Last But Not Least

Matt stood in the field on the bitter October morning. The wind’s icy fingers reached right through Matt’s skin to chill his bones. It was crazy that Mr. Donner made them wear their gym shorts on a day like today—but if Donner had any compassion in him, any humanity, any kindness at all, Matt had never seen it.

“I’ll take Spalding.”

“Gimme Chen. ”

Last week, Matt had tried to get out of phys. ed. class by pretending he’d lost his gym shorts; he’d put his own shorts in the school’s lost and found. But Donner had an extra pair he lent him—and he said if Matt showed up without shorts again, he’d make him take the class in his underwear.

“I pick Oxnard.”

“I’ll take Modigliani.”

Matt didn’t mind being outdoors, and he didn’t mind getting some exercise, but he hated phys. ed.—hated it as much as he hated it when his parents fought; when he had to go to the dentist; when that dog over on Parkhurst came chasing after him.

He knew he was scrawny, knew he was uncoordinated. But did he have to be humiliated because of it? Made to feel like a total loser?

“Johnson.”

“Peelaktoak..”

There were twenty-four boys in Matt’s gym class. Today they were playing soccer. But it didn’t matter what the sport was; it always worked the same way. Mr. Donner would pick two students to be captain.

And then the ritual would begin.

“Gimme Van Beek.”

“Takahashi.”

The captains would take turns picking from the other students to create the two teams.

Matt understood the sick, evil logic of it all: twenty-four kids wasn’t a big group. If you just took the first dozen alphabetically and made them one team, and had the second dozen be the other team, you might end up with two unevenly matched sides.

But this way…

This humiliating, mortifying way…

This way supposedly ensured fairness, supposedly made sure the teams would be equal, made sure that the game would be exciting, that everyone would have a good time.

Everyone except those who were picked last, that is.

“Becquerel.”

“Bergstrom.”

Matt’s big brother, Alf, was in law school. Alf said students fought hard for ranking in their classes. If you got the highest mark—if you finished first—you’d get a million-dollar contract from a huge law firm. If you finished last, well, Alf said maybe it would be time to think about another career. The stress on Alf was huge; Matt could see that every time his brother came home for a weekend. But Alf had chosen that stress, had chosen to be judged and ranked.

But phys. ed. wasn’t something Matt had decided he wanted to take; he had to take it. Whether he liked it or not, he had to subject himself to this torture.

“Bonkowski.”

Matt was the only one left now, and Cartwright, the other captain, didn’t even bother to call out his name. Cartwright’s rolled eyes said it all: he wasn’t picking Matt Sinclair—he just happened to be the last guy left.

Matt blew out a heavy sigh. It was cold enough that he could see his breath form a frosty cloud.

Science class. The class Matt excelled in.

“And the process by which plants convert sunlight into food is called… ?” Mr. Pope looked out at the students, sitting in pairs behind black-topped lab desks.

Matt raised his hand.

“Yes, Matthew?”

“Photosynthesis,” he said.

“That’s right, Matthew. Very good. Now, although they both undergo photosynthesis, there are two very different types of trees. There are evergreens and the other kind, the kind that loses its leaves each fall. And that kind is called… ?”

Matt’s hand shot into the air again.

“Anybody besides Matthew know?” asked Mr. Pope.

Blank faces all around. Matt smiled to himself. Why don’t we arrange all the students in here, putting them in order by how intelligent they are? Take the smartest person first—which, well, gee, that would be Matt, of course—then the next smartest, then the one after that, right down to—oh, say, down to Johnson over there. Johnson was always an early pick in gym class, but if we made selections here in science class, he’d be the one left until the end every time.

“All right,” said Mr. Pope, “since no one else seems to know, Matthew, why don’t you enlighten your classmates?”

“Deciduous,” Matt said, proudly.

“Browner,” whispered the girl behind him. And “Brainiac” said Eddy Bergstrom, siting at the next desk.

It wasn’t fair, thought Matt. They cheer when someone makes a goal. Why can’t they cheer when someone gets an answer right?

This time, things would be different. This time, Mr. Donner had selected Paul Chandler, Matt’s best friend, to be one of the team captains.

