Cracking the Bell
DEDICATION
To Marty, Chris, Jeremy, Frank, JD, Pete, Rod, Dirk, Ben,
Mike, and everyone I played the game with.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: September 28: Cracking the Bell
Chapter 2: Four Years Ago, in July: Hannah Died
Chapter 3: September 29: Morning After the Football Game
Chapter 4: September 29: Into the Kitchen
Chapter 5: Before Football
Chapter 6: September 29: The Hospital
Chapter 7: September 30: Morning
Chapter 8: When Football Started
Chapter 9: September 30: Afternoon
Chapter 10: The Dream
Chapter 11: October 1: Monday
Chapter 12: The Ice Bowl
Chapter 13: October 2: Tuesday
Chapter 14: Grace
Chapter 15: October 3: Wednesday
Chapter 16: October 3: Wednesday After School
Chapter 17: October 4: Thursday
Chapter 18: Isaiah the Monk
Chapter 19: October 4: Thursday Night
Chapter 20: October 4: Thursday Night
Chapter 21: October 5: Friday Morning Doctor’s Appointment
Chapter 22: October 5: Piece of Shit
Chapter 23: October 5: Game Day
Chapter 24: October 5: Game Day II
Chapter 25: October 6: The Game
Chapter 26: October 6: The Meaning of 3 A.M.
Chapter 27: October 6: Saturday, Noon
Chapter 28: October 6: To Grace
Chapter 29: October 6: The Flugel Rock
Chapter 30: October 6: The Criminal
Chapter 31: The First Arrest: Parallels
Chapter 32: October 6: Back Home
Chapter 33: October 7: Back to 3 A.M.
Chapter 34: October 7: 11:20 A.M.
Chapter 35: October 7: 11:55 A.M.
Chapter 36: October 7: 12:05 P.M.
Chapter 37: October 7: 1:07 P.M.
Chapter 38: October 7: 1:11 P.M.
Chapter 39: October 7: 1:48 P.M.
Chapter 40: October 9: My Eighteenth Birthday
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Geoff Herbach
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Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
SEPTEMBER 28: CRACKING THE BELL
Football has been my medicine. It has given me a singularity of purpose. It is the tower I built, on which I stand and see everything around me.
I’m a defensive player, but that doesn’t mean football is simple seek and destroy, like some people might think. I captain the defense, which takes smarts, especially the way I play the game. I’m not some firing missile. I’m a smart bomb, communicating subtly, like through fungal mycelium, to a network of other smart bombs, my killer teammates.
On the field the world goes into vignette mode on Instagram. I’m in this dark tunnel except for a brightly lit place right in the center where everything makes sense. I shout an alignment, read how the offense sets up, call out adjustments—verbally, with my eyes, with hand gestures—signal plays to watch for, react to action in the backfield, take on blocks.
The world makes sense on the football field.
Even on September 28, apparently. In fact, as soon as we left the locker room, my bone-tired heaviness, my thoughts of my sister, Hannah, and poor Mom and Grandpa John . . . they went away and all there was in front of me was grass, jersey, helmet, the mechanics of Lancaster’s offense lit in a bright Instagram vignette.
Screw Lancaster. I’m not a kind person on the football field. Yes, I play smart. But after I make my reads, I am free to destroy.
In the fourth quarter of a heavyweight bout that featured far more defense than offense, we led Lancaster by six points.
But as time fled, Lancaster had the ball.
They are really good. They are the monsters of the Southwest Wisconsin Conference. They drove the length of the field—their huge linemen, having finally exhausted our front seven, paved the way for Jimi Jentz and Jake Brogley, their fleet-footed running backs. With just over a minute left, they moved all the way down to our twenty-two yard line. But I didn’t lose faith. I knew this business. I knew my place in it.
I’d studied so much film. I had a research paper full of evidence proving they got conservative when they hit this part of the field. Most teams who played them lost confidence, lost their will to fight. Most teams got run over easily. Why would Lancaster do anything risky? Most teams laid down and lost.
Not us.
