A steady stream of people flowed through the house for the rest of the afternoon. Some of the guests acted as if Grandpa's death wasn't a big deal. They joked and talked about other things. Jimmy stayed close to the people who seemed interested in telling stories about Grandpa. He heard a lot of new information. Nobody asked him to add to a conversation, so Jimmy kept his thoughts about Grandpa to himself.
After everybody left, Daddy took Grandma home. When he returned, he collapsed in a chair in the living room. Mama brought him a cup of coffee fixed the way he liked it. Jimmy followed her.
“I'm beat,” Daddy said.
“How was your mother?” Mama asked.
“More tired than I am. She's already in bed.”
“We'll invite her over for supper this week,” Mama said. “I'm sure some of her friends will do the same.”
“Yes, but today was good for her. She enjoyed hearing so many people tell stories. Dad would have liked it a lot too.”
“I have a story,” Jimmy said. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Sure,” Daddy said, taking a sip of coffee. “What is it about?”
“The fishing contest.”
“That's right. I never got a chance to ask you about it. Didn't you win second place?”
“Yes, sir. Grandpa and I were partners.”
“Start at the beginning,” Mama said, folding her hands in her lap. “I want to know everything.”
Much had happened since the night at Webb's Pond, but as Jimmy talked, the events came back to him. Talking about Grandpa made him seem alive again. Jimmy reached the part about Alfred Walker guessing the makeup of Grandpa's carp bait recipe.
“I showed Mr. Walker my muscle.”
Daddy interrupted. “Did he guess the recipe?”
Jimmy wrinkled his brow. “I'm not sure, but Mr. Walker caught the biggest fish.”
Daddy winced and turned to Mama. “It's a good thing Dad never found out about the hint. You know how carp fishermen are about their secrets.”
“Keep going,” Mama said.
Mama's eyes moistened when he described Grandpa agreeing to go to church if they won a prize. When he reached the part about the fight with the fish, Daddy interrupted.
“Did he have to go into the water to get the rod?”
“No, sir. He fell on it like a football player grabbing a fumble and hurt his side. Do you think that's why he had another heart attack? I've been worried about it.”
“No, no. The heart attack was caused by something that had been building up inside his blood vessels for a long time. I'm sure he's happy that fishing was his last activity on earth.”
Jimmy sighed. “That makes me feel better. Oh, and we talked about how I could be a lineman for the Georgia Power Company. Grandpa was going to start teaching me.”
“Really?” Mama asked in surprise.
“Yes, but now I don't know who will show me what to do.”
Daddy looked at Mama and shook his head. Jimmy continued his story. He concluded with the winners of the tournament.
“Everybody clapped and yelled when the man called out Grandpa's name. We walked up front and Grandpa got the money.” Jimmy paused. “What happened to the money?”
“Grandpa had it in his pocket,” Daddy said. “Grandma has half, and I'm saving your half for you.”
“You can keep it,” Jimmy said. “And then the man said that Mr. Walker caught the biggest fish. I don't remember what it weighed, but I think we lost by about two pounds. How much is that? I didn't ask Grandpa.”
“Not much,” Daddy said. “You still caught a whopper of a fish.”
“Mr. Walker won one thousand dollars. We put our fishing stuff in the truck, then left the pond.”
Jimmy stopped, realizing what came next.
“Do I have to go on?” he asked.
“No,” Daddy said. “We only want to hear the happy parts.”
L
ater that night, Jimmy lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He remembered Alfred Walker kissing the thousand-dollar first prize. Grandpa didn't fish so he could win money, but because he loved to fish. Jimmy wondered if Hal, Pete, and the other player who wanted to get paid a thousand dollars after the Dake County game loved football or money.
D
ADDY HAD PLAYED FOOTBALL FOR
C
OACH
N
IXON AND
explained to Jimmy that the first week of high school football practice was devoted to physical conditioning. During the second week, the coaches began to evaluate the players and identify their strengths and weaknesses. Coach Nixon wanted all defensive players, even linemen, to be quick on their feet. An agile player could dodge a block or run around a slower offensive lineman and disrupt the rhythm needed for an offense to move the ball. Coach Nixon and Coach Bolton expected their defensive players to spend most of the game in the opposing team's backfield getting to know the quarterback and running backs on a helmet-to-helmet basis.
