Sticks (15 page)

It’s the last period of the day at school. Mrs. Riggles is standing in front of the blackboard. “What,” she asks the class, “is the bravest thing you’ve ever done?”

We all look at each other.

Sally Stoletto says calling 911 when her grandmother had a stroke and helping her breathe until the ambulance came.

Arlen says taking Mangler to the animal hospital without any money in a cab after he’d been hit by that motorcycle.

“Were either of you frightened?”

“Yeah!” Arlen and Sally say together.

“Courage,” Mrs. Riggles says, “rarely comes without fear. Courage rises above fear and makes people more than they think they can be.”

She holds up a picture of Paul Revere riding his horse. “Let’s talk about the acts of courage during the Revolutionary War.”

I take out my history book and feel something shoot through me, like I’m connected to all the acts of courage in the whole world.

Whether I get to the finals or choke in the early rounds, I know what I have to do.

“Does that hurt?”

Dr. Oglethorpe is pushing around my left wrist.

“No.”

“How about that?” She’s watching me hard. It hurts.

“No.”

She bends it up.

“
Ouch!
”

Dr. Oglethorpe takes a deep breath and steps back.

“It’s been three weeks,” I tell her. “The swelling’s gone. You said I’d be okay in three weeks.”

“I said we’d see. When is this tournament?” she asks.

“A week. And I’ve got to play!”

“Mickey!” says Mom.

“And I’ve got to practice, too! Every day!”

“Make a fist,” Dr. Oglethorpe says. I make a
strong one. She folds her arms and looks at me. “Well, I suppose if Mickey Mantle could play baseball for nineteen seasons of unceasing pain, Mickey Vernon can play this week. You can’t do any permanent damage.”

Yes!

Mom’s looking worried.

“
But
,” the doctor says, “you use ice regularly, you take Tylenol every six hours, you listen to what your body is telling you, Mickey. If it hurts too much, you stop and rest and put your splint back on. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“One more thing,” says the doctor. “Just how good are you on a pool table?”

“I’m okay,” I say.

“He’s awesome,” says Mom.

*   *   *

I get my rack of balls and walk to table twelve, cool, like Joseph Alvarez does. I’ve got catching up to do. I walk by Buck, who’s nailing shots on table six.

“You get the diaper off your hand,
Vernon
?”

I look right past him.

“Excellent,” Arlen whispers. “Pay no attention. He’s a dead man. Total concentration. We’re here for one thing.”

Arlen racks the balls. I take a stick from the wall, feel its weight. I take some practice strokes at the air. It’s good to be back.

I bend over table twelve.

Aim at the racked balls dead center.

And on the
snap
.

The balls go flying, but nothing drops. I rub my left wrist. It aches. But I expected that. No pain, no gain. I aim again and shoot the one ball. The two. Arlen asks if I need ice yet.

No.

I need to practice. I need to catch up.

Pow
.

Arlen’s using string and a ruler to show the lines the balls will travel. “You’ve got to think about the lines the other balls will follow when you pick your shots.” He takes the string away. “Can you see it?”

“Not yet.”

I’m rubbing my wrist. My fingers hurt. “Line up the shot,” Arlen says, “see the line the ball will travel, find the angle of incidence, and hit it
there
.”

I’m playing for position.

Hit the four with English, let the cue ball move into place near the five. I scratch on the six. I wasn’t thinking ahead.

Joseph Alvarez comes in to watch me.

Arlen and I show him all about seeing the table. He says that in all the years he’d known my dad he never told him about the lines. He really gets into it, and we’re all brainstorming together about different shots and the lines Dad might have seen cutting through them. That’s when he tells me to just call him Joseph if I want, which I really do.

“Welcome back,” Joseph says, and puts a thin gray case on table twelve. “Open it.”

I open it. There’s a cue stick inside. White and gray with black racing stripes.

I look at him.

“That’s a decent stick for you,” he says. “It’ll fit your hands and weight.”

I’m looking at the stick.
My own
stick—a Meucci.

I don’t know what to say.

He screws it together for me. I take it. The weight is perfect.

“It’s great, Joseph! Man!” I’m aiming it. Arlen’s touching it like it’s made of diamonds. “
Thank you!
”

“My pleasure, son. You earned it.”

I take a few shots with it; a few more. The light on table twelve beams over us. It’s like the stick was made for me.

But my hand’s hurting bad. I promised Mom I wouldn’t push it. I look over at Buck, who’s crashing balls into pockets like a machine, and go upstairs with Joseph to ice my hand.

I keep ice on it up to when we leave for Cruckston High School to see Camille’s play. Nobody told me it was about people falling in love. I close my eyes every time the boy and girl get close and start singing. The costumes are almost the best part. The best part is when the curtain crashes down on one of the dancer’s heads right when she’s twirling and everyone onstage is shouting to pull it back up.

Camille goes onstage at the end and everyone claps for her. I stomp my feet up and down so I won’t hurt my hand, and make a much cooler noise than clapping.

*   *   *

Six days to go.

All day at school I keep thinking about the tournament.

During recess, when we’re playing king of the mountain and I keep getting shoved off too easy when I make it to the top.

During art, while I’m working on my African warrior mask, painting the papier-mâché cheeks bright gold and purple. I stick feathers at the top and make the mouth look angry and I picture this huge warrior with a spear doing a death dance around Buck Pender. T. R. Dobbs is working on his mask next to me. He’s descended from African Zulu warriors and he says a Zulu never retreats in the face of the enemy. I’m descended mostly from potato farmers, which isn’t a lot to hold on to when you need to be tough. I lift the mask to my face and shout the Zulu war cry T.R. taught me.

