Carl Deuker's Blog
February 25, 2024
New book -- rising action!
A few more minutes, and I figure I can say goodnight to my parents and my sister, take a long shower, and climb into my bed.
I won’t sleep; I’ll go over the game play-by-play like I do after every game, reliving my good plays, my bad plays, my so-so plays. The sting of losing won’t go away, but at least I’ll be alone.
As my dad turns into our driveway, the VW’s headlights light up our porch. “Our front door is wide open,” my mom says.
“What?” my dad answers, pulling to a stop.
“The front door,” my mom points, “it’s wide open.”
I look, and I can see she’s right.
“Is somebody in there?” Kelsey asks.
Kelsey and I start to get out of the car, but my dad stops us. “Wait,” he says, “we don’t know that it’s safe.”
He’s right—we don’t.
We close the car doors. He kills the lights, backs slowly out of the driveway, and then continues backing down the block until he’s fifty yards from the house, close enough so that we can see the front door but not so close that they—if they’re in there—can see us. While he’s doing this, my mom is calling 911.
Two police come within five minutes, but it seems like an hour. My dad waves their car down as they near our home. They talk to him for a while before slowly moving toward the house, hands on their guns, loudly announcing themselves.
Lights go on in neighbor’s homes.
We watch as the police move through our house. We can see their silhouettes as lights go on and they move from room after room. We wait and wait until the shorter one steps onto the porch and motions for us to come in.
The living room is a mess. The drawers of the small end tables by the sofa have been pulled out and their contents dumped onto the carpet. The books have been pulled out of the bookcase and lie in heaps. The Alexa speaker is missing, and so is the antique clock that sat on the mantel above the fireplace.
“How’d they get in?” my dad says. “The door looks fine, and I know I locked it.”
“Basement window,” one of the cops says. “They broke out the glass.”
My mom gives my dad a look. She’s been on my dad to get wrought iron bars on those windows ever since there’d be a break-in over on Kenwood.
The police lead us as slowly through the house. Every room is a shambles. Drawers pulled out; clothes dumped; counters swept clean. My mom’s desktop computer is still there. My laptop and my dad’s laptop are gone. So is my mom’s iPad. My X-box has been toppled and the screen is a spider web of cracks. I can tell right away that my Seahawks parka is gone and so are my new Nikes. Probably other stuff is gone, too.
We go to Kelsey’s room last. Her clothes are stewn on the floor, and her chest of drawers is toppled over, but that’s it. Still, the whole thing hits her hardest. She covers her face with her hands, hunches her shoulders, and sobs. My mom puts her arm around her. “It’ll be okay,” my mom says.
“No, it won’t,” Kelsey says. “It won’t, it won’t, it won’t.”
My dad and I and the two cops head downstairs, while my mom stays upstairs with Kelsey.
“A detective will be here in the morning,” the taller cop says at the door. “You should take photos and make a list of everything that’s missing—your insurance company will want that. The pictures will help the detective, too. We could get lucky and catch these guys. And you’ll want to board up that basement window.”
“Aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints?” my dad asks.
The stocky cop shakes his head. “No, there’s no point. Your prints and your wife’s and your son’s and your daughter’s and any visitors you’ve had--all of you have been picking stuff and putting it down. There are way too many fingerprints. It’s not like TV.”
Just as they’re about to leave, my dad’s eyes light up. “Wait,” he says, “we’ve got a Ring camera. Maybe it caught their faces.”
The police wait as my dad opens the app on his phone. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for. At 10:18, the camera catches four guys sneaking along the driveway toward the side of the house. My dad freezes the video, and we look.
They are all wearing dark clothes and have ski masks covering their faces. The only thing that jumps out are the neon green Nikes that one of them is wearing.
“Show that video to the detective tomorrow,” the stocky cop says. “Those shoes might help.”
When they leave, my mom comes downstairs, takes a deep breath and exhales. “Okay, Brock,” she says. “Clean up your own room and get yourself a shower, and then try to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll need to start a list of everything that’s missing or damaged for the insurance company.”
“What about Kelsey?” I ask. “How’s she?”
“She’ll be okay,” my mom says. “It’ll just take a while.”
Silence, then my dad speaks. “Nobody got hurt,” he says. “That’s the key thing. Stuff is just stuff.”
Upstairs, I pick up my clothes and shove them back into my drawers, get the useless X-Box upright, take a quick shower, and climb into bed. I can hear my parents moving around downstairs, straightening stuff, and I think I can hear Kelsey crying, but I’m not sure about that.
I won’t sleep; I’ll go over the game play-by-play like I do after every game, reliving my good plays, my bad plays, my so-so plays. The sting of losing won’t go away, but at least I’ll be alone.
As my dad turns into our driveway, the VW’s headlights light up our porch. “Our front door is wide open,” my mom says.
“What?” my dad answers, pulling to a stop.
“The front door,” my mom points, “it’s wide open.”
I look, and I can see she’s right.
“Is somebody in there?” Kelsey asks.
Kelsey and I start to get out of the car, but my dad stops us. “Wait,” he says, “we don’t know that it’s safe.”
He’s right—we don’t.
We close the car doors. He kills the lights, backs slowly out of the driveway, and then continues backing down the block until he’s fifty yards from the house, close enough so that we can see the front door but not so close that they—if they’re in there—can see us. While he’s doing this, my mom is calling 911.
Two police come within five minutes, but it seems like an hour. My dad waves their car down as they near our home. They talk to him for a while before slowly moving toward the house, hands on their guns, loudly announcing themselves.
Lights go on in neighbor’s homes.
We watch as the police move through our house. We can see their silhouettes as lights go on and they move from room after room. We wait and wait until the shorter one steps onto the porch and motions for us to come in.
The living room is a mess. The drawers of the small end tables by the sofa have been pulled out and their contents dumped onto the carpet. The books have been pulled out of the bookcase and lie in heaps. The Alexa speaker is missing, and so is the antique clock that sat on the mantel above the fireplace.
“How’d they get in?” my dad says. “The door looks fine, and I know I locked it.”
“Basement window,” one of the cops says. “They broke out the glass.”
My mom gives my dad a look. She’s been on my dad to get wrought iron bars on those windows ever since there’d be a break-in over on Kenwood.
The police lead us as slowly through the house. Every room is a shambles. Drawers pulled out; clothes dumped; counters swept clean. My mom’s desktop computer is still there. My laptop and my dad’s laptop are gone. So is my mom’s iPad. My X-box has been toppled and the screen is a spider web of cracks. I can tell right away that my Seahawks parka is gone and so are my new Nikes. Probably other stuff is gone, too.
We go to Kelsey’s room last. Her clothes are stewn on the floor, and her chest of drawers is toppled over, but that’s it. Still, the whole thing hits her hardest. She covers her face with her hands, hunches her shoulders, and sobs. My mom puts her arm around her. “It’ll be okay,” my mom says.
“No, it won’t,” Kelsey says. “It won’t, it won’t, it won’t.”
My dad and I and the two cops head downstairs, while my mom stays upstairs with Kelsey.
