Knights of the Hill Country, Page 2

  But it was too late.

  He wasn't throwing no more touchdowns today. He wasn't about to turn my best friend's fumble into no giant sack of back-crushing rocks. I smashed into him at full speed, banging my helmet straight into his shoulder, busting through him as easy as one of them paper banners the team runs through at the first of the game. Then, there it was, the ball bouncing loose, springing up with perfect timing into my hands. I didn't even have to slow down. I just tucked that ball under my arm and blew towards the end zone like a cool breeze in July.

  I didn't spike the ball or dance. That's not my style. I only turned and watched as them black Knights jerseys stampeded towards me, ready to smother me with congratulations. The band kicked into the fight song, and the stands boomed, “Hampton! Hampton! Hampton!”

  Like I said, that kind of thing don't give me the big head, but if I could've stopped time right then, I would have. I'd have froze that exact moment right there, closed it up in my fist, and took it home to show what I done. Maybe that finally would've made a difference.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After the game, we was out on Main Street in Blaine's old Blazer, stopped at the light just south of Jolly Cone, and these girls in their little red Mustang squealed down the road going the other way.

  “Did you see them girls' faces when I mooned 'em?” Jake said, laughing.

  Blaine checked him out in the rearview mirror and said, “Hey, yank your britches up, asshole. I don't want your naked butt on my upholstery.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Jake said. “You spilled enough beer on these old seats last Saturday night. I don't think you're gonna have to worry about my butt germs for a good long time.”

  “Besides,” Darnell said, “this has to be the oldest Blazer in the history of the world. I'll bet it's the first one off the assembly line.”

  It was our quarterback, Darnell Wills, and our wide receiver Jake Sweet in the backseat and me and Blaine up front. All of us fresh and clean from our postgame showers, large and in charge.

  Blaine patted the dashboard and said, “Good old Citronella.” Citronella was what he called the Blazer. “She might be ancient, but, by God, she's loyal. And I'll tell you what, she's got a good pedigree too. Her first owner was George Washington hisself, and he sold her off to Buffalo Bill and he sold her to Babe Ruth and he sold her to Elvis Presley.”

  That was Blaine for you. He always could lay it on thick.

  “And old Elvis, he sold it to Emmitt Smith's daddy two months before he kicked the bucket on the bathroom floor at Graceland, and it was Emmitt sold it to me.”

  “You're full of it,” Jake said.

  “And on top of that, Citronella don't get jealous of all the girls I run in and out of that backseat back there.”

  Darnell had to laugh at that one. “Now you're really full of it.”

  “You ever seen anyone light a fart on fire?” Jake said.

  “Yeah,” I told him. “We seen you do it last week, and we didn't want to see it then.”

  Old Jake, he wasn't a half bad wide receiver, but he was always playing the fool. Sometimes he got on Blaine's nerves a little more than he done with the rest of us, especially this season.

  “You fart on my seat, and I'll break your arm,” Blaine told him, and he only barely sounded like he was exaggerating it.

  “What's the matter?” Jake shot back. “You still bent out of shape about almost losing us the game tonight?”

  Anybody but Jake would've known better than to say something like that to Blaine.

  Without the least warning, Blaine stomped on the brake pedal, and Citronella fishtailed to a dead stop right there in the middle of Main. He stared his Blaine stare into the rearview mirror. “You get your britches up right now, son, or I'm climbing back there, and we'll see who gets bent out of shape.”

  This time there wasn't no exaggeration about it.

  Jake tried staring his own stare back into the mirror, but it didn't hold up. “Jesus, Blaine, what's eating you? Can't you take a joke no more?” He started hitching up his jeans.

  Blaine didn't bother to answer that but just kept aiming his double-barrel glare into the mirror till Jake got his belt buckled. Then he gave a nod, like, Okay, you're off the hook for now, and started back down the street again.

