Muckers by Sandra Neil Wallace

won’t slip. It’s bad enough on dry days, but after a monsoon, Hell’s Corner can suck you deep into the mountain, twisting knees and ending seasons, not caring which team you’re on.
    “Rally sons of Hatley High. Sing her glory, sound her fame. Raise her Orange and Black!”
Rabbit walks in singing our fight song, which Notre Dame stole off us, and wearing the token sweater Coach Hansen gave him for being sucha good sport, writing those articles about us in the
Pick & Shovel
.
    “How’s traffic out there?” Cruz jokes.
    “I’d say you could shoot a cannon from here to the post office and you wouldn’t hit anybody,” Rabbit says.
    “They’re all at the field already?” I can’t believe it.
    “Last I heard was nearly five hundred,” Rabbit says. “My dad ran out of French loaf already. And Beebe’s not even in her cheerleader outfit yet. She had to ask Angie to help collect the two bits for admission just to keep up.”
    “Rah! Rah! For Hatley High!”
Cruz wiggles his hips and whistles, following the curves of some imaginary gal with his hands, but I know it’s Beebe. “We’re not even there yet, Ugly. And already they’re dying to see us.”
    Rabbit hands us each a copy of the
Pick & Shovel
.
    “You wrote about the game already?” Cruz asks.
    “I wrote an
essay
about the game,” Rabbit says.
    “Good.” Cruz nods. “Keep writing essays and acting smart so you won’t get drafted when you turn nineteen come December. And don’t grow. They’re not looking for soldiers the size of eighth graders.”
    Rabbit ignores Cruz and gets out his notebook, drawing a line with his pencil to split up the page. “You nervous, Red?” he says. “ ’Cause it’s okay to be nervous. Gosh, if I was you I’d probably screw up the first play.”
    “You write about that and your fingers’ll be taped up for a year,” Cruz warns him.
    As if I didn’t know that I can’t screw up this year.
    I take the half burrito, kick the trash can open with my cleats, and shove it in, plate and all. I’m no charity case. And I don’t need anyone acting ornery—not Cruz, not Rabbit, not my pop. Or feeling sorry for me either. I’m the first-stringquarterback for Hatley High. The second O’Sullivan to be one. Coach says I’ve even got the same arm as Bobby. That my skills are similar, only I’m shorter. And maybe even a little bit quicker. Not as strong, though, but just as accurate.
    We’ll find out by the end of the night.
    * * *
    7:00 P.M .
    It’s impossible to cut through the line of cars, the chrome grilles are bunched so close together they’re nearly touching. Not even Francisco can squeeze through on Paradiso. And the spots behind the goalposts are already taken, so I don’t know where the Rim Valley cars are going to park.
    Our bleachers are full, too, though kickoff’s an hour away. Even the drag-ons that can seat a couple hundred extra: pretty much old ladies and little kids spreading out blankets to save seats before climbing down to get ice cream. But mostly Mucker people standing with their arms folded, waiting for us to score.
    Rabbit’s sitting by the water jugs stuffing his face with a hunk of French loaf so I guess Mr. Palermo found some more bread. What I wouldn’t do for a piece of that right now. I haven’t eaten anything and Cruz was right, that was stupid. My head’s pounding inside like a tom-tom and my hands go all clammy, but my face is burning up and the sun isn’t helping.
    It’s barely starting to dip behind the mountain. Shafts of light are streaking onto the field and I have to cup my hands to see it from here, the outline of the miners’ hospital. Its clay-colored roof is shaded brown, but the rest is blurred together so I can’t make out stories or balconies or where Maw’s window is.
    Maw used to be the first one at these games, tying markers on the bleachers with her handkerchiefs—some black, some orange—and me hauling a hamper full of soda-bread