The Farewell Season Read online

  The back yard was a cool oasis that Mom and Kirstin proudly called their shade garden. Under a towering canopy of fir and oak trees they'd planted hardy shrubs, ground cover, and native woodland flowers all pulled together with winding, moss-covered paths. Way in the back was a small man-made—well, Mom-and-Kirstin-made—pond. Filled with lily pads, lotus plants, and goldfish, it was my favorite spot, though of course I'd never tell Kirstin that.

  Suddenly, there was a humongous whine, and then the mower stalled. "Shee-it! Now what?" I checked around and found a piece of wire caught in the blades. I grabbed it and gave it a good yank. "Aaaaaah!" I got nothing for my effort but a thin stinging cut. I kicked the mower.

  The mower sat there, silent, the wire caught in its blades as tight as ever.

  It took me twenty minutes of sweating and swearing to carefully work that wire loose, restart the mower, and finish mowing the lawn. Dripping with sweat, I headed for the bathroom to take a shower. There, standing in the steady stream of heat, enveloped by the steamy mist, I felt removed from myself.

  For a few minutes, I just let my mind float. Then I lathered with blue Zest and tried to think about tomorrow's practice. My thoughts drifted back to my freshman year. I didn't worry about Life then. I was too worked up trying to get playing time, flying when I got it, soaring when I made the starting lineup.

  Back then high school stretched ahead of me like an endless horizon. Now, I had one year left. Where did the time go?

  I turned the water to cold, so cold my skin tightened and shriveled. I stood there until I was afraid my nuts would freeze off. Then I stepped out of the shower into the cocoon of steam filling my lungs and fogging the mirror. I felt as if I were invisible, as if my molecules were floating around the room just like the particles of steam.

  "Hey, Eric!" Kirstin pounded on the door. "Quit hogging the bathroom!"

  My mind snapped back into my head with a clank. Nothing like a sister to bring you back to mundane reality. I wrapped a towel around my waist, opened the door, and, on my way out, flicked water in Kirstin's face. "It's all yours."

  Kirstin stormed in and slammed the door behind her.

  "You don't have to get so steamed up about it," I said, enjoying my own pun. I still had that old ability to torment Kirstin.

  At least some things never changed.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning I woke up after having the same kind of fitful, dreamless sleep I'd had for the past four months. It was just barely light out. Too early to get up, too late to try to go back to sleep. I stared at the ceiling.

  Although all I moved were my eyelids, Starburst knew instantly that I was awake. She trotted up my legs and onto my stomach. I'd thrown back the covers during the night, so her claws dug in as she peddled on my stomach.

  "Ouch! Cut it out!" I swatted Starburst's paws.

  Undeterred, Starburst strolled across my chest and started licking my chin. Those warm, wet scrapes were just about the only physical contact I'd had with anyone since I broke up with Hedy Theodore. For a couple of seconds, I let Starburst get away with it.

  Then I sat up, and Starburst rolled down my chest and onto the bed. "Pest." I scratched her chin before opening the window. "Out ya go."

  With a quick meow, Starburst jumped onto the roof of the porch and started her morning ritual of managing her fur. Sometimes I envied her. What a life. Sleep, groom, eat, stare at a bug, chase a butterfly. Repeat. Not a care in the world.

  Suddenly, my alarm went off. I jumped like a puppet on a string. I whacked the alarm button. Why did I even bother setting it? I wondered. I always woke up before it went off.

  Then I remembered. It was the first day of practice. As I pulled on my green shorts and T-shirt it dawned on me that I wasn't feeling the usual early breeze. The air was still, and there was no morning chill. Heat waves were rare in this part of Oregon, but when they did come it always seemed to be during two-a-days. It was the middle of August, three weeks before school started, a time to get back into a football mindset without the distraction of classes.

  Maybe the weather was why I didn't have that fever pitch of excitement I'd always felt on the first day of practice. Maybe after I got to school the rush would come over me. Meanwhile, maybe some food would help.

  I caught a whiff of blueberry kakar. That lured me down to the kitchen where Mom was keeping vigil over her sour-cream biscuits. Except for the periodic cookie sprees and the occasional use of a few family recipes, Mom didn't really like to cook. The blueberry kakar was something she did for special breakfasts, such as the first day of football practice.

