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The teacher nods in agreement. “They will.”
He unzips his dark blue pullover, revealing a thick vein underneath a tan neck. His Kelly green T-shirt peeks out, and I hear Coral inhale behind me, almost whimpering. I shake with a laugh, knowing my father would never let my mom have a parent-teacher conference alone with this guy.
Of course, she’s obsessed with my dad, but he still gets jealous.
“And I’m sure the Falls High alumni will remember it, as well,” Bastien informs us. “They’ll remember it, reinforcing their continued assessment that thugs like us should never win.”
Someone tsks behind me, while others make aggravated sounds.
He goes on, “So they’ll write more checks, pumping more money into equipment, extra training, physical therapy, away games, hotels, and buses with bathrooms.” He pauses, looking around his room of seniors. “You made their coach very happy yesterday.”
I’d love to say that he’s not right, but that’s exactly the narrative about Weston in my town. Of course, we knowbetter, but it pumps us up and increases our enjoyment of the rivalry to talk shit like every single one of them is trouble-loving, rude, and has no regard for personal property.
Just like they assume we never work for anything, have never experienced loss, and have never had a deep thought in our heads.
“And for what?” Bastien asks. “Why do we do it? Put on our colors and march down the street to represent our towns?”
And one by one, students throw out answers.
“Community pride?”
“Solidarity for our shared history?”
“Supporting the hard work of our athletes?” Mace offers.
“What about the hard work of the students?” someone else asks. “We don’t have parades for Honor Roll.”
“Stadiums for science fairs,” I add.
People laugh, and the teacher nods, liking the questions we’re asking.
Competition is fun. The prospect of winning brings people together. That’s easy enough to figure out.
But why just football?
“Take out your phones,” he says.
He walks to the board and picks up his marker.
“Email me a letter.” He writes down his email address. “Dylan Trent wants us to save trees today.”
“Haha,” Coral jokes behind me.
Haha.
“Write to a Shelburne Falls Pirate parent,” he continues. “Mom or Dad. It doesn’t matter.” He turns and recaps the marker. “Tell them what you think of all of this, what you want them to know about you,andwhat you hope for them. Five-hundred words.”
Hmm, boring. Sounds like he doesn’t want to teach today.
“If you don’t have your phone, paper is fine,” he calls out.
I take out paper and a pencil, and he raises his eyebrows. I roll my eyes. What am I supposed to do? I don’t have my phone.
“Does Dylan just write to her own parents then?” someone asks, followed by a round of snickers.
I put my name on my paper and try to think of a witty comeback, but I’m honestly not sure who I’m going to write to.
“Are we sending these to the parents?” Coral asks.
