the hallways.
“Great game, Joe!”
“Keep it up and this time we’ll get to state!”
“Nice slap shot!”
Mr. Eggert compared my back-checking to art.
“You might think of dancers when you hear the word
choreography,
” he told the class at the beginning of the period, “but there’s poetry in motion in a sport well played, as evidenced by our Mr. Andreson.”
He raised the chalk eraser as if it was a glass of wine he was toasting me with, and I ducked my head in embarrassment and pleasure.
During our next game, against Southwest, my line was able to hold off Darryl Sobota, who, last season, had been the third-highest scorer in the state. I also intercepted a rebound and took the puck up the rink and shot into the top shelf of the net. It was to be the only goal of the game, and after the Bull fans counted down the last ten seconds on the clock, they went nuts.
My teammates circled around me.
“Fuckin’ Bobby Orr, man,” said Wilkerson, smacking my helmeted head with his own.
“Glad you left fuckin’ Hooterville for the big time,” said Olsen, smacking my pads with his stick.
“Great game, Joe,” said Blake Erlandsson, smacking my back with his hands as he bear-hugged me.
The next day during morning announcements, Mr. Brietmayer congratulated the team and me in particular, and when everyone in my homeroom erupted in applause, I thought,
I could get used to this.
We won the next four games and I was pretty convinced that the world was my oyster, especially one night after practice when Kristi Casey stopped by.
We were all at the piano when the doorbell rang.
“Collection,” I said. As a former paperboy, I recognized a certain persistence to the ring.
Beth sighed as she got up. “I’m going to call his mother and tell him she shouldn’t allow him to collect after dark.”
As she wondered aloud where she left her purse, my mother and I got back to singing “Till There Was You.”
We sang every verse, and when we were done, I assumed the applause I heard behind me was my aunt’s.
“Come on, Miss Channing,” I said, riffing a little on the introduction to “Before the Parade Passes By.” “We’re ready for your solo.”
The laugh I heard was not my aunt’s, and as I turned toward its source, a wave of heat torched my face, singeing my hairline and blistering my ears.
“Hey, Joe,” said Kristi, baring her crocodile smile.
“Hey, Kristi,” I answered, the thrill I felt from her standing in my living room (why was she standing in my living room?) slapped down by the mortification I felt knowing she had seen me sitting around the piano with my mother, playing Broadway show tunes, for Christ’s sake.
“I didn’t know you played piano.”
“Well, my mom
is
a music teacher,” I said, as if apologizing. “She sort of made me.”
“Nonsense,” said my mom, nudging me in an isn’t-he-silly gesture. “We couldn’t keep him away from the piano—even as a toddler, he’d climb up on the piano bench and try to pick out tunes with his chubby little fingers.”
Everyone laughed at this little item of interest while I, way past mortification now, brayed, “
Maaaa.
”
“So you guys sit around and sing together?” said Kristi, her smile not going anywhere. “Like in
The Sound of Music
?”
“Sure!” said my aunt. “In fact, I’ll bet Joe would be happy to put on his lederhosen if you asked him nicely.”
She held up her hands as if to fend off the look I gave her.
“Beth,” said my mother, getting off the piano bench, “why don’t we scrounge around the kitchen and see if we can find something to eat for these kids?” She patted Kristi’s shoulder before taking my aunt’s arm. “Take off your coat, dear, and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you,” said Kristi. “I’ll do that.”
I watched as she unbuttoned her pea coat and laid it on the couch, watched as she took off her wool hat and fluffed her hair, and I tried to breathe normally.
“So
“Great game, Joe!”
“Keep it up and this time we’ll get to state!”
“Nice slap shot!”
Mr. Eggert compared my back-checking to art.
“You might think of dancers when you hear the word
choreography,
” he told the class at the beginning of the period, “but there’s poetry in motion in a sport well played, as evidenced by our Mr. Andreson.”
He raised the chalk eraser as if it was a glass of wine he was toasting me with, and I ducked my head in embarrassment and pleasure.
During our next game, against Southwest, my line was able to hold off Darryl Sobota, who, last season, had been the third-highest scorer in the state. I also intercepted a rebound and took the puck up the rink and shot into the top shelf of the net. It was to be the only goal of the game, and after the Bull fans counted down the last ten seconds on the clock, they went nuts.
My teammates circled around me.
“Fuckin’ Bobby Orr, man,” said Wilkerson, smacking my helmeted head with his own.
“Glad you left fuckin’ Hooterville for the big time,” said Olsen, smacking my pads with his stick.
“Great game, Joe,” said Blake Erlandsson, smacking my back with his hands as he bear-hugged me.
The next day during morning announcements, Mr. Brietmayer congratulated the team and me in particular, and when everyone in my homeroom erupted in applause, I thought,
I could get used to this.
We won the next four games and I was pretty convinced that the world was my oyster, especially one night after practice when Kristi Casey stopped by.
We were all at the piano when the doorbell rang.
“Collection,” I said. As a former paperboy, I recognized a certain persistence to the ring.
Beth sighed as she got up. “I’m going to call his mother and tell him she shouldn’t allow him to collect after dark.”
As she wondered aloud where she left her purse, my mother and I got back to singing “Till There Was You.”
We sang every verse, and when we were done, I assumed the applause I heard behind me was my aunt’s.
“Come on, Miss Channing,” I said, riffing a little on the introduction to “Before the Parade Passes By.” “We’re ready for your solo.”
The laugh I heard was not my aunt’s, and as I turned toward its source, a wave of heat torched my face, singeing my hairline and blistering my ears.
“Hey, Joe,” said Kristi, baring her crocodile smile.
“Hey, Kristi,” I answered, the thrill I felt from her standing in my living room (why was she standing in my living room?) slapped down by the mortification I felt knowing she had seen me sitting around the piano with my mother, playing Broadway show tunes, for Christ’s sake.
“I didn’t know you played piano.”
“Well, my mom
is
a music teacher,” I said, as if apologizing. “She sort of made me.”
“Nonsense,” said my mom, nudging me in an isn’t-he-silly gesture. “We couldn’t keep him away from the piano—even as a toddler, he’d climb up on the piano bench and try to pick out tunes with his chubby little fingers.”
Everyone laughed at this little item of interest while I, way past mortification now, brayed, “
Maaaa.
”
“So you guys sit around and sing together?” said Kristi, her smile not going anywhere. “Like in
The Sound of Music
?”
“Sure!” said my aunt. “In fact, I’ll bet Joe would be happy to put on his lederhosen if you asked him nicely.”
She held up her hands as if to fend off the look I gave her.
“Beth,” said my mother, getting off the piano bench, “why don’t we scrounge around the kitchen and see if we can find something to eat for these kids?” She patted Kristi’s shoulder before taking my aunt’s arm. “Take off your coat, dear, and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you,” said Kristi. “I’ll do that.”
I watched as she unbuttoned her pea coat and laid it on the couch, watched as she took off her wool hat and fluffed her hair, and I tried to breathe normally.
“So
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