Bleachers

  “The boosters tried to convene a massive meeting on Wednesday in the school gym. Reardon said, ‘Not on this campus.’ So they went to the VFW and had an Eddie Rake revival. Some of the hotheads threatened to cut off the money, boycott the games, picket Reardon’s office, even start a new school, where I guess they would worship Rake.”

  “Was Rake there?”

  “Oh no. He sent Rabbit. He was content to stay at home and work the phones. He truly believed that he could exert enough pressure to get his job back. But Reardon wasn’t budging. He went to the assistants and named Snake Thomas as the new head coach. Snake declined. Reardon fired him. Donnie Malone said no. Reardon fired him. Quick Upchurch said no. Reardon fired him.”

  “I like this guy more and more.”

  “Finally, the Griffin brothers said they would fill in until someone was found. They played for Rake in the late seventies—”

  “I remember them. The pecan orchard.”

  “That’s them. Great players, nice guys, and because Rake never changed anything they knew the system, the plays, most of the kids. Friday night rolled around, first game of the season. We were playing Porterville, and the boycott was on. Problem was, nobody wanted to miss the game. Rake’s folks, who were probably in the majority, couldn’t stay away because they wanted the team to get slaughtered. The real fans were there for the right reasons. The place was packed, as always, with complicated loyalties yelling in all directions. The players were pumped. They dedicated the game to Scotty, and won by four touchdowns. A wonderful night. Sad, because of Scotty, and sad because the Rake era was apparently over, but winning is everything.”

  “This bench is hard,” Neely said, standing. “Let’s walk.”

  “Meanwhile, Rake hired a lawyer. A suit was filed, things got ugly, Reardon held his ground, and the town, though deeply divided, still managed to come together every Friday night. The team played with more guts than I’ve ever seen. Years later, one kid I know said it was such a relief playing football for the sheer fun of it, and not playing out of fear.”

  “How beautiful is that?”

  “We never knew.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “They won the first eight games. Undefeated. Nothing but pride and guts. There was talk of a state title. There was talk of a new streak. There was talk of paying the Griffins a bunch of money to start a new dynasty. All that crap.”

  “Then they lost?”

  “Of course. It’s football. A bunch of kids start thinking they’re good, and they get their butts kicked.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Hermantown.”

  “No, not Hermantown! That’s a basketball school.”

  “Did it right here, in front of ten thousand. Worst game I ever saw. No pride, no guts, just show them the next press clipping. Forget a streak. Forget a state title. Fire the Griffins. Bring back Eddie Rake. Things were sort of okay when we were winning, but that one loss ripped this town apart for years. And when we lost the next week we failed to qualify for the playoffs. The Griffins quit immediately.”

  “Smart boys.”

  “Those of us who played for Rake were caught in the middle. Everyone asked, ‘Which side are you on?’ No fence straddling, bud, you had to declare if you were for Rake or against him.”

  “And you?”

  “I straddled the fence and got kicked on both sides. It turned into class warfare. There had always been a very small group of people who were opposed to spending more money on football than on science and math combined. We traveled by chartered bus while every academic club carpooled with their parents. For years the girls had no softball field, while we had not one but two practice fields. The Latin Club qualified for a trip to New York but couldn’t afford it; the same year the football team took the train to watch the Super Bowl in New Orleans. The list is endless. Rake’s firing made these complaints louder. The folks who wanted to deemphasize sports saw their opportunity. The football bubbas resisted; they just wanted Rake and another streak. Those of us who played, then went to college and were considered somewhat enlightened, got caught in the middle.”

  “What happened?”

  “It smoldered and festered for months. John Reardon stood firm. He found some lost soul from Oklahoma who wanted to coach, and hired him as the successor to Eddie Rake. Unfortunately, ’93 was reelection year for Reardon, so the whole mess turned into one huge political brawl. There was a strong rumor that Rake himself would run against Reardon. If he got elected, he would anoint himself Coach again and tell the whole world to go to hell. There was a rumor that Scotty’s father would spend a million bucks to reelect John Reardon. And so on. The race was ugly before it started, so ugly that the Rake camp almost couldn’t find a candidate.”

  “Who ran?”

  “Dudley Bumpus.”

  “The name sounds promising.”

  “The name was the best part. He’s a local real estate swinger who’d been a big mouth in the boosters. No political experience, no educational experience, barely finished college. Only one indictment, no conviction. A loser who almost won.”

  “Reardon held on?”

  “By sixty votes. The turnout was the largest in the county’s history, almost ninety percent. It was a war with no prisoners. When the winner was announced, Rake went home, locked the door, and hid for two years.”

  They stopped at a row of headstones. Paul walked along them, looking for someone. “Here,” he said, pointing. “David Lee Goff. The first Spartan to die in Vietnam.”

  Neely looked at the headstone. There was an inlaid photograph of David Lee, looking all of sixteen years old, posing not in an Army uniform or a senior portrait, but in his green Spartan jersey, number 22. Born in 1950, killed in 1968. “I know his youngest brother,” Paul was saying. “David Lee graduated in May, entered boot camp in June, arrived in Vietnam in October, died the day after Thanksgiving. Eighteen years and two months old.”

