(NOTE: This is Part II of a two-part story. Part I ran in Monday’s Greenfield Recorder. In the vein of a Christmas classic, we have written a fictional tale of family and football. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.)
The grandfather clock in his study suddenly chimed — ding, dong, ding.
Steve Greenwell knew the second of the Ghosts was destined to appear, yet now as the clock finished striking, there was no sign of life, nor death, as he wandered aimlessly through his house.
Until … “Come in,” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in, and know me better, man. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me.”
Before Greenwell stood a giant of a man, a jolly-faced sort of fellow wearing a robe of royal blue.
“Spirit,” said Greenwell submissively, “I went with another spirit last night, and I learned a lesson, which is working now. If you have something to teach me, show me.”
“Touch my robe,” the Spirit said.
Greenwell did as he was told, and held it fast. A flash of light and there he was, in the basement at Turning Heights High School. Greenwell and the Spirit stood in the corner of a room, which Greenwell recognized from his many visits to the school in recent months. It was the office of Athletic Director Alex Grace.
“I know it’s been a tough few months for you, Michael,” began Grace, seated next to Turning Heights senior Michael Blacksmith. Standing against the wall, head coach Curtis Laporte listened. “Just know we’ve been very impressed with all you’ve done to keep the team together. Organizing dinners, scrimmages, it’s all been wonderful to see.”
“We’ve stayed positive,” Blacksmith said, forcing a haphazard smile. He rose and shook the hands of both adults in the room, exiting down the hallway.
“How’s he doing?” Grace asked Laporte.
“These kids … Through it all, they’ve said the strangest things you could ever hear,” the coach replied. “Michael told me that even though he and the other seniors didn’t get a chance to play this season, he hopes the other schools in Fillmore County look at them, and realize how special it is that they get a chance to play. That they don’t take it for granted.”
The coach’s voice trembled as he spoke, realizing the weight of his words and the actions of his players.
In a flash, Greenwell and the Spirit were transported to Harmony Park, where a group of Turning Heights players were in the middle of a lively game of pick-up football. The muddy terrain did little to deter the happy bunch, as Blacksmith whipped passes to his receivers, who broke tackles and spiked footballs jubilantly upon scoring touchdowns.
“The looks on their faces,” began Greenwell to the Spirit. “They look so … pleased. This game, it doesn’t matter. But there’s tremendous joy in them.”
“There may not be another time in their lives to play football,” the Spirit answered. “This is as good as it may get.”
“Spirit … What will happen to Blacksmith and the rest of these boys?” Greenwell asked, hesitantly.
“That is the future. My realm is the present. However, I see anger and resentment. I see future generations without sports and games in their lives, without the chance for scenes like the one happening before you.”
“No, no,” Greenwell said. “Oh, no, kind Spirit. Say that will not be so.”
“If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future,” returned the Ghost, “we will find no children playing in this park.”
Greenwell looked for the Ghost, but could not find it. All went black, and he heard the chime of his clock once more. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of his old teammate, William Olshanski. A solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, moved toward him, like a mist along the ground.
A tall, silent Ghost grabbed Greenwell by the hand and led him outside in a matter-of-fact manner.
“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, aren’t I?” Greenwell asked.
The Spirit nodded, and pointed toward a long, dark hallway deep in the bowels of Turning Heights High School.
“You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” Greenwell queried. “Is that so, Spirit?”
There was no reply, but Greenwell continued walking down the hallway until he saw light shining from inside a classroom. He turned and walked in, seeing two men inside. He recognized one, his assistant, Bill Cracken, who leaned against a desk occupied by a young boy who appeared to be 12 or 13.
“What’s the matter, son?” Cracken spoke. “Your teachers all say you’ve lost interest, stopped going to class.”
“Whatever, dad,” his son replied. “What’s the point of all this? Can’t play football. Might as well not try at all.”
The classroom quickly disappeared, and all the light dissipated, leaving Greenwell alone in a cold, windy field near a wooded area. The Spirit quickly approached.
“Spirit,” Greenwell said, “I fear you more than any I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?”
There was no answer, but the Spirit pointed into the distant woods.
