"At times you get tired of carrying Coach Rake around. You want to be able to screw up and not hear him bark. You want to slide and maybe cut a corner without hearing his whistle. Then the voice will tell you to pick yourself up, to set a goal, work harder than everybody else, stick to the basics, execute perfectly, be confident, be brave, and never, never quit. The voice is never far away.
"We will leave here today without the physical presence of our Coach. But his spirit will live in the hearts and minds and souls of all the young boys he touched, all the kids who became men under Eddie Rake. His spirit will move us and motivate us and comfort us for the rest of our lives, I guess. Fifteen years later, I think about Coach Rake more than ever.
"There is a question I've asked myself a thousand times, and I know that every player has struggled with it too. The question is, 'Do I love Eddie Rake, or do I hate him?'"
The voice began to crack and fade. Neely closed his eyes, bit his tongue, and tried to summon the strength to finish. Then he wiped his face and said, slowly, "I've answered the question differently every day since the first time he blew his whistle and barked at me. Coach Rake was not easy to love, and while you're playing here you really don't like him. But after you leave, after you venture away from this place, after you've been kicked around a few times, faced some adversity, some failure, been knocked down by life, you soon realize how important Coach Rake is and was. You always hear his voice, urging you to pick yourself up, to do better, and never quit. You miss that voice. Once you're away from Coach Rake, you miss him so much."
He was straining now. Either sit down or embarrass yourself. He glanced at Silo, who clenched a fist as if to say, "Finish it, and fast."
"I've loved five people in my life," he said, looking up bravely at the crowd. His voice was fading, so he gritted his teeth and pushed on. "My parents, a certain girl who's here today, my ex-wife, and Eddie Rake."
He struggled for a long, painful pause, then said, "I'll sit down now."
* * *
When Father McCabe finished the benediction and dismissed the crowd, there was little movement. The town was not ready to say good-bye to its Coach. As the players stood and gathered around Miss Lila and the family, the town watched from the stands.
The choir sang a soft spiritual, and a few folks began drifting toward the front gate.
Every player wanted to say something to Jesse Trapp, as if chatting him up might delay his inevitable return to prison. After an hour, Rabbit cranked up the John Deere mower and began cutting the south end zone. There was, after all, a game to be played. Kickoff against Hermantown was five hours away. When Miss Lila and the family began moving away from the tent, the players followed slowly behind. Workers quickly disassembled the tent and removed the tarp and folding chairs. The home benches were arranged in a straight line. The field paint crew, a highly experienced squad of boosters, began scurrying around, already behind schedule. They worshiped Rake, but the field had to be striped and the midfield logo touched up. The cheerleaders arrived and began working furiously to hang hand-painted banners along the fence around the field. They tinkered with a fog machine to enhance the team's dramatic entry through the end zone. They looped hundreds of balloons around the goalposts. Rake was only a legend to them. At the moment, they had far more serious matters to think about.
The band could be heard in the distance, on one of the practice fields, tuning up, practicing maneuvers.
Football was in the air. Friday night was rapidly approaching.
At the front gate, the players shook hands and hugged and made the usual promises to get together more often. Some took quick photos of the remnants of old teams. More hugs, more promises, more long sad looks at the field where they once played under the great Eddie Rake.
Finally, they left.
* * *
The '87 team met at Silo's cabin a few miles out of town. It was an old hunting lodge, deep in the woods, on the edge of a small lake. Silo had put some money into it-there was a pool, three decks on different levels for serious lounging, and a new pier that ran fifty feet into the water where it stopped at a small boathouse. Two of his employees, no doubt master car thieves, were grilling steaks on a lower deck. Nat Sawyer brought a box of smuggled cigars. Two kegs of beer were on ice.
They drifted to the boathouse where Silo, Neely, and Paul were sitting in folding lawn chairs, swapping insults, telling jokes, chatting away about everything but football. The kegs were hit hard. The jokes became raunchier, the laughter much louder. The steaks were served around six.
The initial plan was to watch the Spartans play that night, but not a word was said about leaving the cabin. By kickoff, most were unable to drive. Silo was drunk and headed for a very bad hangover.
Neely had one beer, then switched to soft drinks. He was tired of Messina and all the memories. It was time to leave the town and return to the real world. When he began saying goodbye, they begged him to stay. Silo almost cried as he hugged him. Neely promised he would return in one year, to that very cabin, where they would celebrate the first anniversary of Rake's death.
He drove Paul home and left him in his driveway. "Are you serious about coming back next year?" Paul asked.
"Sure. I'll be here."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes."
"You don't keep promises."
"I'll keep this one."
He drove past the Lanes' and did not see the rental car. Cameron was probably home by now, a million miles from Messina. She might think of him once or twice in the coming days, but the thoughts would not linger.
He drove past the home where he'd lived for ten years, past the park where he'd played youth baseball and football. The streets were empty because everyone was at Rake Field.
At the cemetery, he waited until another aging ex-Spartan finished his meditation in the dark. When the figure finally stood and walked away, Neely crept through the stillness. He squatted low next to Scotty Reardon's headstone, and touched the fresh dirt of Rake's grave. He said a prayer, had a tear, and spent a long moment saying good-bye.
He drove around the empty square, then through the back streets until he found the gravel trail. He parked on Karr's Hill, and for an hour sat on the hood, watching and listening to the game in the distance. Late in the third quarter, he called it quits.
The past was finally gone now. It left with Rake. Neely was tired of the memories and broken dreams. Give it up, he told himself. You'll never be the hero again. Those days are gone now.
Driving away, he vowed to return more often. Messina was the only hometown he knew. The best years of his life were there. He'd come back and watch the Spartans on Friday night, sit with Paul and Mona and all their children, party with Silo and Hubcap, eat at Renfrow's, drink coffee with Nat Sawyer.
And when the name of Eddie Rake was mentioned, he would smile and maybe laugh and tell a story of his own. One with a happy ending.