Without Mom

Chapter 1

Six feet five inch Ricky Dunkirk, my best friend, tapped me on the shoulder in the hall by my locker at school.

David, he whispered to me. Here comes Glenn. I don’t like that creep, but say hi to him since he bothers you so much. You never know. Just once he might be nice to you.

I didn’t say hi. Today, just like every other time we passed each other in the hall or lunch room, Glenn Samson looked straight ahead, no hi and no bye. I did what I always thought my tenth grade enemy expected and ignored him, too. I don’t know why this ritual upset me, but Ricky was right. It always did.

I hadn’t liked Glenn since first grade because he didn’t like me. Now in the ninth grade, I still didn’t know why. Maybe Glenn looked down his nose because he was a year older. Another reason I didn’t like him, though I hated to admit it, was jealousy.

Glenn was the most popular boy around. He made straight A’s, was the president of the tenth grade class at Heather Heights High School, and he’d won the spelling bee. Naturally, all the teachers and the principal, Ms. Hathcock, loved him. Besides all that, he was the best athlete in the school. He could run faster than any Heather Heights Highlander—including the eleventh and twelfth graders. His best sport was football, despite being a little guy at five feet nine inches—which was two inches taller than me.

Two weeks later, during the city championship against the Western Hills Bulldogs, on a chilly, November, Friday, Ricky and I watched from the stands as Glenn showed his stuff. The Highlanders were down 15-17, with twelve seconds left in the game. Eric Mann, their six feet four inch placekicker, took his long-legged stance to try for a 42 yard field goal and win the game by one point.

The quarterback caught the ball snapped from the center and set in on the punting tee. Eric took two giant steps and swung his size twelve shoe at the leather. He overshot it and scraped the ball on his end step, sending it wobbling, three feet above the wall of offense and defense. A Bulldog jumped up and batted the ball to the turf.

Both teams scrambled after the pigskin, which bounced in all directions. A Bulldog scooped it up. No defender stood between the goal line and him. Only one player on the field could run faster. Glenn Samson, the smallest guy on the team, shot from behind, jarred the ball loose, and jerked it from the turf. Most of the players on both sides were seniors, but I knew that made no difference to Glenn.

Then the magic began.

He whirled around at the Highlander 30 yard line and darted head-on toward the pack of jerseys. Every other helmet on the field bobbed up and down as players scurried about, Highlanders blocking to open a path for their best player, Bulldogs racing for the ambush. Glenn’s helmet sailed with his body in one direction, straight down the field like a bullet, no wasted up-and-down movement.

But then, just before smashing into the first opponent, he cut to the right, running at top speed. It looked so easy, with no more effort than a person walking down a long hall and turning the corner. His tackler lurched into the air and missed, landing on his stomach.

Ten others raced after the athlete. Glenn ducked his compact but muscular body under lunging arms and jumped over fallen players, friends and foes alike. He faked with his head and body to send more Bulldogs diving into nothing but air, swerving and dodging at top speed a dozen times, like a pen ball in a computer game. Finally, he emerged from the pack and sprinted 20 yards toward the goal line. A Bulldog, five yards behind, chased after him. But Glenn was too quick. He leaned forward, churning his legs faster, into a blur, and crossed into the end zone eight yards ahead of the guy for the winning touchdown. The Highlanders, under his leadership, became the city champs.

Glenn’s team went wild. The bench emptied to join the players on the field. They surrounded him, jumping up and down and banging into each other. Chuck Copeland and Josh Hendricks, two huge goons that each stood about six and a half feet tall and seemed to make up half the defensive line all by themselves, hoisted their hero into the air, rested him on their shoulders, and carried him to the sidelines.

But one guy stood a few feet behind the mound of players that mobbed Glenn. I watched from the stands as Eric fumbled around by himself with his head down. Finally, Glenn emerged from the pack and patted him on the shoulder. I wished I could hear their conversation as these two friends stood alone on the field after the rest of the team headed for the showers.

It seemed like more than a pep talk from Glenn. Eric shook his head two separate times after taking off his helmet. And I thought his eyes looked different: no longer just angry, as always, but scared, like the eyes of someone with a secret.

I left the stands thinking Glenn can do anything, and I hated him for it. I made mostly Cs, except in English and Math, where I excelled. I wasn’t popular. In sports, I did better than most of the guys, but couldn’t beat Glenn at anything. Nothing seemed to go my way, especially since my mother died.

