Rules For Becoming A Legend Part 12

"Braggart son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"You idiot, Finn, you must be high."

"Yes," he yells. "High!" Not getting the reference. "I am the Flying Finn after all." Laughter from the crowd.

Todd grabs his father roughly on the elbow. Its been almost a year since theyve had meaningful interaction, but there will be no heartfelt reunion. "Get in the f.u.c.king car."

They get in the van, Todd slamming the drivers side door so hard it pops back open. "s.h.i.t," he says and closes it proper. He starts her up. She squeals awake and they drive away.

Jimmy listens to the Flying Finn hum the old song that hes always singing-we will, we will ROCK YOU!-as his pops turns on the heater full blast. Jimmys in the front seat, next to his pops; the Flying Finns in the back bench seat, arms out on each side as though he were making moves on two loveys at the same time. Hes filthy in street-heavy clothes, motorcycle helmet c.o.c.ked back on his head. The heat in the car unlocks his body odor. Todd cracks his window, keeps glaring at the Flying Finn through the rearview mirror.

"Why you got to do that? Adding to it. Like they dont get enough of us already, you strutting around, just giving them more. Phone linesll catch fire tonight, believe that. You dont think Jimmys got enough? He needs more of this whole." His pops bangs the steering wheel. Makes the car drift toward the center of the road. Bam, bam, bam. Jimmys pressing himself up against the pa.s.senger-side door. The window crank digging his ribs. "He needs more of this s.h.i.t you keep shoveling on?" Todds getting more p.i.s.sed as he goes. Red kind of angry-hard to cool off without burning something down first. "You pushed me so G.o.dd.a.m.n hard, Dad, that I broke. I broke. In front of the whole town. And now Jimmy too?"

The Flying Finn is still humming, choosing not to answer, and Jimmy turns his tender forehead back and forth against the window. Sweaty from the game, aching, it squeaks against the gla.s.s, cool with the outside air. This helps place him. Im here, in this van. I made it.

"But it wasnt for me; it was for you," his pops is going on. "Hey. Look at my boy. Look at Jimmy. It was for you." His words are wet by the end of it and his pops leans forward and wipes the steering wheel with his sleeve.

Grandpa stops humming. "How you feeling out there this night, huh, Jimmy?" A whisper almost.

Jimmy wants to be honest and also strike a blow. Miraculously he finds the words to do both. "Good, Grandpa."

"You know why them peoples so quick to cheer you on, Jimmy?" The Flying Finn whistles out now, slow. Tests the interior of the van to see if his words will survive. When Todd doesnt pounce on them, he continues. "Cause you like magic, thats what you are. A long time ago, magic was everywhere you looks." His pops readjusts the rearview mirror to see the backseat better. "Least people thought. Now we know everything so theres no reason for magic. Not no way. Not no s.p.a.ce. The cell phones, the Internet, no ghosts in the machines.

"But maybe. Just maybe kid like you or your pops comes along. Do stuffs people dont think possible." He leans forward and reaches out his gnarled hand and pulls on Jimmys hair. Its the starter cord on a lawnmower inside his injured head.

"Grandpa, what the h.e.l.l?" Jimmy slaps his hand and the Flying Finn lets go.

Todd keeps driving, his anger still there, just barely contained, and Jimmy can feel it about to slop over.

"Maybe if a kid can beats ten people in a row with no giving the points to none of them, theres s.p.a.ce enough for a little magic still. Maybe theyll get better lives next year, or the year after that. Find lucks with the loveys. Cause yous just like them and look how good you are!" He laughs now. Ups the pitch of his voice to sound like someone else. "You heard about Kamikaze Kirkus beating both those Johnston boys by hisself? Magic . . ." Grandpa sighs, back to himself, and Jimmy can read his tiredness in that exhale, a letdown from the rush of the Boston baked beans, MoonPies, and basketball. "Lifes always better with magic, wouldnt you say, Kamikaze?"

