THE NEXT DAY, HEADING TO FOOTBALL practice, I was crossing the carpet in the main locker room when Ward called out, “Lefferts! You and Garver are up with the varsity today. Main field. Ten minutes. Not eleven. Ten. If you’re not there in ten, don’t bother joining the big boys. Just keep on walking to the pond. Then keep walking into it.”
It was good to know that Ward the coach was as much of an asshole as Ward the dorm-master. That gave me twice as many chances to learn how to play his psycho game.
In the JV locker room, a short, muscular kid stuck out his hand. “Anthony Garver. Bronx, New York. Future Hall of Famer. I guess they’re giving us a tryout, huh? So were you serious down with the jayvees? About how you never played?”
Anthony was sort of built like a bowling ball. He was a running back who’d broken a bunch of tackles in that first practice. “Yeah. What about you?”
“Played the game all my life. Pop Warner, Optimists, Catholic League, all that shit. Mom always told me sports’d be my ticket out. I got in here on Prep for Prep. ‘Givin’ the underprivileged a chance.’ So now I got a chance to learn Latin. Shit. Where I live, Latino’d be more useful.”
We walked down to the field together. “So we get to meet Bruno,” Garver said.
“I already did,” I said. “He’s my history teacher. Doesn’t smile much. He the assistant?”
Anthony stopped. “Dude, he’s the head. New guy. He just lets Ward do all the talking.” Anthony explained that Carlton was so desperate to win the championship after losing it for cheating that he’d demoted Ward and gone outside the box to snag Bruno, a guy from Real Football World. He’d been a head coach at a D-III in Pennsylvania until his career had flamed out because he punched a player on the sideline after the kid had fumbled in a big game. Then he’d had to take a high school gig in coal country, where he won two championships before he got the call from Carlton.
“But Bruno’ll do the thinking, so we get real football, not wuss football.” Anthony said. “He runs a pro-style offense. Lots of passes. And Madden has the arm. He’s the real thing. Maybe we get the trophy and we get to keep it. Tell you this: I’m not going back down to that lake.”
The trophy was for whatever league we were in, which was something like, I swear, the NEFISC. If we won it, I guessed we’d be kings of the world.
• • •
Ward started screaming at some straggling players ambling down the hill to the varsity field. “Let’s go! Let’s go, girls!”
Nice.
Bruno stood next to Ward. This time he wasn’t a history teacher. He was a head coach. You could tell just by the way he stood. His arms were folded across his chest. His feet were planted into the ground, like a statue. He kept his mouth closed, but his eyes were darts. I liked that he wasn’t wearing an Oakhurst Hall sweatshirt or an Oakhurst Hall cap. Just jeans, a gray sweatshirt with no logo, and a John Deere baseball cap that looked like he’d worn it driving a tractor somewhere for real.
We did laps. No one talked. We did warm-up exercises. No one talked.
“Line it up!” Ward shouted. “You know the drill. Eleven-on-eleven, and I want to hear the pain.”
I found the receivers and hung on the outside of the group. There were three of them.
“I’m Will Martin. Who’re you?” said one, a tall black kid wearing 85.
“Jack Lefferts. I was with the JVs yesterday. You told me where my dorm was on the first day of school.”
“The lost boy!”
“Still am,” I said. “I’ve never actually played the game.”
His eyes widened. “You shitting me?”
I shook my head. Martin laughed. “What am I supposed to be, your campus guardian angel? All right, little man, just listen. When they call your number, line up, split right. And watch your ass. Don’t kid yourself about this being practice. Those jerks on defense take it real serious.”
The first few plays I watched were scary intense. Kids were shouting, grunting, bleeding. Madden, the quarterback, was six feet tall, muscled, swaggery, and had blond hair flipping up out of the back of his helmet, like a rock star. His running back was an ugly guy named Addison. He had muscles in his muscles. He broke tackles like a tank.
