54
KURT
Every other step, a bur deep inside my
injured knee pricks like a rodeo spur. I snort in the cold night
air, fury blowing out my nostrils in jets of steam. It’s all I can
do not to hobble ahead through the forest of arms and hands
reaching out for me and windmill my helmet like a war hammer until
I brain my captains. Lamar’s phantom rides my shoulder, egging me
on, reminding me what he did for me, how he took the blame that
night I broke Crud Bucket’s stereo and TV in Meadow’s House. I was
the one playing with the football in the sitting room when I
smacked into the console and knocked the whole thing over in a huge
crash. To protect me, Lamar told Crud Bucket that he did it. Crud
Bucket put both of us in that plastic tub to teach us a lesson.
Duct-taped it. Sealed it up. Airtight.
You ain’t gonna take his shit no more, Lamar
whispers.
I ain’t gonna take his shit no more, I
agree.
You’re gonna get them good for me, Lamar
commands. You owe me that, Kurt. You owe me!
I owe you, I agree. I’ll get them good
for you, Lamar. I promise! The crowd presses in thick and my
knee ain’t making it easy to move. I pull my helmet back on, feel
the weight of its protection, and my tongue loosens a little. I’m
ready to hurt someone, hurt them like they keep hurting me.
“All right, men, just keep doing what you’re
doing,” Coach says, wrapping up his halftime speech. I’ve waited
patiently for him to finish before I begin. I can always tell when
he’s finishing his pep talks because he starts adjusting his
baseball cap and resetting it on his head. “We’re wearing
Columbus’s front line down. We play hard for another thirty minutes
and the game is ours. We can clinch home field advantage tonight
for the conference play-offs, so no letting up. No relaxing. Our
next two away games will be tough, so we need to keep the momentum
going right through the rest of the regular season and into our
first play-off game. We do that by winning here tonight. No
excuses. Okay, let’s get ready to head out.”
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Kurt?”
“Suh-suh-suh-Scott wants to suh-suh-speak.”
Coach cocks his head at me, confused. “Well, then,
why doesn’t Scott speak? What’s he need you to tell me that for?”
Coach looks over at Scott, who quickly glances from Coach to me and
then over at Jankowski and Studblatz.
“I don’t know what he’s talking about, Coach,”
Scott says, shaking his head at me like I’m crazy.
“Suh-suh-Scott wants to suh-suh-speak,” I repeat.
Hiding under my helmet’s not helping my tongue so much now, because
the anger’s rising.
“Kurt, you take a hit to your noggin as well as
your knee?” Coach asks with a frown. “I ain’t got time at the
moment for these hijinks. Now, speak your mind, boy, or pipe down!”
By now, the whole locker room’s watching me. The small stereo that
Tina lent me and that I pulled out of my locker before Coach began
his speech has been dangling by my side, partly hidden by other
players’ legs, butts, and pads. I lift it up to my chest with the
speakers facing into the circle of teammates, coaches, and
trainers. I press play.
“Studblatz, tell ’em. Nothing better than
popping fresh meat like Gunderson. Best way to keep ’em in
line.”
“Gotta keep ’em in line.”
“Whaddya think, Tommy? Think Kurt should try
it?”
“Probably has already.”
“Awwww, lookit. Our big fullback’s crying like a
little bitch.”
“Big fuckin’ baby!”
“Worse than Gunderson when we shoved it up his
ass.”
“Hold up, now, son.” Coach shakes his head at me in
confusion while raising his hand like he’s patting the air.
“Come on, Kurt. So we popped Gunderson’s cherry.
Big deal. We didn’t tell him to kill himself. That’s on him. I
mean, that’s weak.”
“What in God’s name are you playing?” Coach shouts.
Like the rest of the team, it takes him long seconds to figure out
what he’s listening to and even then I’m still not sure he knows.
It seems pretty plain to me. Why isn’t it clear to the rest of
them? The other players stand quietly, scratching themselves,
adjusting themselves, as their eyes go from the floor to Coach, to
Scott, to me, and then to each other. Their faces are blank,
impossible to read.
