War and Watermelon

The game jersey is dark blue with an orange number 27 and stripes on the sleeves. Looks a little strange. I’ll be wearing the gray practice top for the scrimmage. Our pants are solid white and our helmets are solid blue; we wear the same ones for practices and games.

What’s weird is the game socks. They’re bright orange like the numbers and the sleeve stripes. Kind of Halloweeny. I was hoping for blue.

We’re kicking off. Most of the top players are on the other team—Ferrante, Esposito, Magrini—but we have some good people, too. Tony is with my team, at the opposite end of the kickoff squad.

We’re finally getting the remnants of that hurricane that hit the Gulf—just a strong breeze and some on-and-off rain. The grass—what a concept, playing football on grass after three weeks on dirt—is wet but doesn’t seem too slippery.

Esposito is down near the goal line, waiting to return the kick. I’m not looking forward to colliding with him at full speed.

The referee blows his whistle. I take a quick glance at the bleachers. There are maybe a hundred people watching; my parents are up there.

The cheerleaders are on the cinder track. Guess they have to cheer for both teams.

The kick is high and kind of short. I watch it for a second before coming to my senses and darting down the field.

Box-and-in. Box-and-in. Esposito has the ball and is already past the twenty, coming straight up the middle. So I box in at the thirty-five. By luck I time it just right, because he jukes past a tackler and cuts toward me, angling past two others but slowing down as he searches for an opening.

I dive at his legs and wrap my arms around him. He shakes me loose, but I’ve stopped his progress and two of my teammates take him down.

Feels great to make that first hit. I jump up. Mitchell is on top of Esposito. He gets up and yells, “Yes!” smacking my hand.

I walk to the bench and hold a paper cup under the watercooler, then take a drink. The cheerleaders are waving their pom-poms and yelling, “Go, Bulldogs!”

For today, my side is the Bulls and the other is the Dogs. I step to the sideline to watch, next to Tony.

“Return team!” calls Coach Powell, who’s in charge of our side today.

So I’m back on the field. I’m not usually on the return squad, but for this scrimmage I am. Me and Tony are midway back, on opposite sides.

The kick is way short. It bounces between us and we run toward it. Tony scoops it up and collides with me, then turns upfield and is swamped by tacklers. The ball comes loose and Magrini falls on it.

By halftime it’s 33–0, so Coach Epstein makes Ferrante and Salinardi switch teams (and jerseys).

Aside from the kickoffs—and there have been a lot of them—neither me nor Tony has seen any action.

Technically we’re the third-string running backs, but I can guarantee that even if Esposito, Delcalzo, Mitchell, and Colaneri went down with injuries, the coaches would shuffle things around so we’d still be substitutes. They’d put Stephie Jungerman in before I ever started at tailback.

Ferrante looks at me, then at Tony, then back at me. “Let’s try the forty-five pitch,” he says. “On one.”

I line up behind Tony, hands on my knees, and try to resist looking at the space between the left tackle and end. I’ve never run this play to the left. Since it’s a pitchout, I’ll have to catch it on my weaker side.

The gap is big and I dart through it. Tony slows a linebacker and I head toward the sideline, running like a scared rabbit. Esposito takes me down, but I gain at least six yards.

Tony leaps and punches me in the shoulder. “Way to move!” he says.

Tony gains about half a yard on the next play, and Ferrante seems hesitant in the huddle as we regroup. “Forty-six pitch,” he says slowly. “No, wait. . . . Okay, forty-six pitch. On two.”

That’s Magrini’s side of the field, and he’s been making tackles for losses all afternoon. Ferrante steps back and waves us closer. “Hit the line fast,” he whispers to Tony. “I’ll be behind you.” He shifts his eyes to me. “Follow me.”

Tony runs through the line and makes contact with the middle linebacker. I fake to the right and shift back as the secondary converges on us, taking two steps past the line and diving.

They pile up on me, but I’m sure I have the first down, just short of midfield. The referee signals that I do.

Ferrante claps his hands hard in the huddle. “We’re moving,” he says. “We’re marching.”

But Tony gets only a yard on first down, and I can get only one more on second. Ferrante throws a long incompletion on third down and then gets sacked on fourth.

Esposito goes forty-two yards for a touchdown a few plays later, and suddenly it’s 40–0.

The score is meaningless. We need a drive. We keep it on the ground and start eating up yardage again: Tony for three, me for four. It’s basic stuff, handoffs up the middle.

We cross midfield. Ferrante calls the pitchout again. I can see myself making a couple of moves, outrunning the secondary, and reaching the end zone. I can taste it.

I take the pitch and dart past Lorenzo, but he sticks out a hand and pulls my arm back, causing me to bobble the ball. I duck to my right and hold on, but I’m forced to spin hard to regain my footing, and I get blindsided by a linebacker. The ball comes loose. I can’t find it. Neither can my teammates. Lorenzo dives on it and yells, “Mine!”

“You gotta hold on to that ball!” Coach Powell says as I reach the sideline. “Fumbles kill football teams. They cost us games!”

I stand by myself, keeping my helmet on so no one can see my eyes, and watch the minutes tick away on the clock. Salinardi leads a methodical drive down the field, and the game ends with them at the fifteen-yard line.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 24

Pains

By Brody Winslow

Fumble-itis

Is like appendicitis

It gets inside us

And hurts