Leverage (11 page)

“We need more guys on the team,” I say, ignoring the algebra question. “New guys get scared off when they step in the gym and see how much work's involved.”

“Speaking of work, are you keeping up on your home-work assignments?”

“I mean, it isn't like other sports where you can just pick up a ball and start running or be competitive after doing it for a week. It takes a while just to put together a semi-decent routine.”

“Hmmmm.” Dad nods like he's being thoughtful but I know that means he's too tired to argue with me and too tired to keep talking past me. What he's really trying to do is catch what the lady accused of murdering her husband is telling the district attorney on TV. He has his ear tipped toward the screen while he chews, still pretending to listen to me. It's okay, though, because I do the same thing back whenever he starts lecturing me about getting good grades. The two of us have an understanding. The key is to not upset the all-seeing eye of Mom's ghost while we live completely separate lives under the same roof. In two more years it won't matter, anyway. I'll be out of here.

After devouring our individual pizzas, we both slouch back into the couch. The TV screen fades and Mom comes into my head—a memory of her leaning over me, holding a teaspoon of medicine under my nose, waiting patiently for me to open my mouth and swallow it. A warmth comes over me that I cannot hold and then it's gone. Mom once said you could put yourself in someone's head if you thought hard enough about them. She said memories of the dead meant they were out there, thinking about you, trying to say hello. Was she out there right now, thinking of me like I was thinking of her? Dad laughed when Mom told us her theory. We'd been eating breakfast in the kitchen after burying our cat, Pebbles, in our backyard. Dad wanted to just bag it and throw it in the garbage but Mom insisted on a ceremony. Dad said Mom's theory was superstition.

After she died, he talked differently. Once, after I woke from a dream about her that was so vivid—about the three of us swimming together on the ocean, out at sea, and surrounded by shark fins . . . or dolphin fins, I was never sure which—he told me that she was still around and paying attention to us, and that was her way of talking to us. He said he dreamed of her all the time and looked forward to his sleep for that very reason.

I wonder if she's saying hello to Dad at the same time as me, if he's thinking of her right now on the couch, seeing her like I am.

“Dad,” I ask, “are you . . .” I glance over and my question fades. Dad's eyes are closed and his head lolls at an angle that'll give him a crick in his neck when he wakes. His mouth hangs open. I turn back to the TV. After another minute he begins to snore softly.

“
. . .
dreaming about her?”
I whisper. I take the pizza box off his lap and put it on the kitchen table. Then I grab the comforter off the couch arm and drape it over him and put a pillow under his head. He never even budges.

M
onday practice starts with game film in the team room. I scratch myself while Coach plays, rewinds, freezes, and replays video of last Friday's game. While he talks, my eyes wander around the half-lit room. Judging from the looks of things, the other guys find game film about as interesting as studying the industrial revolution. Scott, though, peers intently at the TV monitor while scribbling in his notebook, bobbing his head along with Coach's game breakdown. I fan myself with a sheaf of plays I'm trying to memorize, flipping through them flash-card style, thinking:
If I put half as much effort into my vocabulary cards for Spanish, I'd be fluent by now.

The TV screen goes black, the video finishes. The room lights flicker back on, causing a stir of bodies trying to wake up.

“Men, let's see if we can fix some of those errors I pointed out here,” Coach Brigs says. “Hope you were paying real good attention.”

Uh-oh.

“Drills, drills, drills,” Coach goes on, standing in front of the TV, arms crossed in front of his chest, whistle around his neck, and folded papers stuffed down the front waistband of his shorts. “Practice makes perfect,” he says to the room. “Out on the field in twenty minutes. Stragglers will be running laps. Afterward we'll hit the weights. Hard!”

Scott is still taking notes. I'm impressed.

“Move!” Coach snaps.

