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My father wasn’t known for practical jokes. I’d only seen him laugh a few times as a kid. He never bought me anything fun to play with, unless it had to do with hunting or fishing, but even then, he lectured me on responsibility and sucked all the fun right out of it. We went on a few fishing trips to the Black River in Ohio. Father-son weekends because Mom said it’d be good for us. I knew it was just so she could have men sleep over.

* * *

I was seven the first time I saw a real fish. Dad dressed the part in full-length waders and a black vest with pockets so he could stay in the middle of the river all day. I wished he would have.

Dad had just reeled in a fish the size of my forearm, brought it to the bank. He pointed at the flopping flounder. “See that, Joe? Look at it.”

“What’s it doing?”

Dad took off his hat to wipe his forehead. He knelt down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder. “
Its
finale.”

Even though Dad never got this close, all I could think about was the fish. I knew fish couldn’t talk like Billy Bass, but this one was screaming, trying to snap its spine. I told Dad, “Put it back.”

“No.”

“PUT IT BACK IN THE WATER!”

The fish flailed and Dad caught it in mid-air. He put its wriggling belly a few inches from my face. “You see that hook? Look, son, I want you to see this.”

“I don’t
wanna
.”

“Open your eyes,” Dad said.

Goddamnit
, look!

Dad turned my chin back to the fish, down its mouth. Pink goo pushing around both sides of the shiny red metal. It was impossible to see anything else.

“See how it went right through? Even if I could free the hook, I’d tear up his insides getting it out. I can’t put this guy back.” The fish kept fighting. Dad’s hand squeezing so tight the eyes were going to pop.

The part of the hook poking out wasn’t that big. I figured the fish would be okay if it got back in the water. I said, “Try it.”

“No.” He set the slowing fish against the ground. His other hand reached to his side, brought out the knife I’d never seen unfolded. “It’s over.”

The knife ripped through the air. Ripped through the fish. Its severed head tilted onto its side, one big eye staring, accusing, saying, Remember this.

Dad wiped the blade on the grass, acted like it was no big deal. Then he got up and walked back into the river, sang some stupid song about
rolly
,
polly
fish heads.

Maybe he did have a twisted sense of humor after all.

* * *

Billy Bass’s song ended on my lap, the batteries almost drained. There were two more giant D-Cell batteries inside the package, but I saw no reason to continue Dad’s joke. Billy Bass would sit in my closet until Day 74 when everything finally made sense.

I didn’t know my father was trying to help.

* * *

I was in fourth grade playing football in the field behind the school. Corey and Gilbert versus Steven and me.  They were bigger, faster, stronger. They won every time. I never cheated because at least they let us play, and it stopped them from picking on us during class. They’d beat us up and taunt us on the field, but basically leave us alone afterwards.

This day we were tied. It was their ball, fourth down, five feet from the goal line that ran between the two baseball backstops. I stayed away from their huddle, but had a good idea what they were going to run. Something tricky.

At that point, I was prepared for the loss, Corey’s hooting and hollering. That stupid dance he did. Plus, it was hot and I was sweaty.

They broke huddle. Corey went to the ball, Gilbert all the way to the left.

The bell rang and Steven started walking for the blacktop, acting brave in my old Star Wars shirt I’d given him because he kept staring at it when he’d come over.

Then Steven actually talked smack. “Guess you don’t win this time, Corey.”

Corey held out his arm, kept Steven back without touching him. “No way, Hong Kong. One more play.”

Steven pointed at the classroom way on the other side of the school. “The bell rang.”

Corey kept his arm out. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Come on, Corey, let him go,” I said. “It’s either a tie or we’ll finish next week.”

“Stop being such a muff, Joe” Corey said. He walked to the line of scrimmage and backed Steven up behind the ball.

Gilbert, in his Columbus Conquerors’ t-shirt and matching shorts, got in the special stance he’d learned at camp. “Yeah. Mr. Mosley’s always late.”

The blacktop was covered with kids, only a teacher or two. “We still got time,” I said. “Come on, Steven. It’ll be quick.”

Steven pulled at his baggy shirt, the Luke Skywalker iron-on so faded it almost wasn’t there. It sounded like he might cry, something a fourth grader should never do. “I have to change.”

“Change later,
chinker-dinker
.” Corey squatted down and grabbed the ball. “Last play.”

Steven finally shut up, his thoughts shouting into my head:

Fucking Pecker! If you get near me I’m going to kick you in the balls.
Make it so Corey could never make fun of him again.

But I knew if Steven tried it, he’d miss. He was the most uncoordinated kid in class, his belly round and
jiggly
because his
mom made him pork dumpling nearly every night. I knew Corey would beat the piss out of him.

Corey squished up his face so his eyes were almost closed. “
Ohhhh
, me so a scared.”

Steven made a noise, almost sounded like a growl. Corey laughed and I knew what Steven was going to do. That’s what made me do it. What made me become the cheat Dad always warned me not to. I asked Gilbert, “
Whatcha
’ running?”

Gilbert smiled, thought there was no way I’d be ready for the flea flicker.

Corey hut, hut, hutted and hiked the ball. Gilbert pretended to run forward, put on his best
fakeout
face. He was supposed to come back behind the line, catch the lateral, throw it back to Corey.

So clear. So goddamn easy. I jumped in front of the pass, picked it off and hauled ass for the blacktop.

Corey shouted a super loud, “Fuck!”

The race was on.

The other goal line was between the swings and monkey bars, still half the field away. Gilbert and Corey were both faster than me, but I had a lead, pumping my arms as fast as I could.

