Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories by Jean Shepherd

Author:Jean Shepherd [Shepherd, Jean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-57536-4
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2010-05-12T04:00:00+00:00

The next day, which was Wednesday, was dark and windy with a lot of snow drifting down all afternoon. We had an auditorium session in which Jack Morton and Glen Atkinson and some other guy dressed up like Wise Men while our crummy glee club sang We Three Kings of Orient Are.

“Boy, you sure are gonna miss one hell of a ball game,” said Flick as we hitchhiked home from school that night. “That better be some babe.”

I said nothing, since it was obvious that Flick was jealous that I had a date with the greatest-looking girl for miles around. For a couple of days now there had been churning inside of me a molten excitement that was getting so hot I could hardly stand it. Every time I thought of her, it started again. I can’t explain why, since I hardly knew her, but maybe that’s the reason. You never feel that way over somebody you really know.

“Didja hear Zodnycki said the Wildcats are a bunch of overrated punks, and that he and four girls could beat ’em goin’ away? I read it in the Times,” Schwartz chipped in, blowing his breath in a big cloud as the cars rumbled past us. We were part of a tiny contingent of diehards who always hitchhiked the three miles back and forth to school, not only to save our bus money but also out of principle.

“That bum’ll be lucky if he cans five points against Sobec,” I answered, trying to sound like I cared about the game.

“Ah, I dunno. That bastard must be eight feet tall. And he looks like he’s about 40 years old,” Flick yelled over the roar of a passing diesel. He spoke the truth. Northern Indiana high school teams often resemble the best the Big Ten can field; 300-pound tackles, blue-jowled and squinty-eyed, are common. Their actual ages are as hard to tell as the sex of a clam. There are rumors that many promising players are not even enrolled in first grade till their 17th year, and by the time they’re high school sophomores are grizzled veterans with large families and pro contracts from four leagues.

“Watch this baby.” Schwartz waggled his thumb seductively as a knock-kneed Buick rattled toward us. It slowed to a stop. “GOT ‘IM!” Schwartz hollered.

We piled into the amiable wreck, which was driven by a mammoth steelworker who was fragrant with beer and chewing tobacco. He spit a long amber skein out the window into the frigid air.

“If yer gonna get in, get in. I ain’t got all day!”

The uproar inside the Buick was deafening. No muffler, bad shocks and a transmission that sounded as if it were made of a million cracked iron marbles. The floor of the car was ankle-deep in beer cans, cigar butts and rags—a real working car.

“Hey, Schwartz!” Flick yelled over the din.

“Yeah?”

“D’ ya think Ace here is gonna score tonight?”

“I hear them Polish girls invented sex!” shouted Flick.

“You guys are just jealous!” I yelled as I struggled to keep from falling off the seat.

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