  “Hell,” Jake said. “No one's worried about losing any games anyways. Not when we got old Hamp in there.” He reached over the seat and slapped my shoulder, but I just looked down at the dashboard. Last thing Blaine wanted to hear was how someone had to save his bacon.

  “That's the truth,” Darnell said. “You was amazing out there tonight, Hamp.”

  “Aw, I didn't do nothing the rest of you wouldn't have done.” I caught myself rubbing my palm along the short bristles of hair on top of my head. It's kind of a nervous thing I do when I get embarrassed. Blaine told me one time it drove him crazy, made me look like I didn't have no self-confidence, so I tried to quit, but it kept coming back.

  “Man oh man,” Darnell said. “I mean, you straight-out laid it on that quarterback. He was stretched out down there on the ground so flat he looked about like some old piece of pizza you gotta peel up off the box with a knife. I'm sure glad you're on our team. I don't want no one laying me out like that.”

  “That ain't no lie,” Jake said. “So tell me, Hamp, how's it feel to score an eighty-yard touchdown?”

  I glanced over at Blaine. He didn't say nothing, but the way he was strangling that steering wheel, I could tell he was still pretty good and annoyed with old Jake.

  “I don't know,” I said. “Why don't you ask Blaine? He scored one eighty-five yards and some change.”

  “Aw,” Darnell said. “That was all the way last season, though.”

  “That's right,” Jake said. “This year it looks like he's gonna need you to bail him out if we're gonna get us another undefeated season.”

  Jake don't know when to keep shut up.

  Blaine didn't stomp on the brake this time, though. He just snorted like he couldn't hardly be bothered with something so stupid. “That'll be the day,” he said.

  “I don't know,” Jake kept on. “You better watch out or Hamp's gonna go off to OU without you, and you're gonna be stuck here riding up and down the strip and circling through Jolly Cone on Saturday nights right on through till you're sixty.”

  “Shoot,” Blaine said. “Hampton's not mean enough for big-time college football. Not yet.”

  We'd talked about going over to Norman to the University of Oklahoma together since we was in fifth grade, and this was the first time he'd said anything about how I wasn't mean enough for big-time college football. I didn't like it. Sure, he was irritated at Jake trying to get his goat, but I didn't see why he had to take it out on me none.

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “Didn't you see me flatten that quarterback? I bet you he thought I was plenty mean enough.”

  Blaine smiled a little snickery smile. “Yeah, and I also seen you helping their man up on the sideline, patting him on the butt like he was your boyfriend too.”

  “All that is is sportsmanship,” I said.

  “It's soft is what it is. You can't let the enemy see you being weak. Ever. That's rule number one. You're a Knight, son. My dad told me back in his day, every team they played got scared just watching the Knights run on the field. It's the way they carried themselves. The swagger. That's how you keep on top. You can't let 'em see you look weak, and you can't let 'em see you hurt. And sometimes you have to be downright brutal. When it counts.”

  We rode along without saying nothing for a moment. It never even crossed my mind to bring up what would've happened if Wynette'd scored them a touchdown on top of his fumble. But that's the way it always was with Blaine. He could think up an argument for his side quicker than a rich man's lawyer, but me, I had to mull things over, look them up and down and inside out, so by the time I come up with an answer, there's no one around to tell but my bedpost.

  “But don't w
orry, Hamp,” Blaine said finally. “Come February first, when we finally get to set down and sign a National Letter of Intent, I'll make sure you sign on with OU right alongside me. We just gotta get a little more mean in you. You'll do just fine. Old Blaine'll look after you.”

  And I would've just let it lay right there, happy to get things back on an even keel, or at least as even as things usually got with Blaine, but Jake had to throw one more stick on the fire.

  “What are you talking about, Blaine? You ain't even heard from OU. Hamp'll do just fine on his own. And I'll bet he'll go wherever he wants, with folks like Harvey Warrick calling him up.”

  “Who?”

  “Harvey Warrick. All-American linebacker five years ago for—”

  “I know who he is,” Blaine said. “Just about the best line-backer to ever come out of this state.” He looked over at me. “What I'm wondering is why I ain't heard about this till right now.”