I get up first. Walking past Scott, I glance down at his notebook, expecting to see scores of X's and O's forming play diagrams and maybe some key concepts underlined with bullet points and notes in the margins. Instead, I see a sketch, a cartoon. Naked ladies climbing up and sliding down nine block letters spelling out “THIS SUCKS!” In one corner of the page, there is a mushroom cloud going off. In another corner, a spaceship shoots lasers and a stick soldier is machine-gunning air and a skull has a knife handle sticking out of its eye socket. Scott keeps the page tipped so Coach can't see it.

 

Twenty-five minutes later, Assistant Coach Stein is doing his best to drown out the team's lingering Monday blahs on the field. “Bust a hump! Bust a hump! Hustle! Hustle! Hustle!” Coach Stein shouts.

Except for Studblatz and Jankowski, the slouching line of yawning guys waiting for drill instructions stands like dozing heifers. Studblatz and Jankowski, though, they're more like werewolves patrolling the chalk lines, itching for any opportunity to rip apart one of the lessers. Studblatz never stops clanking helmets with whoever's nearby and pushing guys around like he's getting paid to herd them.

On the far sideline, older men—players' fathers—gather together and stand like coaches themselves. Some smoke, some chew tobacco, some chew sunflower seeds, others chew gum. Some hold cans of beer in little paper bags; others drink half-liter bottles of sports drinks like they're exercising right alongside us. They all seem to watch practice with faces full of worry and disappointment. Scott's father stands among them, a rolled-up newspaper in his hand, slapping it into the palm of his other hand like a billy club. Coach Brigs, I notice, never acknowledges the group of fathers. A squad car is parked nearby on the grass. Terrence tells me the squad car belongs to Jankowski's dad, a cop. Guess he makes his own rules about where it's legal to park.

Scott, hands on his hips, face mask swinging back and forth in an exaggerated “no,” keeps cussing under his breath, as if the sight of turf and sun irritates him. His golden boy routine faded right after we finished reviewing game film. He must've continued drinking from Saturday's party straight through most of Sunday because his sweat smells like a brewery and he started dry-heaving on his way out onto the field. Still, he's got it easy since he gets to wear the red vest over his practice jersey. Only player that gets one. The red vest means don't hit or tackle him in drills or scrimmage no matter what because a quarterback is too valuable to ever risk injuring in practice. He's untouchable.

“I know you fellas don't need reminding that we've got homecoming this Friday,” Coach Brigs speechifies. “God help you boys if we don't destroy the Millfield Bucks.” Outside on the field, Coach Brigs communicates mostly through shouting that causes the veins running along his neck to bulge thick as night crawlers. “You understand what I'm saying, soldiers? I'm not concerned with losing because that is so unthinkable I cannot even tolerate thinking about it. No, I'm talking about not winning by enough. It's
our
homecoming. It's
our house
! You understand? I want to send a message to the entire division: You come to the Knights' field and you should be thankful if you walk out under your own power.”

A grunt of agreement off to my left. It's Jankowski practically vibrating with Coach's words. He beats his chest with his fists like Tarzan. I'm not kidding. He actually beats his chest and he's not trying to be funny.

“That's what I'm talking about, boys.” Coach slaps his clipboard, then points at Jankowski. “Tommy, you hear me loud and clear, don't you, son?”

“Yes,
sir
!” Jankowski bellows back.

“Good boy.”

On the side of the field, the fathers offer no reaction to Coach Brigs's pep talk. Some of them cross their arms over their chests or adjust the bills of their baseball caps. Some spit because the chewing tobacco wedged into their bottom lip forces them to drain thick brown streams into the surrounding grass. Others spit because watching their own sons play seems to pain them with frustration even though they cannot look away from us, like viewing a bad car accident. I don't think Scott's dad chews tobacco.

 

Halfway through scrimmage, Coach Brigs blows his whistle like he's trying to pop it, then Frisbees his clipboard inches above our helmets. Leaves of paper flutter down on the team while the clipboard sails out to the twenty-yard line.

“No. No. No.
No
.
Noooo
!” Coach shouts, whipping off his ball cap and slapping it against his leg. He looks back up at us and the sight still pisses him off. “Goddammit, no!” he repeats. “What kind of pansy camp do you think I'm running here?”