In the huddle, I was my most pure “second life” self. I nodded, looked into everybody’s eyes, pointed at each one of my teammates. “Not us. Not us. They will not run us over,” I said. “We bend. We don’t break.”
My teammates huffed and snorted. They nodded, returned my gaze.
“Let’s go. Now,” I said.
And I was right about conservative. Of course. Lancaster called running alignments three plays in a row, certain we’d lay down. But each time, I lined us up like a hammer poised to hit. They couldn’t move at all. One yard first play. A yard loss second. No gain third.
My heart pounded. The vignette was blinding.
Dave Dieter, our defensive coordinator, pumped his fist, gave me the thumbs-up. Very few knew, but Dieter let me call most of the game by myself. Essentially, Dieter was cheerleading, and I did his coordinator job.
On fourth down, Lancaster had to go for it, even though they had ten yards to go. There was no other choice. Images from the film I’d watched riffled through my mind. I knew that their playbook would open up in this situation. A pass was coming, and I knew which one.
Then Coach Dieter tried to grab the defensive reins. He signaled in a set, shouted for the corners to stay back off the line of scrimmage.
I shook my head, tried to shake him off.
Dieter signaled the set again.
“Ignore Dieter,” I said in the huddle. “Don’t play off the line. It’s an option route to Clay. He’s the guy, right?”
Everyone nodded.
“Press on the damn edges.”
“You sure, man?” Matty Weber, the free safety, asked.
“Can’t have Clay running to the damn sideline. We don’t want him stopping the clock if he gets a first down. Make him cross in front of me,” I said. “Funnel him right at me.”
The corners nodded. They broke huddle. They lined up tight.
“Back off! Back off!” Coach Dieter screamed.
My heart slowed. I crouched.
“Back off!” Coach Dieter cried. Our corners didn’t budge.
“Red. Red. Red,” Lancaster’s quarterback shouted. “Hut. Hut!”
Dakota Clay, Lancaster’s all-state tight end, got bumped off the line by our outside linebacker, Knutson. It was happening just like I thought it would. Our corner was between the hash and the sideline and Matty Weber was shaded to that side to double Clay. Instead of running out and up the field, Clay rode the bump and dragged across the middle.
I stayed crouched, made myself small, baited Lancaster’s QB into thinking the middle of the field was open. It worked perfectly. Lancaster had spent the entire game running every play away from me, keeping me from being a factor. Not this time. The QB threw the ball. It left his hand on target, right at Clay. I exploded forward, accelerated like rockets were attached to my ass. I didn’t break down for the tackle at all, because I knew exactly where the ball would be. At the last moment, I uncoiled on Dakota Clay. I exploded into him at the same moment the ball reached his hands. It was brutal, crushing, like a pickup truck blowing a country intersection. Clay cri
ed out. The ball bounced away. The crowd leaped to its feet, screaming.
Even though a few seconds remained on the clock, all we had to do to win was take a knee. Game over.
After the hit, apparently Clay lay on the field groaning.
I didn’t hear that part. I’d done something I shouldn’t do. Really bad technique, failed to keep my eyes up, dropped my head down when I made the hit.
Eyes down. Head down. Absolutely terrible technique.
I have a tendency to drop my head when I want a hit to be remembered. Once in my career, sophomore year, the resultant collision caused my eyes to roll back in my head, my sinuses to drain, and my ears to ring like a French cathedral on Sunday morning. No, not just bells. I heard the shriek of a witch for the first time. I’d worked hard to counter my intuitive style of play after sophomore year and had avoided that kind of collision, although I did hear the shriek of a witch one other time, junior year, when a receiver cracked back on me, hit me at full speed while I wasn’t looking. Man, I worked so hard to avoid that kind of contact.
I’ll tell you this, I’d never dropped my eyes on a 240-pound superathlete before. The back of my helmet had ricocheted off Clay’s ribs and shot my face down into the turf. Crash. For a count of three, I think, I was totally out (looked like that on the video—Kirby Sheldon showed me later). Twiggs ran onto the field and raised his arms, signaled the coaches for help, because for that three count I looked dead. But before anyone could check on me, I was awake. I pushed myself off the turf and ran to the sideline like nothing had happened. On film my teammates slapped me on the helmet, jumped up and down, and high-fived each other around me.
