Gym Candy (17 page)

"You're on your way," my dad said. "You back up this game with more big games and by the end of next year,
every college coach in the country will know your name." He paused. "Who do you play next?"

"Garfield."

"Are they any good?"

"Their offense is, but their defense is weak. They beat Roosevelt forty-one to thirty-three."

He smiled. "Sounds like the perfect team to play. Keep it rolling."

***

At school everybody had heard about the records, and it changed the way people looked at me. Before the Franklin game, I was just another jock. Now kids—and even teachers—went out of their way to say hello. Right before lunch, I met Kaylee in the hall. "You were great, Mick," she said. "You were amazing. Did you see me waving to you? I was just to the left of the band."

"Yeah, I saw you," I said, afraid to tell her I'd been so focused on the game that I hadn't once looked up into the stands.

During lunch a reporter from the school newspaper interviewed me. I felt like an NFL pro, answering questions about how it felt to hold records. I even answered like an NFL pro, saying stuff like "Records are meant to be broken." And "It's really a tribute to my
linemen." At the end of the interview, the school photographer snapped a photo.

After school, as I was heading to the football field, I heard my name shouted. I turned. It was Natalie Vick. "Girls' volleyball season starts tonight," she said, an edge to her voice.

"I saw that," I said.

"Kaylee's on the team. She's the only sophomore."

"That's great," I said. "Good for her."

"She's a starter." She stood, hands on her hips. "So will you be at the game?"

I wasn't expecting the question. "Maybe. But I've got practice, and then I go to the gym for weight—"

"You are so stupid, Mick," Natalie said, interrupting. "Do you have a clue what a great person Kaylee is? Every guy in this school wishes he was in your shoes."

"What about Brad? I thought she was with him."

"Are you really that dense? We needed somebody for volleyball when you stopped coming, so I called Brad. Kaylee doesn't like him, not the way she likes you, anyway. But she's not going to go chasing after you, Mick. She was at your football game, cheering for you. Now it's your turn."

"I'll be there," I said. A door had opened that I'd assumed was closed. "I promise you. I will be there."

***

All through practice, Carlson was watching me extra closely, looking for any sign that I had a big head, so I busted my gut on all the drills. A couple of times he nodded to me, and at the end he singled me out. "Way to work, Mick."

When practice ended, I called the house and left a message saying I was going to the volleyball game and wouldn't be home until late. Then I grabbed a sandwich at Subway and headed straight to Popeye's to get my workout done, because I wasn't skipping that.

When I walked into Popeye's, Peter held up the high school sports page from the
Seattle Times.
"Way to go, Mick!" he said, and the guys behind the counter and the lifters in the gym clapped for me.

He took me to the trainers' room for a free massage. I'd always thought massages were for rich women vacationing in Arizona. This massage was nothing like that. The massage guy would find tight muscles and then knead them until they came loose. It hurt almost as much as lifting, but when he finished I felt a thousand times better.

After that, Peter led me through a long stretching session, focusing on my back and my legs. Then he gave me a spreadsheet of my workouts for the week.
They were both shorter and easier than they'd been. I asked him why. "The games will take a lot out of you," he said. "And remember, you're off the juice."

"But I have to keep strong."

"Mick, trust me. This will be plenty."

I took the paper from him and headed out onto the gym floor. For the first time, I didn't follow what he'd written. The drops were too great; I wasn't going to give up so quickly. If he had me lifting one fifty for something, I pushed it to one sixty. If he had me doing fifteen reps, I forced myself to do eighteen. And I did it, too. I don't know that I've ever worked harder or longer, but I did it.

I didn't finish until nearly eight-thirty, and by then the place had emptied. As I toweled off, Peter came over. "I know you want to stay clean," Peter said, his voice a whisper. "But there's some new stuff I got a hold of. It's called XTR. That guy in the Tour de France—not Lance Armstrong but the guy after him, the guy who had the title taken away—it's what people think he used. He was way behind, he gave himself an injection of this stuff, and he won the thing. It would be perfect for a sport like football—it would give you power right on game day, when you most needed it."

