The TV screen goes black, the video finishes. The room lights flicker back on, causing a stir of bodies trying to wake up.

“Men, let’s see if we can fix some of those errors I pointed out here,” Coach Brigs says. “Hope you were paying real good attention.”

Uh-oh.

“Drills, drills, drills,” Coach goes on, standing in front of the TV, arms crossed in front of his chest, whistle around his neck, and folded papers stuffed down the front waistband of his shorts. “Practice makes perfect,” he says to the room. “Out on the field in twenty minutes. Stragglers will be running laps. Afterward we’ll hit the weights. Hard!”

Scott is still taking notes. I’m impressed.

“Move!” Coach snaps.

I get up first. Walking past Scott, I glance down at his notebook, expecting to see scores of X’s and O’s forming play diagrams and maybe some key concepts underlined with bullet points and notes in the margins. Instead, I see a sketch, a cartoon. Naked ladies climbing up and sliding down nine block letters spelling out “THIS SUCKS!” In one corner of the page, there is a mushroom cloud going off. In another corner, a spaceship shoots lasers and a stick soldier is machine-gunning air and a skull has a knife handle sticking out of its eye socket. Scott keeps the page tipped so Coach can’t see it.

Except for Studblatz and Jankowski, the slouching line of yawning guys waiting for drill instructions stands like dozing heifers. Studblatz and Jankowski, though, they’re more like werewolves patrolling the chalk lines, itching for any opportunity to rip apart one of the lessers. Studblatz never stops clanking helmets with whoever’s nearby and pushing guys around like he’s getting paid to herd them.

On the far sideline, older men—players’ fathers—gather together and stand like coaches themselves. Some smoke, some chew tobacco, some chew sunflower seeds, others chew gum. Some hold cans of beer in little paper bags; others drink half-liter bottles of sports drinks like they’re exercising right alongside us. They all seem to watch practice with faces full of worry and disappointment. Scott’s father stands among them, a rolled-up newspaper in his hand, slapping it into the palm of his other hand like a billy club. Coach Brigs, I notice, never acknowledges the group of fathers. A squad car is parked nearby on the grass. Terrence tells me the squad car belongs to Jankowski’s dad, a cop. Guess he makes his own rules about where it’s legal to park.

Scott, hands on his hips, face mask swinging back and forth in an exaggerated “no,” keeps cussing under his breath, as if the sight of turf and sun irritates him. His golden boy routine faded right after we finished reviewing game film. He must’ve continued drinking from Saturday’s party straight through most of Sunday because his sweat smells like a brewery and he started dry-heaving on his way out onto the field. Still, he’s got it easy since he gets to wear the red vest over his practice jersey. Only player that gets one. The red vest means don’t hit or tackle him in drills or scrimmage no matter what because a quarterback is too valuable to ever risk injuring in practice. He’s untouchable.

“I know you fellas don’t need reminding that we’ve got homecoming this Friday,” Coach Brigs speechifies. “God help you boys if we don’t destroy the Millfield Bucks.” Outside on the field, Coach Brigs communicates mostly through shouting that causes the veins running along his neck to bulge thick as night crawlers. “You understand what I’m saying, soldiers? I’m not concerned with losing because that is so unthinkable I cannot even tolerate thinking about it. No, I’m talking about not winning by enough. It’s our homecoming. It’s our house! You understand? I want to send a message to the entire division: You come to the Knights’ field and you should be thankful if you walk out under your own power.”

A grunt of agreement off to my left. It’s Jankowski practically vibrating with Coach’s words. He beats his chest with his fists like Tarzan. I’m not kidding. He actually beats his chest and he’s not trying to be funny.

“That’s what I’m talking about, boys.” Coach slaps his clipboard, then points at Jankowski. “Tommy, you hear me loud and clear, don’t you, son?”

“Yes, sir!” Jankowski bellows back.

“Good boy.”

On the side of the field, the fathers offer no reaction to Coach Brigs’s pep talk. Some of them cross their arms over their chests or adjust the bills of their baseball caps. Some spit because the chewing tobacco wedged into their bottom lip forces them to drain thick brown streams into the surrounding grass. Others spit because watching their own sons play seems to pain them with frustration even though they cannot look away from us, like viewing a bad car accident. I don’t think Scott’s dad chews tobacco.