This is too much for Todd. He pulls off the road, almost tipping the van with the sudden yank on the steering wheel. The car stops and shivers in its place. "You dont call him that name. Hes Jimmy, thats all he is. I bet you want him to rush back in? Like those people who say hes got to prove himself in 6A? Hes played them all before, coming up, and ran circles on them. Even with what happened his freshman season, he doesnt have to do nothing for no one and his name-G.o.dd.a.m.n it-is Jimmy."

"Todd, you know, every star needs good a nickname as you had."

"No son of mine." He slams the steering wheel again. His voice trembles with rage. "No son of mine." Hes gritting his teeth. Hes remembering that night wandering the University of Oregon campus, lost and looking. His father had said the same words to him. No son of mine.

"Get out," he tells his own father whos been homeless almost a year with sightings of him as far south as Ashland. "Get out of my f.u.c.king car."

But the Flying Finn is already moving. He looks tired. So tired. There is a tug inside Todd, but he fears himself evil because its easy to ignore.

"Sleep well, both you," the old man says, holding the sliding door open.

The exhaust from the idling engine wafts in like a ghost looking for haunting. Smells poisoned and good. Todd could breathe it all night. Theres the cold of the night, too, muscling in late.

"Thanks for food, Jimmy. Is hungry." He slams the door shut; hes already shivering. He blinks his milky eyes.

His pops puts the car into drive and starts off down the road. Jimmy is unsure but sure all at the same time. They drive in silence. Hes trembling now, same as his pops. Some of that crackling bigness from the basketball court before is back inside him. Two blocks back, Grandpa is stumbling in the side-view mirror, still visible. Green helmet looks too heavy, a weight thats squishing his self down into his greasy shoes.

Jimmy punches the dashboard. Busts through the gray textured coating. Its yellow foam beneath. Its been enough. Hes tired of his pops making him do what he thinks is best. Popss life turned out a wreck, whys he get to steer Jimmys too? Plus theres something in what his pops said about proving himself at 6A that Jimmys been chewing on. 6A. Division with Shooter Ackley out of Seaside, Ian Callert over in Canby, Danny Rubbe down in Cape Blanco-all going to be NCAA Division I athletes. A b.u.mper crop of talent rounding into fine form. Talk is already brewing about how the state tourney will be one for the record books. Jimmy doesnt want it, not yet he doesnt. But if he doesnt have it this year then next year it will be gone. h.e.l.l be up against the also-rans, the semi-goods. Why is his pops so p.i.s.sed the Flying Finn is aware of this stuff? Shouldnt he be too? Shouldnt Jimmy? "Stop the car," he says. "Were bringing Grandpa home."

"You listen to me," his pops starts, rage threatening everything about him, but its not enough, not anymore. Jimmy slams his left leg down next to his fathers and hits the gas pedal. The car lurches forward, engine flooded in gas, trying not to drown.

His pops has no choice but to hit the brakes. Van makes a terrible noise. Smell of melting and metal. Tires squeal. Then Jimmy takes his foot off the gas but his pops is still stomping the brakes and the van is stopped. His popss head cracks the steering wheel. He isnt wearing his seat belt. Therell be a bruise on his forehead tomorrow for sure. Like son like father. Jimmys brains slosh around in his skull. How boring. He doesnt care about his popss mood. He wants to lie down. He could sleep for ten years straight. He could die. He opens his door and vomits milky stomach acid onto the sidewalk. Then he turns back to his father, eyes open, unflinching.

Todd looks at his kid. When he get eyes fierce as that? His head pounds. He cant imagine himself ever standing up to the Flying Finn like this. Or rather, not unless he was drunk. What is it in this kid, a sign of the times? The rap on the head? The rap music in the ear? He touches his forehead where the steering wheel hit. He might be bleeding. His eyes bulge. He feels his anger deflating around him-Jimmys eyes popped it-until its big and floppy, fits him poorly. Its a puddle hes splashing in. Hes embarra.s.sed by everything. He looks away from his son.

"You could of got us killed," Todd finally says, feeling deep inside that he should say something.

"Well, good thing you hit the brake."

