today.â Her father scowled down at me from the doorway.
I turned rigidly and walked away quickly. Maybe she really does like me. I was confused, all mixed up. I looked back, and she waved with a sad smile. Maybe she just felt sorry for me. I guess itâs pretty sad. I hope they keep the baby.
â¢
IT DIDNâT GO WELL FOR BLAKE after that. Heâd switched to strong safety from receiver, where heâd been getting less and less reps. He was second string, and by that next camp, he was coming full-bore for the spot. He beat out the starter, and after the first scrimmage game of the season, he ended up at a local college bar. Blake ran into the guy heâd beaten for the positionâa black guy from (ironically) the West Side of Chicago. A few choice words exchanged, then Blake made a mistake with his textbook pompous demeanor. He puffed his big chest out, and a wide grin spread on his smug lips. Then, he popped his chin up, turned to one of his pals and said, âDis guy thinks he can take me.â
The West Side brotha did not hesitate to dig his heavy, dark fist into the base of Blakeâs jaw. All before Blakeâd even finished his sentence.
One side of the bottom row of Blakeâs teeth folded over, and Blake crumbled to the beer-soaked hardwood floor. He missed the first half of the season, and that West Side brotha whoâd dropped him got his starting position back. Blake watched from the sidelines with his jaw wired shut and a pair of scissors in his pocket just in case he vomited and started choking to death âcause there was just nowhere for all that bubbling-hot, mucus-drenched bile to go. Maybe it could erupt from his nostrils, but those two little passages were never gonna be enough.
Blakeâs son, John, was born around then. Karen moved out to Des Moines, and the two lived in a rented house with several other students. After the season, Blake, who had barely kept his GPA up high enough to be eligible to play football, just stopped doing the work. By the end of the spring semester, heâd failed out completely. He came home to Chicago and got a job as an assistant at an accounting firm by lying and saying that heâd earned his accounting degree at Drakeâa degree that heâd completed about half of the coursework for in his four years there. He wouldnât complete the degree until little Johnny was in high school.
CHAPTER 8
SEAGULL
FOR SOME REASON, theyâd marched the whole grammar school over to the church for Mass every week. Single-file lines of kids filtered across the school parking lot: the boys in navy-blue slacks and baby-blue, three-button collared shirts; and the girls in their army-green plaid skirts with white, button-up blouses and white, knee-high socks.
I kneeled on the little, cushioned, flip-down bench in my pew. My chin barely cleared the top of the pew in front of me. I stretched and reached my arms up and rested my elbows on the rounded oak thatâd been worn smooth by touch. I clasped my palms flat against each other and touched my thumbs to my lips. Mass continued. Thoughts flowed through my head. Jeez⦠I hate church⦠Then, I realized where Iâd be if I wasnât there. But I hate school even worse!
Father McCale stood at the altar in his ankle-length, black cloak. His round, bald head and pudgy face beamed red in the low light filtered through the stained-glass windows above. He raised his outstretched arms, palms up.
âWe lift up our hearts,â he said, his voice booming into the massive emptiness above us children. The heads in the pews slowly ascended. The first graders up front gave way to the higher grades. The heads stepped upward all the way to the eighth graders in the rear pews. The choir balcony hung over the eighth graders. An immense, yellow and red stained-glass window prevailed above the balcony with an image of Christ with a golden crown on his head.
I sat around half-way back
I turned rigidly and walked away quickly. Maybe she really does like me. I was confused, all mixed up. I looked back, and she waved with a sad smile. Maybe she just felt sorry for me. I guess itâs pretty sad. I hope they keep the baby.
â¢
IT DIDNâT GO WELL FOR BLAKE after that. Heâd switched to strong safety from receiver, where heâd been getting less and less reps. He was second string, and by that next camp, he was coming full-bore for the spot. He beat out the starter, and after the first scrimmage game of the season, he ended up at a local college bar. Blake ran into the guy heâd beaten for the positionâa black guy from (ironically) the West Side of Chicago. A few choice words exchanged, then Blake made a mistake with his textbook pompous demeanor. He puffed his big chest out, and a wide grin spread on his smug lips. Then, he popped his chin up, turned to one of his pals and said, âDis guy thinks he can take me.â
The West Side brotha did not hesitate to dig his heavy, dark fist into the base of Blakeâs jaw. All before Blakeâd even finished his sentence.
One side of the bottom row of Blakeâs teeth folded over, and Blake crumbled to the beer-soaked hardwood floor. He missed the first half of the season, and that West Side brotha whoâd dropped him got his starting position back. Blake watched from the sidelines with his jaw wired shut and a pair of scissors in his pocket just in case he vomited and started choking to death âcause there was just nowhere for all that bubbling-hot, mucus-drenched bile to go. Maybe it could erupt from his nostrils, but those two little passages were never gonna be enough.
Blakeâs son, John, was born around then. Karen moved out to Des Moines, and the two lived in a rented house with several other students. After the season, Blake, who had barely kept his GPA up high enough to be eligible to play football, just stopped doing the work. By the end of the spring semester, heâd failed out completely. He came home to Chicago and got a job as an assistant at an accounting firm by lying and saying that heâd earned his accounting degree at Drakeâa degree that heâd completed about half of the coursework for in his four years there. He wouldnât complete the degree until little Johnny was in high school.
CHAPTER 8
SEAGULL
FOR SOME REASON, theyâd marched the whole grammar school over to the church for Mass every week. Single-file lines of kids filtered across the school parking lot: the boys in navy-blue slacks and baby-blue, three-button collared shirts; and the girls in their army-green plaid skirts with white, button-up blouses and white, knee-high socks.
I kneeled on the little, cushioned, flip-down bench in my pew. My chin barely cleared the top of the pew in front of me. I stretched and reached my arms up and rested my elbows on the rounded oak thatâd been worn smooth by touch. I clasped my palms flat against each other and touched my thumbs to my lips. Mass continued. Thoughts flowed through my head. Jeez⦠I hate church⦠Then, I realized where Iâd be if I wasnât there. But I hate school even worse!
Father McCale stood at the altar in his ankle-length, black cloak. His round, bald head and pudgy face beamed red in the low light filtered through the stained-glass windows above. He raised his outstretched arms, palms up.
âWe lift up our hearts,â he said, his voice booming into the massive emptiness above us children. The heads in the pews slowly ascended. The first graders up front gave way to the higher grades. The heads stepped upward all the way to the eighth graders in the rear pews. The choir balcony hung over the eighth graders. An immense, yellow and red stained-glass window prevailed above the balcony with an image of Christ with a golden crown on his head.
I sat around half-way back
Similar Books