Matt felt himself relaxing. For once in his life, he wouldn’t be last.

Paul called out his first pick. Esaki—a good choice. Esaki wasn’t the strongest guy in the class, but he was one of the most agile.

The other captain, Oxnard, made his initial selection: Ehrlich. An obvious pick; Ehrlich towered half a head above everyone else.

Paul again: “Gimme Spalding.”

Well, that made sense. Spalding was the biggest bully in school. Paul had to pick him early on, lest he risk being beaten up on the way home.

Oxnard’s turn: “I’ll take Modigliani.”

Paul: “Ng.”

Paul was playing it cool; that was good. It wouldn’t do to take Matt too early—everyone would know that Paul was choosing him just because they were best friends.

“Let me have… Vanier,” Oxnard said.

Paul made a show of surveying the remaining students. “Papadatos,” he said.

Matt’s heart was beginning to sink. Paul couldn’t humiliate him the way the others had. Surely he would pick him in the next round.

“Herzberg.”

“Peelaktoak.”

Or the round after that…

“Becquerel”

“Johnson.”

Or…

“Van Beek.”

“Dowling.”

But no—

No, it was going to be the same as always.

Paul—his friend—had left him for last, just as everyone else always did.

Matt felt his stomach churning.

At lunch, Paul sat down opposite Matt in the cafeteria. “Hey, Matt,” he said.

Matt focussed all his attention on his sandwich—peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat, cut in half diagonally.

“Earth to Matt!” said Paul. “Helll-ooo!”

Matt looked up. He kept his voice low; he didn’t want the others sitting nearby to hear. “Why didn’t you pick me in gym class?”

“I did pick you,” protested Paul.

“Yeah. Last.”

Paul seemed to consider this, as if realizing for the first time that Matt might have taken his actions as a betrayal. “Hey, Matt-o, I’m sorry, man. But it was probably my only time getting to be a captain all year, you know? And I wanted a good team.”

A miracle occurred.

Matt was picked—not for a team, not by one of his classmates. No, no—this was better. Much better. Matt had been picked by Mr. Donner to be one of the team captains. The game today was football; Matt didn’t know much about it, except that some of the other boys had snickered when he’d once referred to a gain of ten meters, instead of ten yards. In theory, they would be playing touch football, but in reality—

In reality, he still had scabs on his knees from the last time they’d played this game, when Spalding had tackled Matt, driving him to the ground, his skin shredding on a broken piece of glass hidden in the grass.

And once, last year, Matt had actually managed to tag the runner going by him, the guy clutching the football. Matt had touched him—he was sure he had. A good, clean connection between his hand and the other guy’s shoulder. But the other player had continued on, ignoring the touch—denying it, denying Matt, as if to be touched by him would be an unbearable humiliation. The guy had run on, into the endzone, doing the exaggerated victory dance he’d seen professional players do on TV. His teammates had demanded that Matt explain why he hadn’t tagged the guy. He protested that he had, of course, but no one had believed him.

The boys were all lined up in a row. Matt moved out in front of them, as did Takahashi, the other person Mr. Donner had tapped to be a captain.

Donner looked at the two captains, then with a little shrug for the other boys, as if to convey that things were mismatched already, he said, “Matt, you choose first.”

Matt surveyed the twenty-two remaining boys: different sizes and shapes, different colors of eyes and hair and skin, different temperaments, different aptitudes. None of them were foolish enough to say anything disparaging about Matt being chosen as a captain; they all wanted to be picked early on, and would do nothing to jeopardize that.

“Matt?” said Mr. Donner, prodding him to get on with it.

Matt continued to look at the faces in front of him. Either Esaki or Ehrlich would be a good choice, but—

No.

No, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. “Bonkowski,” Matt called out.

There were some snickers. Little Leo Bonkowski, looking absolutely stunned at being chosen first, crossed over to stand next to Matt.

Takahashi wasted no time. “Ehrlich,” he said. Kurt Ehrlich strutted over to stand next to Takahashi.

Matt’s turn again. “Bergstrom,” he said. Dillon Bergstrom was fat and clumsy. He moved over to stand with Matt.