“A detective will be here in the morning,” the taller cop says at the door. “You should take photos and make a list of everything that’s missing—your insurance company will want that. The pictures will help the detective, too. We could get lucky and catch these guys. And you’ll want to board up that basement window.”
“Aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints?” my dad asks.
The stocky cop shakes his head. “No, there’s no point. Your prints and your wife’s and your son’s and your daughter’s and any visitors you’ve had--all of you have been picking stuff and putting it down. There are way too many fingerprints. It’s not like TV.”
Just as they’re about to leave, my dad’s eyes light up. “Wait,” he says, “we’ve got a Ring camera. Maybe it caught their faces.”
The police wait as my dad opens the app on his phone. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for. At 10:18, the camera catches four guys sneaking along the driveway toward the side of the house. My dad freezes the video, and we look.
They are all wearing dark clothes and have ski masks covering their faces. The only thing that jumps out are the neon green Nikes that one of them is wearing.
“Show that video to the detective tomorrow,” the stocky cop says. “Those shoes might help.”
When they leave, my mom comes downstairs, takes a deep breath and exhales. “Okay, Brock,” she says. “Clean up your own room and get yourself a shower, and then try to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll need to start a list of everything that’s missing or damaged for the insurance company.”
“What about Kelsey?” I ask. “How’s she?”
“She’ll be okay,” my mom says. “It’ll just take a while.”
Silence, then my dad speaks. “Nobody got hurt,” he says. “That’s the key thing. Stuff is just stuff.”
Upstairs, I pick up my clothes and shove them back into my drawers, get the useless X-Box upright, take a quick shower, and climb into bed. I can hear my parents moving around downstairs, straightening stuff, and I think I can hear Kelsey crying, but I’m not sure about that.
February 11, 2024
New Book 2024 Opening
Just getting into the swing of it. No title yet . . .
I'm using the names of real players (Brock Purdy for example) to give me a feel for the type of player I want to describe. A little trick I use all the time. I'll change all the names eventually.
Opening pages
1.
Coach V has just used our last time out. He has to scream for us to hear him over the roar of the Tacoma Dome crowd. “One drive and you’re State Champions!” He’s saying. “This is what you busted your butts for, so go get it!” My teammates let out rock concert screams, and I’m right with them. The ref blows his whistle; we turn and head back onto the field.
Sure, there are eleven guys on offense, and all eleven have to do their job, have to execute. I know that. But every team counts on some players to seize the moment, to be great. Everybody on our team, everybody in the stands, everybody on the Lakes High team, even the refs know who those players are for Roosevelt High.
Marshawn Lynch, running back.
Lance Alworth, wide receiver.
And me.
Brock Purdy.
Quarterback.
Lakes leads 20-16 with a minute and forty seconds left in the game. Our kicker, Will Zalatoris, clanked an extra point, so a field goal does nothing. We are fifty-five yards from paydirt. It’s score a touchdown or lose.
We’ve practiced our two-minute drive since August. The plays—our seven best--are tattooed into our brains. My job is to call the right one at the right time.
From the shotgun, I looked out at Lakes’ defense. They’ve dropped their safeties deep, thinking we’ll do nothing but pass. “FOUR! FOUR! FOUR” I shout. FOUR is Marshawn right up the gut. I take the snap and put the ball out where Marshawn can get it and go.
Our center and guard get a good push, and Marshawn fires into the hole going full bore. A linebacker hits him from the side knocking him off balance, but Marshawn barrels forward, legs churning, protecting the ball with both hands. Before two Lakes defenders finally bring him down, he’s gained 12 yards giving us a first down at their forty-three.
Our guys unpile quickly and hustle to the line of scrimmage, knowing how precious every second is. Lakes knows it too, so they’re slow to unpile, slow to line up, happy to let the seconds tick away.
I’m in the shotgun, checking the defense. Both deep safeties have come up a few steps, but they’re still protecting against the long ball. “TWO! TWO! TWO!” I shout.
I take the snap, look left toward Lance who’s streaking downfield. He’s covered, so I check down to Marshawn in the flat. He catches the ball and turns upfield. This time, though, the Lakes linebacker hits him low, taking his legs out from under him before he can get up a head of steam.
Only a three-yard gain, and the clock is still ticking.
1:28 . . . 1:27 . . . 1:26
Again, we hustle to the line. Again, Lakes wastes time.
I make myself slow down. No panic. Plenty of time.
“ONE! ONE! ONE!” I call. My own number.
The snap is perfect. I catch the ball, take a step back like I’m getting ready to pass, and then fire up the middle on a quarterback drawn. Their cornerbacks and safeties are running with our receivers, not looking back. I get through the defensive line. I juke a linebacker and I’m free.
Thirty-five . . . thirty . . . twenty-five. I should get out of bounds to stop the clock, but I think I can get five more yards. That’s when I get hit from behind. The Lakes’ linebacker swats down on the ball, and I lose it. Somebody tries to scoop it up but only manages to kick it. Now there are about six guys fighting for it at the bottom of the pile.
Who’s got the ball!
One by one the players unpile. At the bottom, clutching the ball like it’s worth one million dollars, is Lance Alworth, and I can breathe again.
The ref places the ball at the twenty-eight and blows his whistle, starting the clock. 58 . . . 57 . . . 56.
“SIX! SIX! SIX!” I call.
A quick down-and-out to Lance.
I take the snap, don’t mess around with any kind of fake. We’ve timed this up so many times in practice, and we do it here, too. Lance catches the ball at twenty and heads for the sideline, but the safety tackles him in-bounds at the eighteen yard-line.
32 . . . 31 . . . 30.
“They’re going to be looking for another quick pass,” I think to myself. “Now! Before they’re expecting for it! Go deep. Win the game.”
“SEVEN! SEVEN! SEVEN!” I shout.
Marshawn looks over at me, and I can tell he doesn’t like the call. SEVEN is our Hail Mary play . . . the last bullet in the gun. He thinks it’s too soon, and he’s probably right, but I’m feeling it.
The snap from St. Claire, our center, is ankle high. I scoop the ball up, but my timing off. Still, I see Lance running the deep out into the back corner of the end zone, and he’s got separation. Three yards, maybe four. I let the pass fly. Time slows. I watch the football, watch Lance looking back for it, see it getting closer and closer, see his hands reaching for it.
We’re going to win!
Then, just before Lance can make the winning reception, the Lakes’ cornerback undercuts him, and it’s his hands that haul in my pass. Lance tackles him, swatting down on the ball as he does, but the guy hangs on.
A second later he’s up, holding the ball in one hand over his head as he runs like a madman toward his sideline. The fans on the Lakes’ side of the Dome are hugging one another and jumping up and down. From our side—silence.
I stand like a statue for a while, trying to make sense of what has just happened, and then I head off the field.
The Lakes offense comes out. Their QB takes one snap, kneels down.
Game over.
I'm using the names of real players (Brock Purdy for example) to give me a feel for the type of player I want to describe. A little trick I use all the time. I'll change all the names eventually.
