The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (26 page)

“Yo, crotch rot,” Josh McCullough said as he cuffed the back of my head. “You think you can, I dunno, tend the goddamn goal?”

McCullough was a total jagoff the rest of the game. I swear he let a few Crusaders slip by just to make me pay for missing a shot.

But what really sucked was that if it wasn't for Rob we'd've been shut out. He got all the goals. Our offense was so crappy that one of our forwards (
I don't wanna humiliate anyone—especially not Jon Bales—so I won't name names
) practically gave the Crusader halfbacks engraved invitations to steal the ball. Hell, he'd've played better if he sat in the middle of the field and picked dandelions. A Crusader might trip over him.

Just to frost my cake, Rob had to be diplomatic—mostly—about pulling our asses out of the fire. Despite the back-slapping and high-fiving in the locker room, Rob took it in stride—tucking his awww-quit-it-fellas-you're-embarrassing-me smile into his shoulder. It wasn't just him, he said, absently polishing the topside of his cleats on his calf, it was a team effort. If it weren't for everybody's help, Brother Rice would've beaten us one-zip. The guys ate it up. Of course, he looked at me when he made his one-zip dig. I grabbed my gear and headed out. I didn't wanna get in the way when they all hailed the conquering hero by dropping to their knees and sucking Rob off.

As I pushed my way through the door, Dad was hovering outside the locker room. He threw his arm around my back, “good game-ed” me, and tried to tousle my hair, but I dodged his hand like a skittish dog. I was still pissed about letting the Crusaders score and wasn't exactly up for celebrating—especially when I knew all the guys were still wondering why, if I wasn't a contortionist, I had my head up my ass during the first half of the game.

“What's wrong?” Dad asked.

“Lemme see…oh yeah, I missed the easiest shot in the history of soccer.”

“Don't worry about it,” Dad said. “Look, I asked your coach if I could take you to lunch for some father-son bonding. He said it's fine as long as I get you back in time for semifinals.”

“Nice of you to ask me.”

 

Even though the idea of being seen in public with the Ps would normally have me wanting to nurse on the business end of a service revolver—especially when Dad had come right out and said he was gung ho for some Harry-Chapinwe'll-have-a-good-time-then lovefests—lunch with Dad would be better than watching the team
me-first-me-first
-ing to see who'd get to bury their lips in Rob's ass.

We ended up at some Western-themed steakhouse. When we walked in, the bartender looked up from the beer glass he'd been spit-shining (I kid—
barely
) and scowled at us.

“All ya'll lost?”

“No, sir, I reckon we're hungry,” Dad said, his voice slipping into a twang. It was more embarrassing than my summer sports physical when the doctor told me to turn my head and cough, and my dick saluted him. I wanted to silently crawl into a corner somewhere and die or make up some kind of excuse for him.
Sorry, my father hasn't been the same since his stroke.

The five guys at the bar swiveled in their stools, pushed up the brims of their Stetsons and bills of their seed company hats, and eyed me like I was in lace panties instead of soccer shorts and a flimsy jersey. My face burned. Dad smiled like a brain-damaged chimpanzee. I half-expected someone to say Dad had a “real purdy mouth.”

The bartender shouted to someone named Lurlene about having customers, and the guys went back to nursing their Coors. Can't say I blamed them for drinking in the middle of the day. How could you live in downstate Illinois and still be sober?

“How y'all doing today?” a woman—Lurlene, I guessed—asked. She was a short thing with straw-colored hair and a voice burnt raw by a three-pack-a-day smoking habit. “Y'all here for the soccer competition?” Clearly, Mensa hadn't rushed to beat down Lurlene's door.

“Yes'm,” Dad said, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops and hitching up his pants, looking more Roy Rogers than John Wayne. I could've killed him. Lurlene didn't notice, though. She led us to a wagon wheel table and under a whackin' big cowbell bolted to the wall.

“What's that for?” asked Dad.

“Hon,” Lurlene said, finger pointing at an item on Dad's menu, “we ring that bell anytime some fool with eyes bigger than his stomach orders our Biggest Toad in the Puddle special. Clean yer plate in two hours, and y'all eat for free.”

Dad smiled, boasting he'd not only order it, but he reckoned he was fixin' ta finish it.
Go ahead
, I thought,
just make complete jackasses outta us. I mean, really, why stop now?

