Free Ultimate Sports by Donald R. Gallo Page B

end of the day he’s too tired to do anything but lie on the sofa and read the newspaper. So if I want to go fishing or hiking, or if I want to shoot hoops or play football, it’s Uncle Joe I ask. Uncle Joe is never too tired, never too busy. He always has a smile on his face. I just wish he’d come up with some new jokes and that Cindy didn’t smell so bad.
    •   •   •
    I’d finished my final class one rainy afternoon last November. I was heading for home with my two best friends, Dinky Barnes and J. P. Jones, when I spotted Uncle Joe’sbig brown work van pulling up in front of school. I hustled over. “What’s up, Uncle Joe?”
    “Can’t talk about it, Joey,” he snapped as he strode up the pathway and into the school’s main office. “Wish I could, but I can’t.” It was the first time in my life Uncle Joe hadn’t had time to talk to me.
    “What was that about?” Dinky asked me.
    I shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. It seems like an emergency, though.”
    J.P.’s eyes widened. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with the school’s water, do you?”
    Dinky thought for a second. “I thought the water was sort of brown today, didn’t you?”
    “Brown?” J.P. and I said at the same time.
    “Not pure brown. Sort of a yellow brown. I figured it was rust in the pipes, but now I wonder.”
    I almost threw up.
    Uncle Joe, as usual, came breezing into our house at dinnertime that same day. “Joey, my boy! Mary, my sister!” he shouted, really excited.
    My mom and I rushed out to the front room to meet him. My dad, sprawled out on our sofa, hid his head behind the newspaper.
    It’s hard to say how my father feels about Uncle Joe. He doesn’t dislike him, but he doesn’t like him either.
Tolerates
is probably the word, though
ignores
would work too.
    “I got the job!” Uncle Joe shouted, and he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me hard.
    “Great!” I hollered. “What job?”
    “I’m going to be your wrestling coach! That’s why I was at the high school today! What I couldn’t talk about!”
    I smiled, not so much because Uncle Joe was my coach,but more out of relief to learn that I hadn’t spent the day sipping sewer water.
    From behind his newspaper, my father grumbled. “What do you know about coaching wrestling?”
    Uncle Joe looked hurt. “What do I know about wrestling? Harry, how can you ask? Once I told Mr. Popup—”
    “Mr. Poppel,” I interrupted.
    “That’s what I said, Joey. Mr. Popup, your principal. Anyway, once I told him about my experience in San Francisco, he sent the other applicants packing.”
    My father lowered his newspaper and actually looked at Uncle Joe. “You don’t mean that crazy job you had as timekeeper for Big-Time Wrestling, do you? You can’t possibly think that’s experience.”
    “And why not?” Uncle Joe answered. “For three years I was like this”—he clasped his hands together—“with the finest wrestlers in the world. Ray Stevens, Pat Patterson, Pepper Gomez, Bobo Brazil, the Sheik, Haystack Calhoun.”
    My father looked from me to my mother. “Somebody tell him,” he spluttered. “Mary? Joey? Tell him.”
    “Tell me what?” Uncle Joe demanded.
    “Uncle Joe,” I said softly. “High-school wrestling is different from professional wrestling.”
    He waved that off. “I know that, Joey. You’re kids. So I won’t expect the same level of professionalism. I’m not stupid. Still”—now he turned to my father—“those men taught me tricks that I can pass on to the boys.” He smiled. “With me coaching, we might take the state title this year.”
    My father ducked his head behind the newspaper again, but I heard him chortle.
    Late that night I sneaked down into the living room and turned the television to Big-Time Wrestling. The Masked Marauder was doing battle with Pretty Boy Lloyd. They pounded, punched, flipped, tripped, kicked, leg-whipped, and bit one another for ten minutes. Finally the Masked Marauder