It’s my boys who love baseball—they’re fierce little jocks, which is a source of constant bemusement to the two computer scientists who created them—and they were the ones who wanted to go. Turns out it’s a really cool place. There’s this one big room, a literal Hall of Fame, with commemorative plaques celebrating the giants of the game—guys with names like Enos Slaughter and Honus Wagner and Cool Papa Bell—and lots of smaller exhibits displaying the tools of their trade: bats, jerseys, helmets, catchers’ masks, whatever. The sacred relics. You can watch videos of the most amazing plays of all time and listen to the voices of dead heroes. You feel yourself in the presence of greatness, and you know what? It makes you want to be great yourself, or at least better than you currently are.
I’d been President of the School Board for eight months at that point, and it had turned out to be a supremely frustrating job. There’s so much inertia in public education, so much resistance to change and creative disruption. All my plans for improving things kept receding into the distance, and it was starting to drive me a little crazy.
I was especially worried about the high school. Our test scores were declining; our sports teams sucked; the spring musicals were unwatchable （trust me on this）。 We’d suffered a handful of overdose deaths in the past decade and at least two suicides. There was a pall of mediocrity and depression hanging over the place. You could see it in the faces of the students, the way they carried themselves. That feeling of pride I’d taken for granted as a teenager—the knowledge that I was a special person growing up in a special place—was gone. What I’d been searching for, without fully realizing it, was a way to bring that back.
The vision came to me, fully formed, while I was standing in front of the Hank Aaron exhibit, contemplating his Gold Glove. I could see it all so clearly. I closed my eyes, let the details imprint themselves on my memory. And then I said it out loud, more to myself than my family.
“We should do this at the high school.”
Tracy Flick
We needed a lot of things at GMHS. A new roof. Merit pay for outstanding instructors. Better textbooks. Smarter test prep. Water fountains you can actually drink from. Less meddling from the teachers’ union. The list went on and on.
Did we need a Hall of Fame? Not really. Did I say that to Kyle? No, I did not. Why would I? I wasn’t an idiot. I knew I’d need his support when I took over as Principal, and it made no sense to alienate him before I even had the job. In fact, I suspected that if I disagreed with him in our first face-to-face meeting, I might not even get the job. So yes, I let him talk. I nodded and looked interested and muttered a few harmless words of encouragement.
In my defense, it wasn’t a completely crazy idea. Lots of schools have a Hall of Fame. Usually the people who get honored are athletes, which only reinforces the existing （very unfair） social hierarchy and excludes a lot of exceptional people who are far more deserving of recognition. I actually liked that part of Kyle’s pitch—he said he wanted to focus on “a broad spectrum of excellence,” celebrating our former students not just for their athletic prowess, but for their intellectual and artistic achievements, their business acumen, their community service, even their parenting skills.
“We could totally honor someone for being an outstanding stay-at-home mom,” he told me, though he didn’t articulate the criteria for selecting one stay-at-home mom over another. “I have no problem with that.”
Some of his proposals were a little over-the-top—the bronze plaques he wanted to affix to the lockers that had belonged to our famous alums, the brass stars he hoped to embed in the sidewalk leading up to the main entrance （the Green Meadow Walk of Fame）， the glass display cases he planned to install throughout the school, containing artifacts belonging to our Honorees—clothing they’d worn, musical instruments they’d played, objects they’d invented, or whatever. Like if someone was an astronaut, he said, maybe we could exhibit their space suit and helmet, not that anyone from Green Meadow had ever gone into space. One of our graduates, Raymond Valdez, had made it into the training program, but he had some issues with claustrophobia that ultimately disqualified him. He still works for NASA, but in a more mundane capacity, probably not the kind of job that would get you inducted into a Hall of Fame.
The point is, I was hearing all this for the first time, and doing my best to keep an open mind. It felt like a brainstorming session, like he was throwing a bunch of crap at the wall to see what would stick. I figured we’d scale back to a reasonable level as we moved forward—if we moved forward—because that’s what usually happens. You ask for the world and settle for scraps.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Give me your honest opinion.”
That’s the thing about a can of worms. It doesn’t always come with a label on it.
“Kyle,” I said. “I think it’s a great idea.”
- 4 -
Esteban Garcia’s house was small and run-down, tucked away on a dead-end side street in a mostly commercial neighborhood. There was a dumpster in the driveway, overflowing with construction debris, and a tricycle lying on the patchy lawn. It was the kind of house people bought when they were young and struggling, trying to get a foothold. Vito had received a seven-figure bonus when he signed with the Dolphins, so he’d skipped this particular stage of life.
He rang the bell and waited, steeling his nerves for possible unpleasantness. He’d apologized to eight people so far, and most of them hadn’t been happy to see him, or hear his voice on the phone. Especially the women. It was like they’d been waiting for years for Vito to get back in touch, just so they could tell him what an asshole he’d been back in 1997 or 2008 or 2013, and by the way, thanks for the herpes.
He was just about to ring a second time when a chubby, unshaven guy appeared in the doorway. He had a baby in his arms, and a cloth diaper folded over his shoulder. It took Vito a second to recognize him, because in his mind, Esteban was still eighteen, a young warrior in peak physical condition. It happened a lot: guys went to seed in their late twenties, like there was no point staying in shape if they weren’t playing football anymore. Vito didn’t know how they could stand it, all that muscle turning to flab.
“Coach.” Esteban didn’t even try to hide his surprise. “Wow. It’s been a minute.”
Vito nodded at the baby. “Got a little one, huh?”
Esteban grinned, the proud papa. He was wearing a gray T-shirt and blue work pants spattered with white paint.
“This is Raúl. He’s the new guy. Marisol’s three.” Esteban patted the baby’s back with his big hand. “What about you? How’s the family?”
“Okay.” Vito nodded for a little too long. “Yeah, you know. Kids are fine. Summer vacation. All that fun stuff.”
The baby made a cooing noise. Esteban kissed him on the top of the head, and hoisted him a little higher on his chest.
“So what’s up?” he said. “What brings—”
A woman’s voice came from inside the house. “Everything okay out there?”
“All good,” Esteban replied. “It’s Coach Falcone.”