Bleachers Read Online Free PDF Page A

second?”
    “Forty-five, I think.”
    “Doesn’t sound like luck to me. Did you play in college?”
    “No, I weighed one-thirty with pads on.”
    “He was all-state for two years,” Paul said. “And still holds the record for return yardage. His momma just couldn’t fatten him up.”
    “I got a question,” Neely said. “I ran thirty-one laps and collapsed in pain. Then Rake cussed me like a dog. What, exactly, did he say when you finished with eighty-three?”
    Paul grunted and grinned because he’d heard the story. Jaeger shook his head and smiled. “Typical Rake,” he said. “When I finished, he walked by me and said, in a loud voice, ‘I thought you could do a hundred.’ Of course, this was for the benefit of the other players. Later, in the locker room, he said, very quietly, that it was a gutsy performance.”
    Two of the joggers left the track and walked up a few rows where they sat by themselves and stared at the field. They were in their early fifties, tanned and fit with expensive running shoes. “Guy on the right is Blanchard Teague,” Paul said, anxious to prove he knew everyone. “Our optometrist. On the left is Jon Couch, a lawyer. They played in the late sixties, during The Streak.”
    “So they never lost a game,” Jaeger said.
    “That’s right. In fact, the ’68 team was never scored on. Twelve games, twelve shutouts. Those two guys were there.”
    “Awesome,” Jaeger said, truly in awe.
    “That was before we were born,” Paul said.
    A scoreless season took a minute to digest. The optometrist and the lawyer were deep in conversation, no doubt replaying their glorious achievements during The Streak.
    “The paper did a story on Rake a few years after he was fired,” Paul said softly. “It ran all the usual stats, but also added that in thirty-four years he coached seven hundred and fourteen players. That was the title of the story—‘Eddie Rake and the Seven Hundred Spartans.’ ”
    “I saw that,” Jaeger said.
    “I wonder how many will be at his funeral?” Paul said.
    “Most of them.”
    Silo’s version of a beverage run included the gathering of two cases of beer and two other guys to help drink it. Three men emerged from his pickup, with Silo leading the way, a box of Budweiser on his shoulder. One bottle was in his hand.
    “Oh boy,” Paul said.
    “Who’s the skinny guy?” Neely asked.
    “I think it’s Hubcap.”
    “Hubcap’s not in jail?”
    “He comes and goes.”
    “The other one is Amos Kelso,” Jaeger said. “He played with me.”
    Amos was hauling the other case of beer, and as the three stomped up the bleachers Silo invited Orley Short and his pal to join them for a drink. They did not hesitate. He yelled at Teague and Couch, and they too followed them up to row thirty, where Neely and Paul and Randy Jaeger were sitting.
    Once the introductions were made and thebottles were opened, Orley asked the group, “What’s the latest on Rake?”
    “Just waiting,” Paul said.
    “I stopped by this afternoon,” Couch said gravely. “It’s just a matter of time.” Couch had an air of lawyerly importance that Neely immediately disliked. Teague the optometrist then provided a lengthy narrative about the latest advances of Rake’s cancer.
    It was almost dark. The joggers were gone from the track. In the shadows a tall gawky man emerged from the clubhouse and slowly made his way to the metal poles supporting the scoreboard.
    “That’s not Rabbit, is it?” Neely asked.
    “Of course it is,” Paul said. “He’ll never leave.”
    “What’s his title now?”
    “He doesn’t need one.”
    “He taught me history,” Teague said.
    “And he taught me math,” Couch said.
    Rabbit had taught for eleven years before someone discovered he’d never finished the ninth grade. He was fired in the ensuing scandal, but Rake intervened and got Rabbit reassigned asan assistant athletic director. Such a title at Messina High School meant he did nothing but take