I don’t remember it.
This is what I remember: witch whistles screamed in my ears. What sound would steel make if it was torn apart slowly? Witch whistles. Got more intense. The whistles came from ten places at first, then combined and became a single dying girl shrieking without breathing. Constant deadly shriek. The sky above turned orange, yellow, blue, red . . .
What’s happening? What’s happening?
That’s the last thing I remember thinking. Or seeing. Or hearing. The last thing for many hours. I don’t remember the good-game line, or hugging Dad and Grandma Gin in the stands, or riding the bus back to the high school, or telling Twiggs and Riley I had to go home to see Mom, because she hadn’t made it to the game, or driving home, or going to bed, or getting up and vomiting.
All that was gone from my head, my cracked bell leaking it away. The contents of my second life leaking away.
CHAPTER 2
FOUR YEARS AGO, IN JULY: HANNAH DIED
Because Grace, who was my girlfriend back when I was an eighth-grade criminal, works for Grandma Gin at Dairy Queen, Mom wouldn’t let me work there anymore. To make money, I clean gutters and paint houses with Joey Derossi, a twenty-year-old dude who was my sister Hannah’s weirdest friend.
He is a wild card but isn’t wild. He’s just weird and I like him more than just about anybody, not only because he reminds me of how funny Hannah was.
In my second life, we drove around in his old GMC pickup truck. He played whatever music he’d gotten into (usually from the 1960s or ’70s, but sometimes new stuff—as long as he could get it on CD or cassette—Joey lives as analogue as possible, no smartphone, electronic notebook, laptop, internet). He talked about whatever strange idea he’d been reading about at the library. Last summer, he began asking me to write stuff and read it to him. He wanted to examine my deep perceptions. Doing that writing—and I wrote all the time—felt good, but also shook me up. Yes, I like Joey Derossi more than anyone my age, except for maybe Grace.
This is how the weird writing thing started.
Last summer, after I began having a recurring Hannah dream, Joey gave me one of those green-and-white composition notebooks you can get at Walmart for a dollar. He said, “Grab a pen. Write that shit out. Write about your feelings, bro. This is the greatest gift the great eyeball in the sky gave to all us humanoid primates down here. The ability to reflect and write out all our big-brained-ape shit.”
“Seriously?” I said. “I don’t really want to.”
“I’m your pal, man. Listen to your pal,” he said.
“No thanks,” I said, handing the green notebook back to him.
“Bullshit. Riggles and Twine don’t care if you’re struggling. But your real pal, aka me, wants you to be as mentally healthy as you are physically magnificent.”
Joey Derossi. A freak of nature. I did think it was funny he called my best friends over at school, Riley and Twiggs, “Riggles and Twine.” I also thought maybe he was right about this gift from the “great eyeball in the sky” (this is what he called his version of God). When my first life broke completely, back when I was fourteen, the social worker at the group home I was sent to asked me to write stuff, too.
Anyway, this is the first thing I wrote for Joey Derossi. I started writing it in first person, because why wouldn’t I write about myself in first person? But Joey—who is probably a genius—made me go back and write it in third person.
“That way you get out of your own path. You gotta get out of your damn head!”
Okay . . .
Four years ago in July, Hannah Died
The phone rang just after 10 p.m. Isaiah’s mom and dad were in the living room watching a Kevin Costner movie on Netflix. Something about baseball, which thirteen-year-old Isaiah thought was stupid. This was during the summer between seventh and eighth grade, when Isaiah was small and dirty and liked to eat peanut butter right out of the jar (sometimes with his finger).
Instead of watching the stupid movie with his boring parents, he played Temple Run II on his phone. Although he was physically attracted to Scarlett Fox—the character with whom he played the game—he kind of hated Temple Run II. It took too long to die once you got good and when you did die you had to start over from the beginning, so it took a long time to learn how to deal with the challenge that killed you. It gave him a big headache. Sadly, Temple Run II was one of the few games that still worked on his piece-of-shit Galaxy, and he needed to be doing something with his damn brain.