Opening pages
1.
Coach V has just used our last time out. He has to scream for us to hear him over the roar of the Tacoma Dome crowd. “One drive and you’re State Champions!” He’s saying. “This is what you busted your butts for, so go get it!” My teammates let out rock concert screams, and I’m right with them. The ref blows his whistle; we turn and head back onto the field.
Sure, there are eleven guys on offense, and all eleven have to do their job, have to execute. I know that. But every team counts on some players to seize the moment, to be great. Everybody on our team, everybody in the stands, everybody on the Lakes High team, even the refs know who those players are for Roosevelt High.
Marshawn Lynch, running back.
Lance Alworth, wide receiver.
And me.
Brock Purdy.
Quarterback.
Lakes leads 20-16 with a minute and forty seconds left in the game. Our kicker, Will Zalatoris, clanked an extra point, so a field goal does nothing. We are fifty-five yards from paydirt. It’s score a touchdown or lose.
We’ve practiced our two-minute drive since August. The plays—our seven best--are tattooed into our brains. My job is to call the right one at the right time.
From the shotgun, I looked out at Lakes’ defense. They’ve dropped their safeties deep, thinking we’ll do nothing but pass. “FOUR! FOUR! FOUR” I shout. FOUR is Marshawn right up the gut. I take the snap and put the ball out where Marshawn can get it and go.
Our center and guard get a good push, and Marshawn fires into the hole going full bore. A linebacker hits him from the side knocking him off balance, but Marshawn barrels forward, legs churning, protecting the ball with both hands. Before two Lakes defenders finally bring him down, he’s gained 12 yards giving us a first down at their forty-three.
Our guys unpile quickly and hustle to the line of scrimmage, knowing how precious every second is. Lakes knows it too, so they’re slow to unpile, slow to line up, happy to let the seconds tick away.
I’m in the shotgun, checking the defense. Both deep safeties have come up a few steps, but they’re still protecting against the long ball. “TWO! TWO! TWO!” I shout.
I take the snap, look left toward Lance who’s streaking downfield. He’s covered, so I check down to Marshawn in the flat. He catches the ball and turns upfield. This time, though, the Lakes linebacker hits him low, taking his legs out from under him before he can get up a head of steam.
Only a three-yard gain, and the clock is still ticking.
1:28 . . . 1:27 . . . 1:26
Again, we hustle to the line. Again, Lakes wastes time.
I make myself slow down. No panic. Plenty of time.
“ONE! ONE! ONE!” I call. My own number.
The snap is perfect. I catch the ball, take a step back like I’m getting ready to pass, and then fire up the middle on a quarterback drawn. Their cornerbacks and safeties are running with our receivers, not looking back. I get through the defensive line. I juke a linebacker and I’m free.
Thirty-five . . . thirty . . . twenty-five. I should get out of bounds to stop the clock, but I think I can get five more yards. That’s when I get hit from behind. The Lakes’ linebacker swats down on the ball, and I lose it. Somebody tries to scoop it up but only manages to kick it. Now there are about six guys fighting for it at the bottom of the pile.
Who’s got the ball!
One by one the players unpile. At the bottom, clutching the ball like it’s worth one million dollars, is Lance Alworth, and I can breathe again.
The ref places the ball at the twenty-eight and blows his whistle, starting the clock. 58 . . . 57 . . . 56.
“SIX! SIX! SIX!” I call.
A quick down-and-out to Lance.
I take the snap, don’t mess around with any kind of fake. We’ve timed this up so many times in practice, and we do it here, too. Lance catches the ball at twenty and heads for the sideline, but the safety tackles him in-bounds at the eighteen yard-line.
32 . . . 31 . . . 30.
“They’re going to be looking for another quick pass,” I think to myself. “Now! Before they’re expecting for it! Go deep. Win the game.”
“SEVEN! SEVEN! SEVEN!” I shout.
Marshawn looks over at me, and I can tell he doesn’t like the call. SEVEN is our Hail Mary play . . . the last bullet in the gun. He thinks it’s too soon, and he’s probably right, but I’m feeling it.
The snap from St. Claire, our center, is ankle high. I scoop the ball up, but my timing off. Still, I see Lance running the deep out into the back corner of the end zone, and he’s got separation. Three yards, maybe four. I let the pass fly. Time slows. I watch the football, watch Lance looking back for it, see it getting closer and closer, see his hands reaching for it.
We’re going to win!
Then, just before Lance can make the winning reception, the Lakes’ cornerback undercuts him, and it’s his hands that haul in my pass. Lance tackles him, swatting down on the ball as he does, but the guy hangs on.
A second later he’s up, holding the ball in one hand over his head as he runs like a madman toward his sideline. The fans on the Lakes’ side of the Dome are hugging one another and jumping up and down. From our side—silence.
I stand like a statue for a while, trying to make sense of what has just happened, and then I head off the field.
The Lakes offense comes out. Their QB takes one snap, kneels down.
Game over.
January 29, 2024
Shadowed finally finished!
It took a long time, but I have finished Shadowed. The book will be published by Harper Collins (Thank you!) in Fall of 2024.
In my first draft, Covid-19 played a large part. Since I'm slow, the epidemic waned and it became very clear that (for better of worse) people are DONE DONE DONE with thinking about Covid 19. I went back, revised, and pretty much eliminated the pandemic.
Here's a small section of Shadowed
The stuff with Lucas Cawley started when Mr. Krebs, the old guy across the street who let me feed his chickens, had a stroke. The night of Amelia’s eighth grade graduation, we returned home to see him being loaded into an ambulance on a stretcher. Two days later his daughter came by to pick up the chickens and to tell my parents that her father was at a rehabilitation center. “He’ll be back in a few months,” my mom told her. “Your dad is tough.” A few months went by and then a few more, and then it was a year.
A weird thing about houses is that they fall apart if no one lives in them. Moss grew on Mr. Krebs’s roof; the paint peeled; weeds took over the lawn and flower beds. One night in early June, burglars pried open the door to his shed and stole his tools.
Mr. Krebs’s daughter had the shed door fixed. Before she left, she put a For Rent sign in front of the house. “Who would live in that dump?” Amelia asked my mom.
“It’ll be cheap,” Mom answered, “so that’ll help. It can’t rent fast enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
Mom got her wish. The Cawleys moved in on the last day of school.
In my first draft, Covid-19 played a large part. Since I'm slow, the epidemic waned and it became very clear that (for better of worse) people are DONE DONE DONE with thinking about Covid 19. I went back, revised, and pretty much eliminated the pandemic.
Here's a small section of Shadowed
The stuff with Lucas Cawley started when Mr. Krebs, the old guy across the street who let me feed his chickens, had a stroke. The night of Amelia’s eighth grade graduation, we returned home to see him being loaded into an ambulance on a stretcher. Two days later his daughter came by to pick up the chickens and to tell my parents that her father was at a rehabilitation center. “He’ll be back in a few months,” my mom told her. “Your dad is tough.” A few months went by and then a few more, and then it was a year.
