Sounds No Worse Than Cheers
Sounds No Worse Than Cheers
According to conventional wisdom, there’s more than a tenuous thread of truth to the bad rep surrounding Mondays. Already this particular Monday had begun to suck big time, and it was only half-past eight. The stupid bus was late again, and the stinking chemistry test was coming up later that morning, but not hearing from Janice all weekend was the worst. Every call, each more frantic than the last, had been shuttled to the nebulous realm of voice mail. No response. Same with texts, IMs, desperate postings on Facebook and Twitter. What was up with her? God, maybe she was sick or something.
As Thad continued down the corridor, an abrupt rear collision hurled him forward. He heard a rude “Whoops! I don’t brake for jackasses.” The attacker high-fived his companions before the small gang blended with the crowd. They were beyond earshot by the time Thad could come up with a rejoinder: “Hey, good morning to you, too!” Meanwhile he had more important things to do, like trying to get ahold of Jan.
He unpocketed the unit, punched in her instant dial number, and was immediately deported to the Gitmo of her voice mail. Maybe there was something wrong with his cell phone, a glitch in the batteries or a loose connection. Whenever anything at home didn’t work properly, his father would employ the same S.O.P. First came the troubleshooting process. He’d take a long look at the balky toaster, snowy picture on the TV, or whichever device temporarily to have gone, as Dad put it, “on the fritz.” Next came the actual repair work. This involved snapping open a cold one, taking a manly swig, letting loose with a loud curse, and then punishing the disobedient machine with a healthy whack.
Believing it was worth a try, Thad held the slim phone vertically and pounded it on his opposite palm. All that did was hurt his hand. Continuing down the corridor, he saw a swarm of students clustering around the back wall, completely occupied by a glass case displaying every sports award accumulated in the school’s history. The rear panel of the case served as the designated site for a enlarged color photo, a smaller replica of which was certain to fill one of the pages of the high school yearbook the following June. The display case photo, however, changed according to which particular sport happened to be in season; at the moment, the spotlight shone on the varsity gridiron team. For decades, the student body had taken the artifact for granted, rarely noticing it as anything but a quaint throwback to a less sophisticated era. So what was the big attraction that particular morning? The kids were whooping it up, cracking wise, filling the halls with derisive laughter, but their behavior didn’t strike Thad as particularly joyful. He kept picking up a strange vibe, as if at any moment the revelers would turn into a pitchfork-waving mob.
Thad had always hated that lame trophy case; there was something arrogant, self-congratulatory about it, like the televised Hollywood awards shows that filled his father with disgust: “Bunch of bleeping bleeps blowing their own bleeping horns.” Evidently others had felt the same way, because sometime over the past weekend, the secular shrine had been defiled. “Hah! That’ll show ‘im!” somebody yelled.
At this point Thad couldn’t totally make out the extent of the damage; no broken glass littered the floor. In the narrow space between two onlookers, he could see the double doors of the case slightly separated, with the hook of the picked padlock guiltily hanging. In general, Thad’s opinion of vandalism echoed the tongue-clicking disgust held by so-called “responsible” society. Yet-- since the rebel in him relished the power of iconoclasm--he found the seemingly innocuous schoolboy prank as funny, almost admirable. He was just about to crow, “Hey, way to deface school property, Man!” when some jerk spotted him. “Hey, Dorky McDork Dork– check it out!” He grabbed Thad by the back of the neck and pushed him toward the glass, while the jeering spectators made way, partially out of respect to the public humiliation in progress, but mostly in regard to their own personal safety.
The punk squeezed Thad’s neck even more tightly as he pushed him closer to the glass. “That’s right, Pretty Boy. Look!” he ordered, while making damn sure Thad couldn’t turn his head a fraction of an inch.
