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| BBHS Echo 1974 |
"Fuckinay" shouts Mazurk across the tables as a cold wind hits us from the front door of Stan's Chitch's restaurant, "it's Weeds."
I give a little nod from the back booth and look away as Newsy squeezes through the narrow door, hoping they'll get the cue and leave me to my Halloween date.
"Best pizza in the east" laughs Mazurk, grabbing a slice of our sausage, peppers and onions and using his hip to shove me over into the seat. "Monty, how the hell are you?"
"Hey Leo" she smiles, scooting over on the red vinyl bench as if expecting them. "Hey Enzo, have one too."
"Don't mind if I do" responds Newsy as he heads for the counter, "but first let me grab another pitcher."
"No Bud for you, Leo?" asks Caroline asks as Newsy tops off our taster glasses.
"Shit no, we got Middlesex tomorrow" spits Mazurk, "but give it to me Saturday night, sweet thing."
"What about you, Wiley" she continues unperturbed, running her boot up my jeans under the table, "you don't care about beating the Bluejays?"
"Uh, Mr. Spain took care of that" I reply with a shrug, downing my little glass and holding it out to Newsy for another refill.
"Damn, Weeds" scowls Mazurk, "if Rags got me off the hook, he can't complain if you dress too."
__________
"Get in there and suit up" snapped my big brother Blaine, who also happened to be my Pop Warner coach. "NOW!"
He'd just overridden my mother's commandment of "all right mister, no Sunday school, no football."
"We'll check 'em at dawn" eleven-year-old Mazurk had plotted the previous evening after we had set his three traps in the Middlebrook woods.
"Can we go later?" I futilely bargained. "My mother makes me go to church."
"Don't be a pussy" he spat, "just get up before her."
Leo Mazurkewicz had no such Sunday dilemma because his family had attended Saturday mass at the Ukrainian Orthodox church in South Bound Brook. They and other eastern European emigres had settled in central New Jersey for proximity to the American consistory for their native religion. Their offset church calendar had other perks for fifth grade boys besides Saturday services. On the previous New Year's day Mazurk and I had dragged my family's tree from our curbside in the last of the LaMonte subdivisions down to his stucco house on Wheatland Ave in Westerly Gardens, their first development. The Ukrainian Christmas wasn't until January seventh.
My mother had also clung to her religion despite leaving it in West Virginia for an unsaved husband in New Jersey. During the week she sang snitches from old hymns while doing the wash or cooking. And Sunday was her day of the Lord, even if said husband had to work on other drivers' trucks to make ends meet for our big family. But come hell or high water, probably both in a town called Bound Brook, the young 'uns were going to Sunday School. At least they were right up until Coach Bleeds parted the waters.
__________
"Kickoff team" calls out Coach Righetti after they nail our quarterback in the endzone for a safety, "get out there and line up on the twenty."
I'd eluded his detection until this late in the game under one of the red rubber capes the trainer had pulled out of the clubhouse for playing in an unusual late Fall northeaster. It was our first kickoff of the game because we'd won the opening coin toss and elected to receive, and Middlesex had opted to kick to start the second half.
"A minute and twenty eight seconds to go" calls Newsy from his place on the sideline as official scorekeeper.
"Hey, where'd he come from?" shouts Coach Righetti as I take my stance at the end of the line of eleven players.
I turn to face the ball from my end position and focus on the tee, trying to ignore my shivering hands and the commotion behind me on the sideline. Bound Brook is losing 0-2 as time is winding down in the fourth quarter of a defensive battle for first place in the Mountain Valley Conference. Mazurk, his white jersey mostly brown from making tackles all over the semi-frozen field, drops his arm to signal the kick. He strides toward the tee with head down as the rest of us time our takeoffs to his passing.
"Haaaa" I huff with a puff of white breath, chugging down the sideline as the ball hurtles end-over-end and the blockers move toward the other side of the field.
The receiver cradles the ball into his chest at the thirty-yard line and runs behind his blockers as I sprint their way from across the field, finally warmed up enough to feel my feet hit the hard ground. Three crows flap up from behind the visitor stands, and the runner suddenly shifts direction, not seeing me until my shoulder slams into his gut with a clack and thud of pads and bodies. We hurtle back as I see the ball pop up into the freezing rain in slow motion, and somehow I roll up under it, stumbling to grab it while already running for the endzone.
"Suspension, schmuspension" whispers Coach Righetti, lifting me into a bear hug as I jog over to the sideline. "Just pray Joe Spain's not here."
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