Read Online Don't Worry About the Kids by Jay Neugeboren - Free Book Online

and I wondered for a second if this was really what Mr. Marcus intended—if he’d only wanted to get us angry enough to go out and play hard-nosed football during the second half.
    â€œThat was a most interesting speech, Mr. Marcus.” Some of the boys started to stand up. “Sit, boys. Please. Sit—” Dr. Hunter said. “You’ve been playing hard and you need the rest.” He smiled, and when he did I looked at Mr. Marcus and the anger in his eyes made me imagine for a split second what my father’s eyes might have looked like when he was moving in for a ball on the handball court, moving in to kill it. “I just wanted to wish you luck for the second half, boys. I know you’ll do your best.”
    Mr. Marcus muttered something under his breath.
    â€œWhat was that?” Dr. Hunter asked.
    â€œNothing I haven’t said in other words,” Mr. Marcus answered.
    â€œFine, fine—well, I’ll leave you to your discussion.”
    Dr. Hunter left. Mr. Marcus waited a few seconds, then started off toward the playing field. “Follow me, girls,” he said. “Don’t be scared, now—”
    The guys really hated him then, and during the second half they showed it. By the fourth quarter, when almost all the parents had stopped watching, they’d called their girlfriends over and were standing with them, wisecracking and showing off. One or two of them even took drags on cigarettes and necked with their girlfriends. It hardly affected Mr. Marcus. He just kept yelling at us and mocking us and he was true to his word about putting everybody into the game. For their part, the St. Dominick’s team kept coming. At the time I would have given anything, I think, to have been one of them. And I kept hoping, all through the second half, that before the end of the game one of them would speak to me—would say something about how hard I was playing, about how I was hanging in there—would make some gesture toward me. None of them did.
    When the game was over, Charlie Gildea and I were the only players who stayed on the field and shook hands with them. I shook hands with as many of them as I could, even though they hardly seemed interested. They huddled at the far end of the field, gave us a 2-4-6-8 cheer, then walked to their bus and left. The final score was 54 to o.
    After I got dressed in my regular clothes, my gray flannel slacks and blue Fowler blazer, I went back to the field to look for my mother. Most of the parents were gone by now, and I couldn’t find Mother anywhere. I walked over to the school building, and went inside, but it was deserted and her homeroom was locked. I came back outside—the sky was starting to turn orange from the sun—and, scared suddenly of being left alone, I found myself wondering for a second if she’d gone off with some other guy’s father, if maybe one of them was divorced or a widower and if they were already sitting together in some plush lounge, having cocktails. I kicked at the ground and then got angry with her for not having told me where she’d gone, and for making me think such stupid thoughts and see such stupid pictures in my head. Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might think things like that if you went off and left me alone? I wanted to shout at her. Didn’t it? Didn’t it…?
    Mr. Marcus saw me walking across the field, and he called to me and asked if I wanted a ride home with him. He had an old 1966 green Dodge Dart, and when I sat next to him we didn’t say anything to each other. He smoked one cigarette after another, and since I’d never seen him smoke at school or practice, I was surprised. I gave him directions to our house, and when we got there I was relieved to see Mother’s car in the driveway, and lights on in the kitchen. I asked Mr. Marcus if he wanted to come inside. I told him Mother could make us some coffee or hot