At first forcible glance, the figures in the glossy shot looked just as fresh-faced and ready for action as on the summer day when the professional photographer had done his snappy thing. The decision over who posed where had largely been a matter of height, with no apparent distinction between the offensive and defensive squads. The group portrait had been designed as kind of a mock-up of a field formation in the first row; each if these players, coached into adopting an expression that meant business, knelt on one knee, while stretching out his left arm, with the knuckles of his clenched hand barely touching the narrow band of grass in front of the line. The second row consisted of the remaining team members, vertical this time, but just as formidable. At dead center stood the quarterback, with the all-important game ball tightly tucked in the crook of his arm, as if that so-called “pigskin” were a priceless religious relic. Nothing amiss here, except for the team member standing three places from the right in the back row. This had been Thad’s assigned spot. The last time he’d looked at the photo was the day it had been installed back in early September. At that time he honestly thought he looked okay in the picture, at least there was nothing embarrassing. Until today. He recognized himself, all buffed-up and beefy inside his bulky uniform, with the double digit number on his jersey unchanged, but there was nothing familiar about his image from the neck up. Somebody had taken a red marking pen and slashed a huge “x” through his face, from the top of his helmet through the bottom of his chin strap. Above his head the word “LOSER!!!” had been scrawled, highlighted with a blood-colored arrow in case anyone had any doubt over who the culprit might be. Thad’s tormentor finally released his grip on his neck and pounded him hard on the back. “Get a load of the big hero now!”
“Wha–? Oh. Oh, yeah, I get it,” Thad said, adding, “That’s a pisser, Dude.” But he wasn’t laughing.
He wondered if Jan had seen it yet. Think of the angel and she’ll appear, and there-- just a couple dozen yards down the hall--she was, giggling with a bunch of other girls. Raising his arm, he called her name and hoped that she could hear him. She turned and looked at him for a nanosecond and then looked away. Again, “Jan!”-- only louder. He was absolutely sure that she’d heard him this time, but she made no acknowledgment at all other than a gesture that chilled his very bones. The love of his young life raised her palm in his general direction, as she were a cop indicating “Stop” as if she didn’t want him to bother her. This wasn’t his Janice, no way.
In home room some moron called him a “tool,” and the poking and taunting didn’t let up all morning long. Even in Language Arts class Mrs. Aronson could have been a willing accomplice with the poem she’d chosen to read aloud. When she came to the lines
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honors out,
Runners whom renown outran,
And the name died before the man
she glared directly at Thad. It had been an incredibly painful day, no doubt; still, he was grateful he hadn’t been called on to explain what the poem means. He had a notion that somehow those lines were similar to a story his father had told him the other night.
On the way home from the game, they’d made their customary stop at Lucky’s for his father’s one-man post-game show. Occasionally they’d share a booth and a pizza, but this time they sat right at the bar, with a draft for his dad and the underage default beverage, a plain ginger ale–damn it!–for Thad. He hoped the conversation would be kept light, free of the heavy topics he’d overheard his parents discussing the previous night. His mother and father talked about the family’s financial situation, how the mortgage crisis had messed up their own lives in so many ways, particularly decreasing Thad’s college fund, which never had been all that hefty in the first place.
“Good crowd tonight,” his father said. “That is, if you don’t count the folks who were actually watching the game. Half the guys, even geezers like your old man here, were ogling the cheerleaders.”
Thad shifted around on his perch; a barstool was a seat where he could never get comfortable–at least physically.
“ ‘Course at St. Hilarius never had pretty cheerleaders. We did have male cheerleaders though– and even they wore long pants.”
“Yeah, right.” Thad rolled his eyes. “You’re full of sh–, er, pulling my leg again.”
His father took a healthy swig of his brew. “Don’t believe me? Look up the archives for the old sports stories in the newspaper. You could --what d’ya call it?--Google it.”
For a while the bubbles and speech continued to flow until the volume of Thad’s father’s voice suddenly dropped a few decibels. “See that fella on the end of the bar? I’d tell ya ‘don’t look now’ but he’d never notice anyway.”
Thad turned his head and saw the solitary man, slumping forward, his head just a few inches away from hitting the surface of the bar. “Years ago he was a big basketball star for Downstate U.,” his father further explained. “You’d never know it now, would ya? You know how everybody in town flocks to all of those games? “
“Yeah, and it doesn’t matter whether you actually went there or not–“
“Right. It’s almost like a civic duty, except they enjoy it. Or seem to. Anyway back in–I don’t know, may be it was ‘64, they were in this huge tournament game, championship on the line, of course, all tied up with just a few seconds left--you know the drill. Anyway, somehow that guy got possession of the ball, dribbled it half-way down the court, took a risky shot that went through the hoop just as the buzzer sounded.” His father took a swig of beer. “Well, you can imagine what happened next. Pandemonium. The fans came rushing down, lifted him up on their shoulders, well, you’ve seen that movie. Look at him now. ”
Thad shook his head. “Poor guy.”
