was a dive play off-center, and Henry knew that McMullen would be a disaster at center. The entire line was a disaster. The entire team, for that matter, was a disaster. They hadn’t gained more than 15 yards on the ground the whole game. The only reason they had twelve points on the scoreboard was that Henry had been able to scramble to buy time for Jack Nelson to get open down the field for two lucky touchdowns. Everything else was a catastrophe.

Henry took a knee in the middle of the huddle.

“Okay. Listen up.” Henry looked around at the ten faces staring down at him. “This is our last chance, so let’s make it count. Ward,” Henry looked at his fullback, “we’re going to fake Bulldog 21. And Jack,” Henry looked at his wide receiver, “you run an out, and I’ll fake the throw to you. And Wales,” Henry looked at Tom Wales, the slowest kid on the team, who’d never played a game of football in his life, who was only in on this play because he’d come out to help get Grimes off the field, “I want you to fall down as soon as the ball is snapped, and then get up and run as fast as you can to the end zone. When you get there stop, turn around, and I’ll put the ball in your hands. Got it?”

Wales’s eyes grew wide, his mouth fell open, and he nodded solemnly as he comprehended the majesty of what Henry described. The rest of the team broke out in protest.

“Henry what … Wales’s never played … What play is this …?”

“Quiet! Quiet! You think they don’t expect me to throw to Jack? This is our only chance. Just hold your blocks as long as you can, don’t go downfield, and pray to God for a miracle. On one.”

Henry slapped his hands, and the squad broke the huddle and walked to the line of scrimmage. Henry nodded at Jack, who was lined up on his left. Jack nodded back, and the cornerback and safety on that side took two steps backward and to Jack’s side of the field. Henry bent down and placed his hands under McMullen’s butt.

“Hut.” McMullen’s snap was short and only hit the tips of Henry’s fingers. Henry bobbled the ball but managed to get a grip. The nose tackle who was lined up over McMullen exploded forward and knocked McMullen backwards into Henry. McMullen’s left foot stepped onto Henry’s left foot as he fell backward, and when Henry tried to pull back from center he almost tripped, but he gripped the ball with his left hand, put his right hand down on the ground to steady himself, and managed to pull his left foot out from under McMullen’s and take a step backward, but the timing was now off, and Ward Carter, who was faking a dive off left center, collided headfirst into Henry and spun him around, clockwise, a full rotation. Henry bobbled the ball a second time, it toppled out of his hand and up into the air above his head, but as he spun around he managed to catch it with his trailing left hand and regain his balance, now two yards behind the line of scrimmage. He looked down. McMullen had fallen onto his butt but had managed — whether by accident or by design Henry couldn’t tell — to grab hold of the noseguard’s facemask and pull him down on top of himself, so that there was now a small pile of bodies thrashing in front of Henry, and the thrashing tripped a defensive tackle who had been fast approaching on his right. Henry turned his back on the defense and retreated five steps. When he spun around, the other defensive tackle, who appeared to have broken through the line unblocked, lunged at Henry’s face. Henry did not have time to lift his right arm to fend off the tackler but managed to spin to his left. He felt the tackle brush against his shoulders, and not knowing whether he was down or still pursuing, Henry ran to his left and looked for Nelson, who had by now broken to the left sidelines. Henry pulled back his right hand and pumped his arm in Nelson’s direction. Both defensive backs broke towards Nelson. Henry looked back over his shoulder to see who was pursuing, but the tackle had fallen to the ground five yards behind him and was only now getting up to his feet.

Henry looked for Wales, and saw a small, solitary player in a clean white jersey running alone, surprisingly quickly, towards the end zone, with no one in pursuit. Henry scanned the field in front of him, and saw two linebackers who, now sensing that someone far downfield might be open, charged forward as fast as they could towards Henry and the ball. Henry stopped, saw that Wales was now five yards from the end zone with no one closing, and planted his feet. He held the ball a moment longer, hoping that Wales would look back, make eye contact, acknowledge that the ball was on the way, but Wales kept going, and with the two linebackers now only two strides away, Henry stepped forward and released a perfect spiral towards the end zone.

The ball flew high and far downfield, up into a cloudless and windless blue sky, spiraling, spiraling over the heads of twenty boys. The linebackers turned, and Henry lifted himself up onto his tiptoes to watch it fly. When Wales reached the goal line, he spun around and looked back for Henry. He saw a crowd of boys back at the line. He heard the shouts from his sideline. He saw that he was all alone, and there was Henry, looking at him, standing on tiptoes with his right hand by his side and no football. Wales looked up. There was the football. Falling, falling down through the sky towards him. It was like a bird falling from the sky, a duck getting bigger as it fell, as if it had been shot out of the heavens in order to fall to him, directly to him, a gift for him. Wales lifted his arms and reached out with both hands toward the ball that was now hurtling faster and faster downward, towards the very spot where he stood. He closed his eyes and thought about his mother back at home, sitting beside him at the piano when he was six years old, showing him how to hold his wrists at the keyboard, and guiding his fingers through the scales. He thought how happy she would be if she could see him now, standing at the goal line, reaching out for the ball, that fell. Fell. Fell. Fell down. Straight down into … and out of his hands. Down onto the ground. Rolling. Rolling out of the end zone and coming finally to a stop at the base of a persimmon tree laden with bright fruit.

Wales blinked, and Henry fell to his knees. The two linebackers gave each other high fives and shoved Henry to the ground. Wales tugged once at his facemask, stamped his foot, and trudged towards the sideline. McMullen helped Henry get back onto his feet.

“Nice try, Henry.” McMullen patted Henry on the helmet.

“Thanks, Fart.”

They walked off the field together as the other team celebrated.

Coach Deemer met Henry on the sideline. He had that mean smile on his face when he grabbed Henry by the bicep and squeezed.

“Oww!”

Henry tried to pull away, but Deemer had latched on. He leaned closer until his crooked nose was inches from Henry’s facemask.

“This is not a game for hot dogs, Palmer. We win as a team and we lose a team. We don’t lose on half-baked sandlot plays, understand?”

Henry nodded, and Deemer let him go. Henry turned away and joined the rest of the team on its long walk up the hill to the locker room

“Asshole,” Henry muttered to himself.