  "Smells good," I said, only half looking at Mom.

  She flashed me a big smile—too big—and said, "I've got to run off to an estate sale in Eugene in fifteen minutes. But I wouldn't miss making your traditional blueberry kakar."

  I swallowed hard. Memories crashed down on me. Mom making kakar while Dad ran around the kitchen brewing coffee, pouring juice, making his always-optimistic predictions for the new football season. Sometimes, he seemed to get even more excited about it than I did, and I got pretty excited. At least I used to.

  At that moment Kirstin strolled into the kitchen wearing a shorts-and-halter outfit I'd never seen before. I let out a low whistle. "Fire-engine red. Who're you trying to impress, Kirstin? The goldfish?"

  Kirstin stuck her tongue out at me.

  "Oooh. A vicious retort."

  Kirstin ignored me.

  It was hard to keep bugging her when she didn't respond. When she was little, I could get a major rise out of her just by pointing my finger in her face or calling her "Gooch." Or I'd tell her I'd sneezed in her milk and she'd run and tell Mom, who would then force me to confess that I had done no such thing. When Kirstin got to be ten or eleven, however, it seemed to occur to her that by not reacting to my "tormenting," as Mom called it (Dad referred to it as "teasing"), I'd get bored and stop. That did take a lot of the fun out of it, but occasionally I could still hit the mark.

  The timer went off. Mom peeked in the oven. "Ahh, perfect."

  Kirstin disappeared into the pantry. Mom grabbed a potholder, pulled out a sheet of just-golden kakar, and slid them onto a platter. I busied myself by pouring the orange juice.

  Then I sat down and waited for Mom and Kirstin to come to the table. As Mom poured herself a mug of coffee, Kirstin walked out of the pantry carrying a butter dish that she placed on the table. "I made this last night to surprise you."

  A football-sized lump formed in my throat. I rubbed my hands together and tried to make light of it. "Mmm, homemade butter on blueberry kakar. This has gotta be the best breakfast in town."

  "Oh, Eric …." Mom beamed.

  Kirstin looked pleased. "I always did make the best butter."

  I would've argued with her, but I was afraid my voice would crack if I did. Dad started the butter-making tradition when we were little. On holidays, to keep us busy and out of trouble, he poured a little whipping cream into two jars and told me and Kirstin to shake them. Whoever made butter first was declared The Winner, so the cream-shaking competition was fierce.

  There never was any actual prize for being first, but you'd think a million bucks was hanging on the outcome the way we went at it. Then, during Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas dinner, or whatever the occasion, we'd watch to see whose butter was being eaten up the fastest. That always ended in a tie. It was years before it occurred to either one of us that the grownups knew their butter consumption was being monitored, so they intentionally kept it even.

  Kirstin slathered a blueberry kakar with her homemade butter and took a bite. "Mmm, this is so good. Remember how Dad used to always—"

  "Kirstin!" I said. "Would you … would you pass me the butter before my kakar gets cold?"

  Kirstin handed me the butter. "As I was say—"

  "Omigosh!" Mom jumped up from the table. "I want to be one of the first at the estate sale. There's supposed to be a large collection of depression glassware. I could
make a pile off that stuff." She almost knocked over her coffee mug as she grabbed her keys and purse. "I don't know how long I'll be gone. Watch the store, just in case. I can use every customer I can get." She started for the door, then stopped and came over to me. "Have a good practice, Eric."

  "Yeah, sure." I tried not to flinch when she kissed my cheek.

  After Mom left, I wolfed down a couple more biscuits, polished off my orange juice, and gulped a big glass of milk. When I was done, I said, "Thanks for making the butter, Kirstin."

  Just to make sure she didn't get too swell-headed about it, I leaned over and let out a super-sized burp in her right ear.

  "Oh, gross!" Kirstin shot me a look of utter disgust.

  I grinned and ran upstairs to grab my gym bag. I had to hurry if I was going to make it to practice on time. I dashed back downstairs and started out the door.

  "Where are you going?" Kirstin asked, her bright blue eyes opening wide.