Todd cuts eyes back to his son. This comment, to him, shines light on every corner of how Jimmys changed. Kids got deeper hallways, little trapdoors, secret rooms, and all inside him, hiding a man who could come out tough, or angry, resilient, or looking for a score. Hes got to be careful. h.e.l.l have a hand in this.

When the Flying Finn catches up to the van, he has a small cough in his lungs as if ball bearings are loose in his throat, eating away at him on each breath. He climbs in, and for once, has no words to say.

The three men drive the rest of the way home in silence, and Columbia City colludes-dropping a thick curtain of ocean-laced mist over their route. Sticky, beading rain glues together cars and houses, trees and telephone poles, until all shapes are parts of even larger shapes. Behind the curtain are hideous monsters made haphazardly from the normal parts of Columbia Citys life. This magical rain gathers on the vans windows in covens of liquid until they are too heavy and race down with abandon. Todd burns through as much of the rainy soup as he can with his yellowed headlights and hunched forward he drives on.

Rule 12. Get Up When Knocked Down.

Thursday, February 3, 2005.

JIMMY KIRKUS, FOURTEEN YEARS OLD-THREE YEARS UNTIL THE WALL.

Todd Kirkus looked up from the afternoons Columbia City Standard, cleared his throat, and proceeded to surprise his whole family. "I guess the Fishermen are playing tonight," he said. He snapped shut the paper and stood from his chair. "Maybe we should go."

"Scappoose Indians?" Jimmy asked.

Todd looked to his son. Of course Jimmy would know exactly what team they were playing. He probably had the schedule memorized. "Yeah. Want to go?"

Kid looked him up and down, like there could be a trick in it. "Um, OK?"

"Todd?" said Genny Mori. "Whole towns going to be out."

He looked at his wife, annoyed that she didnt think him man enough to handle it. Also that she was showing it in front of his sons. He tried to brush it off, affecting a light tone. "Who cares; lets go. Well have to get going, though. Probably missed first quarter already."

"Wait, really?" Dex asked from where he lay on the couch, dropping potato chips one by one into his mouth. He sat up a little and the next chip bounced off his lower lip and down to the floor.

"Dex, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, throw that away," Genny said.

"Whoa nelly, easy there, easy," Dex said in a cowboy accent. "Its like I always say, if we had a dog, hed just eat this up. Dropping chips on the floor is a protest, Mom, you ever hear of that?"

"Just get your coat."

Dex picked up the chip from the floor, blew on it, and then, just to get his mom revved even higher, popped it in his mouth-three-second rule-and stomped off, Jimmy following.

"Cant our family ever just be in peace?" Todd said, peeved.

"You tell me," his wife said.

And so Freight Train took his wary family to the Brick House. It was the first time hed been back since high school. They were late and had to wait for a stop in play to find their seats. Shoe squeaks, the smell of gym-Todd closed his eyes. Tracked the feeling as it reached his toes. Not relief, exactly, but a close cousin. The whistle sounded. When he opened them, play was stopped. A Fishermen time-out. Heads turned. People poking neighbors and pointing. A whole gyms worth of eyes. First one person clapping, and then another. Popcorn coming to full heat, it became one sound. Only sound. The crowd threatened to pop the roof right off the Brick House.

These were young kids whod only heard of him in story and parents who remembered him play firsthand. Old cla.s.smates, fans, teachers, and teammates who had one of the best nights of their lives back when Todd led the team to the first championship and all of Columbia City went delirious. Two-for-one drink specials at Desdemonas, free soft-serve at the Dairy Queen. Dancing in the streets and car horns gone hoa.r.s.e from being leaned on. These were the same people laid flat when Todd was suspended from the team the day of the championship game the next year. Their boy done good crashed up on the rocks of alcohol and injury. A hero wallowing, an ugly sight, Freight Train spent the years since trying to be as scarce as can be. Finally here he was, cornered with the whole town giving praise. Refs clapping too, players and coach on Scappoose looking on, calm, giving the moment the respect it deserved, the game could wait. People shouted, "Hey Freight Train!" and, "Go choo-choo!" Just like the old days. h.e.l.l, it was something to see. They still remembered him for all hed been sixteen years before.

