Read Bleachers for Free Online Page A

longer.”
    “My parents retired to Florida. I had no reason to come back.”
    “This is where you grew up. It’s home. Ain’t that a reason?”
    “Maybe for you.”
    “Maybe my ass. You got a lot of friends around here. Ain’t right to run away.”
    “Drink another beer, Mal,” Paul said.
    Silo quickly passed another one down, andMal grabbed it. After a minute, he said, “You got kids?”
    “No.”
    “How’s your knee?”
    “It’s ruined.”
    “Sorry.” A long drink. “What a cheap shot. You were clearly out of bounds.”
    “I should’ve stayed in the pocket,” Neely said, shifting his weight, wishing he could change the subject. How long would the town of Messina talk about the cheap shot that ruined his career?
    Another long drink, then Mal said softly, “Man, you were the greatest.”
    “Let’s talk about something else,” Neely said. He’d been there for almost three hours and was suddenly anxious to leave, though he had no idea where he might be going. Two hours earlier there had been talk of Mona Curry cooking dinner, but that offer had not been pursued.
    “Okay, what?”
    “Let’s talk about Rake,” Neely said. “What was his worst team?”
    All bottles rose at once as the group contemplated this.
    Mal spoke first. “He lost four games in ’76. Miss Lila swears he went into solitary confinement for the winter. Stopped goin’ to Mass. Refused to be seen in public. He put the team on a brutal conditionin’ program, ran ’em like dogs all summer, made ’em practice three times a day in August. But when they kicked off in ’77 it was a different team. Almost won state.”
    “How could Rake lose four games in one season?” Neely asked.
    Mal leaned back and rested on the row behind him. Took a swig. He was by far the oldest Spartan present, and since he hadn’t missed a game in thirty years he had the floor. “Well, first of all, the team had absolutely no talent. The price of timber shot up in the summer of ’76, and all the loggers quit. You know how they are. Then the quarterback broke his arm, and there was no backup. We played Harrisburg that year and never threw a pass. Makes it tough when they’re sendin’ all eleven on every play. It was a disaster.”
    “Harrisburg beat us?” Neely asked in disbelief.
    “Yep, the only time in the past forty-oneyears. And lemme tell you what those dumb sumbitches did. They’re leadin’ late in the game, big score, somethin’ like thirty-six to nothin’. The worst night in the history of Messina football. So they figure they’ve turned the corner in their sad little rivalry with us, and they decide to run up the score. With a coupla minutes to go, they throw a reverse pass on third and short. Another touchdown. They’re real excited, you know, they’re stickin’ it to the Messina Spartans. Rake kept his cool, wrote it down somewhere in blood, and went lookin’ for loggers. Next year, we’re playin’ Harrisburg here, huge crowd, angry crowd, we score seven touchdowns in the first half.”
    “I remember that game,” Paul said. “I was in the first grade. Forty-eight to nothing.”
    “Forty-seven,” Mal said proudly. “We scored four times in the third quarter, and Rake kept passin’. He couldn’t sub because he had no bench, but he kept the ball in the air.”
    “The final?” Neely asked.
    “Ninety-four to nothin’. Still a Messina record. The only time I’ve ever known Eddie Rake to run up a score.”
    The other group on the north end erupted in laughter as someone finished a story, no doubt about Rake or some long-ago game. Silo had become very quiet in the presence of the law, and when the moment was right he said, “Well, I need to be going. Call me, Curry, if you hear something about Rake.”
    “I will.”
    “See y’all tomorrow,” Silo said, standing, stretching, reaching for one last bottle.
    “I need a ride,” Hubcap said.
    “It’s that time of the night, huh, Silo?” Mal said. “Time for all good