game/bob beach

by Bob Beach

Hack watched a handful of birds buzz the stacks of the Whirlpool plant, a quarter mile away beyond

Walmart and the city park. Buzzards and hawks, probably, mooching a free ride to the top on warm air

from towers that belched steam twenty-four seven. Up and up until they escaped into the clouds. Why?

No dinner up there. Maybe they liked the view.

Above the trees, the windowless grey corrugated walls of the plant stretched as far left and right

as Hack could see from his porch. More poor grunts stamping and drilling and bending and bolting, in

each shift, than the population of the whole damn town. A giant black hole, an accretion disk of homes

and schools and businesses and churches for miles around, spiraling slowly around it toward eventual

extinction, when cheap Chinese or Korean junk finally put it out of business. Sons and daughters sucked

relentlessly into its depths and spit out forty years later, shriveled husks.

Hack’s knee was complaining despite the heat, and he stretched his left leg across the width of the

porch swing. His bare right foot danced across the hot wood floor, keeping the swing moving in a pale

imitation of a breeze.

“If this is what global warmin’s like, count me out.” He took off his glasses and scrubbed them on

a nearly dry corner of his sweaty T-shirt. “Foggin my specs.”

“Man, you’ve had those stupid hornrims since you were a kid. When are you going to wise up

and spring for a new pair? Something looks like it was made this century.” Dale Swolsky lay flat on his

back on the porch floor, his head propped up on a brick, his dark blue Yankees cap covering his face, his

thin cotton tank dark with sweat. God had set the midsummer sun on broil, then walked away and

forgotten about it. Even the cars felt it, wheezing and gasping as they puttered past the house in low gear,

parboiled drivers limp and spent. The lawns up and down the street were going brown and thatchy,

except for Mrs. Halloran’s yard, which was mostly begonias with the sprinkler wobbling back and forth

all day.

“More like I need new eyes. No glasses gonna fix a retinal detachment.”

“That eye poke on the fumble against the Tigers?”

Hack grunted. “If it ain’t one damn thing, it’s another. Besides the eye, there’s the knee, the

left elbow, the ankle and both shoulders. Just to mention the main ones.” And lately shortness of

breath, which could be any damn thing and he didn’t want to know. Once he could label every ache

and pain with a time and place—that touchdown run against Westwood, a cheap shot by the big

forward from Valley High. A beanball from that lefty in the semi-finals back in ninety-six. Now there

were just too many to count. And he was barely forty.

Sports. It took its toll. At least if you were any good. The more you put into it, the harder it

kicked your ass. He had his spin on the carousel twenty-five years ago, and now the bills were

coming due. But he wouldn’t change things, even now. There were too many good years, too many

great moments he never wanted to part with. Knowing he was the best—even for a game or two, a

play or two. Those movies in his head got him through long soul-sucking days at the plant and

mercifully still filled his dreams with highlight reels.

It was a royal bitch to see your best days disappearing in the rear view mirror. But what the

fuck, in this dump of a town, most people never had any good days at all to look back on. Or forward

to. Just the plant looming over everything, a giant gray monster pumping out 20,000 washing

machines a day. A whole, brand new fucking washing machine every four seconds. Who bought all

those machines, anyway? Where did they go? His parents only had one machine their whole

marriage, and he and Annie had theirs now for twenty years. Maybe somewhere out there, in big

cities like Chicago or Philly, they leased washing machines like cars—three years and roll it over.

He shouldn’t complain. Relatively speaking, he was king of the boardwalk. Down at the Last

Call they still remembered the records he set and once in a while his name appeared, a blast from the

past, in the sports column. And now only 49,872 hours of stamping steel washing machine panels

before retirement. If he was still able to walk by then, maybe he’d take up golf. Or bridge.

“What can I say, Hack?” said Swolski. “You’re a walking pile of spent tissue. I ought to take

you out back and bury you now, save everybody the cost of a funeral.”

Hack leaned back in the front porch swing. He was sure there was still an athlete’s body

buried somewhere down there beneath a couple decades of soft living. But now a gut spilled

awkwardly over his belt and a throbbing left leg stretched out across the length of the seat. Hack

closed his eyes and rotated the empty beer can in his hand, trying to tease the last tiny thrill of

coolness from it before the can reached ambient temperature, which he figured was about a hundred

and thirty degrees.

“No shit,” said Hack. “Bury me anytime. Just don’t tell Annie where you laid me—she’ll be

out there in ten minutes strippin’ the gold out of my teeth and rippin’ my pockets for spare change.”

“Man, you’re so far over the hill you couldn’t find it on a map.”

“My knees rattle when I walk and I get purple in the face when I climb the front steps. Seven

damn steps and I gotta stop halfway to get a blow.”

“Big deal. I’m the one with the gimpy ticker. My arteries are so bad the doc told me to call

Roto-Rooter next time and give him a break.”

