Necessary Roughness (6 page)

“All right.” Coach looked at his watch. “Line up. We’re letting you off easy today.”

“Sprints,”
ALL-PRO
explained to me as we were
herded to the opposite end zone. “Coaches make us do this till someone pukes.”

“No talking!” Coach yelled, his whistle clenched between his teeth. “I want you to sprint to the fifty, bearwalk back, four times. And quick. Anyone muck up, we start all over again.” The whistle screamed. We ran, then lumbered back on our hands and feet, butts high in the air (“No knees!” Kearny yelled at me) like very ungainly bears. My arms and legs were lead. Blood rushed to my head.

“Faster! Quit lagging, Beargrease! Push it!” Sprint down, thirty push-ups, sprint back. “Do it, Janovich. Keep going!” Sprint down, fifty sit-ups, sprint back. “Come on, Leland! This isn’t afternoon tea!” Heat and blood filled my head. My abs burned as I convulsed like a pitiful bug on its back. Forty sit-ups to go, oxygen debt at its max.

Ju keh ta,
I found myself thinking. I’m going to die.

Then I heard the noise—
“hai-yaargh!”

Monster, on all fours as if he was going to play horsie with a little kid, ejected about a bucket and a half of puke.

“Okay, gentlemen,” Coach said. “Hit the showers.”

“Man, Rom, what’d you have for lunch—rubber erasers?” said his buddy, bending over Monster, who
was sitting there with his head between his knees. A few feet away his barf pooled in the grass. The ground refused to take it.

“So how’d you like it?”
ALL-PRO
asked me.

“It was okay.” Every muscle—including those in my eyeballs—felt like it had been dipped in salt water and wrung out like beef jerky. It felt good in a bad way and vice versa, if you know what I mean.

“How come I didn’t get to kick? I thought that’s why you wanted me.”

“Uh-uh,” he said. “First, we need to see if you can take it, the football part. This is nine-man ball. Kicker has to do more than kick.”

“So how’d I do?”

Mikko paused and looked at me, as if he was trying to figure out what to say. Something grabbed my stomach. All of a sudden I wanted to hear him say he thought I could do it.

He shrugged. “You obviously haven’t played football before.” He shrugged again. “You have a
lot
of work to do, learning plays and stuff like that. But I think you can take it.”

I found myself grinning. That was enough.

The next day I was crippled. And I was happy as a clam. There’s something purifying about pushing your body to its limits and then just surrendering to the tiredness that fills in every crack. Even though I needed a wheelchair, my brain felt clearer than it had in ages, like it did after a hard tae kwon do workout or a tough soccer game.

“Why are you walking so funny?” O-Ma asked as I helped get out the cereal and milk.

“Getting old,” I said. Mrs. Knutson wandered into the kitchen in a furry pink robe, groping for coffee.

Young ran down, her flute in hand.

“I’m going to Donna’s house to practice flute after school,” she said, grabbing her lunch.

“Donna is that girl from math class?” O-Ma called to her.

“Yes!” Young said. Her voice faded as she flew out the door.

“O-Ma, I think I’m going to stay after school again today.”

“Chotta,”
she said, which basically means fine and dandy. “What are you up to?”

“Um, some kids are starting a club.” I wasn’t exactly sure why I didn’t want to tell her. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to jinx it.

“Just be home for dinner at seven.”

“Okay.”

As usual, Abogee was already at the store.

“Hey, Chan!”
ALL-PRO
yelled at lunch. “Come sit with us.” I threw my sandwich into my bag and suppressed an idiotic grin.

“Hey,” said eighty percent of the guys when I sat down. Monster and the Mexican-looking guy didn’t say anything. But I didn’t care. It felt good to have a group to eat with.

“You ever kicked a football before?” Coach asked me.

“No,” I said honestly. The closest I’d ever come was a Nerf at the beach.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. You seem quick,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder pad. “Beargrease here will show you the particulars.”

Jimmi Beargrease was the black-haired kid, friend to
Monster. I guess he wasn’t Mexican, but Indian. Today his long hair stuck out in a braid under his helmet. He scowled when Coach told him to help me out.

“Here,” he said, shoving a football and a tee at me. He had terrible teeth, all yellow and crooked. “You put the football on this.”