“Lefferts! Get in there!” Ward finally shouted. “It’s a two sixty-seven plow right. The two back goes between the tackle and the end.”
Will pushed me to the outside. “Split out five. It’ll be a run to right, and you gotta seal the cornerback. Block him toward the sideline.”
I lined up. Over to my left, I saw a huge guy, the right tackle, bent into his three-point stance, snorting, ready to level the defensive end facing him across the line, who was just as gigantic. About five yards in front of me, the cornerback was Thorn, the class VP, staring me down.
Madden called the signals. I had time to take about two steps before Thorn hit me chest high and slammed me over backward, just as Addison, who couldn’t find a hole, ran into me from behind. Everybody went down in a heap, I was bent and folded in the middle of the pile. I felt like I’d been in a car crash.
“What the hell? What the HELL?” I was looking up into Ward’s red face. It was the color of a cherry-flavored Skittle. “You call that a BLOCK? They sent you up here so you could get my best running back KILLED?” I scrambled to my feet. “You got exactly one more chance to show me what the HELL you are doing up here, buddy. I don’t need receivers who can’t block.”
He stalked away. I looked over at Bruno. The head coach was just staring at me. Spooky. “Nice block, asshole,” Addison said. He had a Southern accent. “Getcher ass back to the pond, boy.” He looked like the kind of guy who’d hold up a 7-Eleven for fun.
I walked back to the sideline as Will came back out. He stopped, suddenly turned to me, bent down, and shoved his shoulder pads into my stomach, pushing me back, hard. “Like that, okay? Hit him low. Guess they didn’t bring you up here for your blocking.”
They ran three more plays before it was my turn again. This time, as I walked to the line, the huge tackle to my left said, in a low voice, “Dive at Thorn’s legs. Bad left knee. Don’t hurt him. But make him think you might.” Okay. He was a jerk anyway.
At the snap, I took off toward Thorn and dove toward his legs. He mostly dodged me, but he was out of the play just long enough for Anthony to turn up the sideline for fifteen yards before a safety shoved him out of bounds—and then shoved him again when he was off balance, and Anthony fell into a bench.
Late hit. Will was right: it was offense against defense.
“Yeah, Bannerman,” shouted Zowitzki at the safety.
Ward barked at me, “Still not good enough, Lefferts. I haven’t seen you hit anyone yet. They tell me you got hands. Try using ’em.”
Okay, then. Everybody else was totally wired, so why shouldn’t I get there? On the next play, I coiled myself and hit Thorn hard in the stomach with my helmet, then threw my right shoulder at him with everything Outward Bound had given me. It was enough to tangle him up for a second, enough for Anthony to gain a few yards behind me before some gigantic lineman shot over, moving like an elephant in Fantasia, and wrapped Anthony up, threw him to the ground, and thumped his chest in celebration.
“Not necessary,” said a voice, all gravelly and low: Bruno. First words of the day.
“All right,” Ward said. “Let’s run some routes. Let’s air it out.” There were two quarterbacks, Madden and a kid named Griffin. The first passing drill was supposed to be no-contact. I watched the other receivers run fly patterns—straight out, forty yards. Madden had a hell of an arm. Will, running in huge loping strides, caught his first pass. The other two receivers weren’t as impressive: one kid dropped the ball, and the other was too slow to catch up with Madden’s long throw.
“Lefferts!” It was Ward. “Forget the bomb. Run a look-in, five yards.”
I figured a look-in was what it sounded like. Will tugged at my jersey. “You’re gonna get leveled. Be ready. Be cool.” He smiled. “Stay healthy, little man.”
“Defense!” barked Ward. “This one is full contact. I want to hear it. Let’s execute.”
Exactly. Ward was trying to get me killed. Maybe since he hadn’t recruited me? Whatevs. I was cannon fodder, and now I knew the stakes: The next play was the difference between playing under the War of the Worlds light towers and screaming crowds and giggling girls, or down next to the pond, for a lot of geese.
