Silverstein

All thirteen hundred people in Littleton were lining Main Street between Maple and fourth. I could hear the band playing way up ahead. We had won a CIF Championship Football Game yesterday, which was Friday, and today, Saturday, we were in a parade.

You never seen anything like this in Littleton. Nobody had.

Balloons, confetti, happy people, dogs barking, and little kids running into the street getting autographs. Store signs offered free haircuts, and free malted milkshakes to the team. Dr. Tim was offering free dental checkups not only to the boys on the team, but to the parents of the boys on the team. We were like returning conquerors

We had about nine cars in all. The first three in the front of the parade were brand new white convertibles donated by Angelton Dodge. All the cars in the front were packed with players. I was in the last car, which was painted lead, like the color you paint a car before you actually paint it.

I sat alone because nobody wanted to sit with me.

Marty Glenn had his brains knocked out in the second quarter and didn’t come back. Marty did most of the kicking all year. When I say “most”, I mean all of it. I was the back up kicker. They never used me, not once. Not until yesterday when they pretty much had to.

I wasn’t going to take part in the parade. If you had seen what happened yesterday you would understand. I missed a twelve yard field-goal.

Nobody would talk to me. You would think I was a Communist or for Gun Control or a Gay Rights sympathizer or something. Gus Wermen was driving the car and wore dark glasses even though it was dark out. I don’t know why Gus was driving, he obviously didn’t want to.

Gus made me wear sunglasses as well. And a big, floppy hat too. He said he didn’t want anyone to know who I was. He thought somebody might take a potshot at me and miss and kill him. He told me to duck down low in the seat, but I wasn’t going to do that. I sat on top of the seat and waved back at all the people. Up ahead people could hear bugles, and tubas, and trombones. Where I was sitting I could pretty much only hear Gus Wermen.

“How the hell could you have missed that field goal?” he kept asking. “My grandmother could’a made that fucking kick!”

I sat waving at all the happy people and tried not to let Gus ruin this for me. I figured I wasn’t really going to get a lot more chances to feel like a conquering hero, and decided I should make the most of it. I was glad for the sunglasses and the floppy hat though. Nobody knew who it was they were waving at.

“I mean, Silverstein,” said Gus, “You didn’t just miss the kick—you missed the whole ball! How the hell do you miss a whole fucking ball?”

“We’re number one!” I yelled at the crowd. “We’re number one!”

Everybody yeah-ed back at me and I held up my index finger, “We’re number Whaaaa—

And the car died.

Gus tried to start it back up. Weeeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeeeeee. Weeeeegt.

Nothing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked

“The fucking car won’t start!”

“I can see that the fucking car won’t start,” I said, “but what the hell’s wrong with it?”

People were hesitating a bit in their waving at me and beginning to just stare. Their facial expressions became less smiley and more peering. And then the pointing began and the murmuring.

Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeegt.

“Start the car…” I hissed.

Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeegt.

“Start the goddamn car, Gus!”

“I’m trying to start the goddamn car, Siverstein!”

Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeegt.

The other cars were all pulling ahead of us. The further away the lead cars got, the quieter it got where Gus and I were.

“That’s Silverstein!”

“That’s the kicker!”

“That’s the son-of-a-bitch almost lost the game for us!”

They started to close in tighter off the curbs.

Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeeeee. Weeeeeeegt.

I locked the back doors. It made no sense since I was in a convertible, but I locked them anyway.

The marching band sounded a thousand miles away.

People were now in the street on both sides of the car.

“My grandmother could have made that kick!” a big bald guy said, his saliva splattering my face.

I felt something wiz past my head; a tomato. It hit Gus right in the back of the neck.

I leaped out of the car and ran up the street. It was wide open up there because all the other cars were so far ahead. Then people were chasing me and screaming, “Get him!” and other people began trying to block my way. I zigged, and I zagged. One guy came in low and I jumped over him. Someone else came in high and I ducked under him.

I ran and I ran and finally caught up with the car carrying the coaches and I ran on past them as the crowd gave chase. I passed the third car, the second, the lead car and the motorcycle cop. I juked around the baton twirlers and through the marching band, and then I was home free, running like the wind.

Coach saw the whole thing. He asked me later if I ever thought about being a Kick Returner, or maybe a Split-End and I told him I’d have to think about it, but I can tell you right now, I’m done with football.

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