Initiation (3 page)

“Not you too.” She frowned.

“He can do whatever he wants,” Ben said.

“At least stay for dinner. Then you can go do whatever boring shit you have to do.
Pleeeeeeze
.”

Carter shook his head. “Okay.”

Ben exhaled and returned to his game.

Sarah and Carter strolled to the computer chair and stood next to Ben.

“You can sit,” Carter said. “I’ll sit on the floor.”

“Nope!” She put her hand on his chest and pushed him into the chair. “We can sit together.”

“Wait – ”

Sarah sat down on his lap, her curves in all the right places. Carter felt the blood rush to his groin. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands. She felt warm on his lap. Ben gaped at them, his eyes narrowed, his face beet red. Sarah looked at him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, turning back to his game.

“Since when did you start cutting your sleeves off?” Sarah asked.

Ben ignored her.

“Sun’s out, guns out.” She giggled. “You look all veiny. Were you pumping up for me?”

Ben’s face went red again. He smacked controller buttons unnecessarily hard.

Carter couldn’t contain his erection. He needed a graceful exit.

“Can I turn you?” Carter asked, hoping to get her groin off of his. “You’re kinda hurting me.”

She blushed and stood up. “Oh sorry. It’s just my fat ass. I’m going to go help Mrs. Wheeler set the table. I’ll leave you two lovebirds.”

And with that she was gone.

Ben threw his controller, bouncing it off of his Nintendo. He eyed Carter, his jaw set tight. “Nice job, asshole.”

Chapter 3: Two-a-Days

– 3 –

Two-a-Days

Carter sat on the wooden bench in front of his locker. He was bent at the waist, tying his cleats. A thick haze of body odor hung in the air. It was quiet except for the rustling sound of pads being shoved into pants and girdles, the plastic parts of shoulder pads smacking together, and the click-clack of cleats across the tile floor. He tied a double knot and sat up straight. Ben sat next to him, rigid, his face pale, his cleats tapping the tile.

“Are you all right?” Carter asked Ben.

Ben was dazed.

“Are you all right?” Carter said again, louder this time.

“Huh?” Ben said.

“You look a little pale.”

Ben’s eyes blinked into focus. He shook his head and grabbed a handful of his white jersey. “This fucking jersey is bullshit.”

“What’s wrong? It doesn’t fit right?”

Ben exhaled. “You don’t know, do you?”

Carter shrugged. “Know what?”

“Your jersey color.”

“What about it?” Carter looked down at his white number 20 jersey.

“Look around,” Ben said. “You’ll figure it out.”

Carter glanced around the locker room. Zach, Noah, and Luke stood in the center talking, paying no attention to the traffic jam they were creating. Zach and Noah wore black, Luke wore red. The biggest, most athletic kids wore black jerseys. Others, slightly smaller, wore gold. Everyone else wore white.

“They already decided?” Carter asked.

Ben glowered. “They act like everyone has a chance. Coach Pitts said last year that I had a good chance to start if I worked hard. It’s bullshit.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s only the first day of full pads. They haven’t seen anything yet.”

Ben shook his head. “You’re delusional. This isn’t Panama. Those black jerseys rarely change hands. We never lose, so the coaches never have a reason give anyone else a shot. Once kids get that black jersey, they never give it up. Occasionally a gold jersey moves up to black, but never us.”

“Us?” Carter raised his eyebrows.

“We’re the scout team. So get ready to get your ass handed to you every day for the rest of the season. Don’t worry though. On Friday nights, we’ll get a good view from the sideline.”

“You’re looking at this all wrong.”

“How so?”

“We’re gonna have an opportunity every day to make the first string look bad.” Carter stood up and slammed his locker shut. “Eventually they’ll have to move us up.”

Luke Brewer strutted past, his helmet in hand.

“Hey, Luke, what’s up,” Ben said, smiling.

Luke scowled in response. He was tall, tan, and chiseled. He had a square jaw and a symmetrical face.

“What about the red jersey?” Carter asked.

“That’s for kids you can’t hit, like the quarterback, or Dwayne over there.” Ben motioned to a tall, muscular dark-skinned kid checking himself out in the mirror on the inside of his locker. “He was second team all-state last year, but he’s got shoulder problems.”

“So?”

“So he’s really good, and the coaches don’t want him getting hurt in practice.”

Carter grabbed his helmet from the bench. “I’ll see you out there.”

Ben glanced up at the analog clock on the wall. “We still have twenty minutes.”