“I’ll take Esaki,” said Takahashi.

The other obvious choice—Esaki was strong, and he studied martial arts in the evenings. He and Ehrlich were always the first two choices; Matt couldn’t remember a time when they’d ended up on the same team.

Matt looked at the remaining boys. Sepp Van Beek was looking at the ground, oblivious to what was going on; Matt rather suspected he usually looked much the same way himself during the picldng ritual. “Van Beek,” he said.

Sepp didn’t move; he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Hey, Sepp!” Matt called out.

This time Van Beek did look up, astonished. He half ran across to join Matt’s team, a silly grin splitting his features.

“Singh,” said Takahashi, decisively. A burly fellow moved over to the other side.

“Modigliani,” said Matt.

By now it was obvious to everyone what Matt was up to: he was taking the least physically adept boys, the ones who were puny, or overweight, or awkward, or just plain gentle.

Takahashi frowned; his expression conveyed that he felt the upcoming game was going to be like taking candy from a baby. “Gimme Ng,” he said.

Matt surveyed the dwindling pool of boys. “Chen.”

Takahashi snorted, then: “Cartwright.”

“Take Vanier,” Modigliani said to Matt, distancing himself from the obvious lunacy of what Matt was doing.

But Matt shook his head and said, “Oxnard.”

“Vanier,” said Takahashi.

It was Matt’s turn again. Now things were getting difficult. There were no truly bad players left—only interchangeably mediocre ones. The next logical choice might have been Spalding, the bully, but Matt would have rather played a man short than have Spalding on his team. At last, he said, “Dowling.”

Takahashi wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. “Spalding,” he said at once.

“Finkelstein,” said Matt.

“Papadatos.”

There were only six boys left: Herzberg, Johnson, Peelaktoak, Becquerel, Collins, and—

—and Paul Chandler.

Matt wondered whether he’d deliberately been avoiding choosing Paul, repayment for the indignity of last time. Perhaps. But the six remaining students were neither particularly good nor particularly bad. Maybe if Matt had paid more attention in gym class, he’d have some idea of how to rank them, but at this stage he really couldn’t distinguish them on the basis of ability… or lack of it.

But he would not do to Paul what Paul had done to him. “Chandler,” Matt called out.

Paul came running over, an expression of gratitude on his freckled face; normally, of course, he’d have been taken long before this. Maybe he did now understand what it felt like without Matt having to actually put him through it.

“Collins,” said Takahashi.

Matt tried not to shrug visibly. “Peelaktoak.”

“Herzberg,” said Takahashi.

“Becquerel.”

And Takahashi took the final boy: “Johnson.”

Matt looked at his team, then at the other side. The two groups could not have been more mismatched. For the first time since he’d started making choices, Matt glanced over at Mr. Donner. He’d hoped to see a small, understanding smile on the gym teacher’s angular face—an acknowledgement that he got it, that he understood what Matt was trying to say. But Mr. Donner was frowning, and shaking his head slowly back and forth in disapproval.

“We’re going to be slaughtered,” said Bonkowski to Matt as the two teams moved out onto the field.

It was a day of multiple miracles. Not only had Matt been chosen to be captain, but he even caught the ball about a minute into the game. He realized in a panic that he had no idea which set of goal posts belonged to his team—the closer one, over by the road, or the farther one, by the fence that separated the schoolyard from the adjacent houses.

He had to pick one—had to make one more choice—and he needed to do it in a fraction of a second.

Matt chose the farther one. It would be a longer run, but there were fewer boys from either team deployed in that direction. He worked his legs as hard as he could, pumping them up and down like pistons. What a glorious victory it would be if the weaker team actually won the game! And if he—Matthew Sinclair!— got a… a touchdown, it was called—well, then, that would put an end to him being chosen last!

He ran and ran and ran, as fast as he could. His feet pounded into the sod, still damp from the morning dew. He thought, or imagined at least, that clods of dirt were flying up from his footfalls as he ate up meter after meter—no, no, no: yard after yard— coming closer and closer to the goal line. His lungs were aching from gulping in so much cold air, and his heart felt as though it would burst within his chest. But if he could only—

Ooof!

