Dairy Queen

  And I started thinking.

  Brian, you may have noticed, was Hawley's starting quarterback. Did you notice that? He started. He wouldn't be starting without me. He wouldn't be starting—and playing so well that even our mortician noticed—unless Jimmy Ott had sent him to our farm and insisted I train him. And what thanks did I get for that? A lawsuit, that's what. When I'd spent every day all summer coaxing this spoiled rich kid off his butt as he'd roll in at whatever time he pleased in his brand-new Cherokee, handling him like he was brain-damaged or something through every weight workout, every drill, every sprint, every pass he missed so he'd get it right next time. All for free. When we actually could use the money a lot. For nothing except one stinking little thank-you he offered up once like it was a gold ring or something. Just so he could be starter. And now he wouldn't even look me in the eye.

  So I hadn't told him about football—so what. Well, not quite. There were some times over the summer when it might have been, you know, appropriate for me to mention it. Sort of pauses in the conversation when I could have brought it up without too much trouble. And I sure didn't mean for him to find out about it standing there in the middle of Red Bend parking lot with his scummy Hawley friends. I'd meant to tell him on that day he went on vacation instead—the day he quit—and then I figured I'd tell him when he came by the farm after the first day of practice. If he'd told me on Sunday night he'd be going to Red Bend High School, I would have warned him. But he didn't tell me on Sunday night because he was too busy partying. Maybe if he'd spent just a couple more seconds on the phone with his training partner—his official summer trainer, appointed by Jimmy Ott himself—he'd have learned something. But no, he had to get back to his party and his stupid friends and all those girls.

  And wait a minute. Who were those girls, anyway? Who was that girl who kept pestering Brian when he was on the phone with me? Here he was all mad at me for not telling him stuff, and what was he doing? Was he telling me about the girls in his life? No. He mentioned his breakup but did he say one word more? No. So I couldn't ask about it—my mother wasn't Oprah Winfrey. He bragged so much about his family ... Well, I'm sorry, but if you're going to go around talking about your feelings, the least you could do is tell a girl about the other girls in your life. Especially if you're going to kiss that girl, that first girl who doesn't know.

  Unless, that is, you're the kind of guy who goes around doing that. You know the type? The guys who go around hitting on girls when they don't mean it? You know who does that? Jerks. That's who.

  Which makes his asking me to go to Lake Superior with him that much worse. Because we both knew I couldn't go. It was like he was throwing me a bone or something. Like a dad who tells his kid they'll get a pony after they move when they're never going to move. That's what it was. He was just playing with me. I was the dumb farmer who'd spent the summer training him—though I'm sure he gave himself all the credit for that—and now he was back with a pretty girlfriend and his scumbag Hawley friends, and he would never think about me for one second ever again as long as he lived. Except to sue me.

  By this time we were all sitting in the boys' locker room, the guys slumped on benches, looking just whipped. But I wasn't whipped. I was furious. Boy oh boy, was I mad. Can you tell? It was like all the things that I should have been mad about for weeks and weeks just built up inside me until I ended up one huge volcano of angry D.J.

  Jeff was talking but I didn't even hear it because I was too busy getting madder and madder at Brian. And at myself too, for putting up with it, for not seeing it. Remember how upset I was when I figured out I was a cow? This was twice as bad. I'd taken so much from Brian, his little jokes and the little family secrets he'd confess, the way he'd brush against me sometimes, the way he'd work without his shirt on, me mooning over him like a stupid heifer, when he was just using me and I was too dumb to see. Well, I saw it now.

  Then I noticed guys looking at me kind of funny, and I finally focused on Jeff. "You're playing like a bunch of girls out there!" he barked. "Like little girls! What do you have to say to that?"

  There was this long, ugly silence.

  "Ask her what she thinks about playing like a girl," Justin Hunsberger sneered.

  Everyone turned their sweaty heads in my direction.

  "Let's take them apart," I said, my voice kind of loud in that silent room.

  A couple guys blinked.

  "Let's go out there and destroy them. Let's leave them for dead," I said, my voice shaking, I was so keyed up.