  “Two years before we were born.”

  “Something like that. There was another one who hasn’t been found yet. A black kid, Marvin Rudd, who went missing in action in 1970.”

  “I remember Rake talking about Rudd,” Neely said.

  “Rake loved the kid. His parents still come to every game, and you wonder what they’re thinking.”

  “I’m tired of death,” Neely said. “Let’s go.”

  ______________

  Neely couldn’t remember a bookshop in Messina, nor a place to get an espresso or buy coffee beans from Kenya. Nat’s Place now provided all three, along with magazines, cigars, CDs, off-color greeting cards, herbal teas of dubious origin, vegetarian sandwiches and soups, and a meeting place for drifting poets and folksingers and the few wanna-be bohemians in the town. It was on the square, four doors down from Paul’s bank, in a building that sold feed and fertilizer when Neely was a kid. Paul had some loans to make, so Neely explored by himself.

  Nat Sawyer was the worst punter in the history of Spartan football. His average yards per kick had set record lows, and he fumbled so many snaps that Rake would normally just go for it on fourth and eight, regardless of where the ball was. With Neely at quarterback, a good punter was not a necessity.

  Twice, during their senior year, Nat had somehow managed to miss the ball with his foot entirely, creating some of the most watched video footage in the program’s history. The second miss, which was actually two misses on the same punt, resulted in a comical ninety-four-yard touchdown run, which lasted, according to an accurate timing of the video, 17.3 seconds. Standing in his own end zone, and quite nervous about it, Nat had taken the snap, released the ball, kicked nothing but air, then been slaughtered by two defenders from Grove City. As the ball was spinning benignly on the ground nearby, Nat collected himself, picked it up, and began to run. The two defenders, who appeared to be stunned, gave a confused chase, and Nat tried an awkward punt-on-the-fly. When he missed, he picked up the ball again, and the race was on. The sight of such an ungainly gazelle lumberi
ng down the field, in sheer terror, froze many of the players from both teams. Silo Mooney later testifed that he was laughing so hard he couldn’t block for his punter. He swore he heard laughter coming from under the helmets of the Grove City players.

  From the video, the coaches counted ten missed tackles. When Nat finally reached the end zone, he spiked the ball, didn’t care about the penalty, ripped off his helmet, and rushed to the home side so the fans could admire him at close range.

  Rake gave him an award for the Ugliest Touchdown of the Year.

  In the tenth grade, Nat had tried playing safety, but he couldn’t run and hated to hit. In the eleventh, he had tried receiver, but Neely nailed him in the gut on a slant and Nat couldn’t breathe for five minutes. Few of Rake’s players had been cursed with so little talent. None of Rake’s players looked worse in a uniform.

  The window was filled with books and advertised coffee and lunch. The door squeaked, a bell rattled, and for a moment Neely was stepping back in time. Then he got the first whiff of incense, and he knew Nat ran the place. The owner himself, hauling a stack of books, stepped from between two saggy shelves, and with a smile, said, “Good morning. Lookin’ for something?”

  Then he froze and the books fell to the floor. “Neely Crenshaw!” He lunged with as much awkwardness as he’d used punting a football, and the two embraced, a clumsy hug in which Neely caught a sharp elbow on his bicep. “It’s great to see you!” Nat gushed, and for a second his eyes were wet.

  “Good to see you, Nat,” Neely said, slightly embarrassed. Fortunately, at that moment, there was only one other customer.

  “You’re looking at my earrings, aren’t you?” Nat said, taking a step back.

  “Well, yes, you have quite a collection.” Each ear was loaded with at least five silver rings.

  “First male earrings in Messina, how about that? And the first ponytail. And the first openly gay downtown merchant. Aren’t you proud of me?” Nat was flipping his long black hair to show off his ponytail.

  “Sure, Nat. You’re looking good.”

  Nat was sizing him up, from head to toe, his eyes flashing as if he’d been guzzling espresso for hours. “How’s your knee?” he asked, glancing around as if the injury was a secret.

  “Gone for good, Nat.”

  “Sonofabitch hit you late. I saw it.” Nat had the authority of someone standing on the sideline that day at Tech.

  “A long time ago, Nat. In another life.”

  “How about some coffee? I got some stuff from Guatemala that gives one helluva buzz.”

  They wove through shelves and racks to the rear where an impromptu café materialized. Nat walked, almost ran, behind a cluttered counter and began slinging utensils. Neely straddled a stool and watched. Nothing Nat did was graceful.

  “They say he’s got less than twenty-four hours,” Nat said, rinsing a small pot.

  “Rumors are always reliable around here, especially about Rake.”

  “No, this came from someone inside the house.” The challenge in Messina was not to have the latest rumor, but to have the best source. “Wanna cigar? I got some smuggled Cubans. Another great buzz.”

  “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  Nat was pouring water into a large, Italian-made machine. “What kinda work you doing?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Real estate.”

  “Man, that’s original.”