“Shut that shit off!” Scott screeches. He’s
shaking. I’ve rocked him. It feels good, like landing a solid body
blow. I lock eyes with him through my face mask and crank the
volume until I risk snapping off the knob in my fingers.
“Gunderson wanted it. Loved it. Know how I know?
He never fought back. He cried but he barely struggled, never
escaped. That’s how they act when they secretly want it.”
“. . . everyone knows it takes a fuckin monster
to fuck a kid with a broom.”
“Kiss your scholarship offers
good-bye.”
“Kurt, is this some kind of prank?” Assistant Coach
Stein asks. “It’s not funny! What’s wrong with you?”
“. . . and when we get through with him, you can
add that little faggot, Danny, to your victim list.”
“Go find your little friends. Go pretend you can
save them. And tell ’em we’re waiting for ’em. Tell ’em we’ll get
them alone, eventually, so they better learn how to man up and take
it!”
“That ain’t me. That ain’t us,” Scott shouts.
“That’s a fake! Sick freak.”
“I don’t know what kind of game you got going on
here, Kurt,” Coach breaks in again, “but that’s enough.”
“It’s nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh . . . not a
guh-guh-guh—”
“Brodsky’s gone off his meds, Coach.” Scott cuts me
off. “What’s up with you, retard?” he asks me. “Huh? Speak up,
freaktard!”
“Coach,” Tom speaks. “Kurt’s a freakin’ nut job. My
dad told me he’s loony, he tried to kill a kid.”
“Shut it!” Coach snaps. “Shut it now! That’s enough
from all of you.”
I try speaking but my mouth stops working. Helmet
or no helmet, I got too much to say, too much to tell. But it’s all
here on the recording. All they got to do is listen. Just listen. I
press the stop button, hit the back button, and hit play again.
I’ll play it again, and again, play all thirty-eight seconds Tina
edited together for me—thirty-eight seconds that rip your guts out
to hear. Why aren’t they getting it? Why aren’t they seeing it?
Where’s Danny? He’ll explain. If Coach and the team hear it again,
they’ll understand. They have to understand.
Assistant Coach Stein steps across the circle and
reaches for the stereo, grabbing the handle. “That’s enough, Kurt,”
he says, trying to snatch it away, but I hold on and we’re both
tugging on it.
“Shut it off, dumbass!” Scott yells. “Go back to
prison.”
“Thuh-thuh-they ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh . . .” I stammer.
It’s all there, all the evidence of what they did to Ronnie. All
they have to do is listen. “Duh-duh-Danny!” I cry out. He
should be in here now. This is his part. It doesn’t make sense to
them. It needs explaining. Where is he?! “Duh-duh-duh . . .” He
ain’t here to explain it. He’s left me. Abandoned me.
Like all the rest.
Every time.
“Kurt,” Assistant Coach Stein grunts as we
tug-of-war for the stereo, “I don’t know what beef you got with
Scott but this is—”
“Thuh-thuh-thuh—”
“Enough!” Coach bellows. “Shut off that goddamned
machine and be done with it. We got a goddamned game to finish and
I don’t know what the hell the idea is here distracting this team
with this ... this ... vulgarity! Now get ready to get out on the
field and win this game!”
Danny! WHERE ARE YOU!!!
Coach has his arm extended, waiting for me to hand
over the stereo. I glance over and see Scott sneering in triumph.
Tom and Mike watch me with narrowed eyes like rats trying to see
past a trap. The rest of my teammates only look confused. They drop
their heads, avoiding my eyes, pretending the insides of their
helmets need adjusting. It isn’t going at all how we planned it,
how Tina described it. They’re supposed to hear the recording and
all would be explained. And Danny would come in and speak the
truth, finally, tell the others what they did, shame my captains
until they walked away forever. But it’s not working. I’ve failed.
Danny’s abandoned me. I’m all alone, about to be destroyed.
“Thuh-thuh-thuh—” I stammer.
“Not one more word!” Coach shouts. “You hear
me?!”