The Fast and the Furriest (6 page)

Coach Z extended his hand for a fist pound, and Kevin obliged.

“Sorry I blew that whole bison-are-tough thing.”

“No problem, Pugh. You were very thorough in your response, I’ll give you that.”

“So we’re playing games already?” asked Kevin. “I mean … it’s my first day. And I was led to believe this was a no-contact sort of camp.”

Coach Z eyed him suspiciously as they walked.

“I’m assuming you’d prefer to go full pads, full contact. But no, Pugh, we’re not allowed to hit here. It’s an insurance thing. We play flag football.”

He handed Kevin a grimy belt that presumably used to be white, but had turned the exact color of
chicken nuggets. Two long yellow strips were affixed to the belt with Velcro. These were the flags. Coach Z bent low and whispered in Kevin’s ear.

“If a little incidental contact occurs, Pugh, we’re not gonna call a penalty.”

“You know,” began Kevin, “I actually dropped my cleats over …”

But Coach Z had already sprinted off, and he’d swatted Kevin on the backside as he did. Butt-slapping was definitely
not
one of Kevin’s favorite sports traditions.

Within minutes, and with zero instruction, Kevin was standing on the football field at Scherzer High School, preparing to play defense. Alex Cribbs, a sixth grader, was yelling at him.

“End, Pugh!” He motioned toward the ball.

“End what?” said Kevin, raising his hands. “I wasn’t even doing any—”

“
Defensive
end, Pugh! Play defensive end—on the line! Over there!”

Alex shoved him to an appropriate spot, then drifted back several feet.

Kevin stood flat-footed while his teammates crouched, waiting for the play to begin. Coach Z clapped. Coach Glussman stood halfway up the bleachers, his arms folded across his chest. The whistle was in his mouth just in case someone needed to hustle.

Brad Ainsworth Jr. seemed to have command of the opposing team’s offense. The team huddled around him, then clapped in unison, then approached the ball. Kevin’s teammates all struck serious-looking football poses, some bent at the waist, others kneeling.

“Trips left, trips left!” screamed Alex. This startled Kevin. Alex raced over to the left side and continued to scream.

Brad Junior stood at quarterback, a few feet behind the ball.

“Down!”
Alex yelled, although nothing happened.

“Set!”
Still nothing.

Kevin stood there, half amused and half terrified. Everyone else on the defensive line squatted low.

“Lightning, lightning!”

But again, nothing happened. Brad eyed Kevin, then broke into a smile.

“Scram eight-five-eight!”
barked Alex.

Still no movement.

“Pugh!” called Coach Z.
“Puuuuugh!”

Kevin turned toward the sideline and saw the coach gesturing, but he had no idea what was being signaled.

“Hut,
hut!
” yelled Brad.

Suddenly everything moved—except Kevin. Linemen were rushing, receivers were sprinting, Alex was chasing, and Brad Junior was pitching the ball to a running back.

Or not.

“Fake!”
screamed two of Kevin’s teammates.

“Pugh!”
screamed Coach Z.

Brad spun, the ball still in his hands, and sprinted in Kevin’s direction.

“
Move
, Pugh!” implored Coach Z.

Kevin took a few choppy steps toward Brad Junior and noticed that his nemesis was still smiling. Briefly, Kevin became determined to catch him.

“Come here, you little weasel, Ainswo—!”

Brad made a subtle head fake toward the sideline, then planted his foot and cut toward the middle of the field. Kevin attempted to reverse course, but, cleatless and unskilled, he failed.

In fact, he failed fabulously.

Kevin’s feet slid to the right while the rest of his body went left. He felt himself lose contact with the ground—perhaps for a second or more—before face-planting with a thud.

He heard teammates and opponents groan, either in disappointment or in sympathy.

When he lifted his head and finished spitting all the dirt and grass from his mouth, he saw Brad Junior in the distance, high-stepping into the end zone.

A whistle blew.

Z
ach, I’m not discussing it,” snapped Kevin, speaking into the headset. “Ever.” His thumbs pounded away at a controller. His face was scrunched into a wrinkled, angry knot.

Up arrow … “A” button … left arrow … “A” … right arrow … “B” …

“Dude, it couldn’t have been that bad,” said Zach.

Kevin adjusted the microphone on his headset and spoke to Zach as they gamed.

“It was beyond bad, and I’m not discussing it.”

“What did you tell your parents?”

“That it was fine. And then I came down here. End of discussion.”