  “It ain't nothing official,” I said. “He just wanted to tell me about his old college program and all like that.”

  I had to turn and look out the side window. It wasn't like I was trying to hide anything from Blaine, but I knew how he was. If any hotshot players was going to call anyone about college programs—even if they wasn't from OU—he was bound to figure they ought to be calling him first. Truth be known, I thought they ought to call him first too. He was the leader. Just 'cause his knee was dragging him down a little this year didn't change that.

  “You better watch out for that kind of deal,” he said. “That could be a recruiting violation right there. Alumni ain't supposed to be calling high school players during the regular season.”

  “Come on,” Jake said. “I'll bet the boys up in the big Class 5A and 6A high schools are getting calls from alums right and left. Probably some's even getting calls from agents already.”

  Blaine shook his head. “If they are, they're in violation. The NCAA's got a whole stack of rules on who can contact you, when they can contact you, when you can go on official visits, and all that. There's what you call 'quiet periods' and 'dead periods' when you can't hardly have any contact. Coaches, assistant coaches, boosters, alums—there's different restrictions for all of 'em. I oughta know. My dad made me take a test over it. I had to study and everything. He graded it just like it was for school. It's the only test I ever made an A on too.”

  “Well, whoop-de-do for you,” Jake said. “Having rules and actually going by 'em is two different things. The only reason Hampton ain't getting flooded with calls from the big boys is 'cause we're stuck in piddly little 4A. But I'll tell you what, Hamp. You don't need Blaine to put a word in for you. You'll do just fine on your own. By the end of the season, you'll have everyone in Oklahoma and Texas ringing you up. I don't care how far we are from the big-city newspapers—you can't keep five undefeated seasons off the sports page.”

  “I guess,” I said, but I couldn't get excited about it like Jake. It just hadn't dawned on me before that me and Blaine might not both get picked to go to the same college, and I wasn't anywheres near sure I could make it up at some big-time school by myself.

  Blaine didn't say nothing more about it, though. He didn't say nothing at all. He just stared through that dusty wind-shield down at the dark end of Main Street.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The cramped little rent house I lived in with my mom was almost to the end of Mission Road, not exactly the bad side of town but a long way from Ninth Street Hill, where all the big white houses was. Blaine pulled Citronella up to the curb, and I got out and told the boys to take it easy. There was a light on in the living room window radiating off a warm yellow glow, but it didn't give me any good old homey-type feeling. It was more of a what's-it-gonna-be-this-time? feeling instead. That was a pretty familiar one by now.

  Up on the front porch, I could hear the stereo playing inside. Fleetwood Mac. My mom loved Fleetwood Mac. Didn't matter that they was about as ancient as a bunch of Egyptian mummies, she never got tired of them. There wasn't anything to do, though, but open up the door and go in, so that's what I done. Sure enough, she had her a man in there, another new one.

  They was over on the other side of the couch, slow dancing, even though it wasn't a slow song playing. He was short, with a Hawaiian shirt. She had one hand on his shoulder and he had one on her hip, and in their other hands they was both holding these jelly-jar glasses with golden brown liquid sloshing up against the sides. An open whiskey bottle set on the coffee table and you could smell the sharp-sweet odor of it from clear across the room.

  “Oh, hi, honey,” she said, not bothering to unwrap herself off Mr. Hawaiian Shirt long enough to even pretend nothing was going on. “Is the game over already?”

  “It's been over two hours.”

  “I'm sorry I didn't make it to watch you play. I just got off work a little while ago.”

  I glanced back at the bottle on the table. It looked like more than just a little while's worth of whiskey was drained off to me. Not that my mom was an alcoholic or anything like that. She only drank a lot if the man she ran around with did. That was how she was. Every time she took up with someone new, she'd change herself to go along with him. And ever since my dad run off on us, she done a lot of taking up with someone new.