Monday morning at school almost made me sick. Chuck and Josh rounded the corner of the main hall by the office. Glenn, almost a foot shorter, walked between them.

Mr. Johnson, my math teacher, stood in the office door as they passed by. Hey, guys, he yelled, great game. You had a terrific run, Glenn.

Several students and teachers crowded the hall, getting ready for eight o’clock classes. I watched in envy as they patted the athletes on the back and told them how great they were. They really complimented Glenn, straining to touch him as he sauntered along between the twin towers.

My best friend Ricky, 275 pounds of muscle, who refused to play football, stood next to my locker and looked down at me.

I grabbed my math book and frowned up at his head, which stood about nine inches closer to the ceiling. Frizzy brown hair that stuck out in all directions surrounded his long face. Makes you want to throw up, doesn’t it? I asked.

Ricky took another look as the crowd showered the trio with praise. Yeah, he said, and it ain’t just the other students. I’m surprised the teachers ain’t rolled out the red carpet and got down on their knees so they can kiss Glenn’s feet.

I wonder where Eric Mann is. I said.

Probably hiding out, after that rotten performance he done put in.

That’s what I liked about my best friend. How he felt always came out of his mouth—often with bad grammar—but always the truth. No one ever had to guess his mind. And he was as loyal as my old dog that died last week. Only one problem sometimes got in the way. When Ricky felt strongly about something, he’d get mad if I didn’t agree. That was the flip side of his loyalty.

I’m glad we won, I said, but everyone goes nuts and forgets about the rest of us. The tennis courts haven’t been resurfaced in years.

Why not?

No money. I pointed down the hall at the football procession, now forty feet away. It all goes to those guys.

So that’s the way it went until spring: great success for Glenn and no success for me. Meanwhile, I had to listen to it over and over. Glenn and the Highlanders were the city champs, Glenn and the Highlanders were the city champs, Glenn and the Highlanders…

When would it ever end?

Chapter 2

In late February, the time came for the track team tryouts. As a fast runner, I figured, why not? I’d grown tired of tennis even though I’d only swung a racquet for one year. I guess that was my trouble. Since my mother died two years ago, nothing kept me interested long enough to get any good at it. Besides Ricky, Mom was the only person who’d ever believed in me.

Glenn was captain of the track team. He threw the shot put and ran in the 100 yard dash and 440 relay. I figured I just might beat him in the hundred. Since Glenn didn’t play tennis, I knew I’d never get a chance to show him up on the courts.

In the gym locker room, on the other side of the football field and track from the field house where Glenn reigned as king, the guys changed into track clothes. Most wore red or blue shorts with white stripes running down the sides. I slipped into my white shorts.

Ha ha ha. Look at Sinclair. Josh Hendricks, cocaptain of the football goon squad always used my last name. He also threw the shot put during track season. Are you in your underwear or what? Laughter from several boys echoed off the floor and concrete block walls.

At five feet, seven inches tall, and 130 pounds, I cringed. Josh, an eleventh grader, stood at six and a half feet and carried a hundred more pounds. His nose was bigger than any I had ever seen.

They’re Olympic shorts, I said. They’re made for running.

Josh pointed. But they’re so baggy. Do you want all the girls to catch you in your underwear? More laughter filled the locker room.

Glenn strolled in. I figured he’d join in the kidding. Glenn carried only about thirty more pounds, and two more inches of height than me, but I knew he could beat up Josh if he had to. I’d seen him beat up a guy almost as big as this goon just last month.

Look at that, Josh said, pointing at his victim, Sinclair’s going to run the race in his underwear.

I braced myself, waiting for this popular guy to make fun of me, too.

Glenn reared his head back and squinted at the clothes. They’re Olympic shorts.

The laughter stopped. Josh’s dropped mouth almost revealed his tonsils.

Yeah, Glenn said again, they’re Olympic shorts.

I couldn’t believe it. My old enemy since first grade had stuck up for me. And it wasn’t just anybody. It was Glenn Samson, the star athlete of the whole school—the one person all the boys looked up to and admired. I wanted to thank him, but I didn’t know how Glenn would take it since we’d ignored each other all our lives. Why had Glenn backed me now? No one else said another word about the shorts. I knew no one would ever go against Glenn Samson about athletics.

Out on the field, we stretched and warmed up for our events. I worked up the nerve to speak to Glenn, noticing all those overdeveloped muscles covering tanned skin on his little body. Thanks for getting me out of that mess, I said.

