“Well,” Becca said, “you’ve lived in Rome long enough to know things are always more complicated than we want them to be.”
I picked up a breadstick and said, “Oh, I know. But is it wrong to think that kid deserves to face the consequences of his actions?”
“He’s the quarterback, Marcus; unless it’s an interception, they never face the consequences of their actions.”
“You’re probably right. But don’t you think it would be better for Kyler, long term, to feel some repercussions now, in hopes he’d grow up to be a productive member of society later?”
“Not really,” Becca replied and sipped her beer. “Look at Deacon. He felt plenty of repercussions and still grew up to be the sleaziest man in Rome.”
An older couple stopped by to say hello and ask about my mother, and once they’d left, I said to Becca, “But Kyler’s parents don’t have the money to set him up with a chain of check-cashing stores. What’s he going to do in the real world, when people stop changing grades for him?”
“If he’s as good as everyone says, people won’t stop changing grades for him until he’s the quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys.”
I sighed, poured myself another beer from the pitcher, and said, “I’m still pissed that Jackson would even ask me.”
“And you don’t think Coach P asked teachers to change grades when we were in school?”
“I guess. I don’t know. I never really thought about it.” I stared out the window and watched the delivery boy leave with a stack of pizzas then said to Becca, “But don’t you think it’s a dick move that he put me in a situation where if I do the right thing, and Kyler missed the Carthage game and the playoffs, everyone in town would hate me?”
“Since when did you start caring what everyone in Rome thought of you?” Becca asked with a smile.
I reached across the table and put my hand on hers and said, “I still don’t care what they think, but if I end up hanging around here for a while, it would be nice if everyone didn’t hate me.”
It wasn’t a proposal, and it wasn’t a confession of love, but it might as well have been both, and Becca pulled her hand back and asked, “So you’re really thinking ... even after ... if your mom ...”
“Yeah,” I said. “It wouldn’t be my first choice of places to settle down, but someone very special lives here, so ...”
Becca sighed and wiped a single tear from her eye and, with a sad smile, reached back across the table, squeezed my hand, and said, “Well, Marcus Brinks, if you’re even thinking of hanging around here for a while, you’re definitely doing the right thing.”
~ ~ ~
Since 1994, when Rome broke their thirteen-year losing streak to Carthage, the series had evened considerably. In the last twenty-two seasons, Rome won twelve games, Carthage ten, with neither team winning more than two games consecutively. People who vote on this sort of thing voted Rome-Carthage the third greatest rivalry in Alabama high school football. Rome fans took great pride in this, Carthage fans a little less, considering the large disparity in the two school’s enrollments—something Rome fans reminded Carthage fans of whenever possible.
This year’s game was at the Colosseum, and six of the Riverton Times’ ten experts picked Rome to win and avenge last season’s overtime loss. “If Kyler Barton is taking snaps, there may not be a team in this state, regardless of classification, that can beat Rome,” said one expert. And of course, Kyler would be taking snaps. I’d seen to it. But during warmups, sitting next to Becca and her parents, who were actually quite nice and had possibly forgotten they caught me in their daughter’s bedroom twenty-three years ago, I hated myself a little for giving in.
“Where are all the students?” I asked Becca as the team made their way to the locker room for prayer and a Braveheart-esque pep talk from Jackson.
“I forget sometimes you were gone so long,” she whispered. “There’s a new tradition for the Carthage game. You’ll see.”
“Okay,” I whispered back, “but why are we whispering?”
Becca shushed me and pointed toward the gymnasium, where I saw the students walking single-file from the building. They held candles and wore togas and entered through the gate at the North end zone. Silently they crossed the field, forming a human tunnel in the South end zone, where the cheerleaders raised the victory banner, this week’s featuring a pack of wolves devouring an elephant in graphic fashion.