Todd nodded his head, bit his lip. "OK, now," he said, "all right." Waved his hand, like Youre too kind. Crowd even louder. Feet stamping bleacher seats. The old chant: "Hey, hey-down the lane. Hey, hey-its Freight Train." Water in his eyes. Noise didnt stop until the Kirkus family found seats. And then when they sat, it settled down, but for the rest of the game, people kept stealing glances.

Todd felt as if he were floating. Jimmy, Dex, and even Genny Mori were balloons.

On the way home, Jimmys mom gave up on being bitter for a little bit and his pops was talking ball. Stories about his glory days that he rarely told, and never with this energy. There was a light rain. It studded the windows with water. For a night at least his mom didnt care shed got pregnant with a doomed little girl and married too soon to a sure thing that turned out to be anything but. His pops forgot that he became a townie, a Van Eyck PepsiCo lifer, who had let his daughter die and screwed up his basketball chances.

"Lets play that tape you like so much," his pops said. He rubbed his moms knee.

"Which one?" she asked, surprised. He usually preferred silence to anything else-and, he didnt really like that either.

"Paul Simon." Jimmy saw the way he smiled slyly in the rearview mirror, and it made him smile too. "Whose gonna get that girl diamonds on her shoes? Lose them walking blues?"

"You know what I like," she finally said, and laughed and it was all so odd, and peaceful and dark, that Jimmy felt a soft sleepiness drift over him. He felt young in the best way. He felt young and protected. Finally.

"You guys live in the Stone Age," Dex said. "Get a CD player already."

"Shut up," Jimmy whispered.

Dex shrugged, and as the music started, Jimmy watched the rain. Then his brother poked him on the shoulder, whispering.

"Hey, Jimmy, you gotta beat this fire plant for me. Level eleven."

Jimmy took the Game Boy. "Yeah, sure."

A, over, A, down, A, B, A. No problem. Got Luigi out right quick. Couple of Italian brothers dodging fire-breathing plants. Jump the problems till there werent any problems left. Both of them blessed with real vertical leaps. Theyd probably make pretty good two-guards.

"Thats the tough part," Dex said when he took the Game Boy back.

"Yeah, thats the tough one."

Paul Simon sang on and on. Diamonds and shoes. People say shes crazy. Mom and Pops sometimes looked back at them through the rearview mirror. Dex played his Game Boy, kept his snide comments bottled up. The whole town had stopped everything for his pops. It had been amazing and unexpected. Filled him up. Filled his whole family up. Brake lights of other cars lit up raindrops on his window. A better night-light hed never known. Jimmy closed his eyes-he could swear he felt the Earth turning-and fell asleep quick and easy.

What happened was the day before the Scappoose game Todd had switched shifts at Van Eyck to help a coworker out. Hed worked the night before, and then did the day too. Basically eighteen hours of work with a nap in between. He got home before the boys were even out of school; around the time he would typically be leaving for work. He parked the van in the usual spot, in their little inlet, behind the pine. Thick branches hid the van. He had the window open, arm out. Engine ticked and cooled. Air-through some trick in the jet stream-warm enough on this day to bathe in. He reclined the seat. He felt worn in the best way and so he lingered there. He drifted to sleep.

Dexs voice-teasing Jimmy-was what woke him. He peeked out the window, wiping dried spit from the corner of his mouth.

"Man, if this whole ball thing doesnt work out, you can go make toys for Santa."

Through the leaves, Todd saw Jimmy hanging from one of the maple limbs. He had soup cans tied to his shoes. He swung back and forth slightly, shaking the limb, trying to stretch himself. Recently, his son had become terrified of staying short and taken it upon himself to help nature out. In the last month, Todd had caught him walking around on his tippy-toes, making himself sick by drinking whole cartons of milk, whispering over and over to himself, "I will be tall, I will be tall, I will be tall."

