Free Death Coming Up the Hill by Chris Crowe

January 1968
    Week Two: 278
    Â 
    Even though he won’t
    admit it, I blew up my
    dad’s football career.
    Â 
    They say he had a
    future in the NFL,
    but his senior year
    Â 
    at the U of A
    he quit football because he
    got my mom pregnant.
    Â 
    Mom’s parents disowned
    her, and to them, she and I
    no longer exist.
    Â 
    She has a scrapbook
    filled with photos and clippings
    of Dad when he played
    Â 
    defensive back for
    the Arizona Wildcats,
    and my favorite
    Â 
    action photo shows
    him leaping and reaching for
    an interception.
    Â 
    The camera had caught
    him right when he snagged the ball.
    His head’s back, and you
    Â 
    can’t see his face, but
    you can see his taut forearms
    knotted with muscle
    Â 
    and the big number
    seventeen on his jersey.
    Even as a kid,
    Â 
    I recognized the
    strength and grace in that picture,
    and I knew he’d been
    Â 
    special, talented,
    and I made up my mind to
    be like him one day.
    Â 
    Maybe I’d never
    be as good as he was, but
    I thought that if I
    Â 
    worked hard and became
    a great athlete, somehow that
    would make up for his
    Â 
    loss. It turned out I
    was wrong. I never had to
    prove anything to
    Â 
    Dad. His love for me
    was as sure and solid as
    the U.S. Marines.
    Â 
    Too bad he didn’t
    feel that way about Mom. He
    resented her for
    Â 
    the mistake that killed
    his football career, the same
    mistake that forced him
    Â 
    to marry her. Back
    in 1950, things worked
    that way: if a guy
    Â 
    knocked up a girl, he
    married her to make it right.
    It doesn’t happen
    Â 
    like that nowadays.
    It’s 1968, and
    young people believe
    Â 
    in free love, and there
    are plenty of ways to take
    care of a mistake.
    Â 
    By getting married,
    Mom and Dad did the right thing,
    and they have been good
    Â 
    parents to me, and
    I’m grateful to them both for
    putting up with each
    Â 
    other for my sake.
    I wish there was some way I
    could make it right, make
    Â 
    them
right, but ending
    the long, cold war between them
    was as likely as
    Â 
    a black man being
    elected president of
    the United States.
    Â 
    It’s not going to
    happen, but, man, wouldn’t it
    be great if it did?

January 1968
    Week Three: 218
    Â 
    Mr. Ruby, my
    U.S. history teacher,
    wrote a number on
    Â 
    the board to begin
    every class. Today it was
    â€œtwo hundred eighteen.”
    Â 
    His gray hair was slicked
    back, like always, and his shirt-
    sleeves were rolled up, like
    Â 
    always. The faded
    Marine tattoo inside his
    wrist showed while he wrote
    Â 
    on the board. Then he
    asked, “What’s the significance
    of this number?” I
    Â 
    didn’t respond, but
    I knew exactly what it
    meant. I read the news.
    Â 
    Every Thursday,
The
    Phoenix Gazette
reported
    the casualties
    Â 
    from the previous
    week. But nobody in class
    knew that. They guessed all
    Â 
    kinds of dumb answers,
    and no one even came close.
    They don’t like thinking
    Â 
    about dead soldiers
    in Vietnam; neither did
    I, but I couldn’t
    Â 
    help looking for that
    news article every week
    and skimming it for
    Â 
    the casualty
    report. Usually it’s
    just numbers, but if
    Â 
    some guy from Tempe
    or Mesa or Phoenix was
    killed, they’ll mention his
    Â 
    name and maybe print
    a photo of him dressed in
    his uniform and
    Â 
    staring like he’s dead
    serious. Well, now he’s just
    dead. Looking into
    Â 
    his steely gaze made
    me feel hollow, sick, and sad.
    I looked anyway.

January 1968
    Week Four: 471
    Â 
    Things mellowed out at
    home. Motorola kept Dad
    busy, and Mom stopped
    Â 
    attending rallies
    at ASU. She’s not a
    hippie or some kind
    Â 
    of freak, she just feels
    too much. What’s going on in
    Vietnam sickens
    Â 
    her, and what’s going
    on in America makes
    her sick, too. Well, it
    Â 
    doesn’t really make
    her sick, it makes her
mad.
And
    when she’s mad, she’s