punting by Sal Difalco

Vinnie had the big leg. He could punt the football almost fifty yards. We stood in Eastwood Park punting it back and forth. Football season was a long way off, but first warm day of May we were out there. The sky was high and blue. Some kid down by the armory flew a red diamond kite with a white tail. I could see my house from the park and the yellow tulips my mother had planted in the front yard just the day before. My grandmother sat on the porch in black watching us with her hard black eyes.

“Kick it straight!” Vinnie yelled, lumbering after a ball I shanked off the side of my foot. It rolled near a park bench. Vinnie grabbed the ball and sat down, huffing.

“Come on, fat ass. Kick it back.”

“Go fuck yourself, Sammy. You kick like a little girl.”

“And you’re a big salami.”

“Better a big salami than a little girl.”

After a moment, Vinnie stood up and walked to a spot. He held the football out from his body with both hands and with a stiff right leg clobbered it high in the sky, so high I lost it in the sunshine. It seemed to take forever to come back down.

“That’s how you punt,” Vinnie said.

“That was a beaut.”

“Now give it some leg, Sammy.”

I saw Rosina the neighbor hurrying toward my house, her face tight and her arms crossed on her chest. My grandmother no longer sat on the porch.

Uncle Joe pulled up in his red pickup seconds later. He hopped out smoking a cigarette. He took a last haul of the cigarette and threw it among the tulips before mounting the porch steps.

I punted the football as hard as I could. This time I caught it in the sweet spot. It soared into the sky, spiraling to its apex, then plummeted down to Vinnie, standing there with happy feet, arms cradled for the catch. The football thumped into his breadbasket. He secured it and gave a thumbs-up.

Wearing a red kerchief in her black hair, Aunt Celestina now mounted the porch steps. She opened the screen door and stood there for a long moment before entering.

“What’s going on?” Vinnie yelled.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Didn’t your father just get out of the hospital?”

“Yesterday. Now kick the ball!”

Vinnie hesitated before he kicked it.

“Is he okay? Like, was he okay?”

“Just kick the friggin ball.”

This time it went off the side of his foot and wobbled toward the grandstands at the baseball diamond. I jogged over to get it cursing under my breath.

Vinnie stood there looking toward my house.

“Sammy,” he said. “You better go see.”

I pretended not to hear him. I walked to the spot, squared up and punted the ball to him. It went straight up in the air. I almost caught it myself, but it thudded into a spot on the grass between us and bounced toward Vinnie.

“Sammy, something’s going on.”

“Like what?” I said, annoyed by the look of concern on his face. “Like what do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” Vinnie said. “ I think you should go though.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Kick the ball.”

The ambulance pulled up without a siren. Vinnie stood there with the ball in his hands. His face looked blubbery and pale in the sunlight. I glanced toward my house but only picked up the yellow blur of tulips.

“I have to go home,” Vinnie said. “I’m taking the football.”

“Don’t do it,” I said.

“Sammy.”

“I said don’t take it.”

“You just gonna kick it by yourself?”

“That’s right.”

He tossed me the football and loped off.

I moved to the back of the park, near the armory, where the kid had been flying the red kite. No sign of him now. I squared up and kicked the football. It flew left. I could hear my name being called. I retrieved the football and squared up again. This time it went straight off my foot. You kinda have to catch it sweetly on your instep.

Eventually they stopped calling my name.

Sal Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada.