Bleachers Read Free

school. Never saw Rake, didn’t want to. Then one night in the summertime, right before I went back to college, just a month or so before they fired him, I bought a six-pack and climbed up here and replayed all the games. Stayed for hours. I could see us out there scoring at will, kicking ass every game. It was wonderful. Then it hurt like hell because it was over, our glory days gone in a flash.”
    “Did you hate Rake that night?”
    “No, I loved him then.”
    “It changed every day.”
    “For most of us.”
    “Does it hurt now?”
    “Not anymore. After I got married, we bought season tickets, joined the booster club, the usual stuff that everybody else does. Over time, I forgot about being a hero and became just another fan.”
    “You come to all the games?”
    Paul pointed down to the left. “Sure. The bank owns a whole block of seats.”
    “You need a whole block with your family.”
    “Mona is very fertile.”
    “Evidently. How does she look?”
    “She looks pregnant.”
    “I mean, you know, is she in shape?”
    “Other words, is she fat?”
    “That’s it.”
    “No, she exercises two hours a day and eats only lettuce. She looks great and she’ll want you over for dinner tonight.”
    “For lettuce?”
    “For whatever you want. Can I call her?”
    “No, not yet. Let’s just talk.”
    There was no talk for a long time. They watched a pickup truck roll to a stop near the gate. The driver was a heavyset man with faded jeans, a denim cap, a thick beard, and a limp. He walked around the end zone and down the track and as he stepped up to the bleachers he noticed Neely and Curry sitting higher, watching every move he made. He nodded at them, climbed afew rows, then sat and gazed at the field, very still and very alone.
    “That’s Orley Short,” Paul said, finally putting a name with a face. “Late seventies.”
    “I remember him,” Neely said. “Slowest linebacker in history.”
    “And the meanest. All-conference, I think. Played one year at a juco then quit to cut timber for the rest of his life.”
    “Rake loved the loggers, didn’t he?”
    “Didn’t we all? Four loggers on defense and a conference title was automatic.”
    Another pickup stopped near the first, another hefty gentleman in overalls and denim lumbered his way to the bleachers where he greeted Orley Short and sat beside him. Their meeting did not appear to be planned.
    “Can’t place him,” Paul said, struggling to identify the second man and frustrated that he could not. In three and a half decades Rake had coached hundreds of boys from Messina and the county. Most of them had never left. Rake’s players knew each other. They were members of a small fraternity whose membership was forever closed.
    “You should get back more often,” Paul said when it was time to talk again.
    “Why?”
    “Folks would like to see you.”
    “Maybe I don’t want to see them.”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You think people here still hold a grudge because you didn’t win the Heisman?”
    “No.”
    “They’ll remember you all right, but you’re history. You’re still their all-American, but that was a long time ago. Walk in Renfrow’s Café and Maggie still has that huge photo of you above the cash register. I go there for breakfast every Thursday and sooner or later two old-timers will start debating who was the greatest Messina quarterback, Neely Crenshaw or Wally Webb. Webb started for four years, won forty-six in a row, never lost, etc., etc. But Crenshaw played against black kids and the game was faster and tougher. Crenshaw signed with Tech but Webb was too small for the big-time. They’ll argue forever. They still love you, Neely.”
    “Thanks, but I’ll skip it.”
    “Whatever.”
    “It was another life.”
    “Come on, give it up. Enjoy the memories.”
    “I can’t. Rake’s back there.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    “I don’t know.”
    A telephone buzzed from somewhere deep in Paul’s nice dark