I didn’t need to look back to know Gilbert was just a few feet away, thinking about diving for my legs. Corey was next to him, wanting to teach me no one beat him. Especially some little white pussy.

I
zigged
to the left. Gilbert dropped, face-planted. I
zagged
and Corey tripped over Gilbert. The goal line was less than twenty feet away, Corey stumbling to grab my shirt. I spun. Corey fell. And I backpedaled into the end zone.

That spike was the biggest Fuck You I’d ever delivered. I slammed it
hard, yelled, “Touchdown!” loud enough that even the kids sick at home would hear.

Corey popped off the grass and ran over. “No way. It doesn’t count.”

Steven slapped me a high five. “Yeah, it does,” he said. “We win.” He did this ridiculous robot dance, the one he’d been perfecting at home in front of the mirror. He looked like a spaz, but I’d never seen him happier.

The kids were filing into the school. I told Steven we needed to go. He finally stopped dancing, bent over to pick up his notepad and school clothes.

Corey charged and pushed him to his knees.

Steven got up and brushed off the grass, saw the stain he wouldn’t be able to explain to his parents.

“What the hell, Corey? Why’d you push him?” I said.

“Cause he’s a crybaby and a cheater. You both are. The touchdown didn’t count.”

“It counted and we won. End of story.” I told Steven, “Come on.”

Steven held up his perfectly folded shirt that almost matched his cheeks. “I have to change.”

“What’s wrong?” Corey asked. “Hong Kong don’t want to show off his
chee
-chees?”

None of us liked changing in public, but the thought crippled Steven, left him standing there holding the shirt, waiting to be told what to do.

“Come on, dude, everyone’s already in line,” I said. “The second bell’s gonna ring any second. I’ll stand right here. No one’s even looking.”

Gilbert pointed at the principal’s office way at the other end of school. “There’s Mosley.”

Mr. Mosley was talking to Miss Shannon. She was leaning against the wall, their bodies pretty close. They could’ve been talking about anything but it was probably about his divorce, why he didn’t get one yet. I’d heard disgusting things when they stared at each other in the cafeteria.

“Hurry up, Steven,” I said. “I don’t want to be late.”

Corey kept pushing Steven, who was losing it.

He shrieked, “Go away, Corey.”

“I’ve got all day. Bitch Hudson gave me detention this morning. What’s Mosley going to do?” Corey showed how white his teeth were with a giant smile. “Come on, Hong Kong, let me see those
titties
.”

Steven silently whispered my name to help.

We didn’t have many options. I told him to just change. “Mosley’s saying goodbye.”

Steven slipped the shirt off his head and started to put on his nice one, but Corey ran past me, grabbed hold of each shirt, and ripped them free. I turned but Corey was already running. Steven took off after him, his toothpick arms flying back and forth.

Corey ran around the jungle gym, jumped over the sand pit, hit the blacktop full stride. He was an athlete and an asshole.

Steven gave up, kicked at the sand, arms folded over his chest. It was probably for the best. I don’t know what he could have done if he caught Corey.

When Corey got halfway to the classroom, he glanced over his shoulder, gave a big smile. Then he had to go and raise both hands, the shirts flying behind him, making sure everyone saw him coming.

The other fourth graders were already in two lines leading to the classroom. Corey ran through the middle of them and yelled, “Here come the cheaters!”

Everyone turned to see who he was talking about.

Corey stood at the front of the class. “You just gonna stand there?” He wasn’t talking to Steven. His brown eyes were on me. “Or are you gonna come help your rice-jammer butt-buddy?”

It was hard to talk with everyone watching, but I managed. “Give him back his stuff.”

Corey held up the Star Wars shirt. “Hong Kong even wears your clothes. What else you two doing?”

The kids laughed, mostly the guys. But Gina, the girl I had a crush on, was right there, a few feet away at the end of the line. She didn’t think it was funny. She thought Corey was a jerk.

I said, “You mean besides beating you at football?”

A bunch of people oohed. Someone said Corey got burned. Corey just got mad and made his nostrils get even bigger.

“If we played tackle, you pussies would never score.”

“Guess we’ll never know. Can he have his shirt now?”

Corey acted like he didn’t hear me and wrapped the Star Wars shirt around his fist. “Tell everyone why you won’t play tackle. Is it because your mommy and daddy won’t let you or because you’re
chickenshit
?”

From behind, the place he always seemed to be, Steven said, “Forget it, Joe. Mr. Mosley will be here in a minute.”

Corey came closer. The lines moved, formed into a circle. Corey pounded his shirt hand onto his palm. “Shut up, you stupid chink,” he said. “Go run home to your momma-san.”

I was glad I couldn’t see Steven’s face turn red, his eyes tear up. The others could, though, and almost all of them thought it was funny. But not Gina. She told Corey to shut up.

Corey smiled. He thought no one was going to say anything. “Aw, does a girl have to fight your battles?”

Everything got kind of blurry, except Corey and his big fucking mouth. Something had to be said. No one else was going to say it so I did. “At least he has a mom.”

Corey started to shake, his eyes got all big. “Your mom’s a WHORE!” Spit flew off his lips. “And you’re a little-dick honky, just like your dad.”

It was the first punch I ever threw. He never saw it coming. Connected full on, knocked Corey’s head back. He tried to swing, but couldn’t land anything, didn’t look like such a great athlete with me rushing him through the circle, throwing him into the wall.

Corey’s eyes were closed when his head smacked against the brick. His lip split on the next punch, shot blood everywhere. The third punch dropped him hard.

Kids screamed for me to stop, a couple said, “Fuck him up.”