Living with the hawk Page 2

  I noticed Blake shoving equipment into his locker. He glanced in my direction, then sat down on the bench, his back toward us, and picked up his football pants, held them on his lap. He grabbed a bucking pad, began to work it into the pocket inside the pants where it would protect his quads.

  “Rookies,” said Jordan Phelps, “are all big men. Till you get them on the field. Then they hug the bench and pray to God Coach doesn’t want them in the game. Wouldn’t dare make a tackle — it might hurt a bit.”

  Blake had another bucking pad cradled in his hand, but he was just holding it, his pants draped over his knee.

  “The guys who make this team,” said Jordan Phelps, “aren’t afraid to take a pounding. They know you’ve got to be tough, got to wear the other team down, give as good as you get.” Although Jordan hadn’t moved from where he stood in the centre of the room, Arnie and Evan had backed away, stopping only when they felt the bench at the side of the room behind their legs. They sat quickly down. When Evan glanced at me, I slid along the bench until I was next to them. They didn’t seem to be breathing. “Rookies and sluts,” said Jordan, “they need to get knocked around some before they’re worth a shit.”

  When I looked for Blake, I saw his pants folded on the bench, a bucking pad on top of them, but he was gone. The sweater in his locker hung slack and crooked, the “C” on the sleeve just barely visible.

  Way back when I was in grade four and my brother in grade seven, Rufus Nickerson was the toughest kid I’d ever seen. The biggest bully too. He lived in a ramshackle house down by the river, the house looking as if it had been nailed together with plywood salvaged from the dump. The backyard was always filled with stripped-down cars and trucks, most of them rusted-out hulks with their hoods open. His dad collected garbage for the city, but people said he could do more with a motor than any mechanic in town. Rufus was in grade eight and he ruled Lord Tennyson Elementary School. Later on, when I was in high school, I wondered if carting around a name like Rufus wasn’t what made him so tough — and so quick to pick on smaller kids.

  My problem was I didn’t figure that out in grade four.

  A bunch of us little kids had stayed after school to play in the snow. All afternoon, whenever Mrs. Booker was writing on the board, we’d gaze out the classroom windows, our attention held by the thick snow floating down, the houses on the other side of the schoolyard slowly vanishing in a drifting haze of white. As soon as the bell rang, we threw on our coats and boots, and rushed outside, stamping out a huge pie in the fresh snow of the schoolyard; we were running the circle, playing tag when Rufus walked by and body-checked my best friend, Evan Morgan, into the snow. “Rufus Doofus,” I said — under my breath.

  Or so I thought.

  “Shut your face, kid!” Although he sounded angry, he looked like a starving tramp who’d just been offered a free burger. He tackled me then, drove me backwards, flattened me, landing on top of me, all his weight bearing down. What I remember is gasoline fumes. His clothes smelled of gasoline, and I thought that I would choke. I tried to wiggle free, but he was too big for me. He heaved himself up, got his knees planted on my arms, swearing, leaned towards me, and hawked a gob at my face. I wrenched my head sideways, but it caught me on the ear. Then he laughed and began to slap me. I was squirming and howling, my arms pinned and useless, his gob on my ear, fumes around us like a gas station.

  If I’d had a match I would’ve set him on fire.

  And I couldn’t even hit back. Worse, I was starting to cry. Like a baby — right there in the schoolyard where everybody’d see me. Both cheeks flaming, eyes stinging, I heard a loud whomp, saw through a blur of tears his head snap forward, a spray of snow and straw like a halo above him, his tuque knocked off, a string of snot swinging from his nose.

  He rolled off me, and Blake was there, standing over him, a broom in his hands. A broom. It was at least another second before I realized he must’ve been at the outdoor rink, playing broomball.

  “Don’t move,” said Blake, his voice surprisingly calm. “You ever touch my brother again, the two of us’ll kick the shit out of you. Then I’m gonna hold you down and he’s gonna ram this whole broom up your ass. Till it comes out your mouth. Get the idea? Now take off.”