"Not interested," I said. "No more steroids."

"Right, right, right," he said. "And I respect that one
hundred percent. I just wanted you to know about this stuff."

"Okay, you told me."

***

I went out to the Jeep, my stomach in knots. I'd lied—I
was
interested in the new stuff. But then I thought,
What athlete wouldn't be?
If Drew heard about it, or DeShawn, their eyes would light up, too. Being interested doesn't mean you are going to use it.

I started up the Jeep. The clock lit up—eight-forty-five. Suddenly I panicked: the volleyball match. If it was a blowout, the whole thing could be over before I made it back to school.

I shoved the Jeep into gear and headed straight to Shilshole High, driving fast. I had to catch at least the last game. If I could see Kaylee play, then I'd have something to talk to her about, and if I started talking to her, there was a chance we could get back to where we'd been in the summer.

When I pulled into the school parking lot, the gym doors were shut. I parked in a bus zone, jumped out of the Jeep, and started to run to the gym. I was about halfway when the doors burst open and people started pouring out: the game was over. I spotted Drew
and DeShawn. I was about to call out to them when Natalie turned toward me. Our eyes met and she turned away. My stomach dropped. She'd tell Kaylee I'd missed her game, and that would be that. The door would close again.

I dragged myself back to the Jeep, drove home, and went upstairs to my room. I wanted to get in bed and sleep, but when I stepped inside the door, I saw a note pinned to the bulletin board above my desk. "Check out the den. Dad."

I turned around, went back down two flights of stairs, opened the door to the den, and flicked on the light. For a second I didn't notice anything. But then I saw it: the
Seattle Times
article framed and hung in the center of one of my walls. It wasn't bare anymore.

What happened next, I can't explain. It was like what had happened the day before tryouts, only worse. A huge lump came to my throat and my whole body started to shake. I wanted to bawl like a baby; I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.

You've got to fight through it.
That's what Peter had said. I climbed back to my room and took a shower. At first all I could think was how unfair it was. I'd quit using steroids—why was the black hole still there? Then the warm water settled me; the shaking stopped
and the lump in my throat went away, or at least it went down. I climbed into bed, flicked off the light, pulled the blankets over my head, and—after turning this way and that way over and over—fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, I lay still for a moment, afraid, but the darkness was gone.

With the season under way, Carlson had fewer full-contact practices, and the ones we had were short. Some guys complained, but he waved them off. "Remember, the idea is to hit the other guy, not one another. Save your energy for Garfield."

After practice I'd drive to Popeye's, wanting to work myself hard to keep myself strong. Every day I tried to do more than Peter had laid out for me. Finally he caught on. "I want to lift close to what I was lifting before," I explained. "Otherwise I'm going to drop off too fast."

He frowned. "Mick, you're going to drop off. It has to happen. If you don't adjust the weights, you're going to hurt yourself. If you want another trainer, that's okay. I'll find somebody for you. But if you want me, then
you've got to follow my instructions. I do not let my clients injure themselves."

I didn't want to believe him, but after a while, I had no choice. Every time I tried to match a personal record, my muscles would start twitching and I'd feel as if they were going to explode.

You see yourself go downhill in one thing, and you can't help but be afraid you're headed downhill in everything. I told myself that the drop-offs were nothing to worry about, that they were too small to mean anything. I was a player, and nothing could change that. To build up my confidence, I went back in my mind and relived my best games in junior football. Then I jumped to the future: I pictured myself breaking free against Garfield, cutting through a hole and seeing nothing but daylight in front of me. And that visualization worked. For hours it worked. At the end of the day, though, I'd lie down in my bed and flick off the light, and with the darkness the questions came back.

That week took forever, but finally it was Friday. At practice all week Carlson had said one thing: "We've got to contain their quarterback." Garfield's quarterback was Rashard Braxton; USC was recruiting him, and so were Miami and Notre Dame. He ran onto the
field like an NFL star—helmet off, black dreadlocks flowing behind him. Still, no player can win a football game by himself, and Garfield's offensive linemen looked undersize. I didn't see how Braxton could do much, not with those little guys blocking for him.