  "Yeah!" said Beaner. "Let's do it!" A couple other guys sat up a bit.

  Jeff studied me sitting there so mad I was trembling almost. "You remember Bill's game?" He was asking everyone, but I felt like he was talking just to me.

  Kyle sat up a bit more. "That's my ball," he whispered.

  "I'm gonna get that ball," Beaner growled under his breath.

  You could see other guys, the guys who'd been freshmen and sophomores when Bill was playing, starting to perk up.

  "What did he say?" Jeff asked the room.

  "That's my ball!" several guys called back.

  "I'm gonna get that ball!" Beaner snarled.

  "We're the Red Wolves!" shouted Kyle, acting—finally—like a captain. "What do wolves say?"

  Everyone growled, getting into it. Me too. It felt great, actually, putting all my fury into that mean and ugly noise.

  "What do wolves say!" he barked, getting into it now.

  We all roared back to him.

  "I can't hear you!" he shouted.

  We roared until the room shook.

  "You remember Bill! Come on! Let's hear it!"

  We screamed, we pounded on the lockers. Beaner howled to the moon.

  "Let's hear it! Again! Again! Again!"

  We yelled and screeched and banged until Jeff Peterson waved for silence. He reached his hand out. Twenty-eight hands slapped down on top of his. Kyle threw open the door and raced onto the field, the team behind him. I came last, on purpose, next to Jeff. As we trotted out I said to him, real softly, "I need to play."

  29. That's My Ball

  Jeff put me in too. Maybe he was desperate. Or maybe, I don't know, maybe he could just tell. Because when we took the field for Beaner's kickoff I was so mad at Hawley and Brian, so mad at myself for being such a moron all summer, that I was ready to just destroy whoever got in my way. The Hawley players lined up at the other end, Beaner gave this nice long kick, and I charged down the field ready to tear to pieces whoever came my way carrying that football.

  Only someone else got to him first, tackled him at their 40, and the second half of the game really began.

  We, Red Bend defense, came out of our huddle and watched the Hawley players get in position. Brian lined up behind his center, waiting for the snap, and just for a moment our eyes met. He glared at me and I glared right back, thinking to myself that if he wanted to screw me over, I'd screw him right back. I'd plow right through that line and I'd—

  Then he looked away and his face changed just a little bit, and I had this little pang. After all, he'd been my friend for a while, my closest friend, and by playing linebacker against him, I was about to destroy that friendship forever. And it hit me right in the gut what I was doing.

  And then I scored.

  I know Brian Nelson is never going to read this, and even if he did read it I know he wouldn't believe me. But I just want to say now, even though it sounds really pathetic, that I didn't want to. I mean, I didn't mean to. Listening to him call the play I wasn't thinking to myself, Here I am playing my very first football game and what I want to do more than anything is score against the guy I'm in love with who I spent all summer training. That's not what I thought. Really. But then he took the snap and I could see by where he was moving and looking and how the receivers ran that it was going to be a passing play to his left. And when he threw that ball I knew, just from having watched him throw a football three thousand times, where it was going to go. And withou
t even thinking about it—maybe because I spent all summer running after his passes, or maybe because in football that's just what you do—I took off. That Hawley receiver, he was heading for where the ball was supposed to go but instead I was heading for where the ball was actually going. Which was only a difference of about two feet but sometimes two feet can count for a lot. And just as that receiver was reaching I reached up too, and I grabbed it out of the sky and tucked it under my arm just like a little baby, and without even thinking really I spun and took off for our goal line.

  Did you ever have a dream where everything goes wrong? Where no matter what you do nothing works? Or not even a dream, but just a day where that happens? For me right at that instant it was just the opposite. I started running and all of sudden there was nothing in front of me but green grass. Like I was running in the heifer field. A couple Hawley players went for me but I got ahead of them, and then this other Hawley player—their fullback, I think—came charging at me and out of nowhere came a blur of Red Bend uniform blocking for me, and then there was nothing ahead of me, nothing except the 40-yard line, the 30, the 20, the 10, and then the goal line, me running like I could run forever with that baby of a ball in the crook of my arm.

