Jimmy (39 page)

“Nice run, Jimmy,” Coach Nixon said. “Did you score?”

Jimmy stood at attention. “Coach Bolton found the defensive playbook behind the seat of his truck.”

“That's good,” Coach Nixon replied. “I'd hate to make him run wind sprints for losing his playbook.”

“What's a wind sprint?” Jimmy asked.

“What you just did, only a little bit shorter distance. You run as fast as you can for thirty or forty yards and do it over and over. It builds up the players' endurance so they can play all the way through the fourth quarter without getting too tired.”

“Tell me if you want me to run any wind sprints,” Jimmy said.

“You won't if you do your job. Walk with me and tell me again what you think a manager does,” the coach said.

Jimmy repeated everything he could remember.

“Today you're going to be the water boy,” the coach said. “Do you know where the locker room is located underneath the stadium?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One of the other managers will show you. Your job will be to fill up coolers with ice from the machine near the locker room and bring it to the field. There is a water hose on the near sideline that you can use to fill up the coolers. The players will drink from paper cups. If a player throws his cup on the ground instead of putting it in the trash can, I want you to write his number on a sheet of paper and give it to me at the end of practice. Do not pick up any trash yourself. Can you do all that?”

Jimmy hesitated, but he thought he understood.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. There's Chris Meadows. He'll show you where to get the ice.”

Jimmy looked across the field and saw a student talking to Coach Bolton. He ran as fast as he could to the coaches.

“Did you tell him?” Coach Bolton asked.

“Yes, sir. And you don't have to run wind sprints.”

Several of the coaches laughed. Coach Bolton cut them off with a severe glance.

Jimmy faced the other manager. Chris had red hair and freckles and was strong in his upper body and arms. Jimmy took a deep breath and introduced himself.

“I'm Jimmy Mitchell,” he said.

“I'm Chris.”

“Coach Nixon told me to get some ice and put it in something,” Jimmy began. “But I don't know where it is.”

“I'll show you what to do,” Chris said. “First, we need to go to the locker room underneath the stadium.”

“Do you want to run?” Jimmy asked.

Chris's eyes narrowed.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No, sir.”

Chris stepped closer, put his right fist against Jimmy's chest, and tapped him lightly.

“You may be a ninth grader, but that doesn't give you a free pass to make fun of me. If you want to get along on this football team, you won't ever say anything like that again.”

Jimmy's eyes opened wide. “Yes, sir.”

In the next instant, Jimmy was flat on his back on the ground with Chris on top of him. The older boy raised his fist to strike Jimmy in the face when a hand reached out and grabbed Chris's arm.

“Cool it, Meadows!” Coach Bolton barked. “What do you think you're doing?”

The coach pulled Chris off Jimmy, who scrambled backward and watched, stunned.

“He smarted off to me, Coach,” Chris said. “First he asked me to run across the field, and then he started saying ‘yes, sir,' and ‘no, sir.' I warned him once and then—”

“Come with me,” Coach Bolton said, dragging Chris away from Jimmy.

Jimmy shakily stood up. Coach Sellers came over to him.

“Chris has a problem with one of his legs. He can't run,” the coach said.

Jimmy started moving toward Chris.

“I need to tell him I'm sorry.”

Coach Sellers reached out and grabbed Jimmy's arm. “Coach Bolton will straighten him out.”

Jimmy watched as Coach Bolton talked to Chris, motioned toward Jimmy, then pointed at his own head. In a few moments they returned.

“You boys get to work,” Coach Bolton said.

“I'm sorry,” Jimmy said.

“Forget it,” Chris said.

As they walked, Jimmy could see that Chris had a pronounced limp. Chris didn't speak, and Jimmy kept his mouth shut. They reached the locker room.

“Here is the ice machine,” Chris said. “Fill these coolers with ice and carry them to the practice field.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chris stopped and stared hard at Jimmy for a few seconds before motioning for him to do his work.

