Hell To Pay

“Terry,” said Strange, shaking Quinn’s hand as he arrived. “Sue.”

“Hey, Derek,” said Sue Tracy, pulling an errant strand of blond away from her face.

“Runnin’ a little late, aren’t you?” said Strange.

“Had a meeting with my attorney,” said Quinn. His cheek was bandaged. His jaw line was streaked yellow, the bruise there nearly faded away.

“They’re not gonna drop the charge?” said Strange.

“Assault with intent,” said Quinn, nodding. “They got to charge me with something, right?”

“Well,” said Strange, a light in his eyes, “wasn’t like Wilson came to your apartment and kicked your ass.”

“Right,” said Quinn. “But with Stella’s testimony, he’s gonna do some time.”

“Soon as they take those straws out his nose and rewire his jaw.”

“It’ll keep him off the stroll for a while, anyway. As for me, my lawyer says, I get sentenced at all, it’ll be suspended.”

“The authorities don’t want no one mistaking you for a hero.”

“I’m no hero,” said Quinn. “I got a temper on me, is all.”

“You think so?” said Strange. He nodded to Quinn’s cheek. “Still need that bandage, huh?”

“All these scars, I look like Frankenstein.” Quinn grinned, looking ten years older than Strange had ever seen him look before. “I don’t want to scare the kids.”

“Bring it in!” said Blue, and the teams ended their six-inches drill and jogged over to their coaches, where they took a knee.

“Glad you could make it,” said Arrington, looking Quinn over as they met the boys.

“I’m like you,” said Quinn. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Just doing God’s work,” said Arrington, and he shook Quinn’s hand.

Quinn and Blue went over positions and told the boys what they expected of them. Arrington led them in a prayer, and Strange stepped in to give them a short talk as Dante, Prince, and Rico, the designated captains, went out to the center of the field.

“Protect your brother,” said Strange. “Protect your brother.”

The game began, and from the start the contest was fierce. Many times when one of the black teams from D.C. played a primarily white suburban team, the contest was over before the first whistle. White boys taught by their parents, indirectly or directly, to fear black boys sometimes gave up and lay down the moment they saw black players running onto the field. That fear of the unknown was the seed of racism itself.

But this was not the case here. Today there were two teams from the inner city, a Northwest-Southeast thing, kids battling not for trophies but for neighborhood pride. You could see it in the charging style of play, in the hard eyes of the defenders, the way it took three kids to bring one kid down. And you could hear it in the ramlike clash of the pads, echoing in the bowl of Roosevelt’s field. By halftime, Strange knew that the game would be decided not by one big play, but by one fatal mistake. With the score tied in the fourth quarter, with the Petworth Panthers controlling the ball and threatening on their own twenty, that was exactly how it went down.

On one, Prince snapped the ball to Dante Morris, who handed off to Rico, a simple Thirty-two play, a halfback run to the two-hole. The Petworth linemen made their blocks and cleared an opening. But Rico positioned his hands wrong for the handoff and bobbled the ball as he tried to hit the hole. He ran past the ball, leaving it in the air, and the fumble was recovered by Anacostia. The play broke the Panthers’ spirit. It took only six running plays for Anacostia to score a touchdown and win the game.

At the whistle, the boys formed a line at center field and congratulated their opponents. To their counterparts, the coaches did the same.

“Take a knee!” said Lydell Blue.

The boys formed a tight group, the parents and guardians, along with Lamar, Lionel, Janine, and Sue Tracy, standing nearby. Blue looked at Arrington, and at Quinn, visibly upset. Quinn chinned in the direction of Strange. Strange stepped up to address the boys.

He looked down into their faces. Turf was embedded in their cages, and some of their helmets were streaked with blue, the color of Anacostia’s helmets. Dante was staring at the ground, Prince on one knee beside him. Rico was crying freely, looking away.

“All right,” said Strange. “We lost. We lost this one game. But we didn’t lose, not really. You don’t have to be ashamed about anything, understand? Not a thing. Look at me, Rico. Son, look at me.”

Rico’s eyes met Strange’s.

“You can hold your head up, young man. You made an error, and you think it cost us the game. But if it wasn’t for your running out there, the courage and the skill you showed, we wouldn’t have even been in this game. That goes for all a y’all.”

Strange looked down at the boys, trying to look at each and every one of them, holding his gaze on them individually, before moving on.

“We had a tough season. In more ways than one, it was so tough. You lost one of your fellow warriors, a true brother. And still you went on. What I’m trying to tell you is, every so often, every day, you are going to lose. Nobody is going to give you anything out here, and you will be knocked down. But you got to stand back up again and keep moving forward. That’s what life is. Picking yourself up and living to fight, and win, another day. And you have done that. You’ve shown me what kind of strong character you have, time and time again.”

Strange looked over at Lionel. “You know, I never did have a son of my own. But I know what it is to love one