52
KURT
Chugging back toward the huddle, I scan the
fence line for Danny but find no sign of him in the sea of fans. I
glance up at the enclosed control booth at the top of the stadium,
wonder if Tina’s watching me right now. Oregrove supporters are out
in force tonight for the last home game before a string of away
games to finish out the regular season. Scott shouts to be heard
over the crowd noise. To stay warm, fans of all ages hug
themselves, hop up and down, break out into chants while clapping
gloved hands, wave big foam #1 fingers, and hold up homemade signs
with player names markered on them. They call out to us as if we’ll
answer their personal requests for more defense or to fire
up.
I take it all in, pretty sure this will be the last
time I’ll ever have fans pulling for me. Come Monday, after Tom’s
dad makes good on his threat and after my three captains see to it
everyone misunderstands my past, the only crowds waving at me will
be ones carrying pitchforks and torches, trying to run me out of
town.
Terrence slaps me in the belly to get my attention,
then points up to the Jumbotron. “You paying them or something ?”
he asks me. In big flashing letters the Jumbotron reads: BRODSKY
EXPRESS! COMING AT YA!!!
“Who you blowing up in the booth to get all the
attention?” Terrence asks.
“Tina,” I tell him without a single stutter.
“No shit? That little Dracula girl runs that
thing?”
GO GET ’EM! the Jumbotron flashes.
“Hey, Brodsky,” Scott barks at me. “You want to
join us here or you going to paint a picture?”
“Wake the fuck up, Brodsky,” Tom growls.
In the huddle, I can’t bring myself to even glance
at those two, so I focus on the tops of my shoelaces while scuffing
the turf with my cleats. The Columbus Bears are decent but we’re
still leading by two touchdowns with only a minute left before
halftime. If we win tonight, our record will be good enough to give
us home field advantage in the play-offs. The sellout crowd knows
this, makes noise, in fact, like tonight’s game is the state
championship.
“Okay, play action reverse on three,” Scott tells
us. “Terrence, stay sharp ’cause their nickel package is weak on
the left flank and you can bust for some yardage. Pullman, hold
your lane. Tommy, drive that cocksucker, sixty-seven, into the
ground for me. He’s been up in my grille all night.”
“Got it.”
“On three, on three,” Scott repeats. We all clap
our chapped hands once—part ritual, part signal we understand the
play—then break huddle. I glance up at the Jumbotron again like I
got a tick. A cartoon chorus line of dancing hot dogs wearing top
hats and twirling canes tells us they’re ready to be eaten in
four-packs at the concession stand. I try to refocus on the game
but it’s hard. As we set up and Scott shouts his cadence, my eyes
wander off number 79, my blocking assignment, and begin searching
the crush of fans along the fence one more time, hoping he hasn’t
backed down, hoping he won’t leave me hanging.
Where are you? I wonder.
“HUT!” Scott grunts. I drive forward into the line,
smashing into oncoming shoulders, helmets, and arms, feeling the
wall of bodies in front of me slowly give, slowly shift left.
Terrence squirts past with the ball, gaining six yards before the
Bears’ secondary drags him into the grass. The play’s barely been
whistled dead but Terrence already has his head cocked toward the
Jumbotron, ready to watch himself in slow-mo instant replay. The
crowd stomps and claps its approval.
“Damn, I do move beautifully.” Terrence
sighs in appreciation.
As we huddle up, Sweeney, a wide receiver, comes
sprinting onto the field, relaying Coach’s next play to Scott.
Scott’s helmet swivels side to side in an exaggerated no and spit
flies out past his face mask. He walks into the huddle with Sweeney
trailing.
“Okay, fullback sweep left on two,” Scott tells us.
“Brodsky must be giving Coach hand jobs again to get these plays,”
he tells the rest of the huddle while his eyes skip past mine. I
reach down and pull up my socks, then adjust my knee pads, notice
none of the guys laughing for Scott. “I don’t know why he hasn’t
given up on you yet.”
“This is bullshit!” Tom slaps his thigh pads then
spits at my feet.
“Shut the fuck up, Jankowski,” Terrence snaps.
“Start blocking for a change and maybe Kurt’ll get some
yardage.”
“Mind your own business, Terrence, or I’ll give my
guy a free pass at you.”
“Tell that to Coach”—Terrence jabs a finger almost
into Tom’s face mask—“and I’ll be laughing when he benches your fat
ass.”