  And I crossed the goal line and banked a turn and tried to catch my breath, and all of sudden the noise hit me like a wall, everyone screaming like the world had stopped. Which, thinking about it now, I guess for a second or two it did.

  The Red Bend players piled on top of me and pounded on me and smacked me so much it felt like I was being mauled, and what could I do but be thrilled to pieces and say how it was really nothing. Then Beaner, who's also our place kicker, which I forgot to tell you before, made the extra point, and all of a sudden the score went from 0–10 to 7–10, which is a lot better-looking if you ask me.

  And then jogging back to our bench, a group of guys slapping me on the back and the crowd still screaming away, I looked up in the stands and there, sitting next to Mom and Dad and yelling his lungs out, was my brother Bill. And right next to him was this huge black guy who had to be his roommate Aaron Johnson.

  Well. Scoring a touchdown on an interception against your archrival, that's a feeling you don't get to feel too often, and it's pretty special, I'll have you know. But scoring a touchdown on an interception against your archrival while your Division 1 football–playing brother who hasn't talked to you in months is watching ... I don't think there are words for that. I don't think there are words to describe everything going through my brain and my heart. The best I can come up with is this:

  I was filled with joy.

  And that joy poured into my blood, into my bones, and it mixed with my rage at Brian and my disgust with Hawley, and I think it even caught a little of Win's intensity and Bill's craziness, which makes sense seeing as we share a gene pool and all, and I went back on the field for the kickoff to Hawley, and I was possessed.

  And with the kickoff Hawley ended up around the 35-yard line this time, and we lined up to meet them, listening to Brian screaming at everyone on his team not to screw up. He hadn't screamed at them in the first half, but he sure was now. Just like he used to. I felt a little bad about it. I really did. I felt bad that I'd taken advantage of my knowledge of his playing ability. But that little guilty feeling was pretty much overwhelmed by my disgust at how he was yelling at his teammates when he should have been pumping them up, plus my utter disgust at the fact that he was suing the school. And so I muttered under my breath, "Where's your father now, Brian?"

  The bad news is that Justin Hunsberger happened to be standing near me when I said this, and he heard it. I found out later that when I'd been making that long run downfield for the touchdown and that Hawley fullback was going for me, it was Justin who'd blocked him. Which was really big of him when you think about how much we hate each other. But anyway, Justin heard me and right away he picked it up: "Where's your daddy, Nelson? Where's your daddy?"

  And the other guys on my team started trash-talking too: "Who you going to sue, Nelson?" "Did your daddy tell you to say that?" And so forth. Well, this didn't sit too well with Brian, and I felt bad about starting it even though I didn't mean to and also, I was thinking at the moment, he kind of deserved it. Anyway, everyone lined up and Brian called a play but right after the snap Justin Hunsberger broke through the line and sacked him.

  "Oooh," I could hear Justin sneer. "Does little Bwian have a little boo-boo? Does he want his daddy to kiss it and make it better?"

  Brian didn't say anything but he looked at me like he wanted to kill me. And it really cut me. Because I know what it's like to take garbage from Justin Hunsberger, and of all the people I'd want knowing about Brian's family, Justin would be very last on the list.

  But then I heard out of the stands, over all that screaming and cheering, "That's my ball! That's my ball!" Bill was bellowing. And then Aaron started chanting it too, and the guys on the field all around me picked it up, hollering it before each snap. For the record, I will say I never shouted it with them. But a couple times, a couple times during Brian's countdowns, right before the snap when I was bent down ready to burst out, I'd whisper it to myself. And then, full of Win's intensity and Bill's craziness, I'd explode.

  So after those first couple plays, my touchdown and Justin's sack, the second half calmed down a little. Brian stopped passing because most of the time when he tried it me or someone else from Red Bend would be right there, and so that left Hawley with just running plays. And they'd churn their way through a couple downs until we'd stop them, and then we'd go in and manage a down, maybe three, until we got stopped, and that's how the game went. Only it was different from the first half because, well, because I wasn't the only one who was full of crazy intensity. We all were. Instead of it being a big strong school against a little weak school, it was kind of even. We knew it. Hawley knew it, or else why would Brian be bawling his team out every chance he got? And everyone in the stands knew it. And they were, well, they were pretty loud.

