He Started It(63)

“Are those . . . faces?” he says.

“They are,” Eddie says.

“Of football players?”

“Indeed,” Portia says. “The Codger Pole is a giant phallic memorial to a football game.”

True.

The Colfax Bulldogs and the St. John Eagles played against each other in 1938, and St. Johns won. Fifty years later, in 1988, they played again. With the same team.

Yes, they were about seventy years old, and yes, they played a game called the Codger Bowl. Colfax won, and all the players got their faces carved into a big pole. It’s actually an amazing structure to see when you’re standing in front of it, so there is that.

We aren’t the only people here to see it, either. There are other tourists around, taking selfies and family photos in front of the pole.

“You came here instead of the theme park?” Felix says.

I avoid looking at Eddie. “Not my choice.”

Eddie says nothing. Acts like he did nothing.

In truth, it’s been a long time since I thought about how we ended up here instead of on the roller coasters, but his betrayal has always been in the back of my mind. It’s why I would never fully trust him.



* * *



–––––

Back then, I don’t know how Grandpa found this place in a world without smartphones, but he did. Maybe he had it all mapped out before he took us on this trip.

I can see Grandpa smiling now that he was back in charge, with Eddie right by his side. The three of us, the girls, lagged behind.

“Just wait,” Grandpa said. “You’re going to love this.”

I already hated it, partly because it wasn’t a roller coaster. Partly because of Nikki. She stood next to me, her whole body radiating anger, and I felt it the way you feel a chill. If I were her, I’d be angry at Eddie. He was the one who had betrayed her, who had betrayed all of us. We were supposed to stick together.

Grandpa stood next to the plaque by the pole. His smile looked wicked.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Read it.”

Nikki didn’t just read it—she read it out loud for everyone to hear. I still remember parts of it, especially the last sentence.

    The ghosts of our youth revealed glimpses of gridiron brilliance, unfortunately brief and few but even so, that glorious afternoon of fun gave us guys a chance to fulfill that dream every seventy-year-old kid secretly hangs onto: playing one more game.

And how many old rascals ever get to do that?

John Crawford

Codger Pole Dedication September 15, 1991



Nikki finished reading and looked up at Grandpa. “This is what you brought us to see?”

“What?” Grandpa said. “You don’t like the story?”

She rolled her eyes and walked away.

Nikki had a way of pissing people off. That day was no exception.



* * *



–––––

    Now here we are again, standing in front of the same plaque, and Felix is the only one who hasn’t read it. When he finishes, he turns to us and smiles.

“Cute,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s kinda cool,” Eddie says.

Portia and I don’t say a word.

We all walk around the pole, seeing it from every angle. At the bottom, the Eagle and Bulldog mascots are carved into it and painted, with the names of the teams written alongside. Above them, the faces of the players—wearing painted football helmets—are carved one on top of the other, also with their names. The pole is thick. It actually looks like several poles put together, and in total there are four rows of faces reaching up to the sky.

“I swear to God,” Portia says. “The lengths men will go to memorialize themselves.”

“Amen,” I say.

“I bet they didn’t have seventy-year-old cheerleaders at that game.”

“You know they didn’t.”

Eddie sighs. “It’s not to . . .” Whatever he was about to say fades out, and instead he just shakes his head.

“What was that?” Portia says.

“Never mind.”

I glare at Eddie, not so much because of what he said now, but because of what happened before. We were enemies the last time we were here. And he kept making it worse.

Our whole excursion takes less than an hour. We go back to the car, drive south toward Oregon, and we don’t stop until we hit the border.

A fairly peaceful, if quiet, end to the Codger Pole trip. The first time it wasn’t.

Grandpa was pissed we didn’t appreciate the Codger Pole. As soon as we got back into the van, he started yelling at us. “You can ride a roller coaster any damn time you want,” he said. “I’ve been trying to show you culture. And heritage.”

Nikki should have kept her mouth shut, but when did she ever.

“When did Bonnie and Clyde become culture and heritage?” she yelled. By then, she looked almost nothing like herself. Her blond hair had become blonder, but Nikki had stopped wearing as much makeup as she usually did, her clothes were a mess, and her nails were chipped. She looked like a kid instead of an almost eighteen-year-old. “When did a fucking football game between old men become heritage?”

Grandpa pointed at Nikki, the hate in his eyes visible. Tangible. “Shut up,” he said.