The Next Great Paulie Fink: Part 6

It’s weird how quiet we are as we walk to the field. Unnerving, really.

That whole first half was a blowout, just utterly humiliating. No matter what we did, Devlinshire kept advancing.

That whole first half was a blowout, just utterly humiliating. No matter what we did, Devlinshire kept advancing.

The kickball face flops sideways, and the whole statue tilts precariously to the side.

Two minutes later, everyone’s back in place—parents on the side, Devlinshire kids in their pristine huddle, Minis lining up to cheer, Glebus walking up and down the sidelines, apologizing to everyone for the interruption.

"Komako Kimura! Shirley Chisholm! Frida Kahlo!" An activist who fought for women to be able to vote. The first woman to run for president of the United States. An artist who turned painting inside out.

I thought they'd get used to the antics after a few minutes and then we'd be right back where we'd been all along.

There are no rules against singing on the field. Or against dancing while you run. Or calling out the names of historic women. Or laughing so hard your stomach hurts. There might be conventions, but that’s not the same thing as rules.

Ms. Glebus and the teachers all look like they’re trying to stifle smiles, but the kids stare straight ahead, completely serious.

I glance at the original Paulie Fink quickly—just long enough to see him staring at his sneakers, listening intently.

Here I am, doing my best to look like a solemn, serious leader, and that dumb goat is showing me that I’m not.

He was followed by a few more generations of Oxthorpes: Paul Jarvis Oxthorpe, who made that mill a little bigger and decided to keep some pet ostriches on the grounds of the estate. Then Forrest James Oxthorpe, who cared more about his collection of decorative tapestries than either the factory or the town.

All of which is to say that (a) I come from a long line of eccentrics, and (b) I might be a Fink, but I'm also an Oxthorpe.

You can’t quite see the missing patches of paint on the building, or the cracked windows, or the encroaching brambles and weeds that are everywhere the goats aren’t.

You can’t quite see the missing patches of paint on the building, or the cracked windows, or the encroaching brambles and weeds that are everywhere the goats aren’t.