“Yeah, it’s never a good idea to peak before you hit twenty-one. Don’t go thinking I’m spreading gossip, like one of your mom’s catty friends. I pointed the pitiful bastard out to you for a reason.”
Thad nodded. “I get you.”
“ Don’t get me wrong --I’m extremely proud of the way you handled yourself tonight, son.”
The unconditional acceptance from Thad’s father did little to buffer this recent spate of scorn from his schoolmates, not to mention his girl. It seemed as if the whole world had singled him out as a persona non grata, a ready rationale for an exquisite flirtation with adolescent angst. At the same time, he wanted to handle the bizarre treatment the way an adult would, trying to tell himself: “Oh, well. That’s the way it goes.”
Gradually the confusion and hurt eased up a little bit, as he began to analyze the strange events of the morning. It occurred to him that the whole thing might indeed be an elaborate practical joke cooked up right after the big game on Friday night to be served when classes resumed on Monday. The whole school must be in on it, with everybody committed to giving him heavy heat. It was only a matter of time before they’d own up to it, they’d all have a good laugh over it, and everybody could move on. Jan, especially, would be her sweet self again.
Kidding aside, there still remained the serious matter of the chemistry test. It was inevitable that Third Period would arrive, and it did. Thad had just written his name on the top of the answer sheet when he was told that he was wanted in the Principal’s Office. “But what about –?”
“Not my problem, Grabowski.” Mr. Walter grabbed the test paper and answer sheet and tossed them both on his own desk. “And don’t even think about a make-up.”
All the way down to the first floor Thad’s stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and disgust. The stupid school had so many rules and regulations on the books that a guy could unknowingly break a couple before he walked through the front door. He was already a laughingstock, so getting yanked out class in front of everybody was merely a little scratch. From an academic stand point, though, missing the test would be a fatal wound. All that work and worry and for what?-- only to forfeit the test in exchange for a big fat zero that would shoot his average straight to hell. So long, scholarship; hello, fast food industry.
Just his luck! Thad’s future plans were being destroyed because of the Principal’s bad timing. What the hell did Cap’n Crunch want with him? Possibly he was to be interrogated about the vandalism. The situation called for a pre-emptive strike.
Thad took a deep breath. Before he was half-way through the door, he’d gotten out the words: “ I don’t know anything about that damaged picture, Sir.”
“What picture?” The administrator sat at a desk the size of a sub-compact car. On the wall directly behind his desk in a ornately-carved frame hung his post-graduate degree, a doctorate in education. “Please, sit down, Chad, er–“ a quick glance at his computer screen “-Thad. Thanks for coming down. Now, about that game the other night–“
All the big blowhard wanted to do was talk sports! Meanwhile Mr. Walter would waste no time scratching a big fat zero next to Thad’s name. Unbelievable.
“That was quite a finish, Thad. It’s so unfortunate that your own performance --”
“Excuse me?” What the hell was talking about? They had won! Quickly Thad was becoming furious; his efforts to control himself only made his face a deeper red, his fists more tightly clenched.
“Simmer down, son. It’s just that – Well, let me tell you how a scholastic sports program is implemented. It facilitates the social development of young men –and women– as responsible citizens. It keeps them focused, builds their character. Society as a whole is improved. But there’s also another upside.” Dr. Undershaft placed his hands on the desk in front of him and made a little church and steeple out of his fingers. “In a way, having a dynamic–a successful– season for our teams helps the school in so many ways. We have a very, very good relationship with the East Hogwash community. This enables us to court –and nurture – sports boosters, folks who very, very generously support our athletic programs.”
An ancient, oft-told joke about “athletic supporters” jumped into Thad’s head. “Forgive me, Sir, I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
“Well, we like to have our student athletes support our teams as well. I don’t mean just by showing good sportsmanship and playing well, but by being boosters in their own right.”
Thad wondered what all this had to do with him. “I still don’t understand. Sorry.”
“ My God! Are you that stupid?” Dr. Undershaft had been rumored to have a long but explosive fuse, and Thad swore that he could almost hear it sizzle. “Let me put it this way– back when they still taught World History instead of Global Studies, students used to be taught about the French Revolution. During the Reign of Terror, a citizen could be sent to the Guillotine just for lack of enthusiasm.” Letting loose with a resigned sigh, he announced, “Perhaps the video is worth a thousand words.”