I have no idea why Dad thought he'd be able to finish the Biggest Toad in the Puddle. The thing included the Dude Rancher, a 72-ounce porterhouse steak; a bowl of Blazing Saddles chili, which the menu bragged was “hotter than a burnin' stump and fiery enough ta scald yer rump” a side of Kiss My Grits; two ears of buttered sweet corn; Bronco Bustin' red beans and rice; a baked potato, smothered in bacon-wrapped bacon, cheese, jalapeños, red onion, and sour cream; and a slice of Lurlene's own husband-pleasin' apple pie served
Remember the Alamo-de
(Dad actually thought that was clever) and topped with a slice of cheddar cheese. Lurlene asked what I wanted. I told her to give me what was left of the cow after they finished butchering it for Dad. She laughed like I'd been flirting. Her pencil made one last scratch on the pad, then she walked off to the kitchen, bumping the juke-box with her hip as she breezed past it. The thing sprang to life, playing some song that sounded like a semi's horn whine as it passed a car doing seventy. The music got fast—like there was a fiddler trapped in the jukebox trying to saw his way out—and without meaning to, I was bobbing my head along with the music. Dad smiled at me. And yeah, it shocked me, but I smiled back.

“Neat place, isn't it?” Dad asked. I glanced around—mechanical bull and souvenir shop
sooo
over-the-top you had to laugh. It was crammed with license-plate-sized belt buckles, Tony Lama boots, hideous plaid shirts with stepmother-of-pearl snaps, and tons of plastic crap: plastic tomahawks, baby dolls dressed like squaws, six-shooter cap guns. Have Gum Will Travel bubble gum. It wasn't neat, it was hokey. I didn't care.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess it is.”

“You were really good this morning.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the guys on the team. I'm the moron who cost us a goal. According to them, Rob's the only reason we won.”

“What do they know?” Dad slapped the table. I wasn't sure if I jumped from being startled or from an aftershock. “Christ, Charlie, how many saves did you make? Twenty? Twenty-five? If the other team got those goals could Rob make up the difference?”

“It doesn't work that way.”

“Then you know what, Charlie? Screw them. Keep doing what you're supposed to. It doesn't matter what anybody thinks. If the rest of the team'd done their jobs, when would you have seen the ball?”

I nodded. He grinned like he knew something I didn't.

Another song came on and Dad chuckled. I asked what was funny.

“Back when I was in law school, your Mom and I'd dance to this at a bar we always went to—a real dive. Quarter pitchers of Schlitz. What was I saying?”

“Some dive bar you and Mom went to—”

“An absolute dive bar,” he said, leaning forward. “Place was filthy—walls yellow from all the smoke, busted-up seats, floors so dirty your shoes stuck—but it had an amazing jukebox. We'd go with this other couple, and for some reason, the gal…what was her name? She'd always play this song, ‘Don't Come Home a Drinkin' (With Lovin' on Your Mind).' Loretta Lynn. Your mom and I'd sing to each other, spinning around on the dance floor.”

It was hard to picture Mom and Dad dancing together. I was about to ask about it when Lurlene brought the food, her wrist threatening to snap under the weight of Dad's plate. Not batting an eye, Dad draped a napkin across his lap, carved into his porterhouse, and asked what the team's chances were for the rest of the finals.

I said I wasn't worried about the semifinal game. We were up against Palatine. We'd played the Pirates during the regular season and sure, they had some really strong guys on the team, but that actually was good for us. Their forwards all thought they were better than each other. Even if someone else had a better chance to score, their forwards wouldn't pass. They just went for the shot. Dad nodded, hefting another forkful to his mouth. Beating the Pirates would depend on our halfbacks and fullbacks. They needed to pressure Palatine's forwards to play more aggressively than they should. If they did, we had a pretty good chance of winning.

The trick for us, though, was making sure our forwards didn't play too hard. If we beat the Pirates, we'd need all our energy. We'd probably face Granite City for the championship on Saturday.

Man, those guys know defense. They won state last year, went to semifinals the year before, and won state three years ago. It's still pretty much the same team—a bunch of seniors who've been playing together their whole lives. They play the field like music.

