Read Tietam Brown for Free Online Page B

wasn’t through.
    â€œMaybe your coach ought to sit you on the bench, Bradford, how’s that sound? Yeah, sit you on the bench and let Jesus Christ take your place. Yeah, put Jesus in the goal, Bradford, how’s that sound?”
    Bradford thought for a second and then said what was on just about everybody’s mind. “Sir, I don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œYou don’t, Bradford?” Hanrahan said with a smile, and I could tell that he was just biding his time waiting for the perfect moment, looking for that cheap shot which had been his forte on the gridiron. “Well, you see I heard . . . that . . . Jesus saves! Get it? Jesus saves!”
    And with that the team roared and Hanrahan traded in his referee’s hat for a goalie’s stance, pretending to bat down shots while he yelled “Save, save.” He waited for the laughter to die down, which took a good while, as the sight of his huge body, his veins bulging like garden hoses through cantaloupe biceps, was actually quite funny to behold. Then he turned his gaze to Terri and focused it there, long enough for the entire class to sense tension. For Terri wasn’t laughing; to her the subject wasn’t a joke, a fact that wasn’t lost on the coach as he lowered his gaze from her face to her breasts. And kept it there. Then, while still staring, he said in a just barely audible voice, “Isn’t that right. Doesn’t he save? Just ask your father about Jesus. He’ll tell you.”
    He then looked up from her breasts and glared at her, savoring the discomfort that his words had caused. Quietly, with great restraint, Terri spoke. “Mr. Hanrahan, I would appreciate it if you would keep the subject of my family’s faith out of your classroom.”
    Hanrahan just stared, and Terri stared back, until he broke the silence at my expense. “Uh-oh, I’d better watch out or she’ll sic her boyfriend on me.” A cheap easy laugh. I grabbed for my quarters and held on to them tight as Hanrahan loaded more ammo and fired. “Hey Annie, there’s a thread hanging off your sleeve . . . Oh I’m sorry, that’s your arm!” He laughed with the class, hit a quick biceps pose, and then fired again. “Halloween’s coming up, Annie, maybe you can close one eye and go trick or treat as a needle.”
    He ruled it a touchdown, and then used both outstretched hands to high-five players, who all hailed their leader, until the bell rang, signifying enough blood had been let for one day. Hanrahan called for attention and yelled out his homework assignments, which he liked to term “Han Jobs.”
    â€œOkay, okay, class, you’ve got one week to complete the following Han Job. Give me a thousand words on the Emancipation Proclamation.” He then pointed to Russell Peterson, a child of African-American heritage, who in addition to being on the soccer team with Bradford also washed dishes with me twice a week at Frank ’n’ Mary’s, and said, “Peterson, I expect yours to be extra good. Let’s face it, without that proclamation you’d be picking cotton.”
    Terri charged out of the class and called for me to follow. Through the cafeteria and into the courtyard, where she let out a bona fide scream. She clenched her fists, opened, then clenched again, and tried to talk but just let out a breath of air. Then, regaining her composure, she said, “How could he, Andy, how could he?
    â€œHe’s met my father one time. Once. For dinner after last year’s big game. Hasn’t even stepped foot in the door of my father’s church. So where does he get the nerve to criticize him?”
    â€œTerri, if you can’t stand Hanrahan and you don’t like Clem Baskin and that bunch, why in the world do you cheer for their team?”
    She mulled it over for a second, because in reality I’d hit the nail on the head. Terri didn’t even