| Giving Thanks by Jim Correale The ground was granite-hard with patches of snow scattered about. The players trudged up a small slope in a messy line, their fingers clenched with cold and their uniforms stained with dirt. Two or three adults stood by clapping their gloved hands, calling out �Nice game� and �Good job, boys� and �You guys played great,� but not one of the athletes lifted his head or removed his helmet. The only response was the white steam of breath drifting through each facemask. Inside the school bus, the driver tossed his cigarette butt out the front window and pulled on the lever that folded the door open. Six men in long maroon coaching jackets stood aside as the players quietly climbed onto the bus. A young man in a school sweatshirt followed, clutching a first aid kit in one hand and a tray of water bottles in the other. Finally, the coaches boarded and quickly the bus pulled away from the side of the brick school building and out of the opponent�s parking lot. As the bus drove along roads north of Boston, one of the men rose from his seat near the front and turned toward the players, who had by now removed their helmets to reveal the faces of boys�some with bad skin, some with dirt smudged on their cheeks, but all with somber visages. The man, with smoldering dark eyes and a face seemingly carved from solid rock, like The Old Man in the Mountain, spoke. He used words such as �pride� and �courage,� �guts� and �desire.� The boys, their hair unkempt, listened in silence, several removing tape from their hands, one wiping blood from his knee with a towel. The bus kept rolling. Henry�small and fast, the team�s starting halfback�looked down, sighed, and then turned his gaze out the bus window. His eyes followed the low stone wall running along the side of the road, each of the small boulders held in place by the force of the others around it. When he was done speaking, the head coach sat back down and began talking with one of his assistants. The boys� voices cautiously reasserted themselves and eventually rose to rival the steady hum of the bus motor. Henry continued to stare out his window, looking at the houses that he moved past. They were mostly neat white colonials and the boy noted their appearance and decided that he would like to live in one such house some day, one with a brick walkway and green shutters and a yard that rolled up to some woods. The voices grew in number and volume. They talked about the game and also about the dinner to which each was heading that afternoon. After a while, someone even laughed. �Aaaah�� the head coach�s voice bellowed out, and each boy froze in mid-thought. �don�t fuh-get�I want all th� uniforms an� equipment handed in on Monday. An� make sure th� uniforms are washed.� The voices resumed quickly as the bus pulled onto the highway and Henry looked out at an open field and the rolling hills beyond. The boy sitting next to him asked where Henry was going to eat that afternoon. �We�re all goin� to my gran�mother�s house,� Henry replied. After a while the bus pulled into the school�s small parking lot, where parents waited in their cars, engines running and heat turned up. The boys made their way off the bus and toward their rides. They moved deliberately and quietly, almost gracefully�like so many dirty, sweaty ballerinas in shoulder pads. Car doors opened and closed as the bus pulled away. Soon the lot was empty. Henry�s mother went on about the game on the ride home, but her son said nothing. He could think of little else except taking a shower, and when he got in under the water the experience lived up to his expectations. He turned the knobs to bring water that was as hot as he could bear and then stood motionless beneath the showerhead. Henry felt the dirt wash from his skin; he felt the cold melt from his bones; and he felt the soreness massaged from his muscles. He could not, however, remove the morning�s loss from his pride, no matter how long he showered. It wasn�t long before some of the soreness returned as well. Henry sat in the back seat of the family station wagon a short while later as the vehicle carried him out of the city, rolling over a bridge that spanned a small river. His parents sat up front; his brother was with him in the back; and between them there was a young woman. She had straight dark brown hair to her shoulders and wide chocolate-colored eyes. The car made its way through some woods�maple, oak and birch�along a winding two-lane road. Eventually the vehicle turned left at a white church topped by a neat steeple that stood across from a rectangle of grass populated by a few trees and stone monuments. The car rolled to a stop in a short driveway, just behind another vehicle. Emerging from the station wagon, the young woman reached out and latched onto Henry�s elbow and they joined the others walking toward the house, the boys� mother carrying a pumpkin pie and a plate of sugar cookies, while a bottle of white zinfandel swung in her husband�s right hand. Inside, the table was set for nine and Henry�s father�s mother was bustling about, stirring this and tasting that and checking on the big pan in the oven. Before long, all were gathered around the long wooden table in the dining room: the quintet from the city, as well as grandmother, her other son, his wife and their toddler. Before each of them sat grandmother�s finest plates, glasses and silverware. In the center of the table, on a large sterling silver platter, sat the golden brown turkey, surrounded by bowls of stuffing, cranberry sauce, brown bread and various vegetables. The wine, now opened, was at one end of the table, while a jug of apple cider rested at the other end. Reaching for the large knife that lay astride the platter, Henry�s father prepared to carve into the roasted bird, but the man�s mother put up a hand, as if to way, �Wait.� He understood, and nodded. Then he lowered the blade and, after a reflective moment, spoke words of thanks. Henry watched as his father�s mouth moved, but the boy heard not a word. He looked at the slightly bowed heads of those around him, at the abundance on the table before them, and at the candle burning steadily on the mantle and then emitted a small, almost inaudible breath, which spoke of contentment. |