"Shut up, Dex," Jimmy said, out of breath.

"Or cookies in the tree house? I hear Keeblers got an opening for a good elf."

"Yeah, yeah, keep talking."

"I would, but youre so short I ran out of things to say." Dex pulled out of his pocket a wrinkled page from a magazine. He held it up to Jimmy. "Look, its cute."

Even though it was too far away to see, Todd knew exactly what it was. A month ago, after Jimmy led his team to a second undefeated season in a row and then was named MVP of an elite Nike basketball tournament, Sports Ill.u.s.trated had published an article ent.i.tled Jimmy Kirkus, The Next Larry Bird? In the photo Jimmy stood with his marked-up basketball on his hip. He didnt look much like Celtic great Larry Bird. In fact, with the hoop towering behind him, it was painfully clear just how small he was. He looked better suited for a spelling bee than a hardwood court. Dex had drawn a little elf hat on Jimmys head in Sharpie. Written Santas Little Helper in cursive over the top. Hed been tormenting Jimmy with it ever since.

Jimmy dropped from the tree. He undid the soup cans from his shoes and threw them one by one at Dex. "Shut the. f.u.c.k up." His brother danced away. Then Jimmy stormed about ten feet off, dropped to the ground, and started doing push-ups.

Todd watched, fascinated as Dex took in his brothers rage. One thing about Dex was he simply couldnt handle it if Jimmy was upset. He walked over to the small pumpkin patch that sprouted on the edge of their yard every fall since Jimmys famous barefoot game five years before when Todd had lost it. The pumpkins reminded him of basketb.a.l.l.s-being blown up by the earth, turning from green to orange. Over the years he was always finding them mysteriously smashed just when they were the ripest. G.o.dd.a.m.n teenagers.

Dex picked up one late bloomer-now half rotten and slimy-and lifted it over his head. Todd was worried he was going to walk over and bring it down on Jimmy. He went for the door handle.

Then, instead, Dex called out, "Hey Jimmy!"

Jimmy looked up. Todd could see his older sons smile already growing.

Dex slipped his voice into a pitch-perfect imitation of Todd from that day hed smashed the pumpkin in a fit of rage. "You played without shoes? I could, I could, I COULD WHAT?" Dex threw the pumpkin down where it exploded into an orange, goopy mess.

Jimmy started laughing, and Dex continued stomping around. A big, huffing caricature. Todd felt the urge to scream. Spring open the door, shock his boys, Ive been watching the whole time you little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Then he stopped. Embarra.s.sed already. This was who he was to his sons. Blowing up now would only make it worse. Hed chewed on it all that day and the next. Then an idea sprang to him while he read the Standards sports page. Columbia City Fishermen Face the Scappoose Indians, Tonight at the Brick House. It was something unexpected from him-he could be better, he could surprise them all.

Taking his boys to the Scappoose game couldnt have gone better. As the winter and then spring waned and summer shifted in for its brief turn playing Columbia City, it was clear the standing ovation he received at the game had changed Todd Kirkus. He was more open, laughed easier. He even reached out to his father-who had first spurned Todds help repeatedly when he took to the streets after Suzie died, and then, years later when he had been set up sleeping in the supply closet of Normas and tried to come back home, been rejected in turn by Todd. In the intervening years Todd and the Flying Finn had seen each other on the periphery, but hadnt spoke more than a sentence or two. Then in the summer before Jimmys freshman year, finally, Todd invited him over to officially meet his grandsons.

The first time he came, white hair ironed down the sides of his great dome, lost in a thrift-store suit made for a shorter, fatter man, the boys didnt believe it.

"Good afternoon," the Flying Finn said in a careful politeness that was laughable. "Is gonna come sooner but its so long to walk. Im the Flying Finn, Im Grandpop."

"Ive seen you down on the road," Dex said. "With the green helmet."

The Flying Finn grinned his big jack-o-lantern grin, same one he used when he used to pretend he liked eating brussels sprouts just so Todd would give them a try, and snapped his fingers. "Thats my hat!"