Free Bleachers by John Grisham Page B

Neely was now sitting, and watching the game from so far away that he needed a radio to know what was happening. Did he cheer for the Spartans? Or did he secretly hope they lost every game, just for spite? Rake had a mean streak and could carry a grudge for years.
    Neely had never lost here. His freshman team went undefeated, which was, of course, expected in Messina. The freshmen played on Thursday nights and drew more fans than most varsities. The two games he lost as a starter were both in the state finals, both on the campus at A&M. His eighth grade team had tied Porterville, at home,and that was as close as Neely had come to losing a football game in Messina.
    The tie had prompted Coach Rake to charge into their dressing room and deliver a harsh postgame lecture on the meaning of Spartan pride. After he terrorized a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, he replaced their Coach.
    The stories kept coming back as Neely watched the practice field. Having no desire to relive them, he left.
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    A man delivering a fruit basket to the Rake home heard the whispers, and before long the entire town knew that the Coach had drifted away so far that he would never return.
    At dusk the gossip reached the bleachers, where small groups of players from different teams in different decades had gathered to wait. A few sat alone, deep in their own memories of Rake and glory that had vanished so long ago.
    Paul Curry was back, in jeans and a sweatshirt and with two large pizzas Mona had made and sent so the boys could be boys for the night. Silo Mooney was there with a cooler of beer. Hubcapwas missing, which was never a surprise. The Utley twins, Ronnie and Donnie, from out in the county had heard that Neely was back. Fifteen years earlier they had been identical 160-pound linebackers, each of whom could tackle an oak tree.
    When it was dark, they watched as Rabbit made his trek to the scoreboard and flipped on the lights on the southwest pole. Rake was still alive, though barely. Long shadows fell across Rake Field, and the former players waited. The joggers were gone; the place was still. Laughter rose occasionally from one of the groups scattered throughout the home bleachers as someone told an old football story. But for the most part the voices were low. Rake was unconscious now, the end was near.
    Nat Sawyer found them. He had something in a large carrying case. “You got drugs there, Nat?” Silo asked.
    “Nope. Cigars.”
    Silo was the first to light up a Cuban, then Nat, then Paul, and finally Neely. The Utley twins neither drank nor smoked.
    “You’ll never guess what I found,” Nat said.
    “A girlfriend?” Silo said.
    “Shut up, Silo.” Nat opened the case and removed a large cassette tape player, a boom box.
    “Great, some jazz, just what I wanted,” Silo said.
    Nat held up a cassette tape and announced, “This is Buck Coffey doing the ’87 championship game.”
    “No way,” Paul said.
    “Yep. I listened to it last night, first time in years.”
    “I’ve never heard it,” Paul said.
    “I didn’t know they recorded the games,” Silo said.
    “Lotta things you don’t know, Silo,” Nat said. He put the tape in the slot and began fiddling with the dials. “If it’s okay with you guys, I thought we’d just skip the first half.”
    Even Neely managed a laugh. He’d thrown four interceptions and fumbled once in the first half. The Spartans were down 31–0 to a wonderfully gifted team from East Pike.
    The tape began and the slow, raspy voice of Buck Coffey cut through the stillness of the bleachers.
Buck Coffey here at halftime, folks, on the campus of A&M, in what was supposed to be an evenly matched game between two unbeaten teams. Not so. East Pike leads in every category except penalties and turnovers. The score is thirty-one to nothing. I’ve been calling Messina Spartan games for the past twenty-two years, and I cannot remember being this far behind at halftime .
    “Where’s Buck now?” Neely