“Zuuuu
luuuu
Zuuuu
luuuu!
”

Mr. Pez, the art teacher, looks up. I look down and keep painting. Nobody turns me in.

It’s easy to be brave when the enemy isn’t around.

*   *   *

The days go fast and slow. I keep practicing and my hand keeps hurting.

I’m wondering how athletes play in pain. Arlen said it must be the big-time money they earn that keeps them going. I’m playing anyway, but playing’s like a blur.

Hitting.

Breaking.

Over and over.

Arlen hasn’t left anything anywhere for six whole days. He has his motto,
THINK WOOD
, everywhere.
I’m thinking wood now too, and really helping him. Every time I pick up my new stick I make him check his stuff to see if he forgot anything. Best friends help each other.

Mom’s worried. She says I’m too driven. She yelled at Joseph when he was telling me the great secret of the pros—play your best, whether you’re ahead or behind.

“Is that all that’s important to you?” she shouted. “
Winning
?”

“No, Ruthie, it’s just something to shoot for.”

I’m definitely behind.

The days click off. It’s hard to concentrate in school. Mrs. Riggles calls Mom in for a conference about it and Mom gets all upset at me, even though I got an A minus on my soldier letter. Mom says the tournament is becoming bigger than life.

“It’s always been pretty big,” I say.

“I want you to
concentrate
on your schoolwork!”

Mrs. Riggles is so worked up about the American Revolution, she’s jumping to 1783, when the Treaty of Paris was signed and the British and the Americans finally quit fighting; jumping back to 1775 and Paul Revere’s ride, when he warned the colonists that the Redcoats were coming. Mrs. Riggles teaches history backward and forward so we’ll get the connections. She says Paul Revere had to push beyond himself and his personal safety to get on that horse and sound the warning to his countrymen.

I’m looking at the picture of Paul Revere on Mrs. Riggles’s desk wondering how he found the courage.

*   *   *

We have pasta for dinner Friday night. I have thirds to boost my energy for the next day. The tournament starts in thirteen hours.

I’m watching a video of my dad playing pool. It’s the only video we’ve got when he loses.

Dad’s wearing a green shirt and black pants. The sign behind him says
WORLD CLASS BILLIARDS
. The crowd watching him is quiet out of respect. Dad’s in stroke, shooting fast and easy, holding his stick like it’s part of his arm. His body curves into the slam he gets on the ball. He’s smiling.

Then he messes up. Hits a bummer shot, which leaves him with nothing. The crowd groans. Dad’s face gets hard. He tries a tough bank shot on the seven ball and misses bad. The crowd sighs, but Dad just shrugs, smiles, and steps away from the table as the guy he’s playing wins the championship.

The crowd is clapping away. Dad’s the first one up to shake the winner’s hand. He’s still smiling and it’s for real, not those fake smiles losers get sometimes. He slaps that man on the shoulder and whispers something in the guy’s ear. The guy laughs and Dad walks off to let the winner have his day.

I think about that as I brush my teeth and get into bed.

I know my dad wanted to win that tournament, but losing didn’t crush him. Maybe losing can only hurt you if you open the door and let it in.

Poppy comes into my room with an ice pack.

“I don’t think I’m going to do too well tomorrow,” I say, getting used to the idea.

Poppy sits on the bed next to me and puts the ice pack on my hand. “Only the good Lord knows what’s going to happen, honey. But I can tell you this—sometimes just standing tall is a whale of a victory.”

This is it.

Kids are everywhere.

Banners are flying.

Parents are giving last-minute playing tips, waving their arms and shouting that it’s only a
game
.

Mrs. Cassetti keeps running across the street from the bakery asking if anything’s happened yet. Mr. Kopchnik closed his store for the day to root for me. Mr. Gatto’s here too. He got his son-in-law Dolan to manage Cut Rate Gas and Groceries, even though he says Dolan might run the business into the ground before lunch. Camille walks by with Brad Lunder, her almost boyfriend; she messes up my hair, wishes me extra good luck, and says that now that my splint is off, I can go back to
laundry
.

I’m standing at table nine putting my stick together. I’m wearing my black T-shirt, khakis, and
my new high-top Nikes with super-mega-traction. My first game is with Rick Plotsky, who’s a pretty good player.

“Don’t be nervous.”

It’s Francine. She sits on a folding chair. She’s wearing an orange neon sweatshirt that says
I BELIEVE IN MAGIC
. “Nervous is a dirty word, Mickey. Nervous is out of your vocabulary.” She lowers her voice. “I lit a candle for you this morning at Mass.”

“Thanks.”

Francine whips a magic red scarf from her sleeve as Arlen runs up, adjusts his glasses, and looks at me.

“You’re ready,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Buck pushes through the crowd, growling. His father marches behind him; Mr. Pender’s got a purplish splotch running down the side of his face. His eyes are puffy and gray. Mrs. Pender runs to catch up with them. She’s fiddling with her wedding ring, nervous.

“Well, this is nice,” she says to Buck, who doesn’t answer her.

Buck stares at Jerry Docks, who he’s playing first. Jerry gets pale.

Mom’s clutching her necklace, asking me about my hand for the third time.

“It’s fine,” I say, which is half true.