gel that it looked perennially wet. I didn't hate him like the Colonel did, of course, because the Colonel hated him on principle, and principled hate is a hell of a lot stronger than 'Boy, I wish you hadn't mummified me and thrown me into the lake' hate. Still, I tried to stare at him intimidatingly as he looked at the Colonel, but it was hard to forget that this guy had seen my skinny ass in nothing but boxers a couple weeks ago.
'You ratted out Paul and Marya. We got you back. Truce?' Kevin asked.
'I didn't rat them out. Pudge here
Hmm, let me take a poll real quick.' The cheerleaders sat down, holding their pompoms close to their chest as if praying. 'Hey, Pudge,' the Colonel said. 'What do you think of a truce?'
'It reminds me of when the Germans demanded that the U.S. surrender at the Battle of the Bulge,' I said. 'I guess I'd say to this truce offer what General McAuliffe said to that one: Nuts.'
'Why would you try to kill this guy, Kevin? He's a genius. Nuts to your truce.'
'Come on, dude. I know you ratted them out, and we had to defend our friend, and now it's over. Let's end it.' He seemed very sincere, perhaps due to the Colonel's reputation for pranking.
'I'll make you a deal. You pick one dead American president. If Pudge doesn't know that guy's last words, truce.
If he does, you spend the rest of your life lamenting the day you pissed in my shoes.'
'That's retarded.'
'All right, no truce,' the Colonel shot back.
'Fine. Millard Fillmore,' Kevin said. The Colonel looked at me hurriedly, his eyes saying,
'When Fillmore was dying, he was super hungry. But his doctor was trying to starve his fever or whatever.
Fillmore wouldn't shut up about wanting to eat, though, so finally the doctor gave him a tiny teaspoon of soup.
And all sarcastic, Fillmore said, 'The nourishment is palatable,' and then died. No truce.'
Kevin rolled his eyes and walked away, and it occurred to me that I could have made up any last words for Millard Fillmore and Kevin probably would have believed me if I'd used that same tone of voice, the Colonel's confidence rubbing off on me.
'That was your first badass moment!' The Colonel laughed.
'Now, it's true that I gave you an easy target. But still. Well done.'
Unfortunately for the Culver Creek Nothings, we weren't playing the deaf-and-blind school. We were playing some Christian school from downtown Birmingham, a team stocked with huge, gargantuan apemen with thick beards and a strong distaste for turning the othercheek.
At the end of the first quarter: 20-4.
And that's when the fun started. The Colonel led all of the cheers.
'Cornbread!' he screamed.
'CHICKEN!' the crowd responded.
'Rice!'
'PEAS!'
And then, all together: 'WE GOT HIGHER SATs.'
'Hip Hip Hip Hooray!' the Colonel cried.
'YOU'LL BE WORKIN' FOR US SOMEDAY!'
The opposing team's cheerleaders tried to answer our cheers with 'The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! Hell is in your future if you give in to desire,' but we could always do them one better.
'Buy!'
'SELL!'
'Trade!'
'BARTER!'
'YOU'RE MUCH BIGGER, BUT WE ARE SMARTER!'
When the visitors shoot a free throw on most every court in the country, the fans make a lot of noise, screaming and stomping their feet. It doesn't work, because players learn to tune out white noise. At Culver Creek, we had a much better strategy. At first, everyone yelled and screamed like in a normal game. But then everyone said, 'Shh!' and there was absolute silence. Just as our hated opponent stopped dribbling and prepared for his shot, the Colonel stood up and screamed something. Like: 'For the love of God, please shave your back hair!' Or: 'I need to be saved. Can you minister to me after your shot?!'
Toward the end of the third quarter, the Christian-school coach called a time-out and complained to the ref about the Colonel, pointing at him angrily. We were down 56–13. The Colonel stood up. 'What?! You have a problem with me!?'
The coach screamed, 'You're bothering my players!'
'THAT'S THE POINT, SHERLOCK!' the Colonel screamed back. The ref came over and kicked him out of the gym. I followed him.
'I've gotten thrown out of thirty-seven straight games,' he said.
'Damn.'
'Yeah. Once or twice, I've had to go really crazy. I ran onto the court with eleven seconds left once and stole the ball from the other team. It wasn't pretty. But, you know. I have a streak to maintain.'
The Colonel ran ahead of me, gleeful at his ejection, and I jogged after him, trailing in his wake. I wanted to be one of those people who have streaks to maintain, who scorch the ground with their intensity. But for now, at least I knew such people, and they needed me, just like comets need tails.
one hundred eight days before
The next day, Dr. Hyde asked me to stay after class. Standing before him, I realized for the first time how hunched his shoulders were, and he seemed suddenly sad and kind of old. 'You like this class, don't you?' he asked.
'Yes sir.'
'You've got a lifetime to mull over the Buddhist understanding of interconnectedness.' He spoke every sentence as if he'd written it down, memorized it, and was now reciting it. 'But while you were looking out the window, you missed the chance to explore the equally interesting Buddhist belief in being present for every facet of your daily life, of being truly present. Be present in this class. And then, when it's over, be present out there,' he said, nodding toward the lake and beyond.
'Yes sir.'
one hundred one days before
On the first morning of October, I knew something was wrong as soon as I woke up enough to turn off the alarm clock. The bed didn't smell right. And I didn't feel right. It took me a groggy minute before I realized: I felt
Well, at the very least, the small fan clipped to my bunk seemed suddenly unnecessary. 'It's cold!' I shouted.
'Oh God, what time is it?' I heard above me.
'Eight-oh-four,'I said.
The Colonel, who didn't have an alarm clock but almost always woke up to take a shower before mine went