On the offensive side of the ball, Coach Nixon had a different point of view. He wasn't committed to either the running or passing game. If two big, fast running backs could be matched with a dominating offensive line, Cattaloochie County would grind down the opposition. If a talented quarterback could throw to a bevy of speedy receivers, the Captains would fill the west Georgia sky with passes. In either case, the opposing defense would be exhausted by the fourth quarter.
D
URING IDLE MOMENTS OF THE DAY,
J
IMMY FREQUENTLY HAD TO
remind himself that Grandpa was gone. Over and over, he caught himself starting to say something about Grandpa, then stopped. He'd lost his greatest cheerleader. Mama loved him, but Grandpa believed in his future.
At football practice, Jimmy tried to stay busy and not be sad. Daddy dropped Jimmy off early at the empty practice field.
“The coaches will be here in a minute,” Daddy said. “I have to be in federal court in Macon.”
“It's okay,” Jimmy replied as he closed the door of the car. “I can go to the locker room and wait.”
An underground sprinkler system watered the practice field during the night and, when combined with the dew, created a hazy carpet of silver moisture that reached from one end zone to the other. Jimmy took several steps onto the field. When he looked behind, he could see the dark spots left by his shoes.
Grandpa's death made Jimmy wonder about the future. He continued walking across the wet grass. Reaching midfield, he turned around again to see his footprints. He opened his eyes wide in amazement at the crooked path. He thought he'd taken a straight route to the fifty-yard line, but in fact he'd wandered in a zigzag pattern.
“I don't know where I've been until I
look back,” he said.
The prints reminded him of something Brother Fitzgerald liked to say on Sunday mornings. He said everyone should follow Jesus by staying on the straight and narrow way. Jimmy looked at the unspoiled grass before him and closed his eyes.
“Jesus, I need your help to walk on the straight and narrow way.”
He opened his eyes and stepped forward.
“Jimmy Mitchell!” a voice called out.
Jimmy looked up and saw Chris Meadows standing on the hill near the locker room. Over the past weeks, Jimmy's friendship with the head manager had continued to grow. Chris called Jimmy at home after Grandpa's death to tell him that he was sorry.
“Come up here! I need your help!” Chris yelled.
Jimmy ran across the grass without looking back. He was slightly out of breath when he reached the top of the hill.
“What were you doing down there standing in the middle of the field?” Chris asked.
“Thinking and praying.”
“Okay, whatever works for you,” Chris said. “We need to put together two uniforms. A couple of transfer students are going to be here today, and Coach Nixon left me a note to assemble equipment for them. One is a lineman and the other is a wide receiver. He gave me a list of the sizes they need for each part of their uniforms.”
“I know about the helmets,” Jimmy said.
“Did you get them all sorted?”
“Yes. I did it the day Hal, Pete, and another player came in. They talked about the Dake County game.”
“Dake won't be a problem this year,” Chris said. “They barely beat us last year after a stupid fumble at the end of the game. Since then, they lost a bunch of seniors. Your buddy Max Cochran and the junior varsity could give them a good game.”
They reached the dented double doors leading to the locker room. Made of metal, the doors were painted in the school colors: one gold and one blue. Chris had a set of keys as big as the ones carried by Mr. Lancaster, the janitor who worked at the First Baptist Church. He unlocked the door. A sour smell lingered in the air of the large room.
“It stinks in here,” Chris said. “Open the vents above the lockers while I turn on a couple of floor fans.”
Jimmy stood on a stool and pushed open the long, narrow windows over the lockers. The sweet smell of fresh air drifted in.
“You did a good job organizing the helmets!” Chris called out from the equipment room. “We need to get everything to their lockers before practice this morning.”
Jimmy returned the stool to its place beside a large grease board used by the coaches to diagram plays. In the equipment room, he found Chris making two piles of uniform items and equipment.