A weird thing about houses is that they fall apart if no one lives in them. Moss grew on Mr. Krebs’s roof; the paint peeled; weeds took over the lawn and flower beds. One night in early June, burglars pried open the door to his shed and stole his tools.
Mr. Krebs’s daughter had the shed door fixed. Before she left, she put a For Rent sign in front of the house. “Who would live in that dump?” Amelia asked my mom.
“It’ll be cheap,” Mom answered, “so that’ll help. It can’t rent fast enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
Mom got her wish. The Cawleys moved in on the last day of school.
November 1, 2021
Shadowed (work in progress)
November 2 2022
My dad reached over and gave me that shoulder squeeze again. “I hope your friends have told you that none of what happened was your fault, because it wasn’t.”
My head bobbed up and down. “I know. I know. I know. It was just a weird, horrible accident. Nobody’s fault, really.” I looked at the clock. “Kaylee’s bus. I’ve got to go.”
And I was up and out.
None of it was my fault.
You know and I know that’s a complete joke. You were over there in your backyard with Bill and Kaylee--Creepy Crawley, the scruffy kid nobody wanted any part of. You would have gone on being Creepy Crawley if I hadn’t sucked you into my life and into basketball. It’s not as if I got you playing hoops because I was Father Teresa who saw you needed a friend. You know that, too. I called you over because I needed somebody to practice against, and you were the only warm body around.
If I’d let you be you, you’d have had nothing to do with basketball, nothing to do with Vike or Bo or Champions, nothing to do with Nooksack. You’d be over there in your house right now, alive.
My dad reached over and gave me that shoulder squeeze again. “I hope your friends have told you that none of what happened was your fault, because it wasn’t.”
My head bobbed up and down. “I know. I know. I know. It was just a weird, horrible accident. Nobody’s fault, really.” I looked at the clock. “Kaylee’s bus. I’ve got to go.”
And I was up and out.
None of it was my fault.
You know and I know that’s a complete joke. You were over there in your backyard with Bill and Kaylee--Creepy Crawley, the scruffy kid nobody wanted any part of. You would have gone on being Creepy Crawley if I hadn’t sucked you into my life and into basketball. It’s not as if I got you playing hoops because I was Father Teresa who saw you needed a friend. You know that, too. I called you over because I needed somebody to practice against, and you were the only warm body around.
If I’d let you be you, you’d have had nothing to do with basketball, nothing to do with Vike or Bo or Champions, nothing to do with Nooksack. You’d be over there in your house right now, alive.
Shadowed 10/31/21 page 160
Shadowed (work in progress) Nate wonders if he is being shadowed by the spirit of his friend
***************
I woke up around two this morning and heard the thump of a basketball on cement with the occasional clank of a ball hitting the rim, just like I’d heard it that first time, and maybe a few times since then. I tried to convince myself I was imagining everything, and to just stay in bed, but the thumps and the clanks just kept coming.
I got up, crept to my window, and looked out. There it was--the crooked hoop that Bill had hammered six inches too high into the telephone pole. Behind it, the branches of the big corkscrew willow by your shed were moving in the wind, causing shadows to dance on the street and on my bedroom ceiling. As I looked closer, though, I thought I saw a person--you--moving among the shadows.
I stared harder, trying to bring things into focus. Sometimes you were there and sometimes you weren’t. Finally, my eyes went blurry. I stepped back from the window, let the curtain fall closed, and took a few deep breaths. I reopened the curtain, my pulse throbbing behind my ears. I looked.
An empty street, the hoop, the tree, shadows. I returned to bed, but once I lay down, the thump-thump-thump of a basketball hitting pavement came back.
***************
I woke up around two this morning and heard the thump of a basketball on cement with the occasional clank of a ball hitting the rim, just like I’d heard it that first time, and maybe a few times since then. I tried to convince myself I was imagining everything, and to just stay in bed, but the thumps and the clanks just kept coming.
I got up, crept to my window, and looked out. There it was--the crooked hoop that Bill had hammered six inches too high into the telephone pole. Behind it, the branches of the big corkscrew willow by your shed were moving in the wind, causing shadows to dance on the street and on my bedroom ceiling. As I looked closer, though, I thought I saw a person--you--moving among the shadows.
I stared harder, trying to bring things into focus. Sometimes you were there and sometimes you weren’t. Finally, my eyes went blurry. I stepped back from the window, let the curtain fall closed, and took a few deep breaths. I reopened the curtain, my pulse throbbing behind my ears. I looked.
An empty street, the hoop, the tree, shadows. I returned to bed, but once I lay down, the thump-thump-thump of a basketball hitting pavement came back.
September 12, 2020
Shadowed 9/12/2020
Present opening of new book tentatively called SHADOWED
I’m at Olympic College now, starting my freshman year on a basketball scholarship. Olympic is an okay college in a bad conference, but it’s good enough for me. Better, really, than what my parents or my sister ever thought I’d do. Better than I ever thought I’d do.
The coaches want to build team chemistry, so that’s why we’re all together at Camp Casey on Whidbey Island. I’m not complaining—it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. From a lookout one hundred yards from my little room, I can see Puget Sound with the Olympic Mountains as backdrop. Overhead are eagles and hawks; seals bask in the sun on the beach.
We’re here for a long weekend. We’re all athletes, so nobody’s drinking or doing any drugs. In the daytime it’s b-ball and workouts. At night it’s eating and talking.
Tonight, our last night, the coaches lit up a campfire. We stood around like a bunch of kids roasting hotdogs and then making smores.
Chemistry-bonding thing actually had worked. When I first arrived, I’d been intimidated by the older guys and had hung out only with the other freshman. Now, after two days, I was friends with everybody, including the seniors.
When all the smores had been eaten, one of the coaches threw more wood on the fire. It blazed up, crackled a bit. Pat Haller, the point guard and team captain, leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “This is ghost story time,” he said. “An Olympic college basketball tradition that goes back at least three years.”
The guys got into right away, telling stories set in moonlit graveyards and dank dungeons, filled with dead people walking or people walking who wished they were dead. Moaning sounds slid from attics and basements. There were footsteps on creaky stairs, fingers tapping on windows, loud thumps on roofs. Wolves howled. Crows cawed. Owls hooted. Rats crept along walls. Bats dived and swooped beneath flickering streetlights.
I pretended to enjoy them, smiling with everybody else, but from the first, I’d felt apart. Because I had a story, a ghost story, that no one would smile at. It’s also the story of how I ended up with a basketball scholarship, at a campfire, on the Olympic Peninsula.
Only I’ll never tell it, not to them to anyway.
When it was one away from being my turn, I stood up.
The guys looked at me. “What’s up, Nate?” Haller asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! Dude, you like you have actually seen a ghost.”
“I’m just a little sick to my stomach,” I said, shaking my head. “One s’more too many. I’m going to lie down.”
“But you haven’t had your turn.”
“I feel like I’m going to puke.”
It was true. My stomach felt like a washing machine on the spin cycle.
