20
KURT
That night, at our homecoming game, we kill
the Millfield Bucks. Even better, we get to watch the highlights of
ourselves up on the Jumbotron screen. Thing is unbelievable. My new
helmet feels the same as my old helmet except there’s a little
silver eye at the front—same as on a camera phone—and the low bar
on my face mask is a little wider for an implanted mic. Studblatz
and Jankowski seem to grow bigger and angrier every game. Studblatz
blitzs through Millfield’s front line and wallops their quarterback
so many times that the poor guy starts flinching and false-starting
every time Studblatz even fakes a rush. The Bucks end up pulling
their QB before halftime and replacing him with their bench guy.
Studblatz is jawing on the field all game, calling the Bucks “the
Fucks,” raging about how he’s going to choke ’em with his cock,
make’em squeal like pigs if they get him angry, their mothers and
sisters are all whores, their brothers and fathers all suck dick.
The usual. Whenever the wind changes direction, our sideline
catches long strings of Studblatz’s word charms like he’s only a
few feet away. Coach Brigs doesn’t even blink at what’s coming out
of Stud’s mouth. In fact, I think I see him even chuckle. He turns
to me and raps his knuckles on my helmet, like he’s knocking on a
door.
“You see why I didn’t choose Studblatz for the
miked helmet now?” he asks me, and winks.
On offense, Jankowski and I pound through the line
of scrimmage, opening holes so big that Terrence, our running back,
practically dances through them, cackling as he scoots past us with
the ball. Terrence is our biggest fan, since we help inflate his
running yardage and scoring stats. With Jankowski leading the
charge, I barely have anyone left over to block for Terrence. On
the fullback sweeps, I bust straight through an almost open line of
scrimmage practically unchallenged with only a puny Millfield
cornerback between me and the goal. Through his face mask, I see
his eyes grow real big at what’s coming. Our collision’s gonna hurt
him a lot more than it hurts me. Tucking the ball securely between
my forearms, I lower my head and right shoulder while he braces for
impact. I give it to him. Impact. Our shelled pads clack and crunch
as I power over him and continue down the field for a score, barely
breaking stride. My teammates pile on me. The score is 37-7 at that
point. The cornerback has to be helped off the field. On the
Jumbotron screen is a replay of the view from my helmet cam. The
whole stadium sees the cornerback’s eyes grow wide on a face now
the size of a highway billboard. Then it goes dark as I smash into
him. Our collision and my grunt sound like thunder over the new
speaker system ringing the stadium. Words flash across the
Jumbotron: ALL ABOARD! THE BRODSKY EXPRESS BROUGHT TO YOU BY FRAYS
POTATOES!
The final score is 52-13.
“Did you see Studblatz level eighty-one?” Scott
stands on the benches in our locker room after the game. “That
boy’s still wondering what year it is. Man, we are rolling now. You
hear me? We are rolling!”
Players start pounding their lockers like drums. I
join in. Then Coach Brigs holds up his arms for quiet.
“That’s right, boys,” Coach echoes. “Your
quarterback is exactly right.” He’s rubbing his hands together like
he’s getting ready to tuck into a flame-broiled steak. “Excellent
team effort tonight. We keep up the hard work, nothing can stop our
momentum.” Coach slaps Scott on the butt for emphasis.
“Hoo-wah!” we chant in our best Marine Corps
imitation. “Hoo-wah! Hoo-wah!”
Scott jumps down off the bench and drops a fist on
my shoulder pad. “Nice blocking, Brodsky. And nice running. You
keep that up, those recruiting letters will fly into Coach’s
office.”
“Thanks,” I say, liking his words. Scott pushes
Tyson, a second-stringer, out of the way and straddles the bench to
sit next to me.
“Me, Stud, and Jankowski are going up to Tom’s
grandpa’s place tomorrow, going hunting in the morning. You should
come, man.”
“I kuh-kuh-can’t.”
“It’s fun. Nothing better’n rocking with
shotguns.”
“Muh-maybe next tuh-tuh-time.”
“What’s so important tomorrow that you’re blowing
off your captains?” Scott asks.
“Tuh-tuh-training.”
“Training? You train enough already, big guy. What
kind of training?”
“Juh-juh-gymnastics. With their suh-suh-squad.” I
leave out the part about me wanting to impress him and everyone
else by throwing a back handspring in the end zone sometime this
season.
Scott’s head pulls back like I just poked him in
the eye. “Seriously?”
I nod yes.
“Studblatz,” Scott calls out while locking me in
his sights. His voice sounds light but his eyes flash like a cat
with a mouse. “You believe this traitor? He ain’t gonna go hunting
’cause he’s hanging out with the midget-brigade gymnasts.”
“You see those guys flip on the mini-tramp?” Tyson
asks. “Man, that shit is cool.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Scott cuffs Tyson across the
back of his head hard enough that Tyson yelps.
I stand up and continue changing out of my uniform.
Scott stands up, too, and I know he’s waiting for me to buckle and
say I’ll come hunting with him instead. Problem is, the longer he
waits, the more stubborn I feel. When I’m down to only a towel, he
finally speaks.
“You need to get your priorities figured out.” He
talks softly, but his words are hard. “You got one team, one
family, and it ain’t those puny pukes, you understand? It ain’t
those disrespectful fucks! You figure that out or we’ll figure it
out for you.”