“Coach Nixon will let a player pick his number if it's not already taken. This player wanted eighty-one,” Chris said. “Why do you think he would pick that number?”
Jimmy stopped and thought a moment before picking up the pile. “A player whose grandpa is eighty-one years old. If he's wearing jersey number eighty-one, his grandpa will be able to see him on the field and know that his grandson loves him.”
Chris shook his head. “The real reason is that he's a wide receiver, but I like yours better.”
It took two trips for Jimmy to put everything in locker eighty-one. He hung up the practice jersey and football pants and placed the helmet on a smaller shelf at the top of the locker. Coach Nixon insisted that the players keep their lockers neat. Jimmy could have opened almost any locker in the room and found everything in the correct place. He returned for the second player's equipment.
“According to the uniform, this guy is huge,” Chris said.
Jimmy looked at the pile. Shoulder pads, football pants, and helmet. He looked inside the helmet and saw the number. It was the biggest one in the equipment room. Jimmy put it on. It swallowed his head.
“You'd have room for two of your heads in that one,” Chris observed. “This guy is going to be number fifty-one. Why would he get that number? It's probably too old for one of his parents and too young for a grandparent.”
Jimmy picked up the massive shoulder pads. They hung down to the ground. “That's easy. Mama says that big parents have big children. Maybe this player's father played football and had number fifty-one on his jersey. His son wants the same number.”
Chris's mouth dropped open. “Whoever says you're retardedâ”
Jimmy stepped back as if he'd been hit in the stomach. He turned and ran from the equipment room. He heard Chris's uneven steps behind him. Jimmy reached the doorknob and yanked the door open. Chris reached him, put his hand against the door, and slammed it shut.
“I want to go outside,” Jimmy said, his voice trembling.
“I'm sorry,” Chris said, continuing to lean against the door. “That was wrong for me to say. It's not true. You already do a better job than the boy who worked with me last year. You're going to be one of the best managers ever.”
Jimmy looked away and held on to the doorknob. Chris put his hand on Jimmy's shoulder.
“Please, come back so we can finish. Don't you think I know what it's like to be different? People have always called me names and made fun of me behind my back.”
Keeping his head down, Jimmy released his grip on the door.
“From now on, I promise to be careful what I say,” Chris added. “Don't you want to keep being a manager?”
Jimmy glanced sideways. “Yes.”
“Why didn't you say âyes, sir'?”
“Because you're not an adult.”
Chris smiled. “Correct. And I bet you're also right about number fifty-one.”
J
IMMY'S HURT DIDN'T LINGER.
B
Y THE TIME THE COACHES
and players began to arrive, his outlook had brightened with the morning sun. He started filling up coolers with ice from the ice machine located near the front door.
“Good morning, Jimmy,” Coach Nixon said when he passed by.
“Good morning,” Jimmy replied.
Each of the coaches either spoke a greeting or patted him on the back as they entered the room. Chris brought over two more empty orange coolers.
“These are the last two,” he said.
“You were right,” Jimmy responded. “I'm doing a good job as manager. The coaches like me.”
Coach Nixon stepped over to the grease board and blew his whistle. The sound was loud in the full locker room.
“Listen up!” Coach Bolton barked. “Coach Nixon wants your full attention.”
The players, some in full uniform, others partially dressed, stopped and turned toward the head coach. Coach Nixon didn't speak until everyone in the room was quiet.
“We have two new players with us this morning,” he began. “One is a transfer from Villa Rica. Some of you may remember number eighty-one and the seventy-five-yard touchdown pass he caught when we played them last year. His family has moved to Cattaloochie County, and we expect double that from him when we play Villa Rica in October. This year he's going to be wearing number eighty-one for us. Stand up, David Noonan.”
A lean black teenager stood and smiled. The players around him pounded him on the shoulder pads in greeting.
“Our other transfer student isn't as quick on his feet as Noonan, but if he hits you once, you won't forget it. He played last year for San Marino High
School in California. He'll be wearing number fifty-one, the same number his father wore when he played professional football. Stand up, Zeke Thomson.”