  "Duh, where do you think?" I held up my gym bag.

  "But it's early. Where's … that is, aren't you getting a ride?" Kirstin peeked out the window toward the driveway.

  "Your concern is touching," I said. "But I can walk. I've been doing it since I was ten months old."

  "Oh. Well. Will you be coming home for lunch?"

  "I don't know. I guess so. Unless I grab something at the Sub Shop with Rolf."

  "Well, I'd like to know. 'Cause I … I could fix you something here. Maybe some … some meatcakes."

  "Hmm …." I practically slobbered just thinking about the small patties of ground beef, grated potato, and onion. There were some advantages to having a sister who loved having an excuse to cook. "Okay, you talked me into it."

  "Ummm …." Kirstin chewed her lip. "Rolf will be with you, right? So, um, how many do you think I should make?

  "Tons! Rolf will work extra hard at practice just to build up an appetite once he hears the word 'meatcakes.'"

  "Good." Kirstin smiled. "I'll make plenty."

  I glanced at the clock. "Gotta run."

  "See you later," Kirstin said. She looked way too cheerful about the prospect of frying up a batch of meatcakes.

  ***

  It was not that far to the school, but after a quarter of a mile under the bright sun I was broiling. Instead of brisk morning air, a hot, muggy vapor wrapped around me. It seemed to rise right off the grass-seed field next to the road. The town cemetery was just down the dirt road that cut through the middle of the field.

  I never went there. I'd thought I was a man, so strong and macho, but I never felt weaker than when I saw Dad's casket lowered into the ground. I couldn't stand the idea of him being in the cemetery.

  Suddenly there was a honk. A blue pickup truck pulled up next to me. It was Rolf. "Hey, Eric." Rolf leaned over and stuck his head out the passenger window. His thick crop of wheat-colored hair fell across his forehead. "You sure you don't want a ride?"

  "Man, I could use it." It took me two seconds to hop into the truck.

  "First day of practice, and … surprise! … it's gonna be a scorcher." Rolf grinned, plumping his cheeks into two big red apples.

  "Yeah, wouldn't you know it?"

  Rolf babbled all the way to school. Some guys got annoyed at his almost constant talking, but I found it relaxing. He was an easy guy to hang with. And he paid attention when someone else spoke. That's probably one reason he was voted one of the team captains this year. That, and his positive attitude.

  As I listened to Rolf ramble on, I looked out the window. I swallowed hard as we passed Nielsen and Lindquist, Insurance. It was still tough not to think of Dad in there at his old mahogany roll-top desk.

  When Rolf stopped talking for a second, I suddenly remembered, "Oh, Kirstin wants us to come home for lunch. She's going to make meatcakes. How 'bout it?"

  "You bet." Rolf pounded the steering wheel with enthusiasm. He couldn't resist the lure of meatcakes.

  When the tires of the pickup crunched the gravel as we pulled into the school parking lot, I actually started to get some of those new-season feelings. Anxiety. Nausea. I even felt kind of excited.

  As we got out of the pickup and headed for the front door, I heard the familiar, if ragged, strains of the Crystal Lake High School fight song. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the band marching over on the soccer field. I quickly looked the other way. Hedy Theodore was one of the clarinetists. I didn't want her thinking I was looking at her.

  "Not bad for the first day," Rolf said.

  "What?"

  "The band. It sounds okay for the first day of pre-season practice."

  "Oh. Yeah. I guess."

  As we headed for the classroom where we'd have our team meeting, other guys started arriving. Larry Johnson sent up clouds of dust as he roared in on his motorcycle. Lars Sundstrom jogged up the front walk. Inside the school, we ran into Jamar Pickett. He looked as if he'd had a bad night or something.

  "Hey, Jamar, how's it going?" Rolf asked.

  "Not so good." Jamar pointed to his feet. He was wearing sandals, so we could see that two of his toes on his right foot were taped together. "I fractured my toe last night. It'll be at least four weeks before I can even practice."

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Well …." Jamar let the word hang there for a second. "My mom's always bugging me to push the chair in after I eat. I didn't, as usual, and later I was walking around barefoot and whacked my foot into a leg of the chair. Man, it hurt! I knew something was wrong when I saw my middle toe sticking out at a weird angle."

