Deadeye
By Daniel Gene Barlekamp
“Any of you ever heard of Deadeye?” Glen asked the group of teenagers lounging in the bleachers.
“Stop it, Glen,” Jane said.
It was a Saturday night in October of 1959. Halloween was just around the corner, but already the air felt ripe with the promise of football, Thanksgiving, and more football. It was like a religion in the town of Bellhaven. Once the season started, there was no escaping it.
The four friends in the bleachers—Glen, Jane, Steve, and Linda—couldn’t care less about football. They hung out next to the field at night because it was far from the prying eye of authority. They weren’t supposed to be there after dark, but if they got caught, they knew they could outrun any parent, teacher, or police officer in town.
Especially Glen. Glen was a born runner. He was also the unspoken leader of the group. His motorcycle jacket hung off his bony frame, the buckle clanging against the metal seats whenever he changed positions. The distant lights of town reflected dimly in the pomade he used to slick back his thick, dark hair.
“Who’s Deadeye?” Steve asked.
“Where’ve you been living?” Glen asked. “He’s Bellhaven’s only ghost. Only real one, anyway.”
“I said knock it off,” Jane said. She fidgeted, and the skirt of her floral dress swished around her penny loafers.
“Wait a minute, I want to hear this,” Steve said. “How am I the only one who doesn’t know about him?”
“Beats me,” Glen said. “My uncle told me about him a while ago. Matter of fact, we’re on Deadeye’s turf right now. He hangs around this very football field, especially during the season.”
“Come on, Glen,” Linda interrupted. “Jane asked you to stop.”
“Why?” Glen asked with a grin. “It’s just a story, right, Jane?”
“I just don’t like it, that’s all,” Jane said. “It isn’t nice to make fun of things like this.”
“Who’s making fun?” Glen asked, raising his hands and looking around at the others.
“Alright, you’ve got me going,” Steve said. “Get on with it.”
Steve looked at Glen, waiting. Linda rolled her eyes. Jane stared at the tips of her shoes with her lips pursed. In the silence, music crackled from a transistor radio sitting a few feet away.
Glen relished the moment. He cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles, and began.
“OK, it’s like this. Back in the thirties, Bellhaven High had a big football rivalry with Pinecrest.”
“Pinecrest?” Steve cut in. “They don’t even have a football team.”
“If you shut up for a second, you’ll find out why,” Glen snapped. “Anyway, it was the day of the big Thanksgiving game. Bellhaven was hosting, right here on this field. Team banners hung from the telephone poles, the pep band was getting everyone geared up, all that garbage. So the game got going. It was really neck and neck.”
Here, Glen chuckled to himself before continuing.
“By halftime, there was still no score. Then, in the third quarter, the Pinecrest wide receiver started running for a touchdown. I guess they called him Deadeye because he never missed a pass. Just before he made it over the line, two or three of our guys tackled him—as it turned out, a little harder than they should have. Everyone went nuts. Our side was cheering, their side was booing, but eventually, the field got quiet once people noticed Deadeye hadn’t gotten up. Actually, he wasn’t moving at all. When the medics rushed over to him, they found—”
Jane covered her mouth with one hand and closed her eyes.
“They found him dead,” Glen finished. “But it’s not like he just whacked his head or something. His neck was broken, and his head was turned all…the way…around.”
For effect, Glen grasped his chin with one hand, the top of his head with the other, and pretended to twist his head like a cork, making cracking sounds at the back of his throat.
“Like I said, the game was really neck and neck.”
“That’s enough, Glen,” Linda said.
“Alright, gross,” Steve said. “But what does all that have to do with a ghost?”
“I’m getting there,” Glen said. “After the accident, the Pinecrest parents got together and voted to get rid of football as a school sport. They figured it was too dangerous. That’s why Pinecrest doesn’t have a football team anymore. There was one player, though, who didn’t get the memo.”
“Deadeye,” Steve said.
“You got it. They say if you stand on Deadeye’s turf—right there in front of us—and challenge him to a race to Bellhaven’s endzone, he just might take you up on it. And if he takes you up on it, you’ll be dead before you reach the other side. But you won’t just be dead. Your head will be turned all the way—”
“Stop it!” Jane shouted.
“That’s nice, Glen. You’re a real charmer,” Linda said. “Can we forget it now?”
“I don’t know, Steve. Can we?” Glen asked, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“W-what do you mean?” Steve asked, his eyes widening.
“You were the one who wanted to know about Deadeye,” Glen said. “Now you know. Are you going to leave him hanging? Or are you going to challenge him to a race?”
“Oh, brother,” Linda groaned. “Seriously, guys? How old are we?”
Glen ignored her.
“What’s it gonna be, Steve?”
Steve dropped his eyes.
“I… I’m not much of a runner,” he stammered.
“That sounds like an excuse to me,” Glen said, his tone mocking.
“Why don’t you do it, Glen?” Linda demanded, standing.
“Me?” Glen asked.
“Sure, if you’re so tough. He’s your ghost. You race him.”
“Linda, no,” Jane said. “Everyone just stop.”
But Linda soldiered on.
“Unless you’re chicken,” she said, sitting back down and pretending to examine her nail polish.
Glen’s cheeks reddened. His eyes blazed.
“Chicken?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Linda said. “It’s easy to tell other people what to do. Why don’t you do it yourself?”
For a full minute, no one spoke. A rock and roll song whined from the transistor’s tinny speaker:
I’m feelin’ stronger than a grizzly bear
Soarin’ like an eagle flyin’ through the air
When I get you in my arms, you’d better beware
I go insane ’cause I can’t be tamed
Glen stood up, took off his leather jacket, and held it out to Jane. When she didn’t take it, he shrugged and draped it over one of the bleachers. After a few calf stretches, he trotted down the aluminum steps to the field.
“Glen, wait,” Jane called after him.
He waved her away.
“Don’t worry, Jane,” he called back. “This won’t take long.”
Once on the sidelines, Glen whistled through his fingers. The piercing sound carried across the field on the breezy October air.
“Hey, Deadeye!” Glen shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “C’mon, I’ll race you! You know the drill… Last one to the Bellhaven endzone’s a rotten egg!”
With that, Glen was on his way.
His friends watched as he shot toward Bellhaven’s side of the field. His lean arms and legs pumped with the effort. The thud of his motorcycle boots faded the farther he got from the bleachers. On the radio, the verse repeated as the song neared its end:
I’m feelin’ stronger than a grizzly bear
Glen ran.
He had thirty yards to go.
Soarin’ like an eagle flyin’ through the air
Twenty yards.
Fifteen.
When I get you in my arms, you’d better beware
As Glen receded into the darkness at the far end of the field, Jane, Steve, and Linda could just make out his white t-shirt rippling in the wind.
I go insane ’cause I can’t be tamed
When he was only a few yards from the Bellhaven endzone, Glen pitched forward, face first, and lay motionless on the turf.
Jane took the steps two at a time and ran toward Glen, following the same route he had taken across the field. Steve and Linda called after her.
“Jane, wait!”
She ignored them. They charged after her.
Glen lay a few feet short of the touchdown line. When Jane reached him, she froze, then sank to her knees, trembling. Steve and Linda came up behind her, panting. As soon as they looked down at Glen, they turned away in horror.
Deadeye had won the race.
THE END
