Free War and Watermelon by Rich Wallace Page B

says. “You were supposed to wait for me.”
    I push up onto my elbow. “I guess I forgot.”
    â€œJerk. . . . Hi, Mrs. Winslow.”
    â€œHi, Tony.”
    I stand up and we walk toward the locker room. “They here?” I ask.
    â€œI don’t think so. They’re not usually around this early.”
    â€œRight.” I don’t know what we’d do if those girls were here. Walk past and pretend we don’t notice them again?
    Every day’s been like this all summer. Get up way too early with my dad, watch TV all morning after he leaves, have lunch and hit the pool with Tony, go to practice. Maybe school won’t be so bad after all. Lots of possibilities.
    Tomorrow’s scrimmage is an intrasquad, but we’ll be on the big field. They even hired a couple of referees, so it’ll be run like a game, with the clock and the scoreboard and everything. They’re handing out the game jerseys tonight after practice, but I’m on the side that’ll wear the practice grays. With the team split in two, I ought to get a good bit of playing time on both offense and defense.
    We wander around for an hour, shoot some baskets, then go home.
    Yeah, it was boring, but that’s life. Boring isn’t always so bad.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 23:
    A Scared Rabbit
    T he game jersey is dark blue with an orange number 27 and stripes on the sleeves. Looks a little strange. I’ll be wearing the gray practice top for the scrimmage. Our pants are solid white and our helmets are solid blue; we wear the same ones for practices and games.
    What’s weird is the game socks. They’re bright orange like the numbers and the sleeve stripes. Kind of Halloweeny. I was hoping for blue.
    We’re kicking off. Most of the top players are on the other team—Ferrante, Esposito, Magrini—but we have some good people, too. Tony is with my team, at the opposite end of the kickoff squad.
    We’re finally getting the remnants of that hurricane that hit the Gulf—just a strong breeze and some on-and-off rain. The grass—what a concept, playing football on grass after three weeks on dirt—is wet but doesn’t seem too slippery.
    Esposito is down near the goal line, waiting to return the kick. I’m not looking forward to colliding with him at full speed.
    The referee blows his whistle. I take a quick glance at the bleachers. There are maybe a hundred people watching; my parents are up there.
    The cheerleaders are on the cinder track. Guess they have to cheer for both teams.
    The kick is high and kind of short. I watch it for a second before coming to my senses and darting down the field.
    Box-and-in. Box-and-in . Esposito has the ball and is already past the twenty, coming straight up the middle. So I box in at the thirty-five. By luck I time it just right, because he jukes past a tackler and cuts toward me, angling past two others but slowing down as he searches for an opening.
    I dive at his legs and wrap my arms around him. He shakes me loose, but I’ve stopped his progress and two of my teammates take him down.
    Feels great to make that first hit. I jump up. Mitchell is on top of Esposito. He gets up and yells, “Yes!” smacking my hand.
    We trot off the field. Coach Epstein says, “Nice hustle.”
    I walk to the bench and hold a paper cup under the watercooler, then take a drink. The cheerleaders are waving their pom-poms and yelling, “Go, Bulldogs!”
    For today, my side is the Bulls and the other is the Dogs. I step to the sideline to watch, next to Tony.
    It doesn’t take long for the Dogs to score.
    â€œReturn team!” calls Coach Powell, who’s in charge of our side today.
    So I’m back on the field. I’m not usually on the return squad, but for this scrimmage I am. Me and Tony are midway back, on opposite sides.
    The kick is way short. It bounces between us and we run toward it. Tony scoops it up and collides with me,