The Jefferson fans are hopping mad almost from the start after Studblatz levels their quarterback on a linebacker blitz, forcing a Jefferson substitution. When they bring out the stretcher and call an injury time-out, Studblatz hippity-hops on the field like he’s riding someone, slapping an imaginary ass, and pointing at the Jefferson bench. That’s when the first volley of soda cups flies toward our bench. Studblatz just pumps his arms at the Jefferson fans, taunting them with a double-biceps bodybuilder pose. He’s been supercharged all night. Miller and Jankowski, too. Has something to do with their uniforms not being washed or still being wet or smelling or something. Miller smells the worst, and no one wants to get close enough to ask him for details. The other two stink like piss. They stink up the bus on the way to the game, and they stink up the huddle during the game. The three of them boil all through warm-ups, grinding on their mouth guards and daring any of us to say a word out of place.

Once it’s clear to the Jefferson fans that Coach is running up the score, garbage really starts sailing out from the bleachers, forcing us to wear our helmets on the sidelines.

“Brodsky!” Coach barks. He always wants me within ten feet of him so he can grab me, shout the next play, and snap-count into my face mask, then send me hustling out to the team with a slap on the butt like I’m a horse needing a giddyup. I scramble out to our midfield huddle. Scott Miller stands there, hands on his hips, impatient to get the play, impatient even if I’m traveling at the speed of light.

I meet him and we clank face masks while I repeat Coach’s play just above the crowd noise. “Fullback draw, sweep right on three,” I tell him. He nods and turns away from me to gather us into a circle and repeat Coach’s instructions.

“You take this ball all the way to the goalposts, Brodsky, or I’m telling Coach you called his wife a troll.” Miller snarls but then winks, leaving me wondering if he’s joking. Because we’re killing Jefferson so badly by the fourth quarter, some of his anger over the polluted uniform has evaporated. Not so with Jankowski. He reaches across the huddle and grabs my face mask in his hand, jerking my head into alignment with his gaze.

“I’m not clearing a trench so you can run five yards and fall on your ass.” Jankowski grunts. “You want a little respect, rookie, now’s the time to earn it.” His eyes narrow at me, angry for no reason at all. When I wear my helmet and pads, all my scars feel hidden and my stutter mostly dries up. I feel powerful at these times and not willing to take much shit.

“You just make a luh-lane,” I say, “or take the ball if you think you can do better. But Coach didn’t cuh-call for a left guard sweep.”

Jankowski just grunts again and releases my face mask. I hear Terrence, our running back, snicker. Terrence’s been in good spirits ever since we increased our lead by four touchdowns in the third quarter. He started smiling in warm-ups and now the game is one big party for him. It helps that Jankowski and I have been smashing open the line of scrimmage all night, allowing him to rack up huge yardage. I think everyone expected to win, but not by this much.

“On three, ladies,” Scott says. We clap once and break huddle. I line up two strides behind Scott’s right shoe and scan the field. No wonder we’re stomping Jefferson. Their entire line, except for one guy, Adams, is smaller than us. We might as well be scrimmaging against our JV team. Jefferson’s defense sets up, but we’ve already broken them. Their helmets sag while they squat, waiting for the snap, expecting to get pushed around. Scott’s been untouched all night, hitting his receivers almost every pass and throwing two sweet connections resulting in touchdowns in the first and second quarter.

“Ready . . . set ... thirty-five red ... two eighty-seven . . .” Scott calls out the cadence. I let my eyes wander the whole line so as not to give away where I’ll aim or even if I expect the ball. Jankowski drops to all fours, his butt big as a mule’s, each thigh larger than a freshman, and awaits Scott’s command.

“Hut,” Scott barks, “. . . hut . . . HUT!”

The ball snaps up through Rondo’s legs and into Scott’s hands. He swivels around to make like he’s feeding it to Terrence crossing in front of me but then jams the ball into my gut instead. I clamp down on it and steer for Jankowski’s jersey. Jankowski’s good to his word, blowing a hole through their line big enough to drive a car through. He single-handedly shoves three guys left while Peller tangles up Adams. I burn through the line break, twist away from a last-ditch hand clutch, and twenty yards of open field greet me like a prize. Jefferson’s cornerback and safety, both downfield, are my only obstacles. I steam ahead, gaining momentum, expecting Jefferson’s safety to try and cut me off, preparing for the hit ...

Terrence comes out of nowhere, racing up from behind me, and slams Jefferson’s safety right between the jersey numbers. Their collision slides past my face mask like rain on a windshield. Fifteen yards to the goal line and I’m still charging as the Jefferson cornerback dives for my knees. I power up into the air and hurdle his outstretched body, my foot nicking his helmet, but I go past otherwise untouched. I coast into the end zone and then jog back, tossing the ref the ball before Terrence leaps up into my chest and hugs me like we just won the championship. Then Rondo lumbers down to meet me and head-butts my helmet. A gang of teammates slap my shoulders and helmet and buzz around me all the way back to the bench. A few more soda cups come flying out of the bleachers, like an offering, and Coach Brigs is there, beaming at me.

“Good boy!” He smacks my helmet with his clipboard like maybe he’s proud of me, except I got no experience with that, so I’m not sure how that looks. For a second, I try pretending he’s my dad but it disappears, like trying to glimpse a firefly after the glow dies.

“Hey, Brodsky,” Studblatz calls out, “looks like you might not be worthless after all.”

“Brodsky.” Jankowski stalks over to me. The other players move out of his way. “We might keep you around for a few more games.” He pounds my shoulder pad with the meat of his fist.

“Nuh-nice hole you opened up,” I say back.

“We can’t give Terrence all the glory,” Jankowski says. We both ignore his bad smell for the moment.

“Okay, that settles it.” Miller comes over. “Looks like you’re legit. But don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” I say.

“Now get ready to party,” Scott says, pulling out his mouth guard, “because tonight we’re kings.”