Back at the other place, I used to sneak over the neighborhood school’s fenced field and run bleachers. Or I’d run wind sprints on their track. But mostly I hit the weights. First time I ever tried it, I took to weight lifting. All I ever needed to know was that it made you bigger and stronger. And if you got big enough, you’d never suffer someone else’s temper ever again. No matter where the state shuffled me, I could always hunt down a weight room, stack the plates, and make all that iron rise again and again, muscles screaming with that final rep, me pushing even harder, imagining all the hurt I’d visit on Him when I finally—

“Brodsky!” Coach Brigs barks, interrupting my favorite revenge fantasy. “You got cotton in your ears? I said I want you in on this drill. Need to see what my new fullback’s bringing to the table.” I nod, feel my helmet shift down on my forehead. “The play is twenty-one split,” Coach continues. “You fake the handoff from Scott and open a hole for Terrence coming up behind you. Full contact. Let’s see you create some space on the line.”

“Yes, sir!” I holler. On the field, behind a face mask, I hardly ever stutter. Gnawing on my mouth guard, I line up off quarterback’s left and glance over to make sure Terrence, the running back, is on my right.

“Studblatz! Peters!” Coach barks over to the other side. “I just gave you the play. Won’t get any easier for a defense than that. I wanna see you two stuff this big ol’ sumbitch!”

Scott Miller chomps out a hyena laugh. “Yeah,” he echoes in a way I don’t appreciate. “Stuff that ugly sumbitch!”

I find the back of Jankowski, our offensive tackle. He looks bigger than he did in the locker room. Glad he’s on my side of the ball during real games. If he does his job right, creates daylight, then I won’t have to. But this is a drill and Coach wants me to make a statement on my own. Guess it’s his way of introducing me to the team.

Something I learned in foster care is that power and size matter. So does toughness. All three are like math variables. Increasing any of them is a good thing if they’re on your side of the equation. Take Lamar, for instance. Not much size, not much power, but lots of toughness. He’d back down boys three years older than us just by clawing the air and spitting like a wildcat and telling them they’d lose an eye if they so much as touched us. No matter how bad he might have needed it, he kept his inhaler in his pocket until we were alone. Then, bent over, hands on his knees, wheezing hard but smiling like he’d just been handed the heavyweight title, he’d suck on his inhaler, look up at me, and shake his head. Boy, look at those feet. You gonna be huge. Big as an ox one day. Just you wait. If I had your size, I could rule the world. I’d show ol’ Crud where he could stick his thing. Lamar talked that way all the time, talked as if for all his toughness and my big feet there wasn’t a final variable neither one of us could ever match: cruelty.

I look across the line and see Studblatz and Peters itching to double-team me now that they know the play, both grinning through their masks, both hungry to flatten me, give me a real warm welcome. A shudder runs up to my skull, twisting my neck as an imaginary yoke comes undone. I stare back at Studblatz until the face under his helmet is the man that used to enter my room at night reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, belt buckle already rising, waiting to make its mark. The right toe of my cleat digs into the turf, creating a starting block. The world beyond me and him melts into the color of fire. The source of all pain, all hurt, crouches in front of me, begging to be snuffed out of existence.

Quarterback calls out his cadence, then lets loose one sharp cry. I hear no more. My thighs expand as I lower, understanding all about leverage and the physics of unearthing bodies. I bull’s-eye him under his chest, aiming for that crease at his waist, feeling his legs crab-scramble too late. My shoulder catches his gut while Peters, an afterthought, tries wrapping me up at the calves. Peters catches a pumping knee under his chin strap and drops like a stone. My target ain’t as lucky. Folded over the rising plank of my shoulder pad, his feet leave the ground as I drive him backward. Legs airborne, his feet kick in tandem for the ground. Rushing toward annihilation, I welcome the hug of gravity as our combined weight accelerates. I ride big boy onto his back, body-slamming him into the grass, his chest absorbing my shoulder, deflating like a used air bag. First sound coming through my helmet’s ear hole is a satisfying “Ooofff!”

Pushing off him to stand up, Crud Bucket vanishes, leaving behind only the smoldering remains of Studblatz. He doesn’t move. The wind’s knocked out of him, maybe more. Terrence sprints past with the ball for about ten yards and then slows. No one’s watching Terrence, though.

I feel and smell them: the pack. They watch me from under their helmets, not saying anything until their leader speaks. Unsure how to respond, they wait for a signal to attack or accept. Just like first day at group home.

“Jesus!” Scott Miller cackles. “I think Studblatz might be pregnant after that one.”

Assistant Coach Stein runs over to Studblatz, kneels down to him, and shines a penlight in his eyes.

“My, my, my,” Coach Brigs says, holding his chin in his hand.

“Damn, boy!” Pullman, one of the linemen, whistles.

“Walk it off, ’Blatz. Walk it off.” Rondo, our center, chuckles.

Coach claps his hands to restart the team.

I am numb with release.

“Hey, man.” Terrence jogs up to me and slaps me on the butt. “I got a feeling you and me are gonna be real tight. Real tight. Shit, man. I ain’t no homo but you do that for me in the games and I’ll be riding your ass all the way to the end zone and a scoring title.”

Size. Power. Ferocity. Establish you have the most of all three and everyone leaves you alone. That’s how you survive those places. And if you find a brother like Lamar, a brother you trust with your life, to watch your back, then you’ve doubled your odds.