“Go! Go!” guys shouted, laughing.
I went back to my barrack and lay down on my cot. I could hear them out there, talking. For a while I tried to listen, but soon I stopped listening, stared at the ceiling, and remembered.
I’m at Olympic College now, starting my freshman year on a basketball scholarship. Olympic is an okay college in a bad conference, but it’s good enough for me. Better, really, than what my parents or my sister ever thought I’d do. Better than I ever thought I’d do.
The coaches want to build team chemistry, so that’s why we’re all together at Camp Casey on Whidbey Island. I’m not complaining—it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. From a lookout one hundred yards from my little room, I can see Puget Sound with the Olympic Mountains as backdrop. Overhead are eagles and hawks; seals bask in the sun on the beach.
We’re here for a long weekend. We’re all athletes, so nobody’s drinking or doing any drugs. In the daytime it’s b-ball and workouts. At night it’s eating and talking.
Tonight, our last night, the coaches lit up a campfire. We stood around like a bunch of kids roasting hotdogs and then making smores.
Chemistry-bonding thing actually had worked. When I first arrived, I’d been intimidated by the older guys and had hung out only with the other freshman. Now, after two days, I was friends with everybody, including the seniors.
When all the smores had been eaten, one of the coaches threw more wood on the fire. It blazed up, crackled a bit. Pat Haller, the point guard and team captain, leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “This is ghost story time,” he said. “An Olympic college basketball tradition that goes back at least three years.”
The guys got into right away, telling stories set in moonlit graveyards and dank dungeons, filled with dead people walking or people walking who wished they were dead. Moaning sounds slid from attics and basements. There were footsteps on creaky stairs, fingers tapping on windows, loud thumps on roofs. Wolves howled. Crows cawed. Owls hooted. Rats crept along walls. Bats dived and swooped beneath flickering streetlights.
I pretended to enjoy them, smiling with everybody else, but from the first, I’d felt apart. Because I had a story, a ghost story, that no one would smile at. It’s also the story of how I ended up with a basketball scholarship, at a campfire, on the Olympic Peninsula.
Only I’ll never tell it, not to them to anyway.
When it was one away from being my turn, I stood up.
The guys looked at me. “What’s up, Nate?” Haller asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! Dude, you like you have actually seen a ghost.”
“I’m just a little sick to my stomach,” I said, shaking my head. “One s’more too many. I’m going to lie down.”
“But you haven’t had your turn.”
“I feel like I’m going to puke.”
It was true. My stomach felt like a washing machine on the spin cycle.
“Go! Go!” guys shouted, laughing.
I went back to my barrack and lay down on my cot. I could hear them out there, talking. For a while I tried to listen, but soon I stopped listening, stared at the ceiling, and remembered.
April 5, 2016
Golden Arm (work in progress)
Golden Arm
Part One
April 4, 2016
1
I got my baseball glove for two bucks at Goodwill. I found my Mariners cap underneath a bench. I don't have an authentic jersey or cleats. I've never been to a major league baseball game. My mom works as a custodian at Northwest Hospital to pay the rent for our single-wide in the Jet City Mobil Home Park. She does okay, but we can't afford extra stuff like cable TV, so the way I follow baseball is on the radio.
None of that matters when I'm in the zone. Because when I get in the zone, I can pitch. I mean really pitch. My muscles are free and loose, and instead of going fast, everything seems slow. Everything except the ball coming out of my hand.
If your bat isn't lightning fast, I'm going to pour my fastball right past you, and all the money you spent trying to look like a baseball player won't do you any good. You're going down. If you do happen to have a fast bat—and not many guys do—then you might hit a soft ground ball or a little pop fly somewhere.
But actually squaring up one of my fastballs and driving it far and deep?
That's not happening.
Not when I'm in the zone.
The thing is—I'm not always in the zone. I'm not even usually in the zone. Most games something is just a little bit off. My stride is too long or I'm releasing the ball too soon or too late. I can feel myself trying to muscle the ball to the plate instead of letting it flow.
When I'm out of the zone, I start walking guys, and then—with runners on the bases—I guide pitches instead of throwing them. My fastball comes right down Main Street, and it isn't even all that fast.
Then I do get hit.
Hard.
Part One
April 4, 2016
1
I got my baseball glove for two bucks at Goodwill. I found my Mariners cap underneath a bench. I don't have an authentic jersey or cleats. I've never been to a major league baseball game. My mom works as a custodian at Northwest Hospital to pay the rent for our single-wide in the Jet City Mobil Home Park. She does okay, but we can't afford extra stuff like cable TV, so the way I follow baseball is on the radio.
None of that matters when I'm in the zone. Because when I get in the zone, I can pitch. I mean really pitch. My muscles are free and loose, and instead of going fast, everything seems slow. Everything except the ball coming out of my hand.
If your bat isn't lightning fast, I'm going to pour my fastball right past you, and all the money you spent trying to look like a baseball player won't do you any good. You're going down. If you do happen to have a fast bat—and not many guys do—then you might hit a soft ground ball or a little pop fly somewhere.
But actually squaring up one of my fastballs and driving it far and deep?
That's not happening.
Not when I'm in the zone.
The thing is—I'm not always in the zone. I'm not even usually in the zone. Most games something is just a little bit off. My stride is too long or I'm releasing the ball too soon or too late. I can feel myself trying to muscle the ball to the plate instead of letting it flow.
When I'm out of the zone, I start walking guys, and then—with runners on the bases—I guide pitches instead of throwing them. My fastball comes right down Main Street, and it isn't even all that fast.
Then I do get hit.
Hard.
November 4, 2012
Chapter Three of New Book
3
We didn’t talk anymore at dinner, and Hunter Gates didn’t come up again for the rest of the summer. But my time with him only increased. Enjoyed it, until I was exhausted. Got better at running routes. Mr. Gates would show me how to plant my foot (research wide receiver techniques). Weirdly, I was getting better at better at football, which made them want to pass it to me. And Mr. Gates gave me more in the way of coaching. All for hunter; he didn’t care about me. But I still learned.
Stuff at Gilman park went on until August 1. , Hunter’s dad asks me if I want to play football on a team. What team. I was headed to 6th grade and there was no school football team until 8th grade. I’d run on the cross country team and track team, played soccer through community center and basketball through community center, but no football teams. Wilson Jr. Football he tells me. Raiders Son is 11, I’m 10, turning 11 in December.
You’re old enough. Pee wee football years ago.
Play. Catch passes. Cheerleaders (girls)
Talks about how much fun it would be. Hunter throwing the ball to me just like in the park, only there’d be cheerleaders (girls) and parents and I’d score touchdowns. Played at ight sometimes under the lights. Full uniform just like the Raiders
In the back I see Hunter pounding the football into his hand.
. Not sure, have to ask my parents. I don’t think they’ll let me though. My mom has a thing about concussion
How about if I talk to them. Where do you live.