On-screen, a running back juked, stiff-armed a lineman, then sprinted up the sideline. A fake announcer declared this a spectacular move.

“Man,” Kevin said flatly, “where are your linebackers, Zach? What is this? Bring a safety up … do
something
. You can’t stop my run game.”

A defensive back veered onto the screen, finally taking down Kevin’s ball carrier.

“DUDE!” exclaimed Zach, his voice exploding through the earpiece and causing Kevin to duck his head reflexively. “That was, like, a game-saving tackle right there. That’s clutch.”

“Sure,” said Kevin. “Twenty yards later.”

Kevin scrolled through new plays.

“You seem to know what you’re doing in Madden,” said Zach. “How difficult could the transition to real foot—”

“Zach!” snapped Kevin. “Which part of ‘not discussing it ever’ was unclear?”

“Okay then, friend. Soooorrr-ry.”

Kevin chose a passing play.

“A” button … left arrow … “A” …

“What’s Cromwell doin’?” asked Zach.

“He’s doing as much to stop my powerhouse offense as you are, chump,” said Kevin. “Which is to say, he’s doing nothing.”

“Whatever.”

Kevin sipped an orange soda with his left hand, and kept his right on the controller.

“Actually,” he said, “Cromwell is sitting here on the couch, staring at me. At least I think he’s staring at
me … I’m sort of afraid to check. We were supposed to have a long, obstacle-filled walk after football camp, but, well … things did not go well for me. Not that we’re discussing it.”

Cromwell’s ear twitched. Kevin noticed the movement and glanced at the dog.

“Aaaarrgh!” Kevin exclaimed into the headset. “He’s
definitely
staring at me. I just checked.”

“A” button … right arrow … left arrow … “X” …

“You’ve done him wrong, dude,” said Zach.

“Completion!” said Kevin. “And how ’bout you do a little more tackling and a little less judging?”

The game suddenly paused.

“Oh, come
on …,”
began Kevin.

“First of all,” said Zach, his voice raised, “that was hardly a judgment. It was more like a simple statement of fact. I think we both know that you’ve done him wrong.”

“I haven’t do—”

“You’ve done him wrong, Kev. C’mon. Don’t embarrass yourself by arguing the point. I know it, the dog knows it, that dog pirate-lady knows it … it’s well-known. You should totally be at Paw Patch, taking classes.”

“But my dad said we could maybe do those classes if I tried the foot—”

“You
hate
real football! Clearly. The fact that you’re
so skilled at video game football is just one of life’s little ironies.”

Kevin was silent, except for the tapping of his fingers on the armrest of the couch. He didn’t look at his dog.

“Cromwell is a natural at that agility stuff, Kev,” Zach continued. “He’s like the LeBron James of, um … obstacle courses for dogs. He’s got crazy game. You need to get Cromwell in those little races. He could totally win.” Zach paused. “Dude, I bet he would get sponsors! He could wear little doggie sweaters with corporate logos! You’d be ri—”

“All right, your point is made. You win. I’m a terrible person. Cromwell is a victim of my self-defeating worldview. And I stink at football. Again: you win. Now can we please get back to the ga—?”

“No!”
yelped Zach. Kevin cringed, pulling the earpiece away from his head. “No, I don’t think we can get back just yet,” said Zach. “This isn’t about me winning.” He paused. “It’s about Cromwell.”

Kevin sighed.

“I hear you.”

Cromwell whined, then sunk his head into the couch.

“If I were you,” said Zach, “I’d quit football. I’d
just sign up my pouty dog for agility classes. Elka said he was ‘brilliant.’”

“Actually, she said
‘breel-yoont.’
Like she was a vampire.” Kevin glugged more orange soda.

“Get your dog in those classes, Kev,” said Zach with unusual conviction. “He loved it.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten that he nearly destroyed the course. Not in a good way, as in, ‘Oh, that was killer … you totally destroyed the course, bro.’ But real destruction. Like with wrecking balls and heavy equipment.”

The dog whined again, then seemed to harrumph.

“Sorry, Cromwell,” said Kevin softly, reaching a hand out to stroke the dog’s fur. But he still couldn’t look at Cromwell.

Zach pressed on.

“Is this the relationship you want to have with your dog, Kevin? Really? Simmering guilt?”

They remained silent for several seconds.

“Um
… what?
” Kevin finally said. “Where’d you get
that
?”

“Heard it from a lady on
Tyra
. A family therapist. Very insightful.”

