Navajos Wear Nikes: A Reservation Life by Jim Kristofic

Author:Jim Kristofic [Kristofic, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of New Mexico Press
Published: 2011-05-01T22:00:00+00:00

“Get up, Jim,” he said, tapping my butt with his boot. “And keep your arms down.” I ran that night with my hand dangling to the side and bear-crawled on three limbs.

“I’m telling you,” Mom said later that night at dinner, cutting a slice of pork roast from the pan. “You thought today was tough, but the third day is the hardest. You think you’re sore now, but your lactic acid won’t peak until the third day. Then you will be sore. Then it’s really going to hurt.”

That night I dreamed of collisions and gutted fish.

The next morning and afternoon, school was only a path to the Third Day. I tried writing with my left hand, but it was too sloppy, so I bit my lip and used the swollen right hand.

The Third Day came and we suited into our helmets, pants, and cleats and jogged to the practice field. After we’d stretched, Mr. Bridge was waiting at The Sled with his sleeves rolled back to his deltoids, exposing his tattoos. His right forearm bore a bald eagle flying over the letters “U.S.A.” His right bicep held another bald eagle, this one a stern, green-eyed hunter that rehearsed kills in its sleep and swore loyalty to no nation. He’d gotten this eagle sometime between leaving the Coast Guard and working as a forest ranger in California. His left bicep hosted the Mermaid of Copenhagen that he’d received one night in Amsterdam and couldn’t remember having in the morning. His left forearm was the sacred space for the Lion of St. Andrew—a red heraldic beast attacking on two legs as its mane bristled like flame. Beneath the Lion, styled in tall Gothic letters, was the word “highlander.” The inside of his forearm was inked with an ocean sunset and turquoise waves that rolled along the beach from wrist to elbow.

“Well,” he said, sipping from his plastic Arizona State mug. “There’s three less of you today.”

Orlando James hadn’t shown up for practice, while the other two, Myron Benally and Cedric Nez, had told Mr. Bridge they didn’t want to play anymore. He’d grunted, slipped on his Ray-Bans, and walked to The Sled.

And we drove it. When he thought we were slacking, he added his weight to the frame by standing with each foot on the runners. Our breathing was explosive, and the pain was for Navajo and Anglo alike. And Mr. Bridge was happy to give it to us. His heroes—Clint Eastwood, Charlton Heston, Teddy Roosevelt, and General George Armstrong Custer—would have approved. I couldn’t understand how a man who actually liked Custer could want to teach Indian kids. But Bridge defended Custer to the last when I told him during the walk to the lunchroom after our morning history lesson that I thought the general was a bigot and an idiot.

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