After dinner he knocks
Comes in. brochure on junior football. Talks about how great it is. Directon and all that. Leg up when I got to Wilson and play on the team there. Builds character. I have natural talent for the game
My dad and mom look at each other and look at me. He weighs 90 pounds my mom says. He can’t play football
Hunters dad says hes the coach of the junior football team, that he’d play me strictly at wide receiver. No tackling, no defense. Your son has a got a gift for catching the ball; his son has a gift for throwing it. Great together.
My dad says he’ll think bout it. Hunter’s dad. Starts August 6th. Great oppty for your son. I’m head coach at High school. Get him started right. Could go far. Scholarship even. Leaves
Leaves.
My mother laughs, Football scholarship. What a salesman.
Dad asks me what I think.
You’d have to give up just hanging out at the park with your friends. Practices, wearing a helmet, hot. Might conflict with soccer.
I don’t know. Remembered how glum Hunter always looked.
My mother says. He doesn’t know, then I say no.
That made up my mind. No, I think I want to, I said, not sure at all what I want.
Dad says, we’ll talk again when you’re in eighth grade. That’s when your school starts kids playing. They do it for a reason. It’s soon enough. year.
Phone call. H. dad is pretty insistent. My father tells him no. Then listens, then says I’m sure it would be good for him, biut not this year. Too small. Listens Hard to believe that he’s missing his chance at 10 years old. Surely he’ll have another chance.
I think maybe I am. Suddenly feel terrible
Not getting anwywhere. Our decision is firm. No football until 8th grade
Hangs up
We didn’t talk anymore at dinner, and Hunter Gates didn’t come up again for the rest of the summer. But my time with him only increased. Enjoyed it, until I was exhausted. Got better at running routes. Mr. Gates would show me how to plant my foot (research wide receiver techniques). Weirdly, I was getting better at better at football, which made them want to pass it to me. And Mr. Gates gave me more in the way of coaching. All for hunter; he didn’t care about me. But I still learned.
Stuff at Gilman park went on until August 1. , Hunter’s dad asks me if I want to play football on a team. What team. I was headed to 6th grade and there was no school football team until 8th grade. I’d run on the cross country team and track team, played soccer through community center and basketball through community center, but no football teams. Wilson Jr. Football he tells me. Raiders Son is 11, I’m 10, turning 11 in December.
You’re old enough. Pee wee football years ago.
Play. Catch passes. Cheerleaders (girls)
Talks about how much fun it would be. Hunter throwing the ball to me just like in the park, only there’d be cheerleaders (girls) and parents and I’d score touchdowns. Played at ight sometimes under the lights. Full uniform just like the Raiders
In the back I see Hunter pounding the football into his hand.
. Not sure, have to ask my parents. I don’t think they’ll let me though. My mom has a thing about concussion
How about if I talk to them. Where do you live.
After dinner he knocks
Comes in. brochure on junior football. Talks about how great it is. Directon and all that. Leg up when I got to Wilson and play on the team there. Builds character. I have natural talent for the game
My dad and mom look at each other and look at me. He weighs 90 pounds my mom says. He can’t play football
Hunters dad says hes the coach of the junior football team, that he’d play me strictly at wide receiver. No tackling, no defense. Your son has a got a gift for catching the ball; his son has a gift for throwing it. Great together.
My dad says he’ll think bout it. Hunter’s dad. Starts August 6th. Great oppty for your son. I’m head coach at High school. Get him started right. Could go far. Scholarship even. Leaves
Leaves.
My mother laughs, Football scholarship. What a salesman.
Dad asks me what I think.
You’d have to give up just hanging out at the park with your friends. Practices, wearing a helmet, hot. Might conflict with soccer.
I don’t know. Remembered how glum Hunter always looked.
My mother says. He doesn’t know, then I say no.
That made up my mind. No, I think I want to, I said, not sure at all what I want.
Dad says, we’ll talk again when you’re in eighth grade. That’s when your school starts kids playing. They do it for a reason. It’s soon enough. year.
Phone call. H. dad is pretty insistent. My father tells him no. Then listens, then says I’m sure it would be good for him, biut not this year. Too small. Listens Hard to believe that he’s missing his chance at 10 years old. Surely he’ll have another chance.
I think maybe I am. Suddenly feel terrible
Not getting anwywhere. Our decision is firm. No football until 8th grade
Hangs up
Chapter two of new book: first draft
Two
After that, When I was at Gilman park, climbing on stuff or goofing around in the wading ppool I saw Hunter with his add now and again at the park. Started out the same way always the same way. Hunter’s dad supervised him while he did pushups, situps, pullups, running. Then Hunter would throw the ball. I don’t mean they played catch. This was serious throwing, like lessons. Hunter never smiled. He’d just throw the ball, his father giving him tips or ripping into him.
I’d tossed a football around at school and a little with my older brother Jonathan, though he doesn’t have much to do with me anymore. The ball we used was smaller and lighter than the one Hunter used, but neither of us could throw it nearly as far or as straight as Hunter did. Not even Jonathan could, and he was three years older than me and two years older than Hunter and a pretty good athlete.
After they’d thrown for a while, Mr. Gates would seek me out. “We need you for a little bit, Trevor” he said. The McCavitt twins and the other guys got used to it, too. I’d nod to them and spend fifteen minutes or so catching passes from Hunter.
Two things. It was a little strange. We weren’t friends,hunter and I. Hunter Gates and I never friends. I was workout partner, or sparring partner, or robot, never friend. Catch passes, throw them back, while his father watches.
Okay for me. No big deal, nothing else to do. The McCavitts could wait. And it was flattering too. Didn’t ask anybody but me. I was the one with the hands. What he wanted from me. I knew it then, and it never changed. Speed and hands. Tool, like a blocking dummy.
Reason was my speed, and maybe even more my quickness. He could throw the ball back and forth with Hunter but he couldn’t run pass routes. That’s what I was doing. Giving Hunter practice with his timing on passes.
Brother Jonathan saw me one day. He was walking home with his buddies. I waved to him, but he acted like I didn’t exist. That night at dinner, though, he asked me that Mr. Gates was the head football coach at Wilson. “He played in college, too. I think he was drafted by the Detroit Lions, but he got cut. He was good, but not quite good enough. “That’s why he works with his son all the time. He’s grooming him for the NFL. Justin Barkley leaves next door to them. According to him, the kid lives and breathes football. Studies video, knows defenses, all that stuff. Totally his life.”
“Sounds sad,” my dad said.
Jonathan shrugged. “If he makes millions in the NFL>
“I don’t want you playing football,” my mom said, looking at me. It’s too dangerous
“I don’t play football. All I do is catch the ball. And I only do it for fifteen minutes.”
“No tackling,” she said.
“No,” I answered. “Don’t worry.”
We ate in silence for a while. Finally my dad spoke. So is he any good?
“Is he any good, this Hunter boy?”
“He’s pretty good,” I said.
He’s way more than pretty good, Jonathan said. “Truth is he could throw the ball a long way and with more zip on it than high school guys, and what is he, going into 7th grade? He’s already got an arm as strong as any of the guys on our Wilson’s varsity==though that’s not saying much. Mr. Gates can hardly to get him on the team. Everybody says he’s a totally jerk, though.”
