Fight Song Read Free

the street back there? Why was it so easy for people to abandon Bob Coffen? First his father had walked out, then the few girlfriends he had throughout his twenties, andnow he and Jane had wilted into the ultimate cliché—a sexless marriage. They had a life much like the subdivision itself: walled off from everything, even each other.
    All these things inspire an elegant gush of rage in Coffen. He notices an American flag that hangs from a silly stick outside the château, and he thinks that maybe he can indeed think about this as a video game—maybe the hero can snatch the skinny flagpole. Maybe he can position himself in front of the huge picture window in Schumann’s living room—maybe this hero can pull back his arm to heave the patriotic javelin, the American flag whipping behind it—maybe Bob Coffen is in fact this hero.
    He feels the bruised clavicle burn even though he’s using the opposite arm to throw the javelin, not that the agony much matters, no way, because nothing’s going to keep Coffen from doing this.
    He watches the javelin sail, the flag waggling behind it.
    Bob watches and admires his toss as it glides toward the window.
    Watches its trajectory and thinks: The HOA will not be impressed with what’s transpiring on one of its hallowed lawns . Bob thinks, I might be stepping in some serious shit, but oh boy, does sticking up for myself feel good.
    Yes, if this were a video game, the picture window explodes!
    Sure, if this were a video game, Bob’s well on his way to winning.
    But in Coffen’s reality, his aim isn’t such great shakes. His javelin misses the huge picture window. Misses it badly. His heave is over near the front door and knocks off a flowerpot that’s suspended from a support beam. It shatters on the porch.
    The sounds of breaking terra-cotta halt Schumann’s bagpipe recital. Commotion in the douche’s lair. Footsteps stomping, dead bolt turning, and any second Coffen will hear a stampede through the door, and the featured brawl can commence, pitting the underdog versus Notre Dame.
    Schumann opens the front door, holding his bagpipes, spies Coffen out on the lawn. He yells back into the house for his wife and kids to stay put, he’ll handle this. It’s only Bob . Then he says in a calm voice, “Your head’s bleeding pretty good.”
    Coffen nods.
    “Look,” Schumann says, “let’s not make things any worse.”
    “You can’t smear me into the oleanders.”
    “Seriously, your head is pouring blood.”
    “And my shoulder’s hurt, too.”
    “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
    Coffen stares at the bagpipes, limp in Schumann’s arms like a sleeping toddler. Bob wipes some blood from his face and asks, “What song were you playing before?”
    “Huh?”
    “What song was that?”
    “The fight song of my alma mater. Called ‘Hail Purdue.’”
    “A fight song?”
    “Our call to arms.”
    Having fought for something—having fought for himself—Bob feels like he needs to hear the song in its entirety. He fancies himself victorious in this situation with Schumann, despite the mangled bicycle, the bleeding head—despite the fact he’s only hours removed from somebody honoring him with a plock, probably the most malicious prize ever designed. Always midnight. Alwayslying about how much time has gotten away from him. Always Robert.
    “Before we go to the hospital, will you fire it up again?” Coffen says.
    “Why?”
    “I want to hear the song.”
    Schumann looks momentarily confused, then shrugs. He gets the bagpipes going, those gigantic, funereal squawks. Coffen stands on the lawn listening to “Hail Purdue” coat the whole subdivision in celebration. For some reason, Coffen has brought his hand up and placed it over his heart like he’s pledging allegiance to something.

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    Bob initially hated how the bagpipes squawked, but soon the sounds transform into the most beautiful music ever, and Coffen is mesmerized, burrowing deep into the