Wild cheering.
Serge wound his way through spectators along the fence—“Excuse me, excuse me, coming through . . .”—until he came to an access gate and a security guard. “Thank you for your service. Could you please open that?”
“Who are you?”
Serge looked at Coleman. “Who are we?” Then back at the guard. “Who does it look like we are? Is this your first rodeo?”
“But the clowns are already out there.”
“New liability insurance rule: more clowns.”
“I’m going to have to check with a supervisor.”
“Go ahead,” Serge said as a bronco thundered by, throwing the rider into the fence. “Meanwhile, someone gets hurt, lawsuits fly, and then you’re stuttering on the witness stand about why you withheld lifesaving clown procedures.”
PA: “Let’s hear it for Blueridge Grymes!”
“Well, okay, you seem authorized.”
Serge and Coleman waved to the crowd as they strolled across the dirt. Coleman stopped and looked at something stuck to the bottom of one of his big floppy shoes.
“Seriously?” said Serge. “Already?”
“It’s everywhere.”
Serge pointed. “There’s our command post.”
They took up positions behind a pair of oak barrels, leaning with their elbows.
“This is it? This is a job?” Coleman whistled. “Clowns have it all figured out.”
“The clowning life is extreme boredom punctuated by bursts of sheer terror.”
“I remember those birthday parties.”
PA: “Let’s hear it for Omaha Kid Sloane!”
Gate after gate flew open, and cowboy after cowboy flew through the air. More names from the PA were announced and applauded: Boone Cartwright, Doc Hickock, Austin Buck, Deadwood Dixon, Medicine Hat McCoy.
“What are those big animals over there?” asked Coleman. “They look nasty.”
“They are,” said Serge, resting his chin on top of a barrel. “Brahma bulls. Unlike horses, they have vicious horns. Only the bravest ride them.”
“People ride them?” said Coleman. “And we’re going to be out here? What if they come after me and I get scared?”
“Just get inside one of these barrels. That’s what they’re for.”
Coleman nodded. “You know what I’m thinking about now?”
“The panel is stumped.”
“My taste buds.”
“Still goose eggs. Please proceed.”
“You know how you loved some foods as a kid, but unless you make it a point, you don’t get the chance anymore?” said Coleman. “I miss SpaghettiOs.”
“This is your news flash?” said Serge.
“Just sayin’.”
“But I do feel your pain,” said Serge. “Our taste buds have changed, despite all my efforts. It’s no coincidence that Chef Boyardee has two different gustation formulas for kids and grown-ups, developed through rigorous kindergarten focus groups. Same thing with the little McDonald’s hamburgers. They needed a gateway drug to get kids hooked, but adults were unreliable test subjects, so the winning formula had to be the result of random permutations screened by the preschool set. How else would you explain the counterintuitive final strokes of adding a dollop of mustard and diced pieces of sautéed onions? I remember when I was five taking one of my hamburgers apart: ‘I must learn what kind of party is going on in this thing because Mom never comes close!’ And the next time she made hamburgers at home: ‘Mom, I’ll get the mustard and you grab the little translucent squares.’”
“I still like peanut butter and jelly,” said Coleman.
“Those sandwiches are critical to keeping your childhood taste buds in shape, or you end up an asshole in a restaurant mispronouncing foie gras— . . . Shit, terror time!”
“What is it?”
“That cowboy’s starting to slide off the horse but it looks like his left foot is stuck in the stirrup! . . . We’re on!”
Serge dashed out into the arena, just as the bronco rider hit the ground and began being dragged through the dirt. Other clowns ran in from the other direction, trying to distract the horse and slow it down. The rider was taking a beating.
Then something nobody had seen before. Serge kicked off his clown shoes, running alongside the slowed horse to get his timing right. Suddenly he leaped, grabbing the saddle knob, getting a foot in the right stirrup and pulling himself aboard. He had the advantage of being able to use both hands, while the horse was hampered by the weight of what he was dragging.
Serge leaned all the way forward, wrapping his arms around the horse’s neck, stroking it and whispering in a big brown ear. The horse began to calm until it stopped. They freed the rider’s foot as Serge hopped down and walked around to the front of the horse. He said a few more words in private. The horse whinnied, nickered and snorted. Serge patted him above the nose.
Nearby, the fallen cowboy leaped to his feet.
“Let’s hear it for Kyle Lovitt!”
Thunderous cheers.
An older man in a white Stetson ran out onto the dirt. “What have you done?”
“Official clown business,” said Serge.
“You broke my bronco!”
Serge patted the side of the horse’s head. Another whinny. “He doesn’t look broken.”
“I mean he won’t buck anymore,” said the ranch owner. “He’s useless at rodeos now.”
Serge held out upturned palms. “No good deed goes unpunished . . .”
Meantime, the thrown rider named Kyle had walked over to one of the officials at the fence, who relayed a message up to the PA booth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is quite unusual, but just before our intermission Kyle is going to ride again. Of course it won’t count in the official standings, but it’s the least we can do for one of our brave military veterans.”
More wild cheering.
Kyle climbed onto another saddle, gripped tightly with one hand and nodded that he was ready . . .
Chapter 27
A Few Months Earlier
Senior year.
Coach Calhoun had finally resigned himself to wearing bifocals.
He was sitting behind his desk going over the tryout sheet for the upcoming season. Seemed everyone wanted to play for Pahokee. He ran a finger down the list of names. The finger stopped. A slight smile. No surprise there.
A knock at the door.
He removed the glasses. “Chris, come in.”
“Thanks, Coach.” She’d gone through a growth spurt over the last three years and was nearing five ten. The chair on the other side of the coach’s desk was getting small.
“As usual, you want to talk about something?”
“I’m not asking for any favors . . .”
“I already know where this is going,” said Calhoun. “You signed up again for tryouts.”
“Four years in a row,” said Chris. “This is my last chance.”
The coach took a deep breath with paternal eyes. “Chris, I want you to listen carefully to me and take it to heart. I never saw this coming when we first met, but I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been. You make all this worthwhile. You’re the kind of student that inspires teachers to teach, and coaches to coach. You’ve got the best attitude, been the best manager, but most important, you’ve kept your grades way up.”