Everyone stretched their necks to watch him leave, thinking: Who comes back to Pahokee?
Lamar Calhoun sat in his coach’s office going over report cards. Player eligibility. Tutoring.
There were some towel-snapping hijinks up the hall in the locker room. Calhoun shouted out the door to knock it off. It was quiet again. He looked back down at grades.
A timid knock at the door and an equally timid voice: “Coach C? Do you have a minute?”
“You again?” He was annoyed but also amused. He made himself smile.
A student walked in. “Have you thought any more about what we discussed?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s just impossible,” said Lamar.
“Why?” Chris took a seat on the other side of the desk. For the tenth time. Like a bad penny.
“Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a girl,” said the coach. “Why don’t you try soccer?”
“Because I want to play football,” said Chris. “I’ve seen stuff in the news. A few girls have actually made boys’ teams.”
“And all of those were kickers,” said the coach. “You want to be a running back.”
Chris nodded. “I’m pretty fast.”
“Why are you pestering me instead of the head coach?”
“Duh, because you’re the running-back coach.”
Lamar sighed. “What grade are you in anyway?”
“Junior high. Eighth.”
“There you have it,” said Lamar, relieved at the conversational escape route. “You’ve got another year before you should be bothering me again. End of conversation.”
He resumed going through report cards.
Chris cleared her throat.
The coach looked up and raised his hands in frustration. “What do you want from me?”
“Make me a manager.”
“What?”
“I’ll carry water bottles, equipment, help with paperwork, anything. I just want to be around the team.”
Lamar was actually smiling inside, but he’d learned that sometimes not being firm wasn’t doing anyone favors. “Check back in a year. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do . . .”
Violent grunting and shouts. Shoulder pads crashed. A running back slammed into the defensive line and purely willed himself for a two-yard gain before the punishment of a gang tackle.
A coach blew a whistle.
Water break.
The teenagers pulled off helmets and gathered round the coolers. Panting, dizzy, sweating, jerseys caked with dirt. They guzzled from paper cups, spitting most out and swallowing the rest. High school football practice was tough enough in the rest of the country, but rarely like out here in what they called The Muck, under the Florida sun in a withering soup of humidity from Lake Okeechobee and surrounding Everglades crop fields.
Another assistant coach sidled up to Lamar Calhoun. “What’s going on over there?”
“Where?”
The other coach pointed. With all the players on the sidelines now, the view was clear to the far side of the field. Two rows of truck tires were lined up for high-stepping agility drills. A tiny person was running through them. Or trying to. There was a trip and fall every few tires. The person got right back up for the next several tires and promptly went down again.
“Oh geez,” said Calhoun.
“You know who that is?”
Lamar nodded. “Can you take over for me a few minutes?” He headed across the field.
A whistle blew behind him, and the boys lined up again to scrimmage.
Lamar reached the tires. “What are you doing?”
Chris pushed herself up from the vulcanized obstacle course and managed a couple more steps. Plop. “I’m practicing, Coach.”
Calhoun’s voice was more perplexed than angry. “Okay, first, I’m not your coach, and second, you can’t be out here.”
“Why not?” Huffing and turning around at the end of the tires, then heading back.
Lamar watched as she ran by and fell again. “Because only players are allowed on the field.”
“I’m going to be a player.”
“Please don’t make me throw you out,” said Lamar. “It’s . . . insurance. Yeah, insurance.”
Chris stopped. A resigned “Allllll right.”
Calhoun watched with conflicted emotions as the young girl slunk off the field. He scratched his head and had no idea what to make of it . . .
Chapter 9
Central Florida
A 1969 Plymouth Satellite sat quietly and alone in the shade of an oak tree. It was lunchtime.
Coleman finished chewing a bite and swallowed. “What are we doing here?”
Serge stuck a fork in his mouth. “Eating pie.”
“No, I mean here,” said Coleman. “This place.”
“It’s our next stop.” Serge chased the bite with more coffee. “The Antioch Cemetery, a few miles east of Micanopy and Cross Creek.”
“I’m surprised you picked this one,” said Coleman. “It’s small and kind of dumpy. Just dirt with some brown grass and weeds.”
“That part’s a disappointment, but one Floridian buried here makes it more than worthwhile.”
“So who is it?”
“Hold on,” said Serge, digging in again with his fork. “I’m letting the moment build with pie. This is a celebration of astounding dimensions.”
“If it’s a celebration, I would have guessed you’d buy a cake.”
“I’m done with cake!” said Serge. “Cakes are flashy and get way too much attention compared to pie. All that garish frosting. It’s just gratuitous.”
Munch, munch. “Why do you say that?”
“Because cakes are the pole dancers of the bakery world, but a pie is the girl you take home to Mom. If cakes had names, they’d be Jazmine, Sunshine, Cinnamon, Duplicity; pie would answer to ‘Sarah’ and ‘Beth.’”
“Never thought of it that way.”
“There are defining times in your life when you just have to speak up.”
“I can dig it.” Coleman took another bite. “And I have to say it’s pretty damn good pie. But I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“It’s sour orange pie.” A fork scooped.
“Never heard of it.” Munch.
“Almost nobody has.” Serge chewed and slurped from his coffee mug. “But it’s one of our state’s most fantastic native dishes ever, made from centuries-old family recipes that are now virtually forgotten. Key lime pie gets all the headlines today. And Key lime’s great, don’t get me wrong. But sour orange is nirvana. And because it’s so unknown, you have to work like the devil to get it. The main ingredient was brought here by the Spanish in the sixteenth century, and now grows wild across the peninsula, characterized by its extra-bumpy and thick skin, like a giant citrus golf ball. Just finding the fruit is a bitch, involving hiking boots and trespassing, or long drives to specialty grocery stores like Cuban bodegas in Miami, where they’re sold to make mojo sauce—I like saying ‘mojo.’ Then boil to a syrup, add eggs and sugar, graham-cracker or saltine-crumb crust, whip more syrup into the meringue, and the crowd goes wild. I found several recipes online, including one in an article for Gardens and Guns.”