  "Tough break." Rolf slapped his forehead. "Sorry, you know what I mean."

  "Yeah, thanks," Jamar said. "I just wish that was the worst of it." Before we could ask what he meant, his father called him over and he hobbled off.

  "We sure didn't need to lose our top player," Rolf said.

  "Yeah …." Rolf, Jamar, and I had all made First Team All State, but Jamar was the best of the three of us. I felt lousy for him, but I felt lousy for myself, too. I didn't need that kind of bad news.

  More guys arrived, and we funneled into the classroom. The first thing we saw were Coach Pickett's "Six Commandments for Football" scrawled across the top of the blackboard.

  1. Always do your best.

  2. Play one game at a time.

  3. Play all four quarters.

  4. Never let down.

  5. Never give up.

  6. Play the game first. Talk later.

  A low murmur of voices floated around the room along with heavy air from the open windows. The hushed tones were due to the presence of Coach Pickett.

  He was a short, solid man built like a fireplug, and he had one of those pushed-in faces, kind of like a bulldog. A tough-looking guy. He taught math, a pretty tough subject. Dad said folks in town weren't quite sure what to expect when Coach Pickett arrived twenty years ago, a black man wearing a sharkskin suit and a ruby earring.

  He turned out to be quiet and effective as both teacher and coach. He almost never yelled at anyone. He got people to work through their mistakes. Kids could tell that he really cared about them.

  Of course, winning football games made a big impression. If anyone in town still needed to be won over, that did it.

  Standing next to Coach Pickett was a tall, broad-shoulder guy fidgeting with a piece of chalk. His limp brown hair fell across his sloping forehead, almost touching his thick, heavy eyebrows. All I could think was, Neanderthal Man.

  Where was Coach Short? He coached the defense at Crystal Lake High for as long as I could remember. He was a lot like Coach Pickett, very positive, saying more with one look than a lot of guys did with a ton of yelling and screaming. The kind of guy you'd bust your butt for. I was really looking forward to my last year with him.

  "Good morning." When Coach Pickett spoke, the room fell quiet. He gestured toward the caveman. "Gentlemen, I didn't make a public announcement, because I wanted to tell you myself. Coach Short got a last-minute offer from Meridan down in southern
Oregon to be their Head Coach. Meet Don Horton, the new history teacher and assistant football coach at Crystal Lake High. "

  Omigod. Not a new coach, not for my senior year. A dull, empty ache gnawed at my stomach.

  Coach Horton nodded and scanned the room with a scowl. Something about him bugged me. For a second our eyes met in a mutual glare.

  Coach Pickett launched into his first-day-of-practice pep talk about doing your best, giving a hundred percent, but still remembering it was a game. It looked as if Coach Horton winced at that last part.

  I tried to listen, but my mind wasn't on football as much as it should have been. Besides, I'd heard the talk, or ones like it, before. I looked around the room. Some of the guys, such as Rolf and I, sat at desks. Others leaned against the wall or sprawled on the floor. We were divided as usual, though, defensive guys on the left, offensive guys on the right.

  Suddenly, something Coach was saying caught my attention.

  "… and I have a special announcement." Coach Pickett paused, then said, "Unfortunately, I've found out I have some health problems. In the near future, I'll need to cut back on my workload. So this will be my last season as coach of the Crystal Lake football team."

  Gasps and moans spread across the room. I exchanged glances with Rolf. That must've been the "worst of it" Jamar had mentioned. Rolf whispered, "Thank God we're seniors."

  I nodded. It was tough enough having a new assistant coach. I couldn't imagine adjusting to a new head coach after someone like Coach Pickett, especially in my senior year.

  Coach waited for the clamor to subside, then went right back to his usual speech. "Right now, we are undefeated …."

  He finished his talk, then went to the blackboard and started sketching offensive formations. After that, Coach Horton took over. He sketched a four-three defensive lineup and talked a little about what he expected from each position.

  Nothing earth-shatteringly different, which was good. At least I didn't have to learn a whole new system for my senior year. The four-three relies on having a sure tackler at the middle linebacker position, and I'm for-sure a good tackler.