  Whenever Hawley's offense left the field, I could see Brian shouting at Jimmy Ott. In case you're wondering, even though Jimmy's practically our uncle and he eats over all the time, it wasn't like he spent the whole game telling everyone to be nice to D.J. Schwenk. He got really mad at the ref for not calling me on interference once, and he was pretty vocal about telling Hawley to block me. But even so, Brian would go up to him and start screaming, basically, and Jimmy would scream right back.

  And then Brian would have to go in with the whole Red Bend defense making fun of his dad, asking if he was going to sue them, asking if they were hurting his feelings. It got pretty rough, to tell you the truth. Sitting here now writing about it, I see that Hawley isn't the only football team in Wisconsin with jerks on it.

  But Brian—I have to admit Brian kept playing. He didn't quit, and he even stopped yelling at his team. Instead he got quiet, which was a lot more intimidating. He'd come out of the huddle like a general or something—like Win does—and he'd bark out orders with no other talk, and those Hawley players would fall in line like soldiers.

  But even so, we held them off. And then finally there we were seven yards from Hawley's goal line with only twenty-eight seconds left. Football games really end like this, not just in the movies. Only in real life we'd get slaughtered, Hawley would intercept us and win 7–17 instead of 7–10. That's what reality is in Red Bend, Wisconsin.

  So there we were with two downs left, with me playing halfback because Joe Krazuk had messed up his ankle again, the left one he's got to be careful about because he broke it last winter playing ice hockey, and Jeff had put me in instead. Now. Let me say that at this point in the game I was so sore, just so destroyed, because football it turns out is a really brutal sport, that all I could think about was how I was going to have to play ten more games this season. And then I'd think about my brothers playing college ball against real opponents, real scary ones, and get even more impressed with them than I normally am. Because all I wanted w
as a long, long hot shower and a cool bed. And maybe a whole bottle of aspirin. And then the same thing again tomorrow.

  So we got into the huddle and I guess maybe Kyle saw that I was whipped because he called for a trap using me as a lure but with Kyle really taking it himself. We lined up and everyone hunkered down like total pros all ready to block for me. And Kyle called it, and the center snapped it back and Kyle passed it to me. Only he didn't, he just faked it, and I did my very best with the three brain cells I had left to pretend I had a ball in my arms, and I drove off to the right surrounded by blockers while Kyle ambled to the left, and God bless the Hawley defense because they hated me so much that they followed after me even as I took off up the field—in the wrong direction for Pete's sake—and Kyle had only one defender, who he dragged across the goal line.

  So now the score was 13–1 0.

  And Red Bend piled all over Kyle and pounded on him while I lay on the field trying to recover from my last tackle, which felt like six elephants instead of three Hawley linesmen who would have been happy to leave me dead, until I finally had to get up just out of simple human pride and join the celebration, and then wait for Beaner's extra point, which of course he made because this was a very special night, and it brought the score up to 14–10, which was even better.

  And we won.

  And finally they got all the Red Bend players off the field and we all huddled together for a minute on the bench feeling, well, feeling about the way I think I'd feel if I ever tried skydiving and survived it. And then we had to line up and slap hands with the opposition, which is something you have to do after every game. Win even told me once that it was in the Constitution, and I believed him until eighth grade when we studied the Constitution itself and I was surprised to see it wasn't there.

  I worked my way down the line, slapping hands like I'd done a thousand times before at basketball and volleyball and summer softball. I could see Brian coming down the line, slapping hands and saying, "Good game," the way you do from the age of six or something on up, up to the pros I guess, and then all of sudden our hands touched and he looked me right in the eye—or I looked him right in the eye if you want to think of it that way—we looked each other in the eye. And he didn't say anything, and neither did I. But I felt, well, I felt a whole book could be written about what we thought, looking at each other. A book with words like Honesty and Trust and Loyalty and Maturity and all those other biggies. I felt like he understood everything I'd been through that night but we would probably never speak again. Not because I was a bad person, or because he was, but because, well, that's just the way the world worked.