Slot Machine Read Online Free Page B

“Probably right here, I’ll see you.” Probably he was right. I returned to the fields.
    “No, there’s nothing I can do about it. You’ve gotta be a lineman,” the coach growled, too disgusted to even scream at me now. “What am I gonna do, make you a flippin’ cornerback?” He got a lot of laughs with that one. Laughs from assistant coaches. Laughs from jock student football team counselors. Laughs from kids who were built to be real cornerbacks.
    Laughs from lumpy scared fat kids. Who should have been better than that.
    That was when I shut up.
    I took my slot and I didn’t make a sound about it. I played both sides of the ball. It didn’t matter a whole lot except that when I was a defensive lineman I didn’t get beat so bad. One time I even made a tackle when the running back ran right into me, drilled me with his helmet in my belly.
    I fell down. I gasped for breath, every play. I ate wedge-shaped orange pieces and threw the peels on the ground with two thousand other peels. I sweated. My armpits, my chest, my back, the crotch of my too-tight red shorts were all soaked through before anybody else’s. But then it all blended together, and my stuff just looked darker. My nose bled two more times, once from a head slap, once when a guy stuck his fingers up through my face mask.
    Three o’clock the whistle screeched. I made it. Without a sound, without a tear. Walked off the field just like everybody else. Only last. By a long way.
Mother of all Mothers,
    Wish you were here.
    I know that all kids write that from camp, but I really mean it. I wish you were here with me today, shoulder to shoulder, holding that line. Together we could have done it. As it was, my success was a little spotty.
    I did have a spiritual moment, though. Once when I had a little unscheduled “Reflective Period” at the bottom of a pig pile, I saw a tunnel and a glow and somebody foggy saying, “Come to the light. Come to the light.” She looked like you. But that wouldn’t be you, Ma, now would it Ma?
    If this is looking a little squiggly it’s because I’m writing with my left hand. Why am I writing with my left hand? Because that’s the hand that still has two fingers that can curl. Doesn’t look half bad, though, does it? There you go, another hidden skill the camp experience has drawn out of me. I was really dogging it back home, wasn’t I? Tomorrow they’re going to have me snag a salmon out of the river with my teeth.
    Ug,
    Elvin, Son of a Bishop
    P.S. I’m getting a lot of special attention here from the football coach. I think I’m his favorite. You better watch out or you could lose me. When this is all over, I just might be going home with Knute.

Chapter 3: Oh my god. Still football.
    P AIN IS ONE THING . Pain is trying to hang a picture of Curly Howard on your bedroom wall and bashing yourself in the head with the rounded end of a ball peen hammer, just like Curly would have done. I’ve had that. Pain is food poisoning from meat knishes. I’ve had that. Pain is trying to help out around the house, washing the dishes, and just as your mother says, “Careful of the blades on that food processor...” I’ve had that.
    But this. The morning after the first day of football. I had slogged through thirteen pretty rugged years up to this point, yet I had no idea a feeling like this was possible. A picture of my mind would have looked like a rat frantically scurrying around a maze, trying to locate one tiny spot that was not searing hot and shot through with spikes of pain. My joints, my muscles, my skin, my organs, there was not a safe, pain-free spot anywhere, inside or out.
    I woke at four thirty. I lay stiff until five. It was peaceful at first, in a near-death sort of way. An owl hooted mellowlike. Then dawn broke, the owl fell asleep, and some mental wild birds started screeching—at me. In my head, the screeches came together and sounded like words, the way the loon’s call sounds like “Looooon.”
    Outta