I took the stuff from him. “I said I’d never kicked before, not that I’m retarded.” That came out a little harsher than I meant it to, but I wasn’t that sorry. There are some guys that you just don’t like right off the bat, and he was one of them.

He didn’t say anything. He loped up to the ball and booted it, fairly decent, about twenty yards.

I reset it; regarded it. Then I ran up and kicked. It took to the air, changed its mind, crashed down, bounced, and came to rest like a dead animal a few yards away.

“Nice,” Jimmi said sarcastically. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure I saw what he saw: that Coach was watching.

I tried again. Same result.

“Maybe you’re not cut out to be a kicker,” Jimmi said helpfully.

I reset the ball.

You know how to kick, I told myself. Focus. I ran, keeping my knee over the ball, thinking, GOAL!

The ball took off, a bit drunkenly. But it kept on
going and sailed about forty yards before falling plumply back down.

“Whoo-ee!” came a cry from the field,
ALL-PRO,
arm raised mid-pass, gave me the V-for-victory sign. “Way to go, Chanster! Look at that leg!”

“Nice,” said Jimmi. He was trying to be sarcastic and failing miserably.

“You look happy, young man,” said Mrs. Knutson at dinner. “In fact, you look as happy as I’ve ever seen you. Have some more hotdish.”

“You make the best hotdish,” I said sincerely. Hotdish was some Minnesota thing—and today’s, tuna fish and egg noodles with crushed potato chips on top, was particularly sublime.

Abogee was schlooping down his portion, noisily like he did at home, one eye suspiciously on me. I think he thinks if I’m happy, I must be up to no good.

It wasn’t always like this. When I was little, I remember adoring Abogee. I used to stay up late just so I could see him when he came home from the store.

“I nyosok chom pwara,”
look at this little rascally fellow, he’d say to me.

But he wouldn’t scold me for being up past my bedtime. He’d make a snack of ramen for both of us. We’d sit there eating while everyone else was asleep.

So, exactly when did Abogee turn so negative on me? When did this “Number one son” thing start to mean I couldn’t do anything right?

I tried to make myself glum by thinking thoughts of war, death, destruction, and Spam, but my mind kept going back to the sight of the football turning into a UFO, and a smile tugged at my mouth as if I were a puppet.

At practice the next day I caught a pass and ran an obstacle course of defensemen to bring it in for a touchdown. Coach nodded approvingly.

“You’re a twisty little guy,” said Kearny, who hardly ever complimented anyone.

After practice I was blabbing nonstop with Mikko, and it felt like my feet didn’t bother to touch the ground. At home I said hi to Mrs. Knutson and then to O-Ma, who was getting a lesson in Minnesota cookery. I said hi to Abogee, too, as he sat at the table with a bunch of papers in front of him. He didn’t seem to notice I was home.

“Did you have a good time?” O-Ma asked. She was watching Mrs. Knutson add carrots and potatoes to a big pot in which a roast was steaming.

“Yep,” I said. I decided that practice had gone so well that I could let the cat out of the bag. “Get this,
I’m trying out for the football team. The team needs a kicker, and with all my soccer skills, I might be able to do it.”

“Where were you?
” Abogee said.

“At
football,” I said with surprise. His English couldn’t be
that
bad.

“The store should be opening in another week or so. I’ll need you to start working there,”
he said without looking up. His glasses, perched at the top of his head, looked like a pair of sightless eyes.

“Okay,”
I said, wondering exactly what he was getting at.
“On weekends, like I did back home, right?”

“After school too.”

Oh. I believe Abogee was telling me I couldn’t play football. He does this thing where he drops hints, punches in a code, mutates and mutilates words until he can tell me no without having to say no to my face. Occasionally he makes O-Ma do his dirty work, like the time I wanted a mountain bike for my birthday, but mostly he does the job himself, leaving me flapping like a fish pulled up on a dock, trying to figure out exactly what he means.

I let the silence stretch out, thinner and thinner. Tell me no if you mean no, I was thinking. Tell me to my face and give me a chance to argue my point.

“Why don’t we wait and see if Chan makes the
football
team and then worry about things?”
O-Ma
broke in.
“I think that would make the most sense.”
Abogee looked at O-Ma, kind of surprised, as if the roast itself had started talking.