  Rufus was a good two inches taller than Blake, and I knew he was going to pulverize my brother. When Nickerson stood up, he was breathing hard, his mouth hanging open, as if he was in shock or something. “Who gives a shit about either one of you?” he said. Backing off three steps, he turned around and walked away. Slowly. So everyone could see he wasn’t scared at all.

  After that, Rufus used to give me the hip whenever he passed me in a crowded hall at school, always just enough of a shove to remind me that he could flatten me anytime he chose, but he never pounded me again and he never crossed my brother. Frankly, I think that Nickerson could’ve beaten up on Blake too, but he’d never done it before, and when Blake clobbered him with that broom, it knocked just enough doubt into that thick head of his that he didn’t want to risk taking a chance and finding out he might be wrong. Blake had a way of raising doubts in people’s minds, and for a long time I thought he’d stand up to anybody.

  In grade nine, though, I had to wonder.

  Although my brother was the quarterback, there wasn’t any doubt that Jordan Phelps was the best player on the team. I was standing on the sidelines, watching the offence and defence scrimmage. My equipment still felt awkward, especially the cup at my crotch. Otherwise, it was much like watching football games from the bleachers when my brother was in grade eleven, except now he was out there all the time, handing off the ball, dropping back to pass. All he had to do was get the ball somewhere in the vicinity of Jordan Phelps and it would be caught. Throw a long looper and Jordan would run under it. Drill it over the line and Jordan would snag the ball between defenders. Anything he touched he caught, and he was fast enough that he could touch almost anything that wasn’t knocked down.

  I watched a defensive tackle break through the line, forcing Blake to scramble out of the pocket. He was in trouble, running for the sidelines, his receivers covered, until Jordan charged back, giving him a perfect target for his throw.

  A hand fell on my shoulder. Hard. “Let’s see what you can do out there,” said Coach Ramsey. He had a smirk on his face. “Give Ackerman a rest.” Morris Ackerman was the cornerback trying to cover Jordan Phelps.

  “Coach says to take a break,” I told Morris when I trotted out to his position.

  “Good luck,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

  Blake must have noticed the substitution. The first play he ran was right at me, Jordan charging me as if he were a blocker, me back-pedalling as fast as I could, till he made his move, cutting so sharply that his feet almost went out from under him, the ball already in the air as he stumbled, and I was close enough to get a hand on it, knock it away.

  He caught up to the ball as it bounced over the grass, gave it a boot toward the line of scrimmage, then turned to me, a frown on his face. “You were lucky,” he said. “But watch out, I’ll be back.”

  I went with him again on the next play, my eyes on him and the quarterback too, but it was okay, the pass to the other side of the field, the ball beginning to wobble — and I was flat on my ass on the ground.

  “Clumsy there, rookie,” said Jordan.

  “You tripped me.”

  Jordan laughed, no humour in the sound. “Stumbled over your own feet.”

  On the next play, he came right for me, faked to the left, slammed his fist into my stomach, and went by me so fast I didn’t even know I was winded. While I was sucking for a breath of air, I saw the pass was a short one to the other slotback. Someone hauled him down before I could get started in his direction.

  I did no better on the next play. Jordan charged me once again, cut to the right when he was almost on me, came back fast, his shoulder in my chest, another fist in the stomach, and he was gone, the ball looping over my head and into his hands as I stumb
led backwards, off balance, my feet moving, but not as fast as my body. Then I was on the ground, heaving for air. Bugger nailed me right in the breadbasket. Twice in a row.

  “Hey,” shouted Blake, “that’s my brother.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Jordan trotted back, glaring him. “Pussy needs to lose some flab.”

  “Screw you,” I said, but I could barely whisper.

  The next time he ran at me, I saw his fist coming and chopped his arm away, hard — it had to hurt him — and I was staying with him, but he rammed me, his head down, shoulder slamming into my stomach, my head snapping forward, and down I went. Again. Then another easy catch.

  This time when he trotted back towards the huddle, he stopped beside me, reached down, grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “You’re okay, Blair,” he said.