The morning practice session passed quickly. The players arrived and sat on the three bottom rows of the bleachers while Coach Nixon gave a short speech. Jimmy couldn't hear what the head coach said, because he was busy filling several orange coolers with ice and carrying them about four hundred feet down a steep hill to the practice field. During one of his trips, Max came over and greeted him.

“How's it going?” Max asked.

Jimmy told him about the near fight with Chris Meadows.

“Wow,” Max said. “He's got a reputation for being touchy. I hope everything is straightened out.”

“Me too.”

Jimmy placed the coolers on a table and filled them with water from a short green hose. There were five coolers in all.

Practice began. Jimmy didn't have time to watch the practice on the field, but what he saw didn't look like a football game. No one threw the football or tackled anyone. The players wore practice jerseys, helmets, and gym shorts. The coaches walked around and yelled at the players who lay on the ground and stretched their legs, did push-ups, ran wind sprints, and hopped through ropes. None of it would help them beat Dake County.

The most difficult part of Jimmy's job turned out to be keeping track of all the players who threw empty paper cups on the field. He was so busy going up and down the hill to refill the coolers with ice that he wasn't present for every water break. Still, he had a long list of numbers, including several repeat offenders, by the end of the morning session.

Sweat poured off the bigger boys when they came to the drink table. Only Max, who had been assigned the number-twelve jersey, paid attention to Jimmy. The other boys ignored him. Max gulped down a cup of water.

“Are you having fun?” Jimmy asked as he slid several cups to the front of the table.

“Practice is bad,” Max replied, his face red. “The games are fun. Are you and Chris doing okay?”

“Yes. Where are the footballs? I want Coach Nixon to see you throw the ball.”

“The coaches won't get them out until this afternoon,” Max replied. “Mornings are mostly for conditioning.”

Jimmy was puzzled. “What?”

“We do exercises so that we can get stronger and be in better shape.”

“You run wind sprints so you won't get tired in the fourth quarter,” Jimmy added.

Max smiled. “That's right. You sound like Coach Nixon.”

“Mitchell!” Coach Bolton yelled out. “We need more water at this end of the table.”

Max crumpled his cup and dropped in on the ground.

“Don't do that,” Jimmy said as he turned away. “Or I'll have to write down your number. Put it in the trash can.”

At the end of practice, Coach Nixon called the boys over to the drink table.

“Give me the list,” he said to Jimmy.

Jimmy felt the eyes of all the players on him as he handed the sheet of paper to the coach.

Coach Nixon looked down at the list and then pointed to the paper cups that littered the ground. “I expect you young men to leave everything on the field when you practice or play for this team”—he paused—“except trash. No trash playing allowed. No trash talk with players on other teams. And no trash is tossed on the ground for someone else to pick up. Everyone who plays for this team will do his part, every single second from this moment until the end of our final game. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the players responded.

Coach Nixon continued. “I'll be watching and find out if you mean it. If I don't call your number, you can leave. Those who still want to play football should be back here no later than three o'clock this afternoon. The following players will stay and run ten forty-yard wind sprints to remind them not to throw trash on the ground at the Cattaloochie County High School practice field.”

As the coach read off the numbers, a couple of the players glared at Jimmy before they ran back onto the field. Jimmy watched as the boys ran across the field with the coaches yelling at them. Chris interrupted him.

“Clear off the tables. Put the coolers and cups in the locker room. We'll get them back out this afternoon.”

Jimmy carried everything up the hill. Chris and the other manager, a boy named Will, ran errands for the coaches. When Jimmy finished, he walked up to Coach Nixon, who was talking with Coach Bolton. Jimmy waited for a pause in their conversation.

“I'll be back at three o'clock,” he said. “Mama is going to bring me, and Daddy will pick me up on his way home from work.”

Coach Nixon looked at him and stifled a smile.

“Coach Bolton didn't scare you off ?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Jimmy replied. “I'm not really scared of anything except swimming.”

“He and Chris had a little misunderstanding, but everything is fine now,” Coach Bolton said.

“We're a team,” Coach Nixon said. “No fighting among teammates.”

“Yes, sir. I don't like to fight.”

Coach Bolton retrieved his pouch of chewing tobacco from his back pocket and pinched a healthy wad. Jimmy's eyes opened big as the coach deposited the leafy load in his right cheek.

“You'll do fine, Mitchell,” Coach Bolton said, his voice somewhat muffled. “But don't let me catch you eyeing my tobacco pouch again. I won't share any with you no matter how nice you ask.”

“Yes, sir.”

—
Twenty-seven
—

B
y the end of the first week of football practice, Jimmy had greatly increased his knowledge about the duties of a real-life football manager. He'd carried a large mesh bag of footballs to the practice field, poured lime into the little machine that marked off the field, and learned that Coach Nixon wanted one teaspoon of sugar and two teaspoons of creamer in his coffee. The most interesting job was serving as an assistant to Chris Meadows while the senior manager taped up a player's ankles or wrists. Upon Chris's command, Jimmy would run to the locker room, open the correct drawer in the training-room cabinet, and bring the needed item. Jimmy continued to reply to the manager using “Yes, sir” and No, sir.”

They were filling coolers with water when Chris held up his hand.

“Stop,” he said. “How old do you think I am?”

Not sure, Jimmy didn't answer.

“Do I look as old as your father?” Chris continued.

That was an easy question.

“No, sir.”

“That's my point. You don't talk to someone who is seventeen years old as if he was seventy-one.”

“Grandpa is seventy-two,” Jimmy said.

“Do you say ‘yes, sir' and ‘no, sir' to him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's good, but I want you to stop doing it to me. If it happens one more time, I'm going to pretend I'm one of the coaches and make you run wind sprints until you're so out of breath you won't be able to say anything except ‘yes' and ‘no.' Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Jimmy nodded.

Chris glared at him for a second and then burst out laughing.

“Okay, you called my bluff. Go to the locker room and get the black knee brace I put on top of Ben White's locker. His knee is bothering him. Do you remember his number?”

“No,” Jimmy replied.

Each player's locker was the same as his jersey number.

“It's eighty-one,” Chris answered. “And you don't have to run.”

Toward the end of practice, Chris took Jimmy to the equipment room, where the footballs, extra helmets, spare uniforms, and other items were kept. The room was a long rectangular space divided into three sections by shelves that reached almost to the ceiling. Equipment was organized by size and type. The room was a dumping ground. Chris picked up a scuffed helmet.

“The helmets come in different sizes,” he began.

“I know,” Jimmy interrupted. “It's like different hat sizes. I have a lot of caps, but unless I wear the right size, it won't stay on my head when I run fast.”

“That's right.”

Chris turned over a helmet and showed Jimmy the number written on the inside.

“This is the size. Put the helmets in a row on these shelves, beginning with the smaller ones and going to the bigger ones. Then you need to count all the helmets in the room and write the number on a sheet of paper. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chris stifled a grin. “Once you're finished, find me so I can check your work. I don't want Coach Nixon to come in here after practice and find that it's been done wrong. I'll be on the practice field.”

“I'll be careful,” Jimmy promised.

Chris left, and Jimmy sat on the floor. He picked up a helmet and looked inside at the number but wasn't sure
if it was big or small. He set it down and turned over another helmet. It had a lower number, but from holding it in his hands he couldn't tell whether it was bigger than the first helmet or not. Looking at a third helmet didn't solve his problem. He sighed in frustration.

He picked up a fourth helmet. When he ran his hand over the top of the helmet, he could feel bumps caused by tiny pieces of plastic flying off as the result of head-to-head contact on the field. From his usual seat with Mama and Daddy in the stands, Jimmy rarely heard the sound of helmets striking each other. He unsnapped the chin strap and put the helmet on his head. The inside of the helmet smelled like the pair of old tennis shoes he wore when he helped Mama in the flower beds. When he shook his head, it rattled around inside the protective headgear.