Glenn bent over with legs straight, touching toes with his fingertips. He didn’t stop there. His waist stretched like a rubber band until he slapped the ground with his palms. Then his back straightened like a long piece of stout wood. He frowned down those two, crucial inches into my eyes.

Get out of here, David. I just told the truth, that’s all.

Glenn tore downfield for a practice run at top speed. I noticed his head. Again, it didn’t bob up and down like an engine piston, like the other boys’ heads. It seemed to glide along a pane of glass, shooting away with each thrust of powerful legs.

Twenty guys signed up for the 100 yard dash. Coach Nicholson only needed four on the team. I’m going to have four races, he said, holding up four, stubby fingers. Five boys in each race. The guy who wins each race gets a spot on the team.

The announcement came. I would run against Glenn and three other boys I didn’t know. My feelings were mixed. If I won, I’d be the new hero instead of Glenn, if not, the star athlete would get more pats on the back and I’d get more of nothing.

I approached the starting line and saw Glenn perched there already, placing his feet against the starting blocks, two pieces of wood each runner pushes away from at the beginning of the race. Glenn crouched into position as though he’d known the blocks since birth. Never having used them before, I took my spot next to Glenn, who offered no help, and knelt into position as best I could.

Come on, Glenn, I heard Josh Hendricks say.

Come on, David, Ricky said. You can beat that dumb old Samson. Glenn’s head snapped up. He glared at Ricky. Josh and Chuck glared, too, but no one said a word. Ricky didn’t play football so he wasn’t all that popular, but the whole school knew he was the toughest guy around. Even those two cocaptains of the goons, standing dumbfounded, seemed afraid of him.

I smiled, thinking how nice it was to be the best friend of the one man who could knock there heads off.

The buzzer sounded. Glenn’s muscles tensed as his legs uncoiled from the blocks and he tore down the track. The other two guys didn’t do quite as well, but jumped out ahead of me. I’d left the blocks last and leaned a little too far forward and stumbled when I took off.

Regaining my balance, I ran full force after the guys. Fifty yards down the track, Glenn was shooting fifteen yards ahead of the pack and still increasing his speed. The other two boys, running neck and neck, lumbered along five yards ahead of me. I dug in and ran faster than ever. At ninety yards, I passed them and took second place.

But Glenn had screamed across the finish line ten yards before I overtook the other boys. Chuck and Josh, along with several others, ran to the far end of the field to congratulate their star athlete.

Ricky ran over to me. Good job, he said. You had a little trouble coming out of them blocks, but you whipped them other two guys.

I was so winded I could barely talk. Thanks, I finally managed to say. I looked at Glenn and shook my head at the sight: everyone gawked and patted him on the back, just like in the hall after the football championship. And he seemed barely winded, though his speed had kept climbing as he crossed the finish line.

A few minutes later, the coach announced the members of next year’s track team. To no ones surprise, he mentioned Glenn first. I listened to the string of names that followed, though I knew I’d be left out.

Ricky placed a huge hand on my shoulder. It felt like a bear paw. Tough luck, he said. You were fast, but all them guys who made the team didn’t have no trouble with them blocks.

That’s something else good about Ricky. He usually says the right thing at the right time. I couldn’t help but smile. Then I looked over my shoulder at the mob again and my smile vanished. I just couldn’t shake off my hatred of Glenn Samson.

Chapter 3

After my second place showing in the 100 yard dash, and another celebration of Glenn, I couldn’t stand being a nobody any longer. I had to show him and everyone else that I could be the best. I’d always wanted to play on the football team. At my height and weight, the only spot that made any sense was placekicker. I’d get knocked off the field in any contact position.

Something else interested me about kicking the pigskin. I knew how to maximize my strength by using one muscle group after another.

Last week, I’d knocked a softball out of the park. I eyed the ball thrown by the pitcher while it arced toward the plate. At the last second, I thrust my muscles into motion, turning legs, buttocks, back, and arms into the pitch. The wooden bat slammed the ball, sounding like a home run in the big leagues. The ball sailed over the pitcher’s head, shot over the outfield, and cleared the center field fence by twenty feet. While I rounded the bases, I remembered a happier time over two years ago when my old man cared about something else besides drinking.

We used to play golf together before Mom died. I approached the tee on the ninth hole, having first walked the course only a year before. Everyone always complimented my smooth swing. Coordinated muscles went to work in tandem, twisting at the waist to turn my back and arms for the back