"Everybody out and make it fast!" exhorts Coach Martin with an uncharacteristic squeak in his husky voice.
"Come on Gooby," beseeches Jim Budnick. "I think I hear a train!"
"Hustle up," goads the coach as we scramble over the tracks and line up behind the bus. "On three push with all you've got!"
It was every coach's nightmare that a school bus under their charge would stall while crossing railroad tracks. That bad dream came true at an elevated industrial crossing on the way home from Budnick's second win at Piscataway.
The Romano's Bus Service driver had dutifully stopped before the railroad line, looking both ways instead of trusting the upright wooden smashboard. Nothing was visibly approaching so he ground the long yellow bus into gear, stalling out on a shift at the crest over the tracks.
"Lean into that bumper," coaches Heinzy as Vennie, Gooby, Joe Flis, and I line up beside him and the others hang back including Jamesy Budnick who can't reach the bus over the rest of us.
"One-two-go, go, go!" charges Arnie Martin as the five of us give it all we've got and the bus inches interminably forward.
"Come on you fuckers!" Heinzy groans as sweat stains our gray woolen uniforms, the back of the bus reaches the tracks, and we start to pick up speed.
"Now!" shouts the coach waving his arm to the driver watching anxiously from the long side mirror.
Screech screams the gear as it catches, and the bus sputters to life with a puff of black smoke into my face since I happened to be pushing over top of the exhaust pipe.
"High five!" laughs Heinzy holding up his thick hand for me to strike and not noticing that I'm turning green with nausea.
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