People are warm inside.
The season moved on, and we kept winning and improving. We were beating teams by scores like 40-12, 30-14, and 27-12. We went on to face the Foxboro Warriors who were also 5-0.
We stepped off the bus at Foxboro’s Ahern field and were gathered by television crews for interviews. We lost 13-15.
We won the rest of the season: 9 and 1. Super Bowl. Foxboro had gone undefeated. Rematch.
The hype brought our team closer together. Papers had a new article everyday.
The fronts of the middle sections on each side of Sullivan Stadium were filled. I made the tackle on the opening kick-off. Half-time score was 6-6.
We led 14-6 with 2:17 left in the 4th, but they scored two touchdowns in those final minutes. 14-18.
Our bus drove through the center of town on the way back to the high school. We were surprised by cheers from living-room windows and front porches. We didn’t expect to see anyone back at the high school after the loss, but the gym was filled.
I wiped my tears and hugged my mom. That was kind of the town.
Cold days of late December brought snow and ice to New England.
At least three times a week my hockey stick and skates went from the corner of my room into the back of my dad’s white Horizon, and to McKeon Pond about five minutes down the road. Stick went in the pile to choose five-a-team.
Sometimes the random teams were fair, but sometimes grossly mismatched creating a slaughter game. Good games ended with kids yelling, “Same teams!”
These day-games were where we all got to get after it; night-time skate was only a few of us - where we got to chill. Jim and I were usually last out, and the porch lights of the surrounding houses threw shadows of the snow piles that us kids had cleared off the ice after the last snowfall. When Jim and I skated on the pond at night, unable to see the black tape on the stick blades, we forgot about school and money and parents.
I went to college in Boston on a Navy ROTC scholarship. I didn’t hate or want to go to war; I had to look up Iraq on a map. I wanted to pay for college and get a job.
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Freshman year, I wore my uniform home for my parents to see.
On the T, passengers looked at me - unnerving for a shy guy from the suburbs. Between stations, an older guy gave me shit about going off to war. I was surprised, but ignored him. At the station for the train home, it happened again, but this time it was a guy not much older than me. I didn’t get it, but I ignored that guy too.
Entering my town’s station, I got up and stood by the train door. Mark, a kid I went to high school with, was standing there too. He smiled and said, “When’d this happen?” I just shrugged, “when I went to school.”
My friends and I took a trip to Mt. St. Anne for Columbus Day weekend. I remember an early snow had blanketed Old Quebec. The streets hadn’t been plowed because the snow was still falling. We got there late and found a bar a little after midnight. We walked in and felt every pair of eyes on us; it was obvious we were young guys from the States. Their eyes eased off us; my eyes glanced around: the place was full except for one, tiny, corner table across the room.
Five or six rounds later, the four of us were swaying, singing, and whooping along with our new family of drunk friends. The French singer played rock covers on his guitar and synth; the sound was loud for one guy. He had been drinking too and slurred forgotten, “I Saw Her Standing There” verses into a hum; we all helped him out on the lyrics with shouting smiles and sloshing glasses.
When the place finally closed, it took a while for everyone to make their way out into the street and spread. As we walked back to the hotel, I kicked a snowball that disappeared as it rolled and rolled across the cobblestones.
Last January I walked through Kenmore Square on my way back from Newbury Comics and Tower Records. The day was mild for winter; I wore my thin, black, Navy-issue, rain overcoat. People were everywhere because of the warm-for-January day. Three guys were hanging out by the concrete stairs next to Pizza Pad; two guys sat on the steps, and the third drifted around in front of them on the sidewalk.
The dude on the sidewalk was wearing layers of worn out clothes and a blue wool cap. As I got near, he flipped a penny from his right hand so that it flew above his head, he spun, and the penny landed in the palm of the same hand behind his back. He turned back to me, held out his open penny-palm toward me and said, “works every time…for a dime.” I laughed and dug around in my pockets; nothing, so I shrugged and smiled and walked away.
I sat in my dorm room doing a writing exercise about early memories. I pulled one from the kindergarten-years when I lived in North Dartmouth, Mass., near New Bedford. My father was in the Coast Guard, and I remember going down to the dock to see him at work where his ship was tied up. I was more impressed by the dock than the ship. My younger brother and sister and I would stand on the wooden dock and stare through the cracks at the green water below lapping at the thick support poles. Naturally we imagined there were sharks down there, and when it came time to cross the gangway to the ship, we gripped the metal railings extra tight.
When I lived in Cherry Hill, New Jersey during early elementary school, I had two close friends: one a year older, one a year younger. We all lived on the same street within three or four houses of each other. We would play Star Wars in backyards, ride dirt bikes on the trails where the jumps were in the woods behind the school out by the water treatment plant, and have sleep overs to stay up and watch Bill Murray or Eddie Murphy on Saturday Night Live.
Notes from Prof. Tropp: A good start. Needs more detail. B -