The doors to the field house flung open, and the backlit silhouette of Jackson Crowder emerged as usual, but this time, he did not charge through the banner. He marched slowly, his team behind him, and as they reached the disturbing mural, a cheerleader handed Jackson her candle, and he touched it to the banner, which went up in flames. The team now followed their coach through the smoldering ashes and the human tunnel to their sideline, and while the students returned to the bleachers without a word, the team captains went to midfield for the coin toss. Rome won the toss, elected to kick, and once the captains rejoined their teammates on the sideline, a bass drum sounded. Every Roman—players, students, parents, and teachers—shouted and jumped as one. Another bass drum, another jump and shout, then another, and another, and by the time Rome’s kicker raised his hand to ready the kickoff team, the Rome sideline and bleachers were absolute bedlam.
“Was that Jackson’s idea?” I asked Becca after the kickoff and compulsory shout of “Victory or death!”
“Actually no,” she said, “that was all Coach Pumphrey’s doing. Carthage beat us the year after we graduated, and I think Coach P feared another long losing streak to them. The next season, he promised the students, if we beat Carthage, there would be a huge, unchaperoned party in the gym after the game. It’s called Ludi Romani, and this very moment, the gym is set up for the party. Food and drinks and a band. If we win, the students and team will take off running for the gym, but if we lose, they’ll send the band home and a homeless shelter from Riverton will come pick up the food.”
I shook my head and said, “That’s some serious motivation. But why didn’t anyone mention this at school all week?”
“Because it’s bad luck to talk about Ludi Romani,” Becca said and covered her mouth.
The game began in less than ideal fashion for Rome. A poor pass from Kyler was intercepted and returned for a touchdown, a punt was returned for another, and by halftime, Carthage led 21-0, and their fans taunted us with chants of, “No taxation for fornication,” which Becca explained referenced Rome’s previous mayor, who was currently imprisoned for using city funds to pay for call girls.
Rome took the second-half kickoff and marched the length of the field, cutting the lead to fourteen, then scored again early in the fourth quarter, but trailing by seven with just over two minutes to play, things looked bleak. The Rome defense stiffened on a third and short from their own ten, holding Carthage to a short field goal that would all but ice the game.
“Block that kick,” Becca screamed with the rest of Rome while crushing my hand in hers, and a Roman defender did just that, scooping up the ball in the ensuing melee and racing out to midfield. Rome was in business, and the home crowd came so unhinged Kyler had to motion for them to take it down a notch.
Silas called one brilliant play after another, and with the clock running under twenty seconds, he rolled Kyler out to the left with a run/pass option. The quarterback tucked the ball like he meant to run, and just as Becca shouted, “He’s open,” Kyler pulled up and lobbed a pass into the back of the end zone. Touchdown Rome, and the Colosseum shook.
Now only an extra point stood between Rome and certain overtime with their rival, and when the holder, Kyler, took the snap, the crowd held its collective breath, then lost their collective shit when he flipped the ball over his shoulder to the kicker, who was racing toward the goal line.
“It’s a throwback,” I said as the kicker stopped and, just before the War Elephant defenders swarmed him, threw a wobbly pass all the way across the field where Kyler stood waiting, all alone.
I tu
rned and saw Silas pump his fist in the most nonchalant fashion before Becca tackled me and we fell into the family sitting in front of us. The Rome students, in their delirium, forgot there were still six seconds to play, and it took the referees ten minutes to clear the field so Rome could kickoff. Once they did, Carthage attempted several laterals until one was intercepted by a Roman defender who raced into the North end zone, past the statue of Jackson Crowder, and out the gate, followed by his teammates and the rest of the student body toward the gymnasium and Ludi Romani.
Jackson met the Carthage coaches at midfield to shake hands then turned, arms raised in triumph, toward the home fans who chanted his name. He applauded them back, hands over his head, and when he saw me, he pointed and gave me a quick salute before running to the locker room.
“See,” Becca said, squeezing the life out of me with one last celebratory bearhug, “you did the right thing.”
“I guess so,” I said and wondered why it made me feel like shit.
