PRACTICE THAT afternoon is brutal. The heat slows us down, especially with all the pads and helmet. I feel like I’m running through quicksand, and every yard is a struggle. An hour into it we’re all fading. Coach has us practicing sweeps but Trent is sluggish from the heat and keeps getting tagged by the defensive line before he can make the handoff, which puts Coach in a tizzy.
“Goddammit, Trent,” he spits and throws down his clipboard, “What the hell is your problem today? You get hit in the head or something?”
“No, sir.”
“You got dirt in your eyes?”
Trent huffs and says nothing.
“You need to run some stadiums to get your head screwed on right?”
“No, sir.”
“Get back out there and get it right.” He glances over at the defense. “This time, tackle his candyass. We need to make it real for him.”
We start again. The first two drills are successful, but Coach isn’t satisfied. The third time, Trent takes a shoulder in the gut and falls backward, kind of rolls over and curls into a fetal position. Coach pounces on him right away.
“Get up on your feet and take that hit like a man.”
Trent rises slowly to his feet, still hunched over gripping his stomach. He’s sweating and wheezing and looks like he might pass out. Coach either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he barrels on. “You see any women out here, Trent? Look around, you see any women?”
“No, sir.”
“You know why? Because we don’t allow pussies to play football. This is my field and it’s for men only, so unless you’re vomiting or shitting blood, I expect you to suck it up and run that goddamned drill again.”
There’s no way Trent is going to make it through another play. He can barely stand on his own two feet.
“Coach,” I cut in. “I think we need a water break.”
Coach turns his mean, beady eyes on me. “You telling me how to run my team, Webber?” I glance across the field to the empty bleachers. When he’s in a state like this, it’s better if you don’t look him directly in the eyes.
“No, sir.”
“Sounds like you are. You think I don’t know it’s hotter than hellfire out here right now? You think I’m not sweating my balls off like the rest of you? If you and Trent could get this very simple play right, we could be taking that water break right now, but I got a couple of nancies bitching and moaning at every turn.”
Coach goes on about it. I tune him out and eye Trent. His face has gone ghost white and his eyes are at half-mast. He looks wobbly on his feet. I go over and catch him just as he’s about to collapse. This interrupts Coach’s tirade long enough for him to call over a trainer and a water boy to get him hydrated. “Everyone else get water,” he snaps, “except you, Webber. Hang up your helmet. You’re done for the day.”
What kind of bullshit is he trying to pull now?
“You want me to hit the showers, Coach?” I ask, trying not to let on how pissed I am.
He gets right up in my face and grabs hold of my face mask so I can’t look away. His breath is tangy like he’s been drinking and his eyes are bloodshot. Rumor is he keeps his sports bottles liquored up. What I know about the man would support it.
“I want you running stadiums until the end of practice. That’ll teach you to challenge my authority.”
I don’t care about his authority. He’s being an idiot and putting Trent and the rest of our team in danger. “Coach, heatstroke is serious. You can have a seizure and die from it.”
He yanks on my face mask to intimidate me, jerking my head around. Short of laying him out on the field, there’s nothing I can do about it. I fucking hate that shit. I rip off my helmet and throw it to the ground. Coach narrows his eyes at me and crosses his arms over his chest.
“You got something to say to me, Webber?”
I take a few heated breaths and wipe the sweat from my brow. “No, sir.”
“I thought so. Now, get out of my face before I decide to make you come back here tomorrow and do a few hours of suicides.”
I stride away from him, drop my helmet and pads on the bench and head for the bleachers. He calls after me, loud enough for everyone to hear, “And cut your goddamned hair. You look like a faggot.”
I tackle the stadiums, pounding the concrete stairs with all my anger and frustration. Boy, what I wouldn’t give to tackle Coach, just one good hit to remind him he’s not the big badass he thinks he is. After a while the heat and physical strain sap the anger out of me and I feel empty and bitter. Coach is still yelling at Trent down on the field, even though it only makes him play worse. As much as I despise Coach Cross, at least I only have to put up with him for two more seasons.
Trent is stuck, though. He has the man for life.
Later, in the locker room, Trent comes up to me, claps me on the back, and says quietly, “Next time, don’t interfere.”
“You were dying out there, Trent.”
His tone is black when he says, “Don’t get between Coach and me again. You know better.”
My fingers curl into fists and my back stiffens. Since we were eleven, he’s been telling me that. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll handle it myself. It’s not just the beatings either; it’s the bullying too, calling Trent worthless and stupid, making threats. I want Trent to stand up to the man and expose him for the piece of shit he is.
“You hear?” Trent says when I don’t respond.
I nod. “Loud and clear.”