  “How'd y'all do?” she asked. “Win as usual?”

  “Yeah, we won.”

  “I'll bet you were the star too.”

  “Well,” I said, making the mistake of thinking she was really interested in anything I done, “there was this one play—”

  “Oh, where are my manners?” she cut in. “I haven't even introduced you and Jim. Jim, this is my son, Hampton. Hampton, this is Jim, uh, Jim…”

  “Houck,” he said, sounding about like he was hacking up a chunk of lung. “Jim Houck. I'm sales manager over at Butler Ford in Lowery.” He let loose of my mom long enough to reach out his hand, and I gave it a shake. It was cold and damp from holding the drink, but that didn't stop him from trying one of them extra-firm grips to show me how even though I was a football player, he was more than a match for me in the strength department. He must've been a good eight inches shorter than me and wore these glasses that was too big for his face. They was a sporty style, though, and I figured he had hisself pictured as some kind of hotshot playboy.

  “It was the funniest thing,” Mom said, tacking on her little girly giggle. She was kind of young and girly still, I guess, with her bobbed-off blond hair, button nose, and petite figure, but still, a flirty little giggle just don't sound right coming out of your mom. “There I was working at the store and happened to look up, and who do you think came strolling in?”

  It wasn't something I hadn't heard before, but it was still more than I wanted to know.

  “So, did you say you made some sort of big play at the game tonight?” Jim Houck said, adjusting his sporty, hotshot glasses so as to give me a good once-over.

  “Nothing too big,” I said, not caring one way or the other what Jim Houck thought.

  “You look all wore out, honey,” Mom said then. “Why don't you go on back to your room now and get some rest.” She waved her jelly-jar glass back towards the bedroom like maybe I forgot how to get back there or something.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Sounds good.” And it did sound good too. Sleep would've felt just fine.

  In the bedroom, I eased my clothes off around the leftover pains from the game without even bothering to turn on the light. Laying down on top of the covers, I stared up into the dark, thinking about how the game went, rerunning every big play, building up to that moment at the end when them cheers busted loose and come pouring down like a big fat rain on some thirsty little broke-tail desert rat.

  But sleep wouldn't come, not with Fleetwood Mac and Jim Houck playing that same old familiar tune in the living room, and the cheers faded out of my head. The good memory sank under the bad thoughts. Thoughts of what would happen if we didn't win out the season or if me and Blaine ended up not getting picked to pla
y at the same college. Or if we didn't get picked to play football anywhere at all. And then it was just me, laying there in the dark alone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Was a time I never would've thought twice about anything coming between me and Blaine. Like I said, him and his dad got me into football in the first place, and Mr. Keller taught me how to hunt and fish and all sorts of stuff I never done before. Some weeks, I was over at their house more than I was at my own. But things had been changing this year, and maybe since longer ago than that.

  Course, Blaine's knee injury got him frustrated, and seemed like he was always taking it out on the closest handy thing—which a lot of times was me—but that wasn't the only difference. I couldn't have told you what else it was, though, to save my life. You know how when you see someone day in, day out, year after year, you don't really notice him getting taller or wider or older or whatever? It can be like that with the way people are on the inside too.

  Me and Blaine had been friends since we was nine years old. Met on the Fourth of July. It was one of them long summer days when the sun's blazing on high beam and the grass is still cow-pasture green, thick and long around the tree bottoms, way before it gets burned off to a scorched yellow like it does in the dry days of August when you know summer's running out on you. It was also the first day, far as I can remember, that I ever made time stop.

  I'd only lived in Kennisaw for about a month after moving down from Poynter, which is a little town about fifty miles to the north. It was a pretty fine old town. I had me plenty of friends and got along real good with my folks, especially my mom. She wasn't always like she was now. Used to be, my mom was about my best friend. Wasn't nothing I couldn't talk to her about back in them Poynter days. And talk about funny. She could crack a joke with the best of them, at least up till that day I come home from school to find her setting on the wood front porch by herself.