We don't answer.

“Scott, so help me,” Coach gripes, “you line up that slow under center again and I will sit you down, son, you understand?” The gate of Scott's face mask dips, telling Coach he understands.

“Studblatz, whatsa matter with you?” Coach taunts. “My niece tackles harder than that. If you want, I can get you a set of pom-poms and let you try out for the cheerleading team.”

The image of Studblatz in a skirt and pom-poms makes me laugh out loud.

“You think that's funny, Brodsky?” Coach stares at me for what feels like a full minute.

“No, sir,” I say, shaking my helmet.

Coach wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, runs his fingers through sweat-matted hair, then yanks the ball cap back onto his head.

“Men, this isn't a joke,” he says. “We face a serious attack on our good name this Friday. Our community is coming out to support us. Your families will be there to cheer you on, and if the best you can do is some half-assed job, then walk out right now. I don't have time for this.” Coach slowly turns a full three hundred and sixty degrees until his eyes hit all of us. “Homecoming, men, is not some silly game. It is what glues our community together. It's what gives your little brothers and nephews—and, one day, sons—hope. It's what comforts your mothers, sisters, and girlfriends with the knowledge they are safe because they are in the capable hands of young men who aren't afraid to enter a battlefield, go head-to-head with the enemy, and come out victorious. If you think this is anything less than the defense of all that is good and decent in this world, then go home. I don't need you. If you believe in what I'm preaching and want to enter a righteous war by my side, then take your dresses off, strap up, and start hustling.”

More fathers gather along the sideline as they come from work, watching us with grave concern. They never stray from a ten-yard area, on the opposite side of the field, by the visitor bleachers.

After scrimmage, I ask Terrence why they never come closer.

“They're not allowed,” Terrence answers quietly, way quieter than he normally talks, which is always loud and laughing. He glances around to makes sure others aren't that close. “Last year there was an ...
altercation
,” he says, making quotes around the word with his fingers. “Now there's a court order preventing parents from coming onto the field during practice beyond that point at the visitors' bleachers.”

“An altercation?”

“Yeah.” Terrence nods. “One of the dads was pissed off his boy wasn't in the starting lineup, so at the next practice, he punched out Coach Stein.”

“Lucky thing Juh-Jankowski's dad's a cuh-cop,” I say. “Coach Buh-Brigs must be glad he's here.”

Terrence snickers. “Not exactly,” he says. “It was Tom's dad that punched Coach Stein. He parks his squad car out here to let everyone know he's still keeping an eye on things, court order or not.”

“Juh-Jankowski didn't start last year?” I ask, surprised.

“No way, dude. Tom was way smaller last year, before he started taking
supplements
.” Terrence makes air quotes again. “He's beefed up a lot since then.”

“You mean Cuh-Coach's suh-supplements.”

“Yeah, his
special vitamins
.” Terrence exaggerates the words sarcastically, then his helmet swivels, checking that no one is close enough to hear us.

“Good vitamins,” I say from under my helmet. Terrence rolls his eyes at me and moves in close enough that our shoulder pads clack together. “ 'Roids, dude,” Terrence whispers. “These boys don't play. They shoot the shit now. Get it from Coach Stein.”

“You tuh-tuh-take them?” I ask, curious.

“Are you kidding?” Terrence asks, grabbing at his crotch. “And have my balls shrivel into raisins? Fuck no. I want the rushing title more than anybody but I don't play around when it comes to my dick. I keep it covered when I stick and I don't take nothing that makes it sag like a wind sock.” He starts laughing again. “I got a reputation to keep up with the ladies.”

“Shuh-sure you do,” I say, giving Terrence a friendly shove. But I'm wondering just how much bigger I could get, how much safer I could make my world, if I took Coach's supplements. By the time we enter the locker room, it's all I'm thinking about.

T
he hip check sends me bouncing into the lockers right before third period. I'm used to random body blows but this one catches me hard. I'm trying to shake it off when a heavy force slams me a second time from behind, pinning me face-first into the cold metal.