“Marcus Brinks is hitting the books. According to Dear Brutus bassist Kyle Craven, the enigmatic frontman has enrolled at Harvard University. After rumors of rehab and a very public breakup with actress Rachael Leigh Cook, it appears Brinks has landed on his feet. When reached for comment, Brinks, through his publicist, replied, ‘Beat Yale!’”
—Entertainment Weekly, “Music News,” September 10, 1999
Chapter Twenty-One (1994)
Starting quarterbacks have always roamed the hallways of their high schools with impunity, their letterman’s jackets acting as faux leather diplomatic plates. Crimes that would send mere mortals to the principal’s office never earn quarterbacks more than a slap on the wrist—their non-throwing wrist, obviously. Even before his amazing eighty-yard run in the mud to defeat Carthage, Deacon was the undisputed king of Rome. But when he dragged that final War Elephant defender into the end zone and broke the thirteen-year losing streak, he ascended to levels of privilege known only by rulers who also doubled as their subjects’ local deity. How popular was Deacon after the fall of Carthage? Now he even had license to pick on other popular students. In particular, a funny, good looking guy with Becker muscular dystrophy.
“I was just taking a piss, which isn’t the easiest thing to do with these crutches, but I’ve gotten pretty good at it, and was almost done when they came in,” Silas told Jackson and me as we sat in his garage after school on the Wednesday before Rome’s first playoff game. “Fletcher watched the door, Marshall took a shit, and Deacon kicked one of my crutches out from under me.” Silas pointed to the bandage on his chin and said, “I hit the urinal going down. Took four stitches to close it up.”
“What did we ever do to these guys that made them so violent?” I asked and Jackson shrugged.
“I tried to get up, but Deacon pushed me back down and kicked me in the ribs. That’s when he noticed all the blood from my chin. I think he sort of freaked out, and they left.”
“What did you tell the nurse happened to your chin?” Jackson asked.
“That I tripped in the hallway. Now I get to leave all my classes three minutes early to avoid the rush, so it’s not all bad.”
Jackson and I started a game of Bill Walsh’s on Sega—neither of us would play Silas anymore—and after flipping through an Eastbay catalog, Silas stood in front of the television and said, “I’m ready to join your coup, if you’ll have me.”
Jackson paused the game, and we looked at each other then at Silas.
“Holy shit, that could really work,” Silas said after we’d shared our plan.
“Of course it could work,” Jackson said, unpausing the game.
“Our problem is Jackson’s parents never leave the house,” I said, “and I never know when Mom will spend the night at Steve's. What about your house?”
“Yeah, right. My parents haven’t spent a Saturday night out since 1979. I’ve got an idea though, and it might solve all our problems at once, but it’s going to cost us. How much money can you two get your hands on?”
“I have a hundred bucks leftover from my last birthday,” I said. “So that, plus whatever I can slip from Mom’s purse.”
“I’ve got two hundred dollars,” Jackson said, “but I’m saving it to buy a bass cannon and some Vega woofers from Crutchfield.”
“Well,” Silas said, “you can either play your shitty music loud or bring down Deacon. The choice is yours. I’ve got a small fortune saved for the car Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me buy, so I’ll match whatever you guys come up with, and that should be enough.”
“Enough for what?” Jackson asked.
“Enough to bribe my smokehound brother,” Silas said.
~ ~ ~
The next three weeks passed with glacial urgency. School sucked, not only because Deacon had reached new levels of assholery while maintaining dictator-level approval ratings, but Becca was his once more and had been since that kiss after the Carthage game. But when Deacon fell, all bets were off, and I would be ready. I spent countless hours before and after school playing my guitar and preparing for the talent show. I’d settled on Big Star’s “Thirteen,” Becca’s favorite song.
Rome defeated Mytilene at the Colosseum, 35-7, in the first round of the Alabama state playoffs. Then the team traveled north to Ocasek and defeated an overmatched team 49-0. In the third round, Southern Cherokee visited Rome, bringing with them two defensive linemen who’d start for SEC schools as freshmen the very next season. The game was close, but Rome prevailed, 17-10, setting up a semifinal matchup with Brother Maynard, a wealthy Catholic school from Mobile.
