I live in San Puerco, California. It's a little town in the Santa Cruz Mountains. There's just a few people and a whole mess of big trees tall enough to trap the fog blowing in from the Pacific Ocean. It's so quiet here, ducks sleep on the street. Banana slugs suck on our windows. Just about everybody has a wood stove and a pickup truck - except my dad. He has a computer and a Volkswagen bus.

The day after Labor Day, the morning of the first day of the new school year, I had just one thought on my mind: soccer. We had a team; we had a coach, an assistant coach, a league to play in; but we only had ten players. First day of school, I might find a new kid, a speedy kid, a strong kid who could run like lightning and kick like thunder. Our team is The San Puerco Thunderbolts. Last year, we never won a game. We were always playing one man short. My dad said maybe we should pick a new name: The San Puerco Doormats. He was joking.

If there was a new kid in town I'd probably already know it, but as my dad says, you never can tell who - or what - is going to come out of the woods. And we have a lot of woods. Redwoods.

First thing I saw in the schoolyard was Danny with a wicked grin on his face. "Guess what I found," he said.

"A Thunderbolt? Number eleven?"

"Nope," said Danny. "Not a Thunderbolt. A raindrop, maybe. Round and soft and wet. And when it hits the ground, it goes plop. " Again he grinned.

"Who?"

"Him." Danny pointed across the playground where I saw a new kid, a fat kid carrying a briefcase. The fat kid was black.

Danny's brown. I'm white. And that's about all there is to say about color. It's never been an issue with Danny or me.

"Come on, Boone," said Danny, still grinning. "Let's have some fun. "

Sometimes Danny thinks it's fun to step on worms or throw stones at squirrels. When he gets that way, I tag along so I can try to stop him. I could just leave, but he's my friend and my soccer buddy. He's like a half-trained puppy tearing into a shoe - you can't teach him not to chew, but you can try to interest him in something he's allowed to have, like a bone.

Already Danny was sauntering across the asphalt around some girls skipping rope. I followed. I made up my mind to keep my mouth shut and my hands in my pockets, at least until I could find out what he had in mind.

The fat kid was kneeling over some pebbles next to a garden where a couple of straggly red flowers were blooming. He picked up a shiny white rock and rubbed it between his fingers.

"What's that?" Danny said.

"A pebble," said the fat kid, looking up.

"Dsh," said Danny, which was something he said a lot. It rhymes with bush, sort of, only with more sh and no middle, and what it means is - well, it can mean anything. In this case, it meant "Duh. Of course. Tell me something I don't already know."

But the fat kid didn't know what it meant. He only stared at Danny, looking slightly nervous as if he knew what Danny was leading up to and had been through it many times before on many other first days of school.

"Dsh dsh," said Danny.

"What? " said the fat kid.

"The pebble," said Danny, grinning. "A gold nugget?"

The fat kid stood up. "Quartz," he said. "Milky quartz." He opened his briefcase - sproing went the latches - and dropped the pebble inside.

"You collect quartz?" asked Danny.

The fat kid pulled a blue handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his forehead and upper lip. He was sweating. "I collect everything under the sun," he said.

"Dsh," said Danny, nodding. I know what he meant: nobody at our school carried a briefcase, and nobody in the whole world that we had ever met carried a handkerchief in his pocket. Then Danny, grinning again, said, "You collect candy bars? Doughnuts? Pecan pies?"

"All right." The fat kid suddenly smiled. He didn't relax, but he smiled. He looked as if he knew exactly what Danny was up to now, and though he may not like it, at least he was ready for it.

Danny stopped grinning. He hadn't expected the kid to smile at him. "Dsh," he said, which I think meant that he didn't know what else to say.

"Look. I'm the fat kid," said the fat kid. "And you must be the bully."

Danny stepped forward. "I ain't no bully," he said.

"Sorry."

"Take it back!"

"Is that an order?"

"Yes!"

The fat kid looked at me. I still had my hands in my pockets. "Danny," I said. "Ease up." I couldn't think of any bone to throw him.

Danny wouldn't back down. He was right in the fat kid's face. "He called me a name," he said. "Take it back."

The fat kid sighed. He shrugged. He set down his briefcase. "No," he said.

Danny pushed him in the chest.

The fat kid didn't budge. Danny, in fact, stepped backward as if he'd pushed off against a wall. He stepped up again. He was making fists.

Again, strangely, the fat kid smiled.

Danny hit him in the belly. The fat kid said, "Oof," but then he made a move like falling on his side while rolling out his legs, which caught Danny at the ankles and tripped him to the ground. Quicker than I would've thought a fat kid could move, he was sitting on top of Danny in the garden between two ragged flowerstalks.

Danny couldn't even wiggle. About a dozen kids were standing in a half circle around us. "Lemme out," Danny squeaked. "I can't breathe."

The fat kid stood up and brushed off his pants. "Sorry," he said.

"Dsh," said Danny. "What's your name?"

"Babcock."

"What's your first name?"

"Babcock."

"Well then what's your last name?"

"Babcock."

"Babcock Babcock?" Danny shook his head. "Dsh."

"No. Just Babcock. That's all."

"But you gotta have more than one name."

"Says who?"

Danny shrugged. "Dsh," he said.

"And what's your name?" said Babcock. "Dsh?"

"No. Danny." He smiled. "And this is my buddy Boone," he said pointing at me.

"Hello Boone. Buddy Boone. Hello Danny Dsh."

"Hello Babcock," I said.

"Dsh," said Danny. Then he grinned. "Hey Babcock," he said. "You play soccer?"

"No."

"Wanna try?"

Babcock smiled, and this time it was real.

When the bell rang, the principal came out and read the names of who belonged in what classroom. Danny, Babcock, and I were in the same class, which was no surprise. There's only one teacher for each grade at my school, and some grades have to double up. As my Dad says, "Small town, small school, small minds." But I don't think he means it about the minds.