On the opening plays, our defensive ends broke through the Garfield line as if they were playing a JV team. They sacked Braxton on first down. On second down, he hurried a short pass in the flat to his tailback that fell incomplete. That made it third down and fifteen yards for a first. Carlson blitzed the middle linebacker, and our right defensive end beat his guy. It looked certain that Braxton would be sacked for a huge loss, but he ducked under the linebacker, shook off the end, and scrambled to his right.

He pump-faked, freezing the secondary, and then took off. Once he was in the open field, I saw what worried Carlson. Braxton was fast and he had size. Six guys must have had a shot at bringing him down, but none so much as laid a hand on him. Officially he ran eighty-three yards for a touchdown, but he must have covered close to a hundred eighty-three to get there.

Garfield 7, Shilshole 0.

Kane took the kickoff out to the twenty-eight. I pulled my helmet on and raced out to the huddle. I was pumped, wanting to shed my doubts by breaking a big
play right out of the gate. But being too high can be as bad as being flat. My first rushing attempt was a simple run off tackle. Drew's handoff was good, but I took off before I got the ball properly tucked away. I was bobbling it when a Garfield guy smacked into me, and the ball squirted out. A cornerback dropped on it, and they were back in business inside our thirty.

I returned to the sidelines and stood as far away from everyone as I could, trying to calm myself. The other guys were all screaming: "Stop them! Stop them!" but I didn't say a word. I had to stop the voices in my own head.

Braxton took the snap, dropped back, and then broke straight upfield on a quarterback draw. He was past our linemen in a flash, made one cut to the right, and then was in the open field again. He made it to the three-yard line before he was brought down. Two plays later, Garfield led 13–0.

Up and down our sidelines, guys were sitting on the bench, elbows on their knees, shoulders slumped. Carlson saw it; he walked the length of the bench. "Stand up!" he shouted. "Keep your heads in the game. This thing has just started." Guys pulled themselves up and even cheered as Garfield kicked off, but when Dave Kane stumbled on the twelve-yard line and went down, untouched, on the fifteen, the cheers died away.
I trotted back onto the field. This was a crucial drive, for the team and for me.

The fast start had Garfield's defensive guys pumped up. On first down, Drew bobbled the snap and fell on the ball. Loss of two. On second down, I took a toss sweep and managed about six yards before I was swarmed under. That set up third and six.

The call was the toss sweep again. Drew looked at me and said, "Get the first down, Mick." I took his pitch and raced for the corner, looking for a place to cut back, but they kept stringing me out. Finally I cut up-field and picked up five yards before my legs were chopped out from under me, a yard short.

Drew unsnapped the buckle on his helmet and headed for the sidelines. I did the same. Fourth down deep in our own territory—there was nothing to do but punt. That's what I thought, but it's not what Carlson thought. Before we reached the bench, he called timeout. Then he pointed for us to go back onto the field.

We were going for it.

Stupid football—that's what an expert would have said. But Carlson was sending two messages. The first was to me. He was telling me that he believed in me, believed I could get the tough yard, and that pumped up the whole team. The second—and it was my dad who explained it to me—was to the rest of the coaches
in the league. They'd see the film, or at least hear what he'd done. He was showing them that when they played Shilshole High, they could expect the unexpected.

The play was a simple dive: 34 right on two. The Garfield defense was up close, eleven guys within three yards of the line of scrimmage, all of them trying to shut me down. Drew took the snap, spun, and stuck the ball in my gut. Ashby had fired off the line and had smacked his man, pushing him back and off to the right. I burst through that hole, felt somebody's hands slide off me, and then I was in the open field. With the entire defense up close, Garfield had nobody back. I looked over my shoulder at the forty and saw one of their cornerbacks gaining on me. It was a footrace. I headed toward the right corner of the end zone, forcing him to run and run to catch me, and when I looked back again, he was pulling up, letting me go. Seventy-six yards for the touchdown.