bus while every academic club carpooled with their parents. For years the girls had no softball field, while we had not one but two practice fields. The Latin Club qualified for a trip to New York but couldn’t afford it; the same year the football team took the train to watch the Super Bowl in New Orleans. The list is endless.Rake’s firing made these complaints louder. The folks who wanted to deemphasize sports saw their opportunity. The football bubbas resisted; they just wanted Rake and another streak. Those of us who played, then went to college and were considered somewhat enlightened, got caught in the middle.”
“What happened?”
“It smoldered and festered for months. John Reardon stood firm. He found some lost soul from Oklahoma who wanted to coach, and hired him as the successor to Eddie Rake. Unfortunately, ’93 was reelection year for Reardon, so the whole mess turned into one huge political brawl. There was a strong rumor that Rake himself would run against Reardon. If he got elected, he would anoint himself Coach again and tell the whole world to go to hell. There was a rumor that Scotty’s father would spend a million bucks to reelect John Reardon. And so on. The race was ugly before it started, so ugly that the Rake camp almost couldn’t find a candidate.”
“Who ran?”
“Dudley Bumpus.”
“The name sounds promising.”
“The name was the best part. He’s a local real estate swinger who’d been a big mouth in the boosters. No political experience, no educational experience, barely finished college. Only one indictment, no conviction. A loser who almost won.”
“Reardon held on?”
“By sixty votes. The turnout was the largest in the county’s history, almost ninety percent. It was a war with no prisoners. When the winner was announced, Rake went home, locked the door, and hid for two years.”
They stopped at a row of headstones. Paul walked along them, looking for someone. “Here,” he said, pointing. “David Lee Goff. The first Spartan to die in Vietnam.”
Neely looked at the headstone. There was an inlaid photograph of David Lee, looking all of sixteen years old, posing not in an Army uniform or a senior portrait, but in his green Spartan jersey, number 22. Born in 1950, killed in 1968. “I know his youngest brother,” Paul was saying. “David Lee graduated in May, entered boot camp in June, arrived in Vietnam in October, died theday after Thanksgiving. Eighteen years and two months old.”
“Two years before we were born.”
“Something like that. There was another one who hasn’t been found yet. A black kid, Marvin Rudd, who went missing in action in 1970.”
“I remember Rake talking about Rudd,” Neely said.
“Rake loved the kid. His parents still come to every game, and you wonder what they’re thinking.”
“I’m tired of death,” Neely said. “Let’s go.”
______________
Neely couldn’t remember a bookshop in Messina, nor a place to get an espresso or buy coffee beans from Kenya. Nat’s Place now provided all three, along with magazines, cigars, CDs, off-color greeting cards, herbal teas of dubious origin, vegetarian sandwiches and soups, and a meeting place for drifting poets and folksingers and the few wanna-be bohemians in the town. It was on the square, four doors down from Paul’s bank, in a building that sold feed and fertilizer whenNeely was a kid. Paul had some loans to make, so Neely explored by himself.
Nat Sawyer was the worst punter in the history of Spartan football. His average yards per kick had set record lows, and he fumbled so many snaps that Rake would normally just go for it on fourth and eight, regardless of where the ball was. With Neely at quarterback, a good punter was not a necessity.
Twice, during their senior year, Nat had somehow managed to miss the ball with his foot entirely, creating some of the most watched video footage in the program’s history. The second miss, which was actually two misses on the same
“What happened?”
“It smoldered and festered for months. John Reardon stood firm. He found some lost soul from Oklahoma who wanted to coach, and hired him as the successor to Eddie Rake. Unfortunately, ’93 was reelection year for Reardon, so the whole mess turned into one huge political brawl. There was a strong rumor that Rake himself would run against Reardon. If he got elected, he would anoint himself Coach again and tell the whole world to go to hell. There was a rumor that Scotty’s father would spend a million bucks to reelect John Reardon. And so on. The race was ugly before it started, so ugly that the Rake camp almost couldn’t find a candidate.”
“Who ran?”
“Dudley Bumpus.”
“The name sounds promising.”
“The name was the best part. He’s a local real estate swinger who’d been a big mouth in the boosters. No political experience, no educational experience, barely finished college. Only one indictment, no conviction. A loser who almost won.”
“Reardon held on?”
“By sixty votes. The turnout was the largest in the county’s history, almost ninety percent. It was a war with no prisoners. When the winner was announced, Rake went home, locked the door, and hid for two years.”
They stopped at a row of headstones. Paul walked along them, looking for someone. “Here,” he said, pointing. “David Lee Goff. The first Spartan to die in Vietnam.”
Neely looked at the headstone. There was an inlaid photograph of David Lee, looking all of sixteen years old, posing not in an Army uniform or a senior portrait, but in his green Spartan jersey, number 22. Born in 1950, killed in 1968. “I know his youngest brother,” Paul was saying. “David Lee graduated in May, entered boot camp in June, arrived in Vietnam in October, died theday after Thanksgiving. Eighteen years and two months old.”
“Two years before we were born.”
“Something like that. There was another one who hasn’t been found yet. A black kid, Marvin Rudd, who went missing in action in 1970.”
“I remember Rake talking about Rudd,” Neely said.
“Rake loved the kid. His parents still come to every game, and you wonder what they’re thinking.”
“I’m tired of death,” Neely said. “Let’s go.”
______________
Neely couldn’t remember a bookshop in Messina, nor a place to get an espresso or buy coffee beans from Kenya. Nat’s Place now provided all three, along with magazines, cigars, CDs, off-color greeting cards, herbal teas of dubious origin, vegetarian sandwiches and soups, and a meeting place for drifting poets and folksingers and the few wanna-be bohemians in the town. It was on the square, four doors down from Paul’s bank, in a building that sold feed and fertilizer whenNeely was a kid. Paul had some loans to make, so Neely explored by himself.
Nat Sawyer was the worst punter in the history of Spartan football. His average yards per kick had set record lows, and he fumbled so many snaps that Rake would normally just go for it on fourth and eight, regardless of where the ball was. With Neely at quarterback, a good punter was not a necessity.
Twice, during their senior year, Nat had somehow managed to miss the ball with his foot entirely, creating some of the most watched video footage in the program’s history. The second miss, which was actually two misses on the same
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