“No. No. No. No. Noooo!” Coach shouts, whipping off his ball cap and slapping it against his leg. He looks back up at us and the sight still pisses him off. “Goddammit, no!” he repeats. “What kind of pansy camp do you think I’m running here?”

We don’t answer.

“Scott, so help me,” Coach gripes, “you line up that slow under center again and I will sit you down, son, you understand?” The gate of Scott’s face mask dips, telling Coach he understands.

“Studblatz, whatsa matter with you?” Coach taunts. “My niece tackles harder than that. If you want, I can get you a set of pom-poms and let you try out for the cheerleading team.”

The image of Studblatz in a skirt and pom-poms makes me laugh out loud.

“You think that’s funny, Brodsky?” Coach stares at me for what feels like a full minute.

“No, sir,” I say, shaking my helmet.

Coach wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, runs his fingers through sweat-matted hair, then yanks the ball cap back onto his head.

“Men, this isn’t a joke,” he says. “We face a serious attack on our good name this Friday. Our community is coming out to support us. Your families will be there to cheer you on, and if the best you can do is some half-assed job, then walk out right now. I don’t have time for this.” Coach slowly turns a full three hundred and sixty degrees until his eyes hit all of us. “Homecoming, men, is not some silly game. It is what glues our community together. It’s what gives your little brothers and nephews—and, one day, sons—hope. It’s what comforts your mothers, sisters, and girlfriends with the knowledge they are safe because they are in the capable hands of young men who aren’t afraid to enter a battlefield, go head-to-head with the enemy, and come out victorious. If you think this is anything less than the defense of all that is good and decent in this world, then go home. I don’t need you. If you believe in what I’m preaching and want to enter a righteous war by my side, then take your dresses off, strap up, and start hustling.”

More fathers gather along the sideline as they come from work, watching us with grave concern. They never stray from a ten-yard area, on the opposite side of the field, by the visitor bleachers.

After scrimmage, I ask Terrence why they never come closer.

“They’re not allowed,” Terrence answers quietly, way quieter than he normally talks, which is always loud and laughing. He glances around to makes sure others aren’t that close. “Last year there was an ... altercation,” he says, making quotes around the word with his fingers. “Now there’s a court order preventing parents from coming onto the field during practice beyond that point at the visitors’ bleachers.”

“An altercation?”

“Yeah.” Terrence nods. “One of the dads was pissed off his boy wasn’t in the starting lineup, so at the next practice, he punched out Coach Stein.”

“Lucky thing Juh-Jankowski’s dad’s a cuh-cop,” I say. “Coach Buh-Brigs must be glad he’s here.”

Terrence snickers. “Not exactly,” he says. “It was Tom’s dad that punched Coach Stein. He parks his squad car out here to let everyone know he’s still keeping an eye on things, court order or not.”

“Juh-Jankowski didn’t start last year?” I ask, surprised.

“No way, dude. Tom was way smaller last year, before he started taking supplements.” Terrence makes air quotes again. “He’s beefed up a lot since then.”

“You mean Cuh-Coach’s suh-supplements.”

“Yeah, his special vitamins.” Terrence exaggerates the words sarcastically, then his helmet swivels, checking that no one is close enough to hear us.

“Good vitamins,” I say from under my helmet. Terrence rolls his eyes at me and moves in close enough that our shoulder pads clack together. “ ’Roids, dude,” Terrence whispers. “These boys don’t play. They shoot the shit now. Get it from Coach Stein.”

“You tuh-tuh-take them?” I ask, curious.

“Are you kidding?” Terrence asks, grabbing at his crotch. “And have my balls shrivel into raisins? Fuck no. I want the rushing title more than anybody but I don’t play around when it comes to my dick. I keep it covered when I stick and I don’t take nothing that makes it sag like a wind sock.” He starts laughing again. “I got a reputation to keep up with the ladies.”

“Shuh-sure you do,” I say, giving Terrence a friendly shove. But I’m wondering just how much bigger I could get, how much safer I could make my world, if I took Coach’s supplements. By the time we enter the locker room, it’s all I’m thinking about.