The sky began to lighten, revealing dozens of columns of black smoke rising hundreds of feet along the rim of the Everglades.
A rusty 1968 Ford pickup truck raced down a lonely dirt road, kicking up a dust plume. The truck was dark red, and the Florida outdoors had made the metal rough like sandpaper. The dirt road stretched through uninhabited miles of open fields. The road was elevated like a causeway, and on each side were canals. Water flowed broadly from Lake Okeechobee down into the Everglades, giving it the nickname River of Grass. The canals had been dug to divert the water and create hundreds of square miles of arable farmland. The canals were deep, and vehicles regularly sank in them. Drownings weren’t rare. The pickup truck stayed in the center of the bumpy road, bouncing on old springs. Its bumper was held on by twisted coat hangers and rope. It was doing fifty. The bed of the truck was full of children.
Most of the children held empty canvas sacks and pillowcases. Their clothing was hand-me-down-and-down-again. Striped pullover shirts and ripped denim shorts and even a pair of swim trunks. The ones who had shoes didn’t have shoelaces. There was a lot of chatter and laughing in the back of the truck. Bragging. Who had been champions in the past, and who would do even better today. Then the merriment trailed off. They were getting close.
The pickup sped straight toward the nearest fire. It approached upwind, but smoke still wafted over the truck. Some of the kids pulled the necks of their shirts up over their noses and mouths . . .
Palm Beach is the largest of the state’s sixty-seven counties, and this was the other Palm Beach, the unknown one. Along the Atlantic shore: Worth Avenue, the Breakers Hotel, Rolls-Royce and Mar-a-Lago. On the opposite side, along Lake Okeechobee: boarded-up buildings, empty streets, burglar bars and poverty so corrosive that even the local prison moved out.
The area is now oddly known for only two things: sugar and football players.
These burning fields are where they meet.
From October to April, the harvest is on, and some of the nation’s largest sugar growers set fire to their fields in controlled burns that remove leaves and weeds, making way for the mechanical harvesters. The procedure is done with straight lines and right angles. There will be a giant, perfectly square patch of flat, jet-black land where the last burn took place, right next to a thriving green square of waving cane stalks. From the air it looks like a checkerboard. When the fire and smoke start, the children head out, from Pahokee to Belle Glade to South Bay and Harlem.
The ’68 pickup skidded to a stop on the dirt road, and the kids in the back hopped out over both sides like troops jumping down from a combat helicopter. They took off running full speed across a black square, their sacks flapping by their sides. Ahead, a wall of cane. The far half of the field was already on fire. They charged into rows of stalks that would soon also be ablaze.
It was a decades-old tradition.
They were hunting rabbits. By hand.
But this wasn’t some thrill sport like running with the bulls in Pamplona. It was economic. Each pelt brought a few dollars, and what was left was dinner. Only if you lived around here could you realize how much of a difference that made. From years of experience passed down by word of mouth, even the youngest kids knew how to approach a burning field and head off the rabbits being flushed out.
The kids continued sprinting with all they had, smoke getting thicker. Then they saw them. The first child planted his foot and cut sharply left, diving through a row of stalks and pouncing. A cottontail went into his pillowcase. Then another child cut right, diving on another rabbit. Then another child, and so on as sacks filled.
The cottontails weren’t exactly easy to grab, but the jackrabbits were another matter entirely. Almost nobody could lay a hand on them. Almost. Some of those who had accomplished the feat . . . well, everyone knew where they were now.
Amazingly, this short strip of tiny towns along the bottom of Lake Okeechobee has produced more than sixty players in the National Football League. A number so insane that there must be a catch. Word got around, and soon, each fall at high school games, there were almost as many college football scouts in the stands as parents. At first the scouts couldn’t believe what they saw. But seeing was believing. These kids were fast. Except how was it possible, so many players from such a small area?
The legend began.
Chasing rabbits.
It didn’t lead down to Alice’s Wonderland, but turned them into professional football players. It even reached a point where ESPN sent journalists down to cover the hunts in the cane fields, reporting how the kids could nimbly cut, change direction and speed up again as the rabbits required. It was a heartwarming myth, but the real reason was more sobering: The kids had been dealt such a cruel hand of hardship at birth that it cultivated a fierce drive to succeed.
And on this particular day, instinct kicked in again. The children knew in their blood exactly when they had pushed it to the last second toward the advancing fire. Then they retreated as fast as they had charged in, regrouping joyously in the safety of the adjacent blackened field, peeking down into their sacks and comparing their hauls. One had four cottontails and proclaimed himself champion of the day, until a heated dispute and a recount. Another sack actually contained a fifth bunny. Hooray!
Then on to the next burning field. Young, lanky boys who had just experienced a growth spurt raced into the cane stalks, dashing and darting with stunning speed. Behind them came the younger kids from grade school, who idolized the older boys and tried to be just like them. They weren’t nearly as fast but getting there. They caught the occasional cottontail, but most of the quarry eluded their grasp as they fell facedown in the dirt, and the older boys laughed. Then there was one final youth, the scrawniest of all. Named Chris. But lack of weight didn’t affect this child’s velocity; in fact it seemed to help. Chris ran on tiptoes. And was surprisingly consistent, nabbing at least one rabbit per field. Then, just as consistently, an older boy would snatch the animal away. “Give me that!” And shove Chris to the ground. “Now go play with your Barbie dolls.”
Poverty prevented a lot of things, but not bullying.
They reached the next field and the mad hunt was on again. This time Chris actually came up with two rabbits, one in each hand, grinning ear to ear, until getting slammed to the ground again. The critters went in older boys’ sacks. Chris just jumped up and took off after another cottontail.
The pickup truck arrived at the last field of the day. This time the haul was so bountiful that the kids pushed the time envelope beyond good judgment. Most were coughing on smoke, feeling the heat of nearby burning stalks, eyes watering as they dove for one more bunny.
Moments later, they burst out of the cane field, initially stunned silent by their own success, then celebrating. As the joy died down and the stinging in their eyes cleared, an odd sensation arrived. Something seemed off. Just a vague gut feeling.
“Is someone not here?”
“Where’s Chris?”
“Shit!”
Three of the older boys dashed back into different rows on the edge of the cane field that was rapidly reaching full burn. After only ten yards in, one of the boys found a much younger, skinny kid with a big grin and a bigger jackrabbit.
“Gimme that thing!”
The grin left town. “No! It’s mine! I caught him!”
The older boy seized the rabbit by the scruff of the neck, and used his other hand to shove the smaller child down into the dirt and smoke. The child clawed in the soil and fought for breath.