As I lined up, I heard Jarvis’s voice: Football ain’t rocket science.
I ran out five yards, turned left, looked back, and saw the ball flying toward me. Madden had thrown the ball way harder than it had to be. Spiraling like a bullet heading for my chest.
I don’t remember reaching out—my hands sort of did it on their own—because first I felt a helmet crack into my back, sharp, like a knifepoint, and the explosion of hurt walloped my rib cage. A flash of light came somewhere from a deep, dark place. I hit the ground on my back, and there was Zowitzki on top of me, grinning. His breath had this weird chemical smell to it.
But the ball was between us. My hands had held on.
I tried to hop back to my feet, stumbled a little, then gained my balance. Maybe it was pure chance I’d caught it. Or maybe it wasn’t rocket science. Maybe if your hands did the work and freed your head to get in the right place . . .
“Sweet hit, Swicky!” Thorn slapped Zowitzki’s shoulder pads. As if the catch didn’t matter.
Anthony came over, slapped my pads. “You okay?”
I nodded. I was better than okay. He offered a fist bump. I bumped him back and looked over at Bruno. He nodded at me, once. It was the highest praise I’d gotten in a long, long time.
On the second round, Ward let me run long, so I just sprinted flat out. One thing I had was speed. I blew past Thorn. He reached to grab my jersey, but I was already past him. Then, after about forty yards, I looked back over my shoulder to see the ball already falling out of the sky. Madden had led me perfectly. I didn’t have time to think or worry. The ball just sort of settled into my palms.
Then I was in the end zone. I’d run seventy yards. I felt like running into the next state.
I trotted back to the rest of the team, and Garver hip-bumped me, but no one else said a thing. I looked at Madden, but he was talking with Ward.
The rest of practice was a blur of agility drills and sprints. When it was over, I barely had the strength to climb the embankment back to the locker room.
“Dude.” Zowitzki was suddenly by my side. His forehead was pouring sweat, and his eyes were sort of lit up like a pinball machine. “You can take a hit. But, man, what do you weigh?”
“About one sixty, I guess.” Well, maybe wearing chain-mail armor.
“More like one forty,” said Zowitzki. “That’s gotta change. Start lifting, like, now. Like, tonight. We never had a real passing game before. They just always double-teamed Martin. But if Bruno’s thinking a passing game, you know what this could do? Having our own Wes Welker?”
Zowitzki turned to walk into the locker room, then looked back. “We should talk. Remsen 3, last room on the right. On getting you strong, dude, I am the genius. I got a personal trainer back home. From Germany. He’s a very valuable guy. Very supplied. I’ll show you a few options you probably haven’t considered.”
In the cramped JV locker room, Anthony was cleaning out his stuff. “Hey, we made it!” he said. “Ward told me we got new lockers. In the big room. The Promised Land. At least this week. He didn’t tell you?” We fist-bumped again.
I’d made it? I’d made it! “Only person who told me anything is Zowitzki—that I have to start lifting.”
Anthony laughed. “Yeah, lifting. I’m sure that’s how he got that cut. Lifting. The cat is juiced. ’Roids, man. Those biceps don’t come from mainlining Monster or Red Bull.”
In the big room—the big room!—a kid in a T-shirt came up to us. “Lefferts, you’re over there with the receivers and the linemen. Garver, over in the corner with the backs. Jocks and socks in the hamper over there.”
My new locker was big, and empty.
Then the manager tossed me a new jersey: number 88. A real receiver’s number.
Also, the number of keys on a Steinway.
“What do I do with this one?” I held out my 34.
“Burn it.”
I turned around and put the new jersey on a hook, kind of carefully, and sat in the locker. A bruise was greening up on my right arm, and when I took a deep breath, something hurt on the right side. The sound system blared System of a Down, backed by the whoops of the players in the showers.