Our teacher was Mrs. Rule. Everybody knew she was strict but fair. She had taut black skin and flashing eyes. She kept her hair in a bun with not one hair hanging free. Her clothes never wrinkled. I never saw her sweat. Danny said once, "I bet her caca don't even stink."

Mrs. Rule called the roll. "Elizabeth Abrams?"

"Here."

"Susanna Ardale?"

"Here."

"Babcock?"

"Here."

A giggle ran through the girls in the class.

Mrs. Rule shot them The Look. Immediately, they were silent. She had one of those looks that could split boulders.

"Mr. Babcock has only one name," she said to the class. "We will have to get used to that." She turned to Babcock. "Would you like to explain why you only have one name?"

"No," said Babcock.

"Do you mind if I expla- "

"Yes," said Babcock.

"Hmm," said Mrs. Rule. She gave Babcock the same look she'd given the giggling girls.

Babcock met her eye. He had the same unrelaxed smile on his face that I'd seen him give Danny just before the fight.

Not a sound in the room.

Mrs. Rule clucked her tongue. I suppose it was like Danny saying dsh. It could mean anything.

I saw sweat gathering on Babcock's upper lip.

Then to my surprise Mrs. Rule looked down at her attendance list. "Boone Barnaby?" she said.

"Here," I said. Score one, I thought, for Babcock.

Babcock came to soccer practice wearing the same clothes he'd worn to school. The pants were already dirty from the scuffle he'd had with Danny. Everybody else on the team was wearing shorts, cleats, and shinguards.

"You got any shorts?" Danny said.

"No," Babcock said.

"Dsh. You'll need some."

"Why?"

"For soccer. Everybody wears shorts."

"Why?"

"Because, " Danny said. "You get hot."

"Not me," Babcock said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

The first thing at practice, the coach always tells us to take a lap. We run in a bunch except for Dylan who always falls behind - sometimes, way behind if he gets distracted by a lizard or a bumblebee. Dylan is the coach's son. It's not that he's slow. He's like a butterfly. You never know what flower he'll light on next.
The coach arrived, late, and immediately said, "Okay team, take a lap."

"What?" said Babcock.

"A lap," the coach said. "Who are you?"

I said, "This is Babcock. He wants to join the team."

"Do you?" the coach said.

"Well, sir, Danny said you needed another player. I thought I'd try it out."

The coach looked him up and down, from sweating forehead to fat body to long pants to leather shoes. Babcock was still holding his briefcase.

The coach shook his head. "You try us out," he said. "And we'll try you out. Now take a lap."

"Lap what?" Babcock said.

"Run," I said. "Around the field."

Babcock groaned. But he set down the briefcase and started to jog. His cheeks bounced as he ran.

We ran in a bunch with Dylan slightly behind and Babcock way back, looking like he was going to die. Then as I kept on running I saw Dylan stop, reach down, and pick something up. He stood there, examining it, as Babcock lumbered up to him. Babcock stopped. He studied the item in Dylan's hand. Then they both set off jogging, slowly, at Babcock's pace, talking and looking at whatever was in Dylan's hand.

We milled around and kicked some balls. The coach, whose name was Walt, paced back and forth. Walt has a white beard and looks about a hundred years old, but he says he's forty something. He rides around on a big black Harley Davidson motorcycle.

When Dylan and Babcock finally arrived three minutes later, Walt said sarcastically, "Thank you for joining us again."

Babcock wiped his face with a blue handkerchief.

Dylan said, "We found a dead dragonfly."

"Damselfly," Babcock said.

"Dragonfly," Dylan said.

"Babcock," Walt said, "I would say that speed is not your greatest asset. Would you agree with that?"

"Depends, sir. Slow, yes. I'm quick, though."

Walt frowned. "You're slow. But you're quick." He shook his head. "I suppose you're also stupid. But smart."

"My father would probably say so, sir."

"Let's try you at goalie."

"Hurray!" Dylan shouted. He'd been our goalie, and he hated it.

"Yes, sir," Babcock said.

"Call me Walt."

"Yes, sir."

"Get in the goal, and we'll try some shots."

"Yes, sir," Babcock said. He looked around the field. He didn't move. "What's the goal?"

Walt turned his face to the sky. "Great galloping banana slugs!" he said to the clouds. "Why me?"

Jack was just arriving. Jack is a hotshot high school soccer player who helps Walt as assistant coach.

"Jack," Walt said. "This is Babcock. He's trying out for goalie. He's slow and quick and stupid and smart and, I suppose, short and tall."

"No, sir," Babcock said. "Regular size. I'm fat, though."

"Fat and skinny, I suppose," Walt said.

"No, sir. Just fat." Babcock smiled.

"I'm not arguing," the coach said. "Jack. Would you show Babcock where the goal is, and what he's supposed to do?"

Jack took Babcock to the goal. Walt was mumbling to himself, "Slow but quick. Gimme a break."

We lined up to practice penalty shots. Babcock stood in the goal. Jack stood behind the net. "Shoot," he said.

Dylan shot. The ball rolled straight to Babcock, who bent over and picked it up. "Is that it?" Babcock said.

"Throw it back," Jack said.

Danny took a shot. His kick rolled toward the corner of the goal. Babcock leaped to his left and blocked it.

"Hey," Jack said.

Then it was my turn. I sent a perfect shot in the air toward the corner. Babcock jumped like a flying cannonball, stretched out both arms, and caught the ball in his fingertips.

"Outstanding!" Jack said.

Walt turned his face to the sky. "Thank you, great galloping banana slugs," he said to the clouds.

• The Adventures of Boone Barnaby
• Joe Cottonwood's Home Page