“I need to warm up and stretch. Flexibility’s important, remember?”

“Whatever.” Ben stood up and slammed his locker shut.

Carter was shouldered from behind as Zach and Noah walked past.

“Hey, Zach, Noah,” Ben said. “You guys look like you’re ready to hit someone.”

Zach looked Ben up and down as if he were calculating his value. “You look like you’re about to shit a brick.”

Ben looked down.

Zach had long, white, beefy limbs and a blond crew cut. His face was full, his blue eyes small and deep set.

“If you’re scared, say you’re scared,” Noah said.

Noah was short and stocky: the physique of a bodybuilder. His face was young and bright, more boy-next-door than meathead.

Carter glared at them.

“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” Zach said.

Carter stood silent, his eyes locked on Zach. His knuckles were white where he clutched his helmet. Zach and Noah laughed and left the locker room. Ben’s eyes hadn’t left the ground. Carter turned to him, smacking him on his shoulder pads.

“Hey, forget it.” Carter smiled. “First day of hitting, let’s have some fun.”

Carter jogged from the locker room to the practice field. The morning sun burned bright. He passed racially segregated groups of his teammates walking.

“What you runnin’ fo?” a gigantic dark-skinned kid said, his gut hanging over his belt. “Ain’t no coaches ’round to impress.”
Mike Townsend
was scrawled across a piece of athletic tape stuck to his helmet. He must have been over three hundred pounds, his chubby face full, his eyes mere slits.

Carter continued jogging. He stood on one foot at the edge of the practice field holding onto a chain-link fence. He pulled his leg back, his heel touching his butt. A group of black kids sauntered by, joking.

Mike Townsend said, “Coach Ware’s so black that if he had a red light, he’d be a motherfuckin’ pager.” The kids laughed.

“I got one,” Dwayne said with a grin. “Coach Ware’s so black that the oil light turns on when he gets out the car.” They laughed with bright white smiles.

“No, no, no,” Mike said. “Coach Ware’s so black when he goes outside the street lights be comin’ on.” Laughter erupted.

Dwayne shook his head with a smile and said, “Coach Ware’s so black Oprah Winfrey says,
damn
you’re purple.” Raucous laughter ensued.

Dwayne eyed Carter.

“Hey, white boy,” Dwayne said. Carter looked over. “That Jane Fonda shit ain’t gonna help you today.”

Carter nodded, still stretching.

A whistle blew. A handful of coaches marched onto the practice field. The players sprinted to arrange themselves neatly along the white lines. Carter stood in the back, white jerseys all around him. They spelled Marauders with jumping jacks and performed various stretches to a ten count. Head Coach Cowan and the offensive coordinator Coach Ware paced between the lines, inspecting players for defects.

“It’s awfully quiet today, huh, Coach?” Cowan said.

Coach Cowan was broad, above average height, with a salt and pepper mustache.

Coach Ware smiled. “I heard a lot a trash-talkin’ these past three days. Ain’t nobody got nothin’ to say now, huh?”

“Today we separate the men from the boys.”

The players weren’t exaggerating – Coach Ware’s skin was as dark as his shades. He was tall and muscular, his hair cut tight to his head.

Coach Ware erupted, stopping the stretch. “Townsend got two buckles undone. That’s twenty pushups for everyone. Count ’em out!”

The team groaned and assumed the pushup position.

After stretch, the lines converged and they did fifteen yards of high knees, butt kicks, shuffles, bounding, and backpedals. Halfway through, Coach Ware flipped out.

“I’m tired of watchin’ this lack of effort! Do it over,” he said. “We’ll stay here all day if we have to.”

After three tries, Coach Ware finally seemed satisfied with his team’s efforts. Coach Cowan blew his whistle.

“Eye openers, everyone to the bags,” Coach Cowan said.

Six soft rectangular bags, each the size of a man, were laid on the ground about three yards apart. The team huddled in front of Coach Cowan.

“Now listen up, because I’m only gonna explain this once.” Coach Cowan looked around at his players, his Bike shorts tight to mid-thigh. “Runners make a line behind the bags, and defenders make a line here.” He pointed in front of him. “It’s simple, runners will pick a hole and defenders will fill it. This is one hundred percent live, full contact. Let’s see good hard tackles with your heads up. We’ll do this drill first thing every morning through camp. We call it eye openers because, well – ” The coach smiled and looked around. “’Cause it’s gonna wake you up.”

Lines were formed on both sides of the bags. Three identical drills were set up ten yards apart to accommodate the mass of players.

