Running Loose Read Free

to get his grizzly old paws off her, Bill Abbott thought he was ridin’ a streak with his carpenter’s trick, and things just generally got out of hand. Coulda used ya.”
    I was making my last swipe over the bar, and Carter was into the beer sausage.
    “Better load up on that stuff now,” Dakota said. “Soon’s you bomb out as a college football hero and flunk outta school, you’ll be back here haulin’ logs for Caxton, an’ those’ll cost you a quarter apiece.”
    Carter reached into the jar and took two more. “When I bomb, I owe you six bits.” He spun the lid down tight and snapped his fingers. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot my cleats at the gym. I’ll run back and get ’em. Meet me over at the field in about a half hour, okay, Louie?”
    I nodded and said okay, and Carter trotted out the back door.
    Dakota hoisted himself up on the bar while I finished putting the chairs back down. “You guys gonnapull it off again this year?” he asked. He asked me that a lot, although he really didn’t care one way or the other. It was just a way to get the conversation going.
    I shrugged. “Hard to say. No one in the league can beat us, but you never know what’s going to happen in the postseason.” I smiled a little. “To tell you the truth, what I worry about most out there is not screwing up.” It’s easy to be honest with Dakota; I’m not sure why. “If nobody screws up, Carter and Boomer can take care of most of it. Besides, if I don’t screw up, I don’t have Lednecky on my butt.”
    He stared at me and shook his head. “Now what kind of damn attitude is that?” he said. “Not screwing up.” He likes me, and it hacks him off when I put Carter and Boomer out of my league or when I put myself down. Says it’s just all the farther I have to pull myself back up.
    “That attitude is going to make me a starter,” I said.
    “Big deal. A starter on an eight-man football team from Podunk High School. Hell, just showin’ up every day for four years’ll get you that.” He eased himself down and walked around behind the bar. “You know, Louie,” he said, “I kinda got my eye on you. You know that. I don’t even care if you play ball at all, but don’t go into anything just tryin’ not to screw up. That’scheap, son. Tell you what. Who do you play first?”
    “Tamarack Falls,” I said. “Three weeks from tomorrow.”
    “Okay,” he said. “During warm-ups you get over close to their sideline an’ pick out the best-lookin’ cheerleader they got. Then do somethin’ in the game that’ll make her remember your number.”
    I smiled. “I could pick up a fumble and run it into our own end zone,” I said. “Or set a league record for penalties.”
    “Cute,” he said. “I’m here wastin’ my valuable time, tryin’ to make a man outta you, an’ what I get is a smart-ass. You do what I said. Don’t go in there scared of makin’ mistakes. You go in there and kick some butt.”
    I said I’d think on it. Dakota’s a funny guy. He runs the down markers at all the games—probably hasn’t missed one in twenty years—but he doesn’t see it like everyone else. He doesn’t care a whole lot about winning or losing—I mean, he’s seen a hell of a lot of both in his time—but he cares about how you do if he likes you. I don’t know why he picked me out, though he’s liked me for a long time, but I do know when Dakota’s pulling for you, you don’t want to let him down. At least I don’t.
     
    I met Carter down at the field around noon, and we jogged a mile to warm up. We usually tossed the ball back and forth while we jogged and shot the bull some. Sometimes we’d do practice drills or run backwards and sideways in short spurts to practice defensive maneuvers. The one I liked best was where Carter would jog along behind me and toss the ball over one of my shoulders or over my head. He’d yell, “Right!” or, “Left!” or, “Top!” to tell me where it was coming from, and