“You watch
Ty—
”

“Just stop,” said Zach. “It’s possible that I’ve said too much.”

Kevin sighed. “No,” he said. “You’re right.” Kevin
turned to face Cromwell, who was, in fact, still looking up at him with deep, dark, sorrowful dog eyes. “Really, you’re right. I should take those classes. It couldn’t hurt. He’s my best nonhuman friend, and he doesn’t ask for much.”

Another series of noises from Cromwell.

“There are, however, two problems,” added Kevin.

“You’re too lazy and TV-obsessed?”

“No, I don’t really view that as a problem. It’s more of a life choice.”

“So what are the problems?” asked Zach.

Cromwell crept forward slightly on his paws.

“Number one, the agility classes conflict with the camp-that-must-not-be-named. I don’t see any way around that.”

“Dude, quit the camp.”

“I can’t quit. Because then my dad would call me a quitter—and he’d be right.”

“No, it’s not like that. This is a different sort of quitting, because you never actually wanted to do it. This is more like a belated no.”

Kevin snorted. “There’s a distinction that would be lost on Howie Pugh.”

“Then fake an injury.”

“Fake an injury that disqualifies me from football, but not dog agility?”

“Oh, right,” groaned Zach. “Well, what’s problem number two?”

“Money,” said Kevin. “Last time I asked, I was shot down. I’m not interested in soliciting again. Dad wants Cromwell to, like, fetch things. Do tricks. Juggle stuff with his paws, bark on command … whatever it is trained dogs do. He didn’t seem interested in agility contests. I don’t think he sees the corporate sponsorship potential the way you do, Zach.”

“I do have vision. Don’t
you
have any money, dude?”

“I’m not exactly a saver. All birthday and holiday funds generally get spent at 7-Eleven. Or they’re converted into gaming gear. You know this.”

“Right …,” said Zach softly. “Maybe Elka offers scholarships?”

“For deserving but needy dogs, to dodge tiny windmills? Doubt it.”

There was a lull, during which Kevin almost suggested they un-pause the game. But then Zach cleared his throat forcefully: “I’ll pay for Cromwell’s classes.”

“With
what
?” Kevin blurted into the headset. “World of Warcraft gold? I don’t think Elka is interested, frankly. She doesn’t strike me as a particularly dedicated gamer.”

“No, with my $3,806.16.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have $3,806.16. Years of birthday money, change squirreled away, unused hot lunch funds.” He paused. “It’s in the bank. There’s around fifteen hundred dollars in checking. The rest is a little less liquid, but it’s earning interest.”

“So you’re a saver,” said Kevin.

“When do I ever have to buy anything for myself? I’m indulged, dude. But yeah, I do tend to hoard things, and I’d like to help Cromwell.”

“No, I can’t let …” Kevin paused. “What the heck am I saying, of
course
I can let you pay. Heck, yeah.” Kevin exhaled loudly. “If Cromwell ever takes classes, you’re paying. Better you than Howie Pugh. Not sure when I could pay you back, though. Maybe after college.”

“No need.”

Kevin looked at Cromwell, who looked back at him.

“Sorry, Zach, bad connection. Cromwell and I thought we heard you say that I wouldn’t have to pay you back.” He jiggled the headset for effect. “You know these classes are a couple hundred bucks, right?”

“Right. I don’t need to be paid back.”

“Wait a sec. How can you be cheap and indulged
all your life, then just hand out large sums of money for dog tuition? That’s really how you want to spend your freakishly large savings?”

“I’m
investing
in Cromwell, I’m not loaning. We talked about this in social studies.”

“Cromwell does not pay dividends, Zach.”

“I’m like his manager. No, I’m like the corporation—or the shareholders or whatever they are—that owns the Cubs. It’s a long-term investment. I’ll cover expenses, and I’ll profit when Cromwell wins agility contests.”

Kevin guffawed. Zach did not.

Cromwell perked up further, licking Kevin’s hand.

“O-kaaaay,” said Kevin. “Perhaps someday you’ll buy a dog and his handler.”

“We’ll have to discuss your role, actually, Kev. I’m not seeing you as the han—”

“Oh, no. If you’re supporting Cromwell financially, I’m in—and I mean, I’m really in. I’m subjecting myself to Elka. I’m the handler, period. There shall be no rift between me and Cromwell, even if we fail. And we’re doomed to fail.” He sipped more soda. “That would be the deal.”