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Authors: Andy Behrens
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football doesn’t interest you at all.”
“Well,” said Kevin, “honestly, that first thing probably won’t happen—I’m just being realistic, Coach Z. And the second thing
can’t
happen. No way. There would be serious long-term repercussions.”
His coach sighed. “Well,” he finally said, “the good news, at least for me, is that Coach Glussman won’t be here next week. He’ll be at an offensive clinic at Eastern Alabama Polytechnic Institute. Very prestigious. So we’ve got one week to light a fire under you, Pugh.” He smiled. “Or to convince you that your summer would be better spent elsewhere—and I can be very convincing when I need to be.”
And with that, Coach Z walked toward the parking lot.
Kevin stood still for a moment, wondering what sort of convincing Coach Z had in mind.
11
K evin spent the weekend nervously fretting. Monday was going to involve pain—potentially serious pain. And shame. And the pain and shame would be followed by total exhaustion; then the cycle would repeat. There were six weeks of camp remaining. Kevin needed to endure if there was any hope of getting his dad to agree to agility classes. Or maybe he just needed to endure in order to prove something to Howie Pugh.
Either way, endurance seemed key … and the thought made Kevin miserable.
On Saturday, he and Zach spent the day doing what Maggie called “TV things” and Kevin called “the only things I’m good at.” Zach’s parents took them to Taste of Chicago that night, and Kevin inhaled two turkey legs, a small order of paella, a large order of shrimpstir-fry, cheese fries, and, for dessert, frozen cheesecake on a stick.
It was satisfying, but only in the moment. He was still dreading the week ahead.
On Sunday, Kevin decided to give Cromwell another workout. They began with a brisk run, but it soon became less than brisk, what with the 90-something-degree temperature.
And after six blocks, it became a walk …
Then a sticky, sluggish stroll …
And then Kevin and Cromwell reversed direction, slowed a little more, and plopped onto a bench at a bus stop. Cromwell panted. So did Kevin.
“This jogging stuff”—deep breath—“isn’t so easy, boy.” Kevin used his shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead. “At least in football”—deep breath—“I can take the occasional break.”
A Chicago Transit Authority bus creaked to a stop and Kevin stood up. Passengers exited, looking not nearly as dreadful and tired as Kevin felt. A young blond woman with a yoga mat visibly recoiled when she brushed a little too close to him. He stood there, sweaty and still slightly breathless, fishing in the various pockets of his cargo shorts for cash. Something on the bus hissed. Cromwell kept panting.
“No dogs, kid,” said the bus driver, a gruff woman who seemed, rather obviously, to be wearing a wig. The wig looked a lot like a yellow Pekinese.
“Oh, um … really? Because we’re not going far, I…”
“No dogs. Unless it’s a guide dog—which that ain’t—there’s no dogs on the bus.”
“I have an astigmatism,” said Kevin. “Very poor depth perception. Balls are always hit—”
The door shut and the bus pulled away. Kevin stood there, still absently patting his pockets.
“C’mon, Crom,” he said. “Let’s walk home. We can do this.”
The dog barked.
“Well, okay, I know
you
can do it. I need a little pep talk sometimes.”
They trudged home slowly.
Before going to bed that night, Kevin discovered that he—or rather, Cromwell—had received another e-mail from Elka Brandt.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sunday, June 27, 5:38 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Thank you for your interest in Paw Patch, Inc.
Dear Cromwell,
Hope you are well, you marvelous creature. When you speak to Kevin, please suggest adog snack with glucosamine and chondroitin. For healthier hips and joints.
Elka
“O-kaaaay,” said Kevin, switching off his bedroom lights.
“Well,” said Kevin, “honestly, that first thing probably won’t happen—I’m just being realistic, Coach Z. And the second thing
can’t
happen. No way. There would be serious long-term repercussions.”
His coach sighed. “Well,” he finally said, “the good news, at least for me, is that Coach Glussman won’t be here next week. He’ll be at an offensive clinic at Eastern Alabama Polytechnic Institute. Very prestigious. So we’ve got one week to light a fire under you, Pugh.” He smiled. “Or to convince you that your summer would be better spent elsewhere—and I can be very convincing when I need to be.”
And with that, Coach Z walked toward the parking lot.
Kevin stood still for a moment, wondering what sort of convincing Coach Z had in mind.
11
K evin spent the weekend nervously fretting. Monday was going to involve pain—potentially serious pain. And shame. And the pain and shame would be followed by total exhaustion; then the cycle would repeat. There were six weeks of camp remaining. Kevin needed to endure if there was any hope of getting his dad to agree to agility classes. Or maybe he just needed to endure in order to prove something to Howie Pugh.
Either way, endurance seemed key … and the thought made Kevin miserable.
On Saturday, he and Zach spent the day doing what Maggie called “TV things” and Kevin called “the only things I’m good at.” Zach’s parents took them to Taste of Chicago that night, and Kevin inhaled two turkey legs, a small order of paella, a large order of shrimpstir-fry, cheese fries, and, for dessert, frozen cheesecake on a stick.
It was satisfying, but only in the moment. He was still dreading the week ahead.
On Sunday, Kevin decided to give Cromwell another workout. They began with a brisk run, but it soon became less than brisk, what with the 90-something-degree temperature.
And after six blocks, it became a walk …
Then a sticky, sluggish stroll …
And then Kevin and Cromwell reversed direction, slowed a little more, and plopped onto a bench at a bus stop. Cromwell panted. So did Kevin.
“This jogging stuff”—deep breath—“isn’t so easy, boy.” Kevin used his shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead. “At least in football”—deep breath—“I can take the occasional break.”
A Chicago Transit Authority bus creaked to a stop and Kevin stood up. Passengers exited, looking not nearly as dreadful and tired as Kevin felt. A young blond woman with a yoga mat visibly recoiled when she brushed a little too close to him. He stood there, sweaty and still slightly breathless, fishing in the various pockets of his cargo shorts for cash. Something on the bus hissed. Cromwell kept panting.
“No dogs, kid,” said the bus driver, a gruff woman who seemed, rather obviously, to be wearing a wig. The wig looked a lot like a yellow Pekinese.
“Oh, um … really? Because we’re not going far, I…”
“No dogs. Unless it’s a guide dog—which that ain’t—there’s no dogs on the bus.”
“I have an astigmatism,” said Kevin. “Very poor depth perception. Balls are always hit—”
The door shut and the bus pulled away. Kevin stood there, still absently patting his pockets.
“C’mon, Crom,” he said. “Let’s walk home. We can do this.”
The dog barked.
“Well, okay, I know
you
can do it. I need a little pep talk sometimes.”
They trudged home slowly.
Before going to bed that night, Kevin discovered that he—or rather, Cromwell—had received another e-mail from Elka Brandt.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sunday, June 27, 5:38 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Thank you for your interest in Paw Patch, Inc.
Dear Cromwell,
Hope you are well, you marvelous creature. When you speak to Kevin, please suggest adog snack with glucosamine and chondroitin. For healthier hips and joints.
Elka
“O-kaaaay,” said Kevin, switching off his bedroom lights.
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