“It’s got to be this weekend,” I said to Silas at lunch on the Monday before the Brother Maynard game.
“It is,” he said. “I talked to Paul last night. He’s coming home Friday.”
Paul was Silas’s slacker older brother. He was in his third or fourth sophomore year at Troy State and came home once a month so his mother could do his laundry. We checked the calendar and knew he’d come home the weekend of one of Rome’s playoff games, but we didn’t know which one. He ran out of clean underwear just in time.
“He said he’d do it for two hundred bucks, which leaves us plenty for booze.”
Silas and I bumped fists, and Jackson sighed and said, “Shit.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “It’s just we’re only two wins away from the state championship now, and it would be really cool to get a ring, you know?”
“Jake Norton is just as good a quarterback as Deacon,” Silas said. “Besides, Brother Maynard is the best team in the state. If we beat them, the championship game will be cake, with or without Deacon.”
“You think so?” Jackson asked.
“I know so,” Silas said, and Jackson nodded resolutely.
“Okay,” I said. “We should spread the word today. If we wait till Saturday, no one will know about it.”
“Good call,” Silas said. “I’ll tell Mandy and MeghanJennifer; Jackson, you tell the team; Brinks, oh wait, you don’t have any friends besides us.”
I flipped him off, even though he was right.
~ ~ ~
Despite my insisting earlier that entire towns did not travel to away football games, when Rome faced Brother Maynard in the state semifinals, everyone in Rome did just that. Well, everyone except me. Since Mobile was six hours away, most people planned on spending the night and not returning to Rome until Saturday afternoon, but I needed to be home early the next morning when Paul arrived to earn his two hundred dollars.
The big AM station in Riverton broadcast the game, and I listened in bed while practicing guitar. The game was close, and Brother Maynard was good. Better than Rome honestly, and they led 14-10 at the half. But Rome came back, in part to a rumbling fifty-yard fumble return by Marshall Ford and, with less than a minute to play, led 23-21. But Brother Maynard completed a long miracle pass and, with only seconds to go, lined up to kick the game-winning field goal.
I was standing on my bed
now, mumbling, “shit, shit, shit,” over and over, because I wasn’t entirely sure what I even wanted to happen. Part of me wanted Rome to lose so Deacon could taste defeat, but I needed Rome to win; otherwise, there was no use in getting Deacon kicked off the team.
“Maynard’s holder puts a knee down at the twenty-two-yard line,” said the play-by-play man as I turned up my radio. “A thirty-two yarder for the win. Good snap, hold, it’s in the air, it’s ... wide left! Wide left! Rome wins! Rome wins! Rome is going to the state championship game! The students are pouring onto the field here in Mobile. Rome wins! Rome is going to the state championship game!”
I sat down on my bed, listening to the screaming fans through the radio and realized I was about to cost my high school a state championship.
Oh well.
~ ~ ~
Silas’s brother Paul arrived around eight the next morning, and when he rang the bell, my mother shouted for me to answer it, so I went downstairs and opened the door and Paul said, “Hey man, we’re like working on your gas or something, so you need to spend the night somewhere else.”
He was wearing the grey Dickies coveralls we’d bought him, with a homemade Alagasco patch over his heart, and I whispered, “Dude, you need to tell my mom, not me. And try to act professional, you know, like you work for the gas company.”
“Whatever,” Paul said, and I went to get Mom.
I waited in the kitchen while she spoke to him, and after an excruciating minute, she walked in and said, “Do you think one of your friends will let you spend the night tonight? Alagasco is working on a gas leak, and we need to be out of the house until noon tomorrow. I can stay with Steve, but—”
“I can stay with Silas. It’s not a problem. I’ll go pack a bag.”
Two hours later, my mother was out of the house, and I was back inside, staring at the hundreds of dollars’ worth of alcohol Paul delivered.
Phase one complete.
~ ~ ~
Silas and Jackson came over at six, and the three of us sat in the living room, drinking beers and watching SportsCenter and wondering if people would actually come.
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