  “Pays the bills. Pretty cool store you have here, Nat. Curry tells me you’re doing well.”

  “I’m just trying to breathe some culture into this desert. Paul loaned me thirty thousand bucks to get started, can you believe that? I had nothing but an idea, and eight hundred bucks, and, of course, my mother was willing to sign the note.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Great, thanks. She refuses to age. Still teaching the third grade.”

  When the coffee was brewing properly, Nat leaned next to the small sink and stroked his bushy mustache. “Rake’s gonna die, Neely, can you believe that? Messina without Eddie Rake. He started coaching here forty-four years ago. Half the people in this county weren’t born then.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “He was in here a lot, but when he got sick he went home to die. Nobody’s seen Rake in six months.”

  Neely glanced around. “Rake was here?”

  “Rake was my first customer. He encouraged me to open this place, gave me the standard pep talk—have no fear, work harder than the other guy, never say die—the usual halftime rah-rah. When I opened, he liked to sneak down here in the mornings for coffee. Guess he figured he was safe because there wasn’t exactly a crowd. Most of the yokels thought they’d catch AIDS when they walked in the front door.”

  “When did you open?”

  “Seven and a half years ago. Couldn’t pay the light bill for the first two years, then it slowly came around. Rumor spread that this was Rake’s favorite place, so the town got curious.”

  “I think the coffee’s ready,” Neely said as the machine hissed. “I never saw Rake read a book.”

  Nat poured two small cups, on saucers, and placed them on the counter.

  “Smells potent,” Neely said.

  “It ought to require a prescription. Rake asked me one day what he might like to read. I gave him a Raymond Chandler. He came back the next day and asked for another. He loved the stuff. Then I gave him Dashiell Hammett. Then he went nuts over Elmore Leonard. I open at eight, one of the very few bookstores to do so, and once or twice a week Rake would come in early. We’d sit in the corner over there and talk about books; never football or politics, never gossip. Just books. He loved the detective stories. When we heard the bell ring on the front door, he would sneak out the back and go home.”

  “Why?”

  Nat took a long sip of coffee, with the small cup disappearing into the depths of his unruly mustache. “We didn’t talk about it much. Rake was embarrassed because he got sacked like that. He has enormous pride, something he taught us. But he also felt responsible for Scotty’s death. A lot of people blamed him, and they always will. That’s some serious baggage, man. You like the coffee?”

  “Very strong. You miss him?”

  Another slow sip. “How can you not miss Rake once you’ve played for him? I see his face every day. I hear his voice. I can smell him sweating. I can feel him hitting me, with no pads on. I can imitate his growl, his grumbling, his bitching. I remember his stories, his speeches, his lessons. I remember all forty plays and all thirty-eight games when I wore the jersey. My father died four years ago and I loved him dearly, but, and this is hard to say, he had less influence on me than Eddie Rake.” Nat paused in mid-thought just long enough to pour more coffee. “Later, when I opened this place and got to know him as something other than a legend, when I wasn’t worried about getting screamed at for screwing up, I grew to adore the old fart. Eddie Rake’s not a sweet man, but he is human. He suffered greatly after Scotty’s death, and he had no one to turn to. He prayed a lot, went to Mass every morning. I think fiction helped him; it was a new world. He got lost in books, hundreds of them, maybe thousands.” A quick sip. “I miss him, sitting over there, talking about books and authors so he wouldn’t have to talk about football.”

  The bell on the front door rattled softly in the distance. Nat shrugged it off and said, “They’ll find us. You want a muffin or something?”

  “No. I ate at Renfrow’s. Everything’s the same there. Same grease, same menu, same flies.”

  “Same bubbas sitting around bitchin’ ’cause the team ain’t undefeated.”

  “Yep. You go to the games?”

  “Naw. When you’re the only openly gay dude in a town like this, you don’t enjoy crowds. People stare and point and whisper and grab their children, and, while I’m used to it, I’d rather avoid the scene. And I’d either go alone, which is no fun, or I’d take a date, which would stop the game. Can you imagine me walking in with some cute boy, holding hands? They’d stone us.” br />
  “How’d you manage to come out of the closet in this town?”

  Nat put the coffee down and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his highly starched and pressed jeans.

  “Not here, man. After we graduated, I sort of migrated to D.C., where it didn’t take me long to figure out who I am and what I am. I didn’t sneak out of the closet, Neely, I kicked the damned door down. I got a job in a bookstore and learned the business. I lived the wild life for five years, had a ball, but then I got tired of the city. Frankly, I got homesick. My dad’s health was declining, and I needed to come home. I had a long talk with Rake. I told him the truth. Eddie Rake was the first person here I confided in.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He said he didn’t know much about gay people, but if I knew who I was, then to hell with everybody else. ‘Go live your life, son,’ he said. ‘Some folks’ll hate you, some folks’ll love you, most folks haven’t made up their minds. It’s up to you.’”

  “Sounds like Rake.”

  “He gave me the courage, man. Then he convinced me to open this place, and when I was sure I had made a huge blunder, Rake started