“Is he a jerk to you?” my dad asked
He hardly talks to me.
See, he’s a jerk, Jonathan said.
“Im not sure I like this,” my mom said.
“Mom, I just play catch with him. What is the big deal?”
Jonathan smiled, happy to see me squirm.
“so long as it’s just catch, My cad said.
After that, When I was at Gilman park, climbing on stuff or goofing around in the wading ppool I saw Hunter with his add now and again at the park. Started out the same way always the same way. Hunter’s dad supervised him while he did pushups, situps, pullups, running. Then Hunter would throw the ball. I don’t mean they played catch. This was serious throwing, like lessons. Hunter never smiled. He’d just throw the ball, his father giving him tips or ripping into him.
I’d tossed a football around at school and a little with my older brother Jonathan, though he doesn’t have much to do with me anymore. The ball we used was smaller and lighter than the one Hunter used, but neither of us could throw it nearly as far or as straight as Hunter did. Not even Jonathan could, and he was three years older than me and two years older than Hunter and a pretty good athlete.
After they’d thrown for a while, Mr. Gates would seek me out. “We need you for a little bit, Trevor” he said. The McCavitt twins and the other guys got used to it, too. I’d nod to them and spend fifteen minutes or so catching passes from Hunter.
Two things. It was a little strange. We weren’t friends,hunter and I. Hunter Gates and I never friends. I was workout partner, or sparring partner, or robot, never friend. Catch passes, throw them back, while his father watches.
Okay for me. No big deal, nothing else to do. The McCavitts could wait. And it was flattering too. Didn’t ask anybody but me. I was the one with the hands. What he wanted from me. I knew it then, and it never changed. Speed and hands. Tool, like a blocking dummy.
Reason was my speed, and maybe even more my quickness. He could throw the ball back and forth with Hunter but he couldn’t run pass routes. That’s what I was doing. Giving Hunter practice with his timing on passes.
Brother Jonathan saw me one day. He was walking home with his buddies. I waved to him, but he acted like I didn’t exist. That night at dinner, though, he asked me that Mr. Gates was the head football coach at Wilson. “He played in college, too. I think he was drafted by the Detroit Lions, but he got cut. He was good, but not quite good enough. “That’s why he works with his son all the time. He’s grooming him for the NFL. Justin Barkley leaves next door to them. According to him, the kid lives and breathes football. Studies video, knows defenses, all that stuff. Totally his life.”
“Sounds sad,” my dad said.
Jonathan shrugged. “If he makes millions in the NFL>
“I don’t want you playing football,” my mom said, looking at me. It’s too dangerous
“I don’t play football. All I do is catch the ball. And I only do it for fifteen minutes.”
“No tackling,” she said.
“No,” I answered. “Don’t worry.”
We ate in silence for a while. Finally my dad spoke. So is he any good?
“Is he any good, this Hunter boy?”
“He’s pretty good,” I said.
He’s way more than pretty good, Jonathan said. “Truth is he could throw the ball a long way and with more zip on it than high school guys, and what is he, going into 7th grade? He’s already got an arm as strong as any of the guys on our Wilson’s varsity==though that’s not saying much. Mr. Gates can hardly to get him on the team. Everybody says he’s a totally jerk, though.”
“Is he a jerk to you?” my dad asked
He hardly talks to me.
See, he’s a jerk, Jonathan said.
“Im not sure I like this,” my mom said.
“Mom, I just play catch with him. What is the big deal?”
Jonathan smiled, happy to see me squirm.
“so long as it’s just catch, My cad said.
November 1, 2012
Chapter One of new book--first draft
One
I never really met Hunter Gates. He just showed up one day, a force, like an earthquake or a hurricane. I was ten years old and was playing with my brother Joe—he’s two years older than me-- the McCavitt twins, and a bunch of other kids on a hot summer day at Gilman Park. School had just gotten out the week before. We were too old for the wading pool, but we went there anyway, because that’s what we’d done when we were little. We ran around kicking water at each other, and the community center lady told us to knock it off. We did, for a while, but then Joe knocked over some little kid who started crying and the lady kicked us all out for half an hour..
That was okay because we were tired of the wading pool anyway. Once the wading pool was off limits, we started kicked a soccer a ball around. Pretty soon about tweleve guys were with us, and we startyed a short field soccer game.
When I first started playing I loved soccer. Fast, so on the outside
My coach, Mr. Nelson, made me a forward on the right side. I could race downfield, take a long pass, and outrun the guy guarding me. In the beginning, Coach Nelson wanted me to finish the play myself. But for some reason, I’ve got no power when I kick the ball. I’d break free, get a one-on-one with the goalie, have very everybody up screaming, and then I’d dribble some pathetic little girl’s shot toward the goal. Coach Nelson would throw his head back; the parents would groan; my face would turn red.
I did that probably twelve times before Nelson had me center the ball to whoever was coming up from behind. But even then my kicks didn’t have enough power to make him happy. It was Weird. Run fast, so you’d think I’d be able to kick the ball. Storng leg and all that, but I couldn't.
So Coach Nelson moved me to defense, but I wasn’t tough enough for that. I’d shy away on contested balls. So after I gailed at defense, he made me a goalie. It was the perfect spot. I have good hands andquick feet. Perfect.
Didn’t much like it though. Goalie just fails. That’s it. You make a stop and everybody says great job, but they don’t mean it really. You did what you’re supposed to do. Somebody kicks a bullet at you and you don’t stop it, wow. You’re a failure. Even a ball in the codrner, they look at yiu like—well, I know it was going to that side. No fun, and you’re really not plahing soccer.
Pick up games better. Short field, run like the wind, no goalie. I beat everybody down and just dribble the ball through
Irritated my brother. In a long race, a hundred yards or so, he could beat me back then. But who runs long races when you’re ten?But I was and still am way quicker. In soccer, I could dribble and fake out my older brother, which is why I loved the game
soccer wears you out fast, especially with so few guys. We probably played 20 minutes or so and then dropped onto the ground and told stories about gross things, bugs and dog poop. Just the stuff you talk about when you’re in fifth grade headed to sixth, before you care about girls.
The whole time, Hunter Gates (I didn’t know his name then, of course, but somehow I fell like I should have known it) was throwing the football back and forth with his dad. And his dad, the whole time, was on him, telling him he was holding his elbow wrong or not following through with his rest. We could hear him from where we were My dad—whose name is Travis Green, just like mine--is a runner, and I think he probably was a decent athlete, but he’s not much on tossing a ball around with either me or Jonathan. Part of me was a little jealous of this kid; part of me was glad I just could play with my friends and not have my dad around trying to teach me stuff.
Anyway, the half hour had passed so we started back to the wading pool. As we were walking by Hunter and his dad, his dad called out to me. “You, in the Sounders shirt, can you catch?”
“Me?” I said, pointing my finger at my Seattle Sounders shirts.
