The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.
After 8th grade, there were three things I really enjoyed: reading, especially fiction, football, and scorekeeping. I played football four years at Boaz High School. I was pretty good at it. I started as a tight-end and linebacker during my Junior and Senior years. In the ninth grade, I tried out for basketball but never could seem to develop the necessary skills to dribble and shoot the ball. But, I was a great scorekeeper.
In the fall of my tenth-grade year Coach Pearson, who also taught Biology, asked the class one day if anyone would like to try out to be the School’s basketball scorekeeper. He relayed that Matt Simmons, the School’s scorekeeper for the past three years, was moving next week to Birmingham. Coach emphasized the importance of this job and told all interested to meet him and Principal Benson in the gym the next morning at 7:00 a.m. Later that day, the School secretary’s meek little voice made the same announcement over the intercom. I remember her voice growing deeper as she said, “the trials will be timed.”
The opportunity resounded in my mind. I was responsible and good at math. I guessed numbers figured into the mix somehow. And, most importantly, I wanted something to do after football season ended this Friday night. After the last bell, I was at my locker about to head to football practice when I saw Coach Pearson. Without any hesitation, I raised my voice above the sound of students clamoring to exit the prison, “Coach, I want to be the scorekeeper. I’ll see you in the morning.” He looked my way but barely acknowledged that he heard me.
All that night I wondered what scorekeeping tryouts would be like. I could understand why one would have to be quick, certainly never getting behind. I lay in bed trying to guess how many others would show up for the trials. At 2:30 a.m., before finally dozing off, I concluded there would be four of us.
I arrived at 6:45 a.m. to an empty gym. Coach and Principal Benson showed up together a few seconds before 7:00. We all stood at a table that had been set up at the north end of the gym about 30 feet from the big scoreboard that hung on the wall. At 7:02 a.m. Mr. Benson looked at me, shook my hand, and announced that I was the Boaz scorekeeper. It wasn’t because I did a figurative running dunk shot from the foul line with a half-second left on the game clock. I was the only one who showed up. Coach told me to sit down at the table as Mr. Benson, in full character, turned and almost jogged toward the exit. He always had a mind full of places to be and people to see.
Coach Pearson was about as good a scorekeeping instructor as he was a Biology teacher. Neither was very high on his priority list. I guess he thought any lamebrain could keep score. But, he did give me a five-minute lesson. My job was two-fold: maintain the electronic scoreboard and hand-record statistics on a paper spreadsheet. Coach showed me how to use the control panel that was setup on the table. It looked pretty much like the scoreboard on the wall, with the words “Home” and “Guest” printed and equally spaced across the top. Underneath each heading were several colored buttons with numbers written beside them: a green 2, a green 1, a red 2, and a red 1. Pearson told me to simply press the correct button to add or subtract a score. He used his best sarcasm and said I would know who the ‘Home’ team was. He also said that if I made a mistake the head referee would let me know. At this point I picked up the spreadsheet and Coach said that he had to go but to see him if I had any questions. I stayed a few more minutes learning that I was to keep up with points scored and fouls committed by player. The spreadsheet form was divided in two sections with ‘Scoring’ on the left and ‘Fouls’ on the right. I didn’t see a big problem in keeping up with who scored and who fouled. I knew all the players. They were not friends but I knew their names and faces. The good thing about the spreadsheet was I only had to keep up with the “Home” team.
The Pencil Driven Life 