“Iron River has a wonderful football team. I can’t wait to see you play,” Mrs. Knutson said as she shoved the roast back in the oven. “I never miss a home game.” Abogee went back to his papers.

After dinner I was doing some push-ups when Young came up to my room.

“How come I never see you at lunch?” She settled cross-legged on the floor.

I told her about the gym, Mikko, and the other football players.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

I shrugged. “We’re not supposed to, but some kids do anyway.”

Young looked mildly shocked at this. She’s a big rule follower.

“So, you meeting any cool kids?” I asked, to change the subject.

“It’s too early to tell,” Young said. “People seem friendly enough, but no one
does
anything around here. I like Donna. She’s no Sujin, though.”

My knuckles throbbed because I’d been doing the push-ups tae kwon do style on the wooden floor.

“Yeah,” I said. “The only guy I’ve really gotten to
know is Mikko, the one who got me to go out for football.”

“I can’t believe you’re going out for football.” Young leaned over to pinch a sore biceps. I tried not to grimace.

“I know you’re strong, Oppa, but they grow ’em big up here. Like that one guy who wears the dirty frayed jeans and those T-shirts without the sleeves. He’s a monster. There’s something odd about him. He smells bad too.”

“How do you know how he smells?” He stank something fearsome in the locker room, but then we all did.

“Yuck, Chan, just walking down the hall. He has a cloud around him, you know, like Pigpen in
Peanuts.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“So what’re you going to do if Abogee doesn’t let you go out for football?”

My
other
favorite subject, Abogee.

“You think he doesn’t want me to go out for football?” I batted my eyes. Young rolled hers.

“Anyone can build muscle, but building brain
…” she mimicked Abogee’s clipped Korean.
“Number one son, you must do something to make this family proud!”

“Young-ster,” I said. “I really do want to go out for football. I mean, I used to think it was a useless sport, but actually I kind of like it.”

“I know. It shows.”

“So what should I do?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Maybe you should ride it out a little first. You know how Abogee is so touchy.”

“Touchy isn’t the word.”

I couldn’t help feeling touchy myself. Though I am willing to work hard, I’ll never be a rocket scientist. But doesn’t talent extend beyond things you do with a pencil in your hand? I worked my butt off to make the soccer team. And while Abogee drove Young all over the freaking state of California for some math tournament, he never came to one single soccer game, even when they were right in the neighborhood.

“Abogee always listens to you, Young,” I said “Can’t you come up with some cool argument for football—like studies show that football can help you get better grades, or something like that?”

Young shrugged her thin shoulders.

“I’ll try,” she said doubtfully.

“Students should now report with their homeroom teachers to the auditorium.”
The principal’s voice droned facelessly from the intercom as everyone shuffled out.

We were in alphabetical order, so my seat was right next to Young’s.

“Wow, an assembly,” she said. “I wonder what’s going on.”

I shrugged. I wasn’t a big assembly type, unless it was quiet enough to allow me to catch up on my Z’s.

“Hey, you weeg, scram!” I looked to see
ALL-PRO
bending menacingly over the kid who had the seat next to me.

“Howdy, pardner,” he said, settling in. He looked over at Young. “Who’s this?”

“My sister,” I said. “Young, this is Mikko.”

“You guys are twins? Cool.”

“Actually, I’m really thirty-one,” Young said. “I flunked a lot.”

“Really?”
ALL-PRO
looked amused all out of proportion to Young’s remark.

“Really. Of course we’re twins. Can’t you tell by the way we look alike?”

Mikko laughed. Young has a long, narrow face and high cheekbones, while my face is as round and formless as a wheel of cheese. About the only thing we have in common is Abogee’s cowlick, over the left eye for Young, right eye for me. Mirror images.

“So what is this all about?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” ALL-PRO’S eyes grew comically wide. “Like, really? It’s only the most important event of the school year.”

“So why don’t you tell us?”

“You wait and see.” He winked.

The lights went down and the heavy velvet curtains opened. Behind them was the principal—ALL-PRO’S dad—and Coach, and Coach Kearny. The cheerleaders stood behind a table that displayed a row of shining black helmets.