A hand had slammed into his back—he’d been touched!

No! It was unfair! He deserved this chance, this opportunity, but—

But the rules were clear: this was touch football, and Matt had to stop running now.

But he couldn’t—for it had been more than a touch; it had been a good, firm shove, a push impelling him on.

He found himself pitching forward, the moist grass providing little traction. And the boy who had pushed him from behind was now slamming into him, as if he, too, were sliding on the slick turf. But Matt knew in an instant that that wasn’t it; oh, it was supposed to look like an accident, but he was really being tackled.

Matt slammed into the ground, so hard that he thought the football, crushed beneath his chest, would actually pop open. The other boy—Spalding it was; he could see that now—slammed down on top of him. Almost at once, a third boy—Captain Takahashi himself—piled on top.

The sound of Mr. Donner’s whistle split the air, but belatedly, as if he’d been reluctant to interrupt good theater, to bring an end to just punishment. But the whistle was ignored; Matt’s crime of creating mismatched teams was too great. Somebody shouted out, “Pile on!” Another body slammed on top of them, and one more after that, and then—

Crrackkk!

It was an incredible, heart-stopping sound, like a gunshot. If Matt hadn’t been buried under so many bodies, he expected he would have heard it echo off the school’s brick walls.

There was a moment of nothingness, of no sensation, while the other boys reacted to the sound.

And then—

And then pain, incredible pain, indescribable pain.

The agony coursed through Matt’s body, starting in his leg, shooting up his spine, assaulting his brain.

The other boys, sensing something was deeply wrong, began to climb off. As their weight shifted on top of Matt, fresh, fiery pain sliced through him.

At last, Spalding got up. Matt looked up and saw an expression on the bully’s face he’d never seen before: a look of fear, of horror. Spalding was staring at Matt’s right leg.

Matt swung his head down to have a look himself, and—

For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. The sight was horrifying, unnatural.

Matt’s right thigh was bent in the middle, twisted in a hideous way. He reached down and hiked up his gym shorts as far as they would go, so he could see—

God, no.

His thighbone—his femur, as he’d gladly have told Mr. Pope—was clearly broken. The bone was pushed up toward the surface, pressing against the skin, as if any second now it would burst out, a skeletal eruption.

Matt stared at it a few seconds more, then looked up. Mr. Donner had arrived by now, panting slightly, and Matt saw him looming above. “Don’t move, Matt,” he said. “Don’t move.”

Matt enjoyed the look on the teacher’s face—one of incredible unease; there would be an inquiry, of course. Donner would be in the hot seat. And the faces of the other boys were equally satisfying: eyes wide in fear or revulsion, mouths hanging loosely open.

Matt opened his own mouth.

And a sound emerged—but not the sound the other boys might have expected. Not a scream, not a wail of pain, not the sound of crying.

No. As Matt looked down at his twisted leg again, he began to laugh, a throaty sound, starting as a bizarre chuckle and then growing louder and more raucous.

He looked back up at the other boys—his teammates, his tormentors—and he continued to laugh.

Some of the boys were backing slowly away now, their faces showing their confusion, their wariness. The damaged leg was bad enough, but this inappropriate laughter was just too darned creepy. They’d always known Sinclair was a little weird, but they’d never have said he was crazy…

They don’t get it, thought Matt. They don’t get it at all. He’d snapped his leg playing football! How cool was that! It was a badge of honor. People would talk about it for years: Matt Sinclair, the guy whose leg got broken on the—yes, he knew the word; it came to him—on the gridiron.

And there was more—wonderfully more. Matt’s brother Alf had broken his leg once, falling off a ladder; Matt knew what was going to happen. He’d have to wear a cast for weeks, or even months. Yes, that would be uncomfortable; yes, it would be awkward. But he welcomed it, because it meant that, at least for a while, he would be excused from the horrors of phys. ed.

That reprieve would be great—but things would be fine after the cast was removed, too. For when he eventually came back to gym class, Matthew Sinclair, football hero, knew he would never be picked last again.