D. MacHale - SYLO

The service lasted a long time, with many people getting up to talk about what a great guy Marty was. I hadn’t known him that well because I was three years younger, but hearing the speeches made me truly sad that such a good guy had died…and that his last few moments had been so troubled.

Looking around, I scanned the faces of the people who had come to say goodbye. It was a gut-wrenching scene. Quinn sat next to me and his parents next to him. He hadn’t known Marty very well either, but in a small town, you showed up. My eyes wandered over the crowd to see the gaunt looks on so many familiar faces—

And one unfamiliar face. It was the surfer dude from the game. He stood in the back of the church, still wearing his hoodie and sunglasses.

I turned to Quinn and whispered, “Who is that guy standing in the back?”

Quinn twisted around to look and said, “What guy?”

“The guy with the—”

I turned to point him out, but the man was already gone.

“What more proof do you need that football is too dangerous?” Mom asked as we walked along Main Street toward home after the funeral service. “Young boys aren’t built to take that kind of punishment.”

Mom didn’t want me on the football team in the first place but had been outvoted two to one at the beginning of training camp. I had to hope that the situation hadn’t changed enough for her to convince Dad to rethink his vote…especially not since I had become the starting tailback with the chance to impress a girl in a tiny red bikini.

Dad said, “You’re overreacting, Stacy. I played organized ball for six years and lived to tell the tale.”

“And you’ve got an arthritic knee to show for it.”

“That’s not from football,” Dad countered.

“No? It sure didn’t come from jazz band.”

That was a good one but I didn’t laugh. I was on Dad’s side.

“Look,” Dad said. “Marty died and that’s horrible but it doesn’t mean we should keep Tucker from playing. Things happen. Heck, he could get hit by a bus tomorrow.”

“I hate that saying,” Mom groused.

“But it’s true,” Dad pressed. “People have to live their lives and do the things that make them happy. We’ve got to remember that.”

That seemed like an overly philosophical argument for such a simple issue but Dad was on a roll so I didn’t point it out.

“We moved here to make a better life,” Mom argued. “A safer life. You know that as well as I do.”

“I do,” Dad said. “But we still have to be who we are. If we can’t do that, then why are we here?”

The argument had gone from philosophical straight into weird.

“What was so unsafe about our lives before?” I asked. “I thought you just got fired and wanted a change.”

Mom and Dad exchanged looks and fell silent. It was like they had said too much and regretted it.

“Am I missing something?” I added.

“No,” Mom said, now calm. “I’m just…worried.”

“Jeez, Mom, it’s just football. It’s not like I’m going to war.”

That ended the argument. They both backed off without reaching a decision, which meant I was still cleared to play. But I was left with an uneasy feeling that had nothing to do with football. The idea that we had come to Pemberwick Island to get away from a life that was somehow unsafe was something I’d never imagined. It had an ominous ring, but I didn’t press the issue. I thought it best to leave well enough alone. I was still on the team and for that I was grateful….

Until the following Monday when practice began again.

Putting it simply, I got my brains beaten in.

“Pierce!” Coach screamed. “Don’t save it for the prom!”

Coach was full of colorful sayings that made little sense but got the point across. Up until then I had been flying under the radar as a glorified tackling dummy. Now I was the starting tailback trying to fill the shoes of an all-star. I felt like a little kid playing with the big boys—because that’s exactly what I was. And the big boys wanted to hurt me.

“Rip, knock-six on two,” our QB called in the huddle.

It was an off-tackle handoff to me. The same play that Marty ran for a touchdown. His last. We came up to the line, got set, the quarterback barked, “Go!” and I launched forward. It was a perfect handoff, right into my gut. I wrapped my arms around the ball, kept my head up, and charged ahead. Running through the hole, I planted and cut for the sidelines. I was ready to turn on the afterburners when I got hit so hard I saw colors. The next thing I knew I was on the ground with Kent Berringer looking down at me through his face mask.

“Olivia’s here to watch you get your ass kicked,” he said with a smile.

I hated hearing that, which was probably why he told me. I staggered to my feet and trotted back to the huddle. A quick glance to the sideline showed Olivia standing there wearing white short-shorts and a blue halter top. She gave me a wave and a sympathetic smile. Swell. I had an audience for my undoing.

“Quit fiddle-farting around, Pierce!” Coach shouted. “Stick your shoulders in there and keep your legs pumping.”

Shoulders…pumping…farting. Got it.

It was a trial by fire and I was getting burned. Kent had the defense all riled up and raring to get out their frustrations—on me. I didn’t get any sympathy from the offense, either. They had lost their captain and all they had to replace him was an inexperienced freshman. I wanted to believe they were making an effort to block for me, but it sure seemed as though I was taking an above-average pounding.

Mercifully, practice came to an end before I was knocked unconscious. Coach gathered us together to congratulate us on a good workout and to let us know we’d be playing the rest of the season in honor of Marty. That brought on a big cheer.

“We were dealt a bad hand,” he said. “But we’ll do the best we can with it.”

I wasn’t sure if the bad hand was because Marty had died or because they were stuck with a pathetic running back to replace him. Probably both.

As we left the field, none of the players acknowledged the fact that I had so valiantly withstood a brutal pounding. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Rooks didn’t get respect, no matter what the circumstances.

Olivia was already gone. Just as well. Neither of us would have known what to say.

When I got home I was exhausted, and sore, and embarrassed, and I had homework, and, and, and—the whole situation had me ready to explode. So after dinner I got out of the house and went for a walk to clear my head. I didn’t want to go anywhere near downtown for fear I’d run into some football fan who would remind me of how inadequate I was. Instead I headed for the beach. One of the great things about living on an island is that you’re never far from the water.

The sun cast a warm red glow on the ocean and lit up a ribbon of thin clouds that stretched across the horizon for as far as I could see. I had gone there to clear my head, but looking out over the ocean reminded me of the exploding shadow. By now over a week had gone by and no information had come out about what it was. There was a short article in the local paper that talked about “two local boys” who witnessed the strange event, but that was it. All week the paper had been filled with articles about Marty. Nobody cared about what Quinn and I had seen.

We had both gotten phone calls from the Coast Guard and were asked to repeat the story, but they didn’t have any more information to offer back. It was the same as Sheriff Laska had said on the night of the explosion: No boats or planes were reported missing. It was beginning to look as though Dad was right. The military might have been performing some secret tests.