There was tension in the air. His sister, Hannah, who had always been the good kid in the family, had skipped her shift at Dairy Queen to go to Blackhawk Lake with her new boyfriend, Ray Gatos. The dude seemed so nerdy to Isaiah. But apparently Ray had some criminal intentions? Or a criminal mind? That’s what Isaiah’s parents said anyway.
“That kid is a bad influence,” Mom whispered before the movie started. “We better keep our eye on him.”
It really didn’t seem possible to his parents that Hannah would have chosen criminal behavior, missing her DQ shift, on her own. Grandma Gin owned Dairy Queen. Hannah hadn’t just skipped out on a fast-food job; she’d put her own grandma into a crap spot on a busy summer night (Isaiah had been forced to work for two hours, which made him mad, except the new girl, Grace, was at Dairy Queen, and he liked her weird sense of humor and also, if forced to admit it, how she smelled when she was sweaty), and Grandma Gin was not one to forgive and forget, so Hannah would be in trouble for a long time. . . .
Hannah wouldn’t invite the wrath of Grandma Gin into her life, would she?
Scarlett Fox, who looked a little like the new girl, Grace—kind of pouty and pointy—burst through the temple ruins, jumping over massive holes, sliding under fallen trees and bursts of fire, picking up all the tiles, and avoiding the giant creature that chased her and wanted to tear her to pieces.
The landline rang in the kitchen. Isaiah figured it was Hannah, finally. He didn’t even look up from his phone. He didn’t want to hear Mom’s screaming. But Isaiah did look up when Mom failed to scream. At first, Mom said yes, yes, yes? Then she gasped. Then she began to cry oh no, oh no, oh no, again and again.
“What?” Isaiah asked. “What?” he shouted from his bedroom.
“You know there’s no way Ray Gatos forced Hannah to go, right?” Joey said to me after I read it alo
ud to him. “No way he was the one pushing her. It was other way around with those guys. Ray Gatos was like a cute little teddy bear Hannah carried around with her. Bro, she owned Ray Gatos.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, man. Yeah. All you people think Hannah was some angel, but she wasn’t, okay? Don’t get me wrong, she was about as nice as a human being could be. She was sweet to a weird-ass high schooler like I was, right? But come on. She was fun. Hannah was, like, ‘Hannah the Adventurer.’ She was a little bit half-cocked and good to go, you know what I’m saying?”
“No.”
“She loved to live her life. That’s all. Nothing evil. She was just out there doing stuff.”
“That’s a new perspective,” I said.
“Always good to see things from different angles, bro. How about you imagine her at the end, in that car, loving life, not worried about breaking those rules too much?”
So I did. One Saturday afternoon two weeks before football started, while we were out in Hazel Green working for an old lady Joey had known since he was a kid, Joey cleaned gutters on a ladder above. I sat on the old lady’s lawn with my green notebook and wrote this . . .
Ray Gatos drives his Toyota Corolla on the rolling county road. “I can’t believe your grandma let you off work tonight,” he says.
“Yeah. Ha ha. Seriously,” Hannah, who sits next to him, replies. She blushes. She is not a great liar. She doesn’t want Ray to worry she might get in trouble. To take her mind off things, she sticks her hand out the window and lets it ride the hot air currents of a falling summer night. Whatever trouble she’ll be in, the day was worth it. The whole day had been amazing. Grandma couldn’t hate her forever, right?
At that same moment, Steven Hartley (33), leaves the Boulder Junction Tap and stumbles to his new Ford F-150. The man is broken, drunk, loaded to the hilt. He climbs in, turns the ignition, and puts his head down on the steering wheel. “I can’t do it,” he sobs. Then he takes a big breath, lifts his big head, whispers, “Screw this.” He flips the truck into drive.
Meanwhile, the sun sets red over the Driftless Area, that weird, rolling landscape in southwest Wisconsin that the earth-grading glaciers somehow missed. Everything runs red to orange and green in the fields and a perfect light shivers along the road.