Read Online War and Watermelon by Rich Wallace - Free Book Online

looks at me and shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “What was that all about?” he whispers.
    â€œI don’t know.” But I kind of do. Dad’s been riding Ryan hard all summer, but I know it’s because he’s worried about him. Every morning on the radio we hear about the bombings and the invasions while Dad eats his stale pound cake for breakfast. We all know the days before Ryan’s birthday are ticking like a time bomb. He hasn’t done anything about applying to college.
    We listen to the post-game, then I switch back to music. We catch the end of Stevie Wonder, then they play “Honky Tonk Women” again .
    â€œI’m getting a little tired of that one,” I say as it ends. Ryan gives a half smile and nods. He hasn’t said anything for a while, just sitting there. I don’t envy him.
    The Youngbloods come on. My favorite song this week.
    Come on people now
    Smile on your brother
    Everybody get together
    Try to love one another right now
    Vietnam. He could be there by Halloween.
    Hell, he could be dead by then.
    He wouldn’t be the first.
    And we all know it.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20:
    Straight at Me
    F errante’s calling signals as he looks over the helmets of the linemen, directly at me: the middle linebacker.
    Peter Sarnoski limped off the field a second ago, and Coach Epstein pointed to the first guy he saw on the sideline to take his place. It happened to be me.
    Ferrante slings a short pass over the middle, right toward me. The tight end is coming my way and he steps in front of me and catches the ball. I wrap my arms around his legs and another linebacker helps me finish the job.
    They’ll be working on me, that’s for sure—thinking I’m the weak spot. I brush some dirt off my thigh.
    I glance at the sideline. There are three or four people kneeling there who probably should be in here instead. Tough luck. I got it.
    Ferrante’s no dope. He calls that same pass route from the opposite side, and I see it coming but don’t have time to react. Eddie Lorenzo grabs the pass and tries to stiff-arm me, but I duck under and get hold of his leg. He drags me a few yards, but he goes down.
    I’ve made two tackles in two plays, but we’re backing up fast.
    Coach calls time and huddles up the defenders. “This is where tough guys toughen up!” he growls. “First and goal, backs to the wall. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
    Coach grabs my face mask and glares at me. Then he turns to Finken, who’s at middle guard. “They’re coming right at you two, and you know it!” he says. “Smashmouth football, right up the gut. Let’s stop ’em cold!”
    â€œReadeeeeee,” Ferrante calls, hunched over the line. “Ready, set . . . hut, hut.” He takes the snap and cradles the ball, lunging behind the center as Finken is shoved aside. I step into the gap and meet Ferrante head-on, standing him up just long enough for help to arrive and stop him for no gain.
    â€œThey’re coming at you again, middle men,” Coach says. “What kind of candy are you made of?”
    I let out my breath hard. This isn’t so bad. It’s like playing in the lot up on Roosevelt Avenue. Only difference is the matching uniforms and the coaches.
    Come at me again. I’m ready.
    Ferrante drops back. Lorenzo’s in my face, reaching for the pass, but I duck under his shoulder and deflect the ball to the ground.
    My hand stings. I shake it. Lorenzo yells, “Pass interference,” but Coach waves him off and says, “Get back to the huddle, pansy.”
    These guys are big and quick and have a lot more experience than I do. They’re busting my chops on every play, expecting me to fail.
    Keep coming at me.
    Same play again? Lorenzo is running toward me like a freight train. I pivot, timing my hit so I’ll get there just as the ball does.
    But there’s no pass. Lorenzo