The Late Hit Page 6

  I look over at my dad. I can see the determination in his face. It replaces the tired look that was there just a few minutes ago. I know he’ll do everything he can do to keep the doors of Warren High open. He’s never been one to back away from a challenge.

  When we are almost home, I ask my dad to drop me off at Anton’s house.

  “Tell him about our plan,” my dad says as I get out of the car. “Let him know I’m going to make some calls and gather up a bunch of us who used to work in the mines.”

  “Thanks,” I say to my dad. “And thanks for driving all night to watch my game. Thanks for working so hard for Mom and me.”

  “Things will get better,” my dad says. “We just have to keep doing the best we can until they do.”

  I give him a wave as he drives away, and then I climb up Anton’s porch steps and knock softly on the front door.

  His mom answers and hugs me. Anton’s concussion was worse than any of us knew. When his mom took him to the ER, the doctor gave him a CAT scan and found bleeding in his brain. He was hospitalized for three days. Now he’s back home and he’s going to be okay, but he can’t go back to school for another two weeks.

  “Hey,” I say as I enter Anton’s dark room.

  The foil balloons Ciara and I brought to the hospital are half-floating above his bed.

  “What was the score?” he asks. He’s not allowed to text or watch TV or be on a computer of any kind. Complete brain rest, his mother calls it.

  “24–3,” I answer.

  He winces at this.

  “Who played QB?”

  “Joe Warner,” I say. “That really skinny freshman,” I remind him. Anton nods at this.

  “How did he not get crushed?”

  “We built a wall around the kid,” I say “And he managed to make a couple of nice passes.”

  “Did Coach chew through an entire pack of gum?” Anton asks.

  “I think he was on his third pack by the third quarter,” I say.

  Anton smiles at this.

  I pull up a chair and sit next to him.

  “My dad is going to see if he can get some money from the mines to keep Warren High open.”

  “Yeah,” Anton says sitting up in his bed. “That’s a good idea. We should all write letters to the CEO. Every student. Every person in this town. Maybe get the press involved. ”

  I see him wince.

  “Don’t think so much,” I say.

  He looks at me and says, “The problem is, I didn’t think enough. I’m sorry, Busby. I’m sorry for blaming you.”

  “You didn’t know how bad it was,” I say.

  “Now I do,” he says. He looks over at me. “Thanks for watching out for me. You had my back.”

  I’m embarrassed by this. Every time Anton and his mother thank me for what I did, I go bright red. The truth is, I could’ve done more—and I could’ve done it earlier. I’m just glad Anton’s going to be okay. “Rest up. We need you to get better.”

  “I will,” he replies. “I really will this time.” And I can tell he means it.

  “Good,” I smile. “Because next year, we take the field again.”

  “Yeah,” he says, but he says it in a distant way, and I realize that neither one of us can predict what will happen next year. We can only keep moving forward and watching out for each other and helping each other up when one of us takes a hit.

  “Stop by tomorrow,” he says.

  “I will,” I say. “Maybe I can tell you about the game.”

  “Good,” he says. “Good.”

  He closes his eyes, and I let him rest.

  About the Author

  K.R. Coleman is a writer, teacher, and parent of two boys. Coleman can often be found jotting down ideas in a notebook while watching a hockey or baseball game or while walking along the many trails that encircle Minneapolis. Currently, Coleman teaches at the Loft Literary Center and is working on a young adult novel entitled Air.