“Double bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast ain’t no help, you know. Man, how can you lay on

the floor like that? Don’t that hurt?”

“My back, you know that. Hasn’t been right since the Riverside game.”

“I remember. The little shit who clotheslined you on the layup. Still, you got what, eighteen

that game?” And he’d had twenty-six. He remembered the turnaround jumper he nailed from the

corner with three guys on him—left that fat Riverside coach with his mouth hanging open. And his

date with Cloris, afterward.

“Hey, at least get over here in the shade. Don’t want you havin’ a stroke on my porch. Don’t

think my insurance covers it. Annie!”

A few seconds later a mop of curly red hair and a pale, freckled face appeared at the screen

door. “What the hell you want? I’m doin’ laundry.”

“Beer me.” Hack held up his can and wiggled it.

“Beer you? Beer you? I’ll beer you all right. Pop you with a cold hard one right in your damn

forehead.”

“Aw, c’mon, Annie, my knee’s on strike again.”

“Don’t look at me—I ain’t no scab.” The red hair disappeared back into the house, grumbling

and snorting.

Hack turned back to Swolski. “She’s not at her best on laundry day.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Five bucks says you’re making a trip to the fridge. Get me one while you’re there.”

Hack giggled. “Never hurts to try.” He stood and looked down the street. “Uh, oh. Here

comes trouble.”

Swolski tipped back his cap and lifted his head.

“Look at that, Cap!” somebody shouted. “Two big fat possums crawled up on your porch and

died right there.”

Two teenage boys, lean and tan in shorts and sneakers, pedaled their bikes to a stop in front of

the house. Cap Hackman and Junior Swolski. Cap had a basketball under his arm. The next

generation of jocks, bristling with the same confidence Hack had at that age. Couldn’t wait to rewrite

the record books. And then what? The next generation of wage slaves grinding away in the plant? Be

nice if they could get Cap off to college. Fat chance—like Hack, he wasn’t big on book learning. And

why bust your balls for four years when you could collect a fat paycheck right out of the gate?

“Who you calling fat, you little piss ant?” said Swolski. “I’m maybe only fifteen pounds over

my playing weight. And that’s all muscle.” He sat up and spun to face the kids, throwing his legs off

the edge of the porch.

“He’s right,” said Cap. “His head’s a lot bigger than his yearbook pictures.”

“Har de har har har,” said Hack. “You idiots aren’t seriously thinkin’ about hoops on a day

like this? You’ll melt your sneakers just standin’ on the blacktop.”

“That’s the secret, old man,” said Junior. “You don’t just stand there, you keep moving. But

maybe you forgot how—doesn’t look like you old coots moved more than an inch all morning.”

“Doin’ the twelve ounce curls is all,” said Cap. “Builds up their throat muscles.”

“Probably need it after all that chokin’ they did on the court last century,” said Junior.

“Least we got some muscles,” said Hack. “You skinny little twerps ain’t got one decent bicep

between you. Tall brown toothpicks, probably have a hard time just gettin’ the ball up to the basket.”

“Not you, gunner.” said Junior. “School record for shots taken.”

“School record for shots missed, too,” added Cap. He whispered something to Junior and the

two broke out in laughter.

“But top ten in points,” said Swolski. “And you bums know it, too!”

“Oooooooh!” The boys bugged their eyes and waggled their fingers.

“Sounds like somebody’s a little sensitive,” said Junior. He looked at Cap. “Would you

believe these geezers actually had game back in the day? Would anybody?”

Game. They had game. They were young once, too, even if it did seem like a century ago—

they ran the floor like cheetahs and soared above the basket like eagles. The thrill of floating above

the rim, nine sweaty faces looking up at you with open mouths as you swept the ball off the board,

the flash bulbs popping, the crowd on their feet and screaming.

any of those peach crates you used for baskets? I could take one to history class for show and tell.”

“Did you ever meet James Naismith? Maybe get his autograph?” asked Junior. Cap snorted.

“Nice try,” said Swolsky, “but we’re not falling for it.” He lay back down, head on the brick,

and pulled his cap over his face again.

“No way we’re gettin’ on a court in this heat,” said Hack. “Besides, my knee’s givin’ me

hell.” He stood and opened the door. “Bud or Coors, Ski?”

Cap looked at Junior. “You were right.” he muttered. “They really are getting old.” The two

boys pushed out on their bikes.

“See you, losers,” said Junior. “We’re going over to the school.”

Hack watched their sons ride off down the street, vanishing in the heat waves rising from the

concrete. Athletes already, their potential peeking through their adolescent awkwardness. They had

the genes. Would they make the headlines? Pack away enough memories for the long winter ahead?

Swolski lifted his cap and looked up at Hack. A tiny spark flared in his eye and he lifted his

eyebrows.

Hack rolled his eyes and sighed. “Sweet Jesus. Okay, you go on ahead, I’ll pop a few aspirin

and get my sneakers. I s’pose somebody’s got to train these pups.”

End