“Enough, ladies,” Scott speaks. “Fullback sweep
left on two, on two,” he repeats. We clap and break huddle, then
set up into position. My rushing’s sucked all night because Scott’s
purposely holding on to the ball a fraction too long when handing
off to me, messing up my timing, and Jankowski’s throwing
powder-puff blocks whenever the ball’s coming to me. To be honest,
I don’t much care anymore. One way or the other, it’s over for me.
All I want to do is smash something.
“Ready!” Scott barks, lining up under center. I
cast one more glance at the fences, come up empty in my search for
him. I crouch down, fire up the ignition, feel the power thrumming
across my thighs, big turbines winding up, approaching
takeoff.
“Set . . .” Scott calls out, his voice fading in a
gust of wind and crowd roar. I chance a last look downfield, past
the wall of scrimmage, think I see him now. He’s there, waiting.
He’s so small ...
“Hut.”
. . . like Lamar . . .
“HUT!”
Launch!
Going supernova slows everything around me, expands
my vision until I’m watching the field from all angles. Scott steps
back from center and baits me with the ball. My arms clamp around
it like a bear trap, ripping it from his hands, allowing no chance
for mischief. I spot Tom slipping to the ground, untouched, letting
his man—54—leap over him into my path. Like my last three carries,
Tom’s unblocked defender will lock me up in the backfield for a
loss of yards. I prepare for the inevitable ...
Bam!
Terrence—lined up in the backfield with me—cuts off
54, buying me a half second. It’s enough. I stop dead and break
right, against the traffic of bodies sweeping left. The wall clears
and a field of almost pure green waits for me to dance over it. I
plant my foot for the sprint downfield, already seeing the end zone
as I cross it, when something cracks my kneecap, pushing it
backward. Feels like a jagged icicle stabbing me there, shattering
against the bone. I collapse across the lone body below
me—Jankowski. Son of a bitch has leg-whipped my knee under cover of
the scrum.
While the game clock ticks down I lie there in the
grass clutching my knee. Cold sweat trickles along my neck as I sit
up and try to slowly bend the leg, testing it. I yank off my helmet
in frustration and slam it into the turf.
“Give him room. Give him room,” Scott shouts, then
squats so close his face mask jabs my cheek. Wincing as I keep
trying to bend and flex my leg, it takes me a second to realize
Jankowski’s on my other side. The two of them block out all the
others.
“It’s only gonna get worse.” Scott speaks
just loud enough for me to hear. “You done crossed the wrong
bulls and now you need to learn your place.”
“You’re fucking finished, retard,” Tom
hisses. “Finished !” He’s smiling at me through his face
mask. They both stand up and back away, letting the trainers and
Coach get to me.
“Son, where’s it hurt?” Coach asks. He’s pulled off
his baseball cap and his face creases with worry. Not sure if it’s
for me or for how he’ll replace me, but I don’t much care. I’m
grateful for his presence. The pain in my knee eases a little. The
wind whips past my sweat-dampened hair, chilling it, as anger and
fear swirl within me. Our plan starts to feel as worthless as my
knee. It isn’t enough, I realize. Doesn’t matter what we come up
with. Scott, Tom, and Mike won’t stop. They’ll keep coming.
The trainer gets my arm around his neck to help me
stand up. I just want one good lick on them. One lick, let them
know how it feels to really hurt, for once. Then I’ll go into
hiding. The crowd claps and hoots as the trainer and Rondo ease me
up to my feet. With my arms draped over their necks, I limp off the
field.
By the time Rondo and the trainer help me to the
sidelines, the rest of the team’s jogging toward the school
building for halftime. I’m able to walk by myself now. My knee
feels loose, like it’s been stretched out the wrong way. I worry it
might decide to go the wrong way again and snap in half. I glance
up at the Jumbotron but there’s only cartwheeling potato chips and
a blizzard of popcorn kernels telling everyone the concession stand
is offering a family pack for $15.99.
At the fence exit leaving the playing field where
we’re supposed to meet, there’s no sign of Danny. I did see
him, I tell myself. Or I think I saw him. Maybe it was
only Lamar, again, in my head. I limp on toward the school,
deciding to go through with it even if he bails on me. My doubt, my
fear, dissolves under the realization of what’s been done to me
again and again, over and over. Right now I don’t care about being
trapped in the back of Officer Jankowski’s squad car, I don’t care
about Scott’s threats, don’t care if the world thinks I’m a
murderer. I’m doing it. Fury burns off the rest of my worry. I’m
going to give it to them.