“Lead on,” Greenwell said. “Lead on. The night moves quickly and I’m sure I have much to see. Lead on, Spirit.”
The scene changed to the auditorium at Turning Heights High School, and the chairs were half-full of children in caps and gowns. Greenwell spotted Cracken in the back of the auditorium, sitting alone with a solemn look on his face. It was graduation day some years later, and there was Cracken, watching the students from his son’s graduating class walk across the stage on their big day.
“If only he was here right now,” whispered Cracken to himself.
“Spirit, what has happened to poor Bill’s son?” Greenwell asked.
Again, no response. The Spirit pointed away from the commotion, and Greenwell ran out the door and into the night, again. There, he found himself walking through Turning Heights cemetery.
“This is a fearful place,” Greenwell said, taking in his surroundings. “Let us go. I shall not leave the lessons I have learned already.”
The Spirit persisted, pointing toward a headstone just steps from where Greenwell hovered. Frightened, he squinted his eyes as a cold wind blew snowflakes in his face. He fixed his eyes on the grave in front of him, bent down and dusted off a thin layer of snow.
“Do not let this be Cracken’s boy. Do not let it be, Spirit,” Greenwell said.
But as the words left his mouth, Greenwell made out the name and date on the stone. It was not the Cracken boy. The Spirit pointed at the grave, then back at Greenwell.
“Am I that man who lay upon the bed?” cried Greenwell, falling to his knees. “Oh, no. No, no. Spirit, hear me. I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I have been. Surely, I can be saved. Turning Heights can be saved. Football can be saved. I promise. I have seen the light.
“I will honor Turning Heights in my heart and try and keep it all year. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. All three Spirits have impacted me. I will take these lessons and use them in my life. I will bring power to this here town.”
The Spirit shrunk and collapsed, disappearing from sight as a bedpost rose from the ground to his right in the cemetery.
When he awoke, Greenwell was ecstatic to find himself in his own bed.
“I’m home,” he said happily.
But the thing that made Greenwell happiest of all was that his life laid before him, and it could be changed.
“Oh, William Olshanski, I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future,” Greenwell repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. “I will do right for the people of Turning Heights, and for the football program.”
The jolly Greenwell ran frantically around his bedroom, trying to figure out his next move. His telephone rang as he darted, and on the other end was his assistant, Bill Cracken.
“It’s Christmas sir, you wanted me to call and remind you to meet me at the school to deliver the bad news, I mean news,” Cracken said.
“Oh yes,” Greenwell replied. “It’s Christmas! The Spirits did it all in one night. I mean, uh, it’s been just one day since you last saw me. Call the Daily Retorter, have all the press meet us in front of Laporte’s house in one hour.”
Greenwell gathered all the paperwork and high-tailed it across town, arriving at Laporte’s home at the same time as Cracken, who had his young son in tow.
Greenwell knocked on the door, which was decorated with a blue and white wreath for the holiday.
“Hello,” Greenwell growled in his customary caustic voice as Laporte opened the door with his family.
“Hello, Mr. Greenwell,” the Turning Heights coach responded. “Merry Christmas. I take it you’re here to make this all official.”
“You’re right, Laporte, I am,” Greenwell responded, causing the Laporte family to drop their collective heads in sadness. “And I’m here to say that the Turning Heights football program is officially … reinstated.”
The shock on the faces of the Laporte family, combined with Cracken and son, told the whole story.
“A Merry Christmas, Bill,” Greenwell said, turning to his assistant Cracken. It was a genuine sentiment from the smiling man, an earnestness that could not be mistaken. “A merrier Christmas, Bill, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year. I’ll raise your salary, I’ll make sure your son has a football team to play on during his formative years. We’ll discuss it all over Christmas dinner.”
And Greenwell was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more. He forgave the debt associated with the Turning Heights program, and donated money out of his own pocket to help the team buy new uniforms. He reunited with old friends and teammates, bought season tickets and attended every game at his old school. He became something he always scoffed at: a booster.
And because of all this, Steve Greenwell lived a long and happy life, full of friends, family, and most importantly, football.
The End.