  And I said, “Thanks.” Just as if he wasn’t the guy who’d been laying dirty moves on me. That was the thing about Jordan Phelps. He could find more ways to treat you like scum and somehow in the end you’d be the one apologizing to him.

  That wasn’t the worst of it either.

  TWO

  We won four games in a row against easy opponents. Before the first game Arnie had quit football and Evan had been cut, though Coach Conley, our head coach, told him to come out again next year, he’d make the team for sure. I hated to see Evan go, but he just said, “I guess it’s up to you now, buddy.” Yeah, only grade nine on the team, it was going to be tough. In each of those four games I got onto the field for a few plays as the clock was running down, but that was all. I was about as valuable as a water bottle full of pee, but at least I got to play.

  Our fifth game was against Douglas High, a top-notch team, and we beat them 28 to 17. I had a good view of the action, standing on the sidelines, but I never made it into the game. My brother played the best I’d ever seen him play, throwing three touchdown passes, but the other offensive captain, Jordan Phelps, was the real star, catching two touchdown passes and running back a punt for another score. Every time he caught the ball, he brought the fans cheering to their feet as he ran and cut, shifting direction at full speed, tacklers sprawling behind him, awkward hands grabbing at a space he’d just vacated. That day he also added something new. Each time he scored, he ran behind the goal posts and did a forward flip, his hands never touching the ground. The fans loved it, but I thought he was being a hot dog. Coach Ramsey — he was the assistant coach and not a teacher — wouldn’t say a thing, of course, but I wondered if Coach Conley would tell him to spread some mustard on it. In fact, when he had us huddle up after the game, he did say something.

  Everybody was sprawled on the grass near our sideline, most of the players covered with sweat, their uniforms grass-stained and dirty, a few of them with scrapes and gashes, bloody badges they displayed with pride. I felt like a virgin, not a spot on me or my uniform. I dropped down behind Ivan Buchko, the biggest lineman on our team, crouching low, out of sight.

  “Listen up,” said Coach Conley. Everybody was so excited with the win, he had to say it again. “We beat a good team today. You deserve to celebrate. No doubt about it. Exuberance after victory’s the most natural thing in the world, but anything that looks like taunting of the opposition means you’ve gone too far. Understand that! We won out there today, because we worked hard to win. We had the right game plan, and we stuck to it — made it work. Good for every one of you.” He paused, looked as if he was considering something more, then turned to Coach Ramsey. “Anything to add?”

  “Damn right. You guys keep playing like this, you’re gonna whip every team in the league. This year is something I been waiting for — this year for sure, we’re going to Provincials.” Coach Ramsey pumped his fist in the air as he said it, and everybody cheered. I might have cheered too if Ramsey wasn’t such a dork.

  They were still cheering in the locker room, but now the subject had undergone a sudden change.

  “Party-Time tonight!” yelled Vaughn Foster. A huge running back, muscles on him like a teen-aged Arnold Schwarzenegger, he’d scored our other touchdown on a screen pass. Some of the kids said he must be on steroids, but I’d never seen any evidence of that — except for all those muscles — and he did work out with weights in every spare moment. “At my house. The whole team.”

  More cheers.

  “What about your parents?” The question came from Ivan Buchko, sitting in just his jockstrap at the end of the bench. His thighs were massive, a roll of belly fat hanging over them as he slouched forward, his elbows on his knees. He looked like a sumo wrestler waiting for a nine course meal.

  “They’re going to a dance. Won’t be home till two or three. Hell, if they do get home before we’re done, no problem, you could flatten my ol’ man.” Vaughn smiled. He had the kind of smile that made all the girls quiver.

  “Yeah, and then you can sit on him,” said Jordan Phelps. “Flatten him good. All that weight, he won’t be able to do a thing.”

  Cheers and laughter too, Ivan laughing with everybody else, though you could tell from the glum look of his mouth he didn’t think anything was funny.

  “Eight o’clock at my place,” said Vaughn Foster. “1124 Warren Crescent.”