Undershaft swivelled in his chair and clicked a remote connected to a DVR and a TV screen the size of a dumpster. He didn’t have to punch anything; the video came on instantly. It was a clip of NewsChannel15's News At Eleven from the previous Friday.
“-lutely right, Biff. “ Shouting into his mike, the announcer was all but drowned out by the sounds of screaming, cheering fans. Behind him, a handful of middle school kids shouted and bounced, mugged at the camera, and flashed index fingers signifying that they (by proxy) were Number One. In order to avoid being drowned out, the announcer’s voice grew louder “The Boars are victorious, defeating the Lake Averill Bobcats, 13-10. With this victory EHHS will be going straight to the regional championships one week from tonight. And here’s the guy who got it done–“ The sportscaster’s arm strayed off camera and when it returned to view, it was gripping the arm of a uniformed football player–“Junior Thad Grabowski! Congratulations, Thad!”
“Oh, yeah. I remember when they taped this, but I never saw the–“
The Principal glared at him. “Shhh!”
“Thad, when your quarterback Jason Noble threw that pass, what was going through your mind? Did you know you were going to receive that ball and carry it a full 30 yards down to the end zone? How does it feel to be the one scoring the winning touchdown?”
In the video, Thad appeared underwhelmed. “The ball happened to come to me and I grabbed it. Then I did what anybody would have done. I ran.”
“Yes, but weren’t you blown away? Weren’t you thrilled that you single-handedly won the game for your teammates? I mean, wasn’t it awesome?”
Thad shrugged his heavily-padded shoulders. “Both teams did their best. Not just me. Uh, every time you win that’s a relief, but we gotta keep things in perspective. I mean, it’s not like this was the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series, or anything. It’s not the Super Bowl. It’s just a high school football game. It’s fun, but catching a ball and running down the field isn’t gonna change the world.”
The announcer cleared his throat. “Well! Quite a different perspective from a young man coming off a stunning triumph. Back to you, Biff–“
Cap’n Crunch snapped his remote as if it were a pistol. “Humility is one thing, Thad. It’s another to let down your teammates–“
“Let them down? How?”
“You could’ve shared their joy. Jumped up and down, tossed your helmet up into the air, sung the praises of EHHS. Shown a little enthusiasm!” he exclaimed, shaking his fist into the air. Then in a lower voice: “Instead you minimized their achievement. Put a damper on what might have been their fondest memory of their days here at EHHS. You know, there used to be a thing called School Spirit.” The Principal rubbed his eyes. “Tell me, Thad. I know you won’t be a senior until next year. But have you been looking at any colleges yet?”
“Uh, I’m interested in Poly Tech.”
“Right here in the area? Their entrance requirements are pretty tough. You’ll need really high SAT scores. Need to get your grades up, Son.”
Yeah, like being forced to skip a chem test is gonna help.
“ If you’re hoping for the kind of scholarship that’s hard to get, lots of luck. As far as the other kind-- Oh, wait, they don’t really have a football program over at Poly Tech, do they?” Dr. Undershaft scribbled something on a piece of paper.
“Guess not. They’re more into hockey.”
“Oh, right. Right. Well, unless you’re good on the ice, you probably should write off any chance for an athletic scholarship. Anywhere. As of now, you’re off the football team. Now go back to class.”
In his own childhood, Thad had believed every word of the stories his father used to tell him. As he got older, Thad gradually caught on to the fact that these supposedly biographical anecdotes were most likely apocryphal. Still, all the way back upstairs, he remembered his father’s booming voice telling him another one. “So the coach calls us all into the locker room. He gives us all the usual crap about teamwork, with the old chestnut about ‘there’s no “i” in team.’ Then he looks at me and says, ‘And there’s no “u” in it either, Grabowski.’ “
Maybe Thad had inherited his lack of enchantment over sports from his father, if there were such a gene. Even so, that very evening he saw his father parked in front of the tube. As always, he cursed the incessant commercials, the egregious calls by the on-field officials, the asinine play-by-play commentators, the overpaid, ineffectual players, but every time Monday Night Football was on, his father watched without fail.