“Let’s go. Even those lines up,” Coach Ware said.

Runner after runner picked a hole and sprinted through, their shoulders lowered. Defenders crashed through, meeting them in between the bags. Some were stopped cold to the sounds of ohhhs, ahhhs, and damns. Others were planted by the runner, run over like roadkill.

Some players, Ben included, jockeyed for a “favorable” position in line. They counted their position, then the corresponding position in the opposite line to find their opponent. If they’d drawn a particularly intimidating opponent, they switched places in line. The brave or foolhardy would always end up with the toughest adversaries. Carter was destined to face all two hundred and seventy-five pounds of Zach Goodman. He made no attempt to switch places.

Carter stood facing Zach across the bags. He watched Zach’s waist as he moved. Carter mirrored him, waiting to see which hole he would choose. Zach dipped his shoulder and rumbled into the third hole like a battering ram. As soon as Carter saw the dip of his shoulder, he burst into the hole to meet him. At the last moment, Carter lowered himself and crashed into Zach’s kneecaps, upending him.

Coach Cowan blew his whistle. “Individuals,” he said.

The players sprinted to different corners of the field to their position groups. Carter and Ben ran to the bottom corner. Coach Pitts stood holding a football. Two squares were marked out with cones to form areas about fifteen yards across. Coach Pitts had dark skin, balding short black curls, and a weightlifters physique.

The defensive backs stood in front of their coach.

“What are y’all waitin’ for?” Coach Pitts said with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

“What are we doin’?” Noah asked.

Coach Pitts smirked. “What do we always do? The course, of course.”

The players backpedaled along the square denoted by the cones, jogged across and came back down.

“Turn and run to the left,” Coach Pitts said. “Let’s go, Ben. That turn’s gotta be lower and faster.”

A short, thin black kid backpedaled, turned his hips, and in the blink of an eye sprinted to the end of the square before easing up and coming back the other way.

“It’s Devin, right?” Coach Pitts asked, looking at the athletic tape on his helmet.

Devin nodded, his facemask bouncing up and down.

“That’s perfect. You’ll never get beat deep with a turn and run like that.”

They backpedaled, planted, sprinted forward, and backpedaled again.

“Y’all should be tired right now,” Coach Pitts said as the kids labored. “Especially if you’ve been sittin’ on your ass all summer.” Coach Pitts watched Noah slog through the drill, his hips stiff and his body upright. “Lower, Noah. That’s way too high.”

Carter backpedaled, his arms swinging comfortably, his body low and loose. He planted and sprinted forward. “That’s nice, Two-Zero,” Coach said to Carter.

Coach Pitts blew the whistle and started to jog toward the opposite end of the field. “Let’s go, one-on-ones with the receivers,” he said. The defensive backs followed.

Luke and the backup quarterback stood together on the goal line in the middle of the field with Coach Ware. Wide receivers and defensive backs lined up near each sideline. One defender from each line jogged onto the field to cover the receiver. Carter was behind Ben in line. He counted the queue, hoping to draw Dwayne.

Carter tapped Ben on the shoulder. “You wanna switch?”

Ben looked at the line of wide receivers, counting. “Hell yeah.” They switched places in line. “He’s fast, and he’ll catch anything up high.”

Carter nodded. “No problem, it’ll be a lot of exposed ribs.”

Ben frowned. “You can’t hit him, remember?”

Carter smiled.

Coach Pitts marched over. “For you corners, I want you practicing your press man technique. Safeties, seven yards off in a backpedal technique.”

Carter jogged into position, stopping seven yards from Dwayne. The all-state receiver stood, one foot forward, one back. Carter focused on Dwayne’s belt buckle.

Luke said, “Set, go.”

Dwayne exploded forward and cut inside. Carter turned and sprinted downfield, mirroring him. After three hard steps inside, Dwayne planted and reversed course, headed outside to the corner. Carter flipped his head and hips, losing sight of Dwayne. He turned a hundred and eighty degrees and ended up glued to his opponent. Dwayne tilted his head up, looking for the spiral hanging in the air. Carter looked up. The ball was high and deep, out of Carter’s reach. Dwayne leaped into the air. His basketball hops, long arms, and six-foot-two frame put him over ten feet off the ground. His long fingers cast a net that cradled the football. Carter leaped as gravity tugged on the receiver. He shoved his right arm between Dwayne’s arms, wrenching the football from his grasp. Their bodies tangled and they fell to the turf. The ball fell next to them – incomplete.