“Teach us that spin you do,” one of them said.
“Are you a Spartan?” said Merk.
“We’re Badgers,” said the boy.
“They’re Jacksons,” I said.
“I’m a Baum,” said the boy.
“Can’t help you,” said Merk. “It’s the Spartan spin.”
“It’s Oldcorn’s,” I said.
“What’s Oldcorn?” said Baum.
“Look it up,” I said. “There’s a book.”
Somebody stared at us from the edge of the field. He had dirty pants, carried a planter and a spade. I tried to look into his crazy Jackson eyes, but there was nothing crazy about them. Just bored.
“That’s the groundskeeper,” said Baum.
“Oh,” I said.
* * *
Sometimes after a big meet we went to Merk’s uncle’s house to drink beer. Merk’s uncle’s basement was filled with beer, beer memorabilia, electric beer signs, and beer embroidery on the wall. Merk’s uncle worked in beverage distribution. Mostly beer. He said we could drink all we wanted, as long as we stayed in the basement.
There was a pool table down there. The cue sticks were just the right size for indoor javelin. We didn’t have outdoor javelin at our school anymore. Some kid had caught one in the neck.
Now the basement door swung open and there were Merk’s uncle’s loafers on the top step.
“Hello, boys,” he called. “I’m home and I’m thirsty. Pour one for the old man.”
Last time he’d gotten drunk with us, he’d sung love ballads into a balled-up pair of underwear.
“I’ve got to book,” I said.
* * *
Oldcorn won gold in Mexico. He was supposed to go to Munich, but he shattered his hip in a bike wreck. The hip never healed right. He had to revert to the glide. He won some meets, but he wasn’t Oldcorn anymore. He went out for the American team in 1976, the Montreal games, but with one put left in the trials, trailing badly, Oldcorn walked off the field, disappeared.
“He went to an ashram,” said Coach Monroe.
“Why?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“What’s an ashram?” I said.
Coach Monroe’s office was a cubbyhole behind the basketball bleachers. His desk was heaped with binders, team rosters, meet schedules, pole vault catalogs. He lit a cigarette, took a puff, blew the smoke into a gym bag, zipped it shut. Then he dunked the cigarette in a cup of tea.
“There,” he said. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“Oldcorn,” I said.
“Well, what can I say? I don’t know. He was an eccentric dude. He lived a private system. I know you guys like hearing about the good old days, but you should concentrate on what you’re doing now. Which brings me to another question. What do you think you’re doing now?”
“What do you mean, Coach?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like having you around. You’re a nice kid. But how far do you think you’re going with the shot put?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I never thought about it.”
“That’s good,” said Coach Monroe. “That’s good to hear.”
* * *
Coach Monroe said there would be a special surprise at our last home meet. When those Jacksons, with their satchels and their magic shorts, made their way to our circle, I saw what he meant. The special surprise was named Bucky Schmidt. He was enormous, milky-blue colored, like thin milk, with a flat head and a mean Hessian nose. He was the most mutated boy you could ever hope to see, though you had to look hard to see the Jackson in him. Or maybe there wasn’t any Jackson in him at all.
I do know the world is divided, or even just subdivided, between those who have met their Bucky Schmidt and those who have their Bucky coming. I’ve met my Bucky Schmidt and so I’m never disappointed by the way of things. I don’t want and want. Good money, good times, I’m happy for what I get. You don’t worry so much about it all when you know there is somebody out there who can take everything away like some terrible god.
That day, all of us just stood there to watch a god put shots. I wondered what Bucky Schmidt was thinking in the middle of his spin. I doubt it was snapperholes, or even to accelerate. The word “accelerate” would have slowed him down. The boy was pure blur.
“He’s a strange guy, but holy shit,” said that Badger, Baum. “And he throws longer in practice.”
“He doesn’t throw,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s not throwing. It’s putting. Shot-putting.”
“Sure thing,” said the Badger.
“Have you looked at his toes?” I said.
“Why would I do that?”
“Does he have a banjo?”
“Clarinet. I’ve seen it.”
“Can he talk?”
“Why wouldn’t he talk?”
“He’s a Jackson, right?” I said.
“He’s a Schmidt,” said the Badger. “Is that a Jackson? What’s a Jackson?”
“Ask Schmidt,” I said.
* * *
After the meet, Coach Monroe gathered us next to the field house.
“I want to thank you boys for a great year,” he said. “You really gave it your all.”
“We got killed today,” said Merk.
“You sure as hell did,” came a voice.
A stranger leaned on the field house wall.
“Guys,” said Coach Monroe. “I’d like you to meet Rick Oldcorn. The one and only.”
This Oldcorn was as huge as I’d always imagined, but bald, with muttonchop whiskers and a gut that buried his belt. He wore cop shades, a T-shirt for a titty bar. He looked like a Jackson, or what I figured a Jackson would look like if I ever really saw one. Maybe I never would.
“You guys are shit,” said Oldcorn, “but what can you do with a jackass like Monroe for a coach?”
“Thanks, pal,” said Coach Monroe, and his smile said it all, though I wasn’t exactly sure what it said.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Oldcorn.
“Do you want beer?” said Merk.
“I want all the beer in your town,” said Oldcorn. “And I want teen poot, if that’s available. Let’s ride.”
We piled into Coach Monroe’s pickup. Oldcorn followed on his bike. Soon we sat in Merk’s uncle’s basement drinking beer and sword fighting with cue sticks. It was fun for a while. Fun was important.
“You guys want a bump?” said Oldcorn, pulling out a small packet.
“Do your arm!” said Fred Powler.
Oldcorn grinned, popped his shoulder out of its socket, popped it back.
Then Merk’s uncle came down with more beer.
“We can do whatever we want,” he announced, “as long as we stay in the basement.”
Soon he was crooning into a spatula.
Fred Powler lay down on the pool table. “Lost ambition,” he said. “For cars.”
Slivers of puke clung to his lip.
Merk carried his uncle up to bed. Coach Monroe slumped in the corner. Oldcorn and I sat at the bar with our beers. It felt like a place I would be for a long time to come.
“Why did you walk off the field in the trials for Montreal?” I said.
“I met this chick,” he said.
“Oh.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. It all got damn depressing. Going from town to town just to throw a metal ball around. Seemed silly.”
“Put,” I said. “Not throw.”
“Jesus, kid,” said Oldcorn. “Don’t be one of those guys.”
“But you were the best in the world,” I said.
“Damn straight I was,” said Oldcorn. “So you can imagine the scope of my depression.”
“Up yours,” said a voice behind us. “Up yours, Oldcorn.”
Coach Monroe steadied himself on a beer lamp, rose.
“Hey, good buddy,” said Oldcorn. “Welcome back.”
“Up yours, you, buddy,” said Coach Monroe. His eyes had wet, pulsing rims.