A father who didn’t punt, pass or kick on his duties

When our gym teacher, Mr. Anmassung, finished telling us second-grade boys about the Punt, Pass and Kick contest all those years ago, we rumbled into the hallway, each boasting of how he'd win. Mr. Anmassung shouted to quiet down, but anyone could see in his eyes the same prideful look a big cat gets when atop a rocky perch.

But as my friend Sam flipped through the contest guidebook between math problems that afternoon, his brow wrinkled.

"What's the matter?" I whispered from a desk over. "Don't think you can win?"

"I'll do all right."

"Come over to my house this weekend," I said. "We can practice together."

• • •

The scent of spiced apple swirled in the air as Sam stepped back, drawing his crooked arm upward. He flung the football forward, his arm stretching out. The ball plopped several yards away onto the front lawn.

"You don't follow through," I said. "Do it just like I did."

He tried throwing again, but his arm still didn't go all the way out. The ball plopped a few feet in front of us.

"Maybe we should try punting," I said.

• • •

As Sam and I practiced at recess that next week, he usually repeated the same mistakes until they became habit. Kicking was particularly tough for him since he had neither a tee nor brothers to hold the ball. His father didn't get home until dark, so from what I could tell didn't provide little more than words and an ear to listen.

That didn't seem very practical, I thought at the time.

• • •

When the autumn morning of the contest finally arrived, dozens of boys and double that in fathers and older brothers deluged a field damp with cold dew. A white laundry rope kept the spectators behind the sidelines, but they pressed close to see their boys perform.

Murmurs flowed among us second-graders, but when a bullhorn reverberated a name, there was a hush. A potbellied, middle-aged man ran the contest. Behind his wire rim glasses he'd close his eyes whenever laughing, then slap a thigh twice.

Eight or nine boys in the class went before Sam. "Oohs!" and "Whoas!" followed by cheers and claps followed each of their drop kicks, tosses and boots.

Most of Sam's time was spent scanning for his father, whom I eventually saw standing near the crowd's center.

Finally, Sam's turn. The potbellied man placed the football on a tee. He said nothing, and Sam looked at him confusedly, wondering what to do.

Everyone stared, waiting for Sam's move. Then he must have realized what he was supposed to do for his eyes concentrated on the ball. His arms tensed and he started running. A foot away from the tee, his right leg extended, smashing the ball.

It bounced a mere six or seven hash marks away.

The crowd convulsed with laughter, and the potbellied man slapped his leg twice. Sam's father stood quietly, his arms folded, looking straight ahead at the field.

But Sam only turned to the now scornful potbellied man and said, "My punting is better than my kicking."

• • •

An assisting high school football player picked up the ball and threw it back to Sam. The crowd gazed be-musedly at Sam as he extended the ball, dropped it.

A violent smack sounded as the ball hit his ankle. The ball quickly tumbled downward, rolling only a few yards in front of me.

The crowd howled, and the potbellied man brought an arm to his gut, trying to not bend over as he guffawed. Sam's face reddened. Fingers rapidly pointed at Sam's father, who stood stonefaced and silent.

There was one last chance for Sam to redeem himself, I thought as the grinning high school boy brought the ball to him.

Sam jerked the ball behind him with a wriggle hurled it. The football towered above everyone for a few hash marks then waddled to the ground. Nine yards. His eyes lit up like the sun. The throw was among his best.

Compared to most of the boys, it was but half their distances. But no one no-ticed. Those in the crowd were too busy talking, waiting for the next kid - all except for Sam's father, that is.

• • •

We stood for another hour on the soaked field, watching the yellowing corn leaves waver in the field beyond, waiting for the older divisions to finish. When they did, the potbellied man pulled a bullhorn to his fat lips and announced the winners. Our classmate, Joe, got first place and a trophy as long as his arm.

We sauntered in a muddled mass to find our families. I watched Sam, his downcast eyes gazing at the crushed grass.

Sam's father patted his shoulder. "Would you like some ice cream?" he said.

Sam's neck craned upward.

"Say a large sundae at Dairy Queen? One with a lot of nuts and extra chocolate syrup?"

Sam nodded. "And after that can we go fishing?"

"Sure we can, Sam. Sure we can."

They joined hands, set off for their car. Sam's eyes shined like he'd just been named king.

(originally published Aug. 31, 2003)