Dad raised an eyebrow. Yeah, I said, that sounds weird, but the way they move—it's amazing. But honestly, and I'm not being a pessimist, I don't think our chances of winning are so hot.

“But, I guess I just need to do what I'm supposed to,” I said.

Dad had the kind of grin on his face I'd seen on Mr. B when Bink actually completed a pass (
to somebody actually on South's team
), which, let's face it, was kind of rare. Real pride. I felt blood rushing to my cheeks and looked down at my plate and my barely touched T-bone. Dad's was empty.
Ding, ding.

After lunch, Dad asked if I had my learner's permit. I did, but only 'cuz I'd been too lazy to take it out of my wallet. He had me drive. He managed not to swear the whole drive, not even under his breath, and only stomped the imaginary brake twice (
a new record
).

Dad and I got to the field before the rest of the team, but not before the Pirates. They were running drills with military precision and playing a helluva lot better than they had during regular season. When the rest of the team showed up, they got nervous, too. During warm-ups, our passing was crap and the retreads from F-Hall could've played better defense. Hell, Jon Bales muffed dribbling, getting tangled up in his own footwork, his face going teeth to turf. It wasn't pretty.

Coach Mueller was ticked. He huddled us and, forgetting we weren't in one of his English lit classes, launched into this eyes-glazing, yawn-hiding pep talk about how we few—we happy few—needed to get in the game, 'cuz, the under-classmen still abed in Crystal Lake (
huh? it was two in the afternoon
) would be ticked they weren't here when we won. We didn't know if we should shout “Go Gators!” or guess what he'd been paraphrasing. Thirty empty eyes and fifteen open mouths gawking at him was too much. Coach looked away. He spotted Rob outside the huddle, staring at the sideline.

I saw what was up. Mr. Hunt was there and Rob was glaring at him, any compassion dissolved from his eyes, like he wanted to forcibly disconnect his dad's head from his neck. Mr. Hunt stared back at Rob with this broken, defeated look, almost like he was trying to apologize by telepathy. Part of me wanted to say or do something that'd make it right between the two of them—I mean, hell, even Dad and I were finally trying to work through our crap—but I knew that the shit between the two of them didn't compare to my being a smart-ass and Dad having been First.

“Plan on joining us, Hunt?” Coach said. “Or do you think after winning the last game you're better than the rest of us?” It was a lame joke, but a couple of halfbacks still laughed.

Rob walked to the huddle, looking back to make sure nothing else happened, and managed a muffled, “Sorry, Coach.”

Coach ran through the strategy.
Change of plans. The Pirates'll expect us to run a standard 4-4-2 formation. We could play that and still beat them, but I want you guys to play 3-5-2. McCullough, you're moving to midfield. I'm counting on you fielders to share the work. I want fluid play out there, got it? Stewart, can you handle being down a fullback?
I nodded, ignoring Josh's smug sighs and pissy looks.

We lost the coin toss, which left us royally shafted for the first half. The Pirates' captain chose to put the sun behind their goal and the wind against us. Our halfbacks struggled. Palatine almost never left our half of the field. I ended up blocking fourteen shots—two I had to dive for and one I was forced to tip over the crossbar. Bales bitched that I just set the Pirates up for a corner kick. It didn't do them any good though. I scooped the ball and bounced it to McCullough. Josh volleyed the ball out of the fray, sending it to Rob who was wide open. Rob was still too busy giving his dad dirty looks to realize what was happening on the field. I lost it.

“Pay attention, Hunt,” I said, shouting so hard that the tendons in my neck felt like wire coat hangers. I wanted to run from the goal box and smack Rob back into reality. Rob snapped to and rushed a breakaway dribble down the sideline. Bales shrugged free from the thick of Palatine halfbacks, bolting full sprint, and pirouetted outside the six in front of the Pirates' goal. Rob kicked, punting hard and
way
too high. Bales leapt like he was gonna overhead volley like Pelé in
Victory
. Instead, he did a backward head flick and nabbed our first point.

By halftime, the team went from treating Rob like he was a god to practically asking for directions to the nearest lumber-yard so they could scrounge up two pine boards to nail Rob's ass to. McCullough was the worst. He wouldn't let up. When Mueller said he wanted us to keep looking for the shots, Josh said it'd be a helluva lot easier if Rob took his thumb out of his ass.