 The Crazy Horse Electric Game Chris Crutcher Copyright © 1987 All rights reserved. Young Adult Published Hard Cover 224 pages ISBN 0688066836 $16.99 Click here to buy this book. Soft Cover 304 pages ISBN 0060094907 $6.99 Click here to buy this book. Read an Excerpt "Without mincing words, [Crutcher] composes harsh realities with images that sometimes take your breath away-and sometimes make you belly-laugh in astonishment and delight .... The story is a poignant telling of courage, the struggle to survive life on all levels, and an examination of values once held dear." ~ Children's Literature "The characterization in this book is wonderful; the reader can picture each person introduced, whether it be an amazingly bizarre schoolmate known as Telephone Man, or Dr. Hawk, a huge street dude who initially terrified Willie .... It's authors like Chris Crutcher who make our job of 'selling books' that much easier." ~ Voice of Youth Advocates Excerpt Chapter One Sometimes he remembers it as if it were unfolding in front of him this very minute, all of it; event by amazing event. And sometimes it seems as if it all happened a long, long time ago, maybe in another lifetime. But the focal point, no matter how he thinks about it, is the Crazy Horse Electric game. He still doesn't know if it's the best thing that ever happened to him or the worst thing. It's two summers ago and sixteen-year-old Willie Weaver walks through the front door of Samson Floral with Petey Shropshire and Jenny Blackburn, the girl Willie would like to be his girlfriend if he could figure out a sure way to make that transformation without destroying their friendship; their history together. They have a mission. Mr. Samson is in back, clipping and arranging flowers like he always is. He's seventy-five if he's a day -- pretty set in his ways -- and Willie knows this won't be easy. The kids stand behind Mr. Samson for a few minutes, watching and clearing their throats and sniffing loudly, in hopes he will notice them, but his hearing aid is dangling from his hip pocket and there's no chance. Finally Willie steps into his field of vision and says, "Hey, Mr. Samson." Mr. Samson jumps, decapitating the begonia he's clipping. He says, "Damn," and replaces the hearing aid in his ear, letting the world back in. "Young Weaver. How are ya, boy?" He swivels on his stool, nodding to Petey and Jenny. "Gonna make my shop famous this year? Win some ball games for Samson Floral?" "Hope so," Willie says. "Looks like we could have a pretty tough team." He pauses, looking for a better way in to what he wants to say, but Mr. Samson just looks at them all, smiling and nodding slowly. "Actually, that's kind of what we came here to talk to you about . . ." Mr. Samson's expression is unchanged, his head bouncing gently like that of a plastic beagle with lighted eyes mounted in the rear window of a '57 Chevy. "Uh, we were wondering if we could talk to you about the caps," Willie says, flinching slightly. "Of course," Mr. Samson replies. "What's the matter? They too small? Need more caps?" "No, they fit okay," Willie says, looking to Petey for support. Petey's head hangs; Jenny's hand covers her mouth, stifling a giggle. Willie's on his own. "And there are plenty of them. It's the rose. We took a boatload of crap for the rose last year. We were wondering if maybe we could have a different logo. We'd put 'em on ourselves. I mean, it wouldn't cost anything." Mr. Samson smiles and turns back to his beheaded begonia; picks it up in a halfhearted attempt to re-attach it to the stem, then lets it fall to the floor. "What did you have in mind?" Now Petey speaks up. "We were thinking maybe an 'S' over an 'F,' for Samson Floral. You know, like the San Francisco Giants." Mr. Samson looks over his glasses. "You look at the box scores lately, young fella?" Petey is blank. "Giants are dead last. Giants are always dead last." He shakes his head slowly. "Nope. No 'S-F' for us. You boys follow me now. Just follow me out front." Their eyes roll toward the heavens as they dutifully follow Mr. Samson out onto the sidewalk, where he points to the flashing neon rose above the door. "You kids know how long that sign's been there?" "Thirty-four years," they say in unison. "That's the rose on your caps. Identical. You win some games, people see the rose, they make the connection and they buy flowers from me. That's called advertising." Willie makes a last attempt. "But you have the only floral shop in town. People have to buy their flowers from you." Mr. Samson nods, smiling. "Then the advertising should work," he says. "I think we'll keep the rose." He walks back inside, leaving the kids to stare at the flashing flower and marvel at his logic. Willie turns to Jenny, who laughs out loud now. "You were a lot of help," he says. "I'll come to you first the next time I need backup." Jenny grins and tweaks his cheek, her long blond single braid whipping behind her head. "I'm with Mr. Samson, I think they're cute. Besides, it makes you work harder to prove yourselves. You know, boys named Sue."' "Great," Petey says. "Another year of my big brother calling me 'Petunia' every game day. Like it's not hard enough getting any dignity in this world when you're barely five foot three. God, my dad made me wear that stupid cap in our Christmas-card pictures last year." Willie Weaver walks down the hot, dry two-lane highway with Johnny Rivers -- the catcher, not the singer -- to practice at Sollie Weaver Field, named after Willie's grandfather, who donated the land and put up most of the money to build it, and who was a legendary athlete around these parts in his day. He played football, basketball and baseball at Notre Dame back before the age of specialization, when an athlete could play as many sports as he was good at. Largely because of Willie, the rose on their caps now has dignity among all teams in the league. Samson Floral is undefeated after ten games. "It depends on what you can do with Sal Whitworth." Johnny is explaining how Samson Floral can beat Crazy Horse Electric and take the Eastern Montana American Legion Championship away from them. Crazy Horse has won it three years running. "Keep his bat off the ball and we'll own 'em," Johnny says. "They got nobody else can hit you." "What're you talking about?" Willie says. "They've got hitters clear through the line-up. Jesus, Johnny, their batboy hits." "They can hit," he says, "but they can't hit you." "They sure hit me last year." "Last year you were two inches shorter and about thirty pounds lighter and your arm wasn't a licensed nuclear weapon," Johnny says. Willie smiles. Not even his dad pumps him up the way Johnny does.... The above is excerpted from The Crazy Horse Electric Game by Chris Crutcher. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022 Imprint: Greenwillow; ISBN: 0688066836; On Sale: 5/27/1987; Grade Range: 7 and Up; Format: Hardcover; Subformat: ; Length: ; Trimsize: 6 x 9; Pages: 224; $16.99; $25.5(CAN) |
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