“Yeah, you. Can you catch?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Come here, then. This is my son, Hunter. You can call me Mr. Gates, but I’m not that Mr. Gates, and my first name is Mike, not Bill.”
I didn’t quite know what to do then. My parents had told me not to talk to strangers, but this didn’t seem like whtat they were talking about. He was there with his own kid; my brother and my other friends were just fifty yards away, and so was the lady from the community center. And there was something about the way he’d asked if I could catch that made it like I’d passed some sort of test and was lucky.
So I shrugged and walked over to where he was. He had me tell me him my name. Then he nodded to his son. “That’s Hunter, my son.”
Hunter sort of nodded at me, but it wasn’t a friendly nod. What I noticed about him first, and what’s still true, is that his ears stick out. The second thing I noticed is that he looked both big and mean, and both of those things are true, too. Long arms and long legs, brown hair that was thick like a cleaning brush.
Right away Mr. Gates started giving me specific instructions. I was to run ten steps straight, then turn quickly to the right, and expect to see a football coming right at me. It seemed okay, and I liked that he’d asked me and none of the other guys, so I did it. Down ten, turn right, look for the ball.
I did what he said, the ball come to me, I caught it and threw it back.
Do it again his father said to me.
I did if for fifteen minutes. But then I was tired, and the guys at the wading pool were amking a ruckus, and I wanted to get away. “I’m going to go play with my brother now,” I said.
“Five more passes,” Mr. Gates said, and then you can go.
Who was he to be telling me that? But I did it. You don’t argue with adults. Por at least I didn’t.
Caught the fifth pass he asked me if I played at the park often.
Every day I said
Play catch with my son again. He said. You’ve got good speed and great hands. You could be a really good football player some day.
I don’t know what I said. But I know what I thought. This mand had said I could be really good at football. Mind boggling. Me? Football? He would know though.
I ran back to the wading pool, muy mind buzzing with a happy excitement.
I never really met Hunter Gates. He just showed up one day, a force, like an earthquake or a hurricane. I was ten years old and was playing with my brother Joe—he’s two years older than me-- the McCavitt twins, and a bunch of other kids on a hot summer day at Gilman Park. School had just gotten out the week before. We were too old for the wading pool, but we went there anyway, because that’s what we’d done when we were little. We ran around kicking water at each other, and the community center lady told us to knock it off. We did, for a while, but then Joe knocked over some little kid who started crying and the lady kicked us all out for half an hour..
That was okay because we were tired of the wading pool anyway. Once the wading pool was off limits, we started kicked a soccer a ball around. Pretty soon about tweleve guys were with us, and we startyed a short field soccer game.
When I first started playing I loved soccer. Fast, so on the outside
My coach, Mr. Nelson, made me a forward on the right side. I could race downfield, take a long pass, and outrun the guy guarding me. In the beginning, Coach Nelson wanted me to finish the play myself. But for some reason, I’ve got no power when I kick the ball. I’d break free, get a one-on-one with the goalie, have very everybody up screaming, and then I’d dribble some pathetic little girl’s shot toward the goal. Coach Nelson would throw his head back; the parents would groan; my face would turn red.
I did that probably twelve times before Nelson had me center the ball to whoever was coming up from behind. But even then my kicks didn’t have enough power to make him happy. It was Weird. Run fast, so you’d think I’d be able to kick the ball. Storng leg and all that, but I couldn't.
So Coach Nelson moved me to defense, but I wasn’t tough enough for that. I’d shy away on contested balls. So after I gailed at defense, he made me a goalie. It was the perfect spot. I have good hands andquick feet. Perfect.
Didn’t much like it though. Goalie just fails. That’s it. You make a stop and everybody says great job, but they don’t mean it really. You did what you’re supposed to do. Somebody kicks a bullet at you and you don’t stop it, wow. You’re a failure. Even a ball in the codrner, they look at yiu like—well, I know it was going to that side. No fun, and you’re really not plahing soccer.
Pick up games better. Short field, run like the wind, no goalie. I beat everybody down and just dribble the ball through
Irritated my brother. In a long race, a hundred yards or so, he could beat me back then. But who runs long races when you’re ten?But I was and still am way quicker. In soccer, I could dribble and fake out my older brother, which is why I loved the game
soccer wears you out fast, especially with so few guys. We probably played 20 minutes or so and then dropped onto the ground and told stories about gross things, bugs and dog poop. Just the stuff you talk about when you’re in fifth grade headed to sixth, before you care about girls.
The whole time, Hunter Gates (I didn’t know his name then, of course, but somehow I fell like I should have known it) was throwing the football back and forth with his dad. And his dad, the whole time, was on him, telling him he was holding his elbow wrong or not following through with his rest. We could hear him from where we were My dad—whose name is Travis Green, just like mine--is a runner, and I think he probably was a decent athlete, but he’s not much on tossing a ball around with either me or Jonathan. Part of me was a little jealous of this kid; part of me was glad I just could play with my friends and not have my dad around trying to teach me stuff.
Anyway, the half hour had passed so we started back to the wading pool. As we were walking by Hunter and his dad, his dad called out to me. “You, in the Sounders shirt, can you catch?”
“Me?” I said, pointing my finger at my Seattle Sounders shirts.
“Yeah, you. Can you catch?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Come here, then. This is my son, Hunter. You can call me Mr. Gates, but I’m not that Mr. Gates, and my first name is Mike, not Bill.”
I didn’t quite know what to do then. My parents had told me not to talk to strangers, but this didn’t seem like whtat they were talking about. He was there with his own kid; my brother and my other friends were just fifty yards away, and so was the lady from the community center. And there was something about the way he’d asked if I could catch that made it like I’d passed some sort of test and was lucky.
So I shrugged and walked over to where he was. He had me tell me him my name. Then he nodded to his son. “That’s Hunter, my son.”
Hunter sort of nodded at me, but it wasn’t a friendly nod. What I noticed about him first, and what’s still true, is that his ears stick out. The second thing I noticed is that he looked both big and mean, and both of those things are true, too. Long arms and long legs, brown hair that was thick like a cleaning brush.
Right away Mr. Gates started giving me specific instructions. I was to run ten steps straight, then turn quickly to the right, and expect to see a football coming right at me. It seemed okay, and I liked that he’d asked me and none of the other guys, so I did it. Down ten, turn right, look for the ball.
I did what he said, the ball come to me, I caught it and threw it back.
Do it again his father said to me.
I did if for fifteen minutes. But then I was tired, and the guys at the wading pool were amking a ruckus, and I wanted to get away. “I’m going to go play with my brother now,” I said.
“Five more passes,” Mr. Gates said, and then you can go.
Who was he to be telling me that? But I did it. You don’t argue with adults. Por at least I didn’t.
Caught the fifth pass he asked me if I played at the park often.
Every day I said
Play catch with my son again. He said. You’ve got good speed and great hands. You could be a really good football player some day.
I don’t know what I said. But I know what I thought. This mand had said I could be really good at football. Mind boggling. Me? Football? He would know though.
I ran back to the wading pool, muy mind buzzing with a happy excitement.