The big offensive tackle came over to my locker in boxers with Boston Bruins logos, toweling himself off. “Michael Clune,” he said. “I guess Harris got cut, since you’re in his locker, huh? Cold. Dude’s on scholarship, too.”
I’d never said a word to Harris. Part of me felt bad for him. But only part.
Clune turned back to his own locker, a few stalls away, and started dressing. I saw a huge plastic jug full of large pills next to his shoes. He saw me staring.
“Vitamins,” Clune said, knotting his tie. “And, hey—start lifting. Seriously. You gotta put some weight on. I kid you not. Prep football is as dirty as it comes. A good game spoiled by spoiled rich assholes. Get ready for some pain.”
• • •
Down the hall, at least half the varsity was already in the weight room, and about half of them were watching themselves in the mirror that took up a whole wall. Down here it was a band I didn’t recognize, with the bass up full, and kids were jackhammering the weights on the Universals in time with the beat. The smell was gaggy: not just sweat, but some lab smell.
In shorts and a T-shirt, I lay down on a black plastic bench. Over my head was a barbell with two twenty-five-pound weights on each end. Thorn was two benches away. He looked over. “That’s the last time you’ll ever beat me, by the way. So welcome to the jungle.”
He pumped a few times, watched himself in the mirror. I couldn’t help thinking that he was pretty ripped for a dickhead asshole class officer.
He started pumping. I started pumping.
“So what do you think of the tunes?” he said.
“They sort of suck,” I said.
“What—As I Lay Dying? Suck? It’s only fucking Christian heavy metal, dude! How cool is that? No emo in here, my man.” He racked his own weights, then came over and slipped two more onto my bar. “That’s a hundred.”
I pulled off three reps, and that was all I could do. Thorn shook his head. “Hey, we need hands on this team. But no way do you stay healthy up here looking like freaking Pee-Wee Herman. Try out some mechanical squats. And the Universals. And go see Swicky. Like, tonight.”
I lay back down on the bench and stared at the ceiling. My biceps were trembling. I could feel my heart thumping. Suddenly Will’s goatee was hovering over me. “A hundred?”
“It was Thorn’s idea.”
“That figures. Here,” he said, and slid some weights off the bar. “Try doing ten light reps at fifty. Easy and fluid. It’s not about the weight. It’s about the rhythm. Like music. You know why Phil Jackson always wanted his teams to be like the Dead? ’Cause they could jam all day and never lose the rhythm. Find the rhythm, it actually gets easier. And here, try this.” He offered earphones. “Jazz. Miles Davis, live at the Blackhawk. San Francisco, 1961. Very smooth. That heavy metal shit will rot your brain.”
He drifted away to a mat, where he started doing something that looked like a ballet mixed with martial arts. I smoothly did ten reps. Then added five. He came back over.
“You really think I can do this?” I said to the big kid. “I mean, I’m not even sure I know the rules of the game.”
“Hell yeah,” he said. “First off, you’ve got some athletic chops. Raw, but still. Second, this isn’t D-I. Here it’s all about who wants it more. And you got those hands. Now you gotta just stand up to the pain. Look—just hit the other guy as hard as he’s hitting you. Or harder. The rest of it will take care of itself.” He shrugged. “Or not. Why’d you decide to start now?”
“Long story. But Martin . . .”
“Will.”
“Will. What’s the bug up Ward’s ass?
“It’s ’cause you’re not one of his, and you’re a musician, boy. There aren’t any musician football players here. You’re a freak. Hey, a little senior advice: if you fight this place, it just pushes back harder. Go with the flow, let it work for you. But don’t let Zowitzki’s boys tell you what to do. You can’t catch the ball if your biceps are torn in half.”
“The weights are going take some time.”
Will stopped smiling. “That’s not what I meant. ’Roid muscles can tear like tissue. Short-term gain, long-term pain. Do some research. Not to mention that they shrivel your dick. Then, Zowitzki’s so ugly he doesn’t have any use for it anyway. His hand doesn’t care how shriveled his dick is.”