  “Okay, you guys.” Jordan had something more to say. “This is a team event. We win together and we celebrate together. That means everybody shows up.” He looked around the room as if he was the principal handing out detentions to a bunch of frosh. Like King Shit is what I thought, but if he’s King Shit, then this is Turd Island, and I didn’t much like that idea. Besides, Evan wasn’t on the team. There’d be no one to go with me.

  Later, after most of us were finished in the showers, Neil Tucker, who was a rookie in grade ten, edged toward me. “You gonna go?” he asked.

  I noticed Jordan drying off at his locker, the towel on his hair like a hangman’s hood, dark eyes staring out from underneath. Watching us.

  Neil was waiting for an answer. A party with Jordan wasn’t my idea of a good way to spend Saturday night, but I said, “I guess so. Yeah, sure.”

  I saw Jordan’s teeth flash beneath the towel.

  That night at supper — after my father told Blake he looked like the real thing at quarterback, after my mother said he mustn’t let it go to his head, after my father added that I’d be good when I got to play more too, after my mother finally set the ham on the table — Blake got busy with his knife and fork, removing a piece of fat from the edge of a slice of ham. I guess he wanted to be done and out of there. He never looked at me. Nor did he look up when my father asked, “What’s doing tonight, boys?” but under the table I felt the weight of his foot on mine.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “nothing much, I guess.” I knew Blake would kill me if I mentioned the football party. There’d been a bad one last year that a lot of parents were still talking about.

  Blake looked at my father then. “There’s a new show at the Cap. Supposed to be pretty good.”

  “Oh yeah, what one is that?”

  “A heist movie, I don’t know the name. Great chase scene, I hear.” Blake put some potatoes in his mouth, was concentrating on chewing. Of course, he hadn’t said we were going to the show; he didn’t believe in directly lying to our father.

  When I approached Blake in his room after supper, he was stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, a wistful look on his face, his hands behind his head. Tacked right above him was Miss April from the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Calendar. If you looked closely, you could see tiny holes left in the ceiling after he’d been asked by our parents to remove the tacks holding up other pictures. Miss April had more bathing suit and less breast than the other models.

  I stood beside the bed until he turned his head and looked at me.

  “You going to the party?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You think I should go?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s gonna be liquor, isn’t there?”

  “Could be.” I knew fro
m the tone of his voice he meant, “Yes.”

  Sure, and I was going to look stupid because they’d all know I’d never had a drink in my life. Everybody knew preacher’s kids didn’t drink. Hell, PKs didn’t do a thing they weren’t supposed to do. At least I didn’t. “Evan said something about the two of us going to a show. I sort of promised him.”

  “So? Catch the early show. You can come afterwards.”

  “Everybody there’s gonna be older than me.” Older than me, bigger than me, and girls too, sure as shit, some of them drunk too. If the truth were known, it was almost as if I was afraid to go, but I couldn’t very well tell my brother that. “What fun’s it going to be?”

  Blake swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He faked a quick punch at my face, then nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. “Come for a while. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay. Whole team’ll be there.”

  “Yeah, if they all listen to Jordan.”

  “Lay off Jordan.”

  “He’s fine — I know — as long as everything goes his way.”

  “Oh, real cute.”

  “How come you have to do whatever he says?”

  “Go to Hell.”

  I could see I’d pushed it too far. I tried to look contrite. “Yeah, but the thing is, I wouldn’t be drinking.”

  “No kidding? Two weeks in grade nine and you’re not a boozer yet?” He laughed, the sound raw and bitter. “You don’t have to drink. You don’t have to come either — if you’re going to be a pussy.”

  He’d never called me that before, but I knew where it came from.

  “Maybe I’ll go, maybe I won’t.”

  I walked out of the room, grabbed the door, ready to heave it shut behind me, but at the last second I held on and let it close with a gentle click.

  When the show was over, Evan seemed happy to be heading home, told me no way was he going to come along to any football party, not when they’d cut him from the team, I’d have to go alone.