Gym Candy

by Carl Deuker

  ***

  The rest of the summer went by in a flash. Football practice ... chores for my dad ... weightlifting. I kept working out at Popeye's, kept getting help from Peter. I wasn't setting any new personal records, but I wasn't dropping off much from my highs. I could do it. I could do it on the up-and-up; I could do it right.

  PART FIVE

  1

  Our opener was at home on a Friday night against the Franklin Quakers at Memorial Stadium. Franklin is good at soccer, they're good at tennis, and they're great at basketball, but at football they suck. They've got sixteen hundred kids, same as every school in our league, but their best athletes never go out for football.

  Friday after school we had a short meeting. Carlson went over the defensive game plan first: lots of zones, not much blitzing. Finally he turned to the offense. "We're going to run Mick at them until they prove they can stop him. Linemen, block straight ahead. Nothing fancy—just find the closest guy and knock him on his ass. Mick, keep your head up, look for a hole, and then explode into it. Drew, no audibles. I don't want to see the ball in the air unless I call for a pass play."

  Drew nodded.

  "All right, then. One final thing. We are playing smash-mouth, in-your-face football. But smash-mouth football is not dirty football. We are the Shilshole Raiders, not the Oakland Raiders.You hear the whistle, you stop. No cheap shots, ever. Understood?" He paused, looking us over. "Come tonight with your A game."

  When I pulled onto our street, I saw my dad's pickup in the driveway. He opened the front door as soon as he saw the Jeep. "I took the day off," he said. "I wouldn't have been able to concentrate anyway. How you feeling? You nervous? You want to practice anything?"

  I was glad to have a way to get rid of the two hours. We went to Crown Hill Park and tossed the ball around just enough for me to break a light sweat. At five o'clock we headed back to the house. At five-thirty, I was driving down Fifteenth toward Memorial Stadium.

  I was nervous in the locker room. I looked around at the other guys, and they were feeling it, too. Before every game, you worry that some guy on the other team is going to manhandle you, humiliate you, show you up. Everybody talks big, but the fear of failure is as close and tight as your helmet.

  Carlson's pregame talk was no different from those of any coach I've ever had. When he finished, he looked at his watch and then looked at us: "All right, men, time to take the field." We ran through the tunnel screaming, trying to fight back our fear with noise.

  We won the coin toss and took the kickoff. Carlson had thrown Dave Kane a bone, making him our return man on punts and kickoffs. Kane ran the ball out to the thirty-five, giving us good field position. As soon as the whistle blew, ending the play, I trotted out with Drew and DeShawn and the rest of the offense, trying to do everything slowly because inside everything was racing fast.

  Carlson had me running out of the I formation, which I prefer to any split-back formation. I like to get the ball deep in the backfield, stretch the defense as I take my first couple of steps looking for a hole, and then go.

  We started the way Carlson had said we would—a run straight up the middle. I took Drew's handoff, saw a glimmer of a hole between Tyler Ashby and our center Dan Driessen, and made my move. I hit that hole hard and fast, was through it before I felt contact, and then burst into the secondary. Some Franklin guy took my legs out from under me and I went down hard, but I had gained eight yards. I bounced up and hustled back to the huddle.

  "Thirty-four delay. On one."

  After the snap, I waited two beats. Drew pretended to be dropping back to pass and then slipped the ball to my gut. This time the hole was outside our left guard. I drove into that opening, no fancy moves, and I gained another six yards. "First down!" the referee called.

  All it took was a handful more plays. A toss sweep, a delay, another toss sweep, and then a counter that I cut back against the grain for the final thirty-four yards. Four Franklin guys took shots at me on that last run, but not one could bring me down. Over the loudspeaker I heard the magic words: "Mick Johnson scores a touchdown for Shilshole."

  Drew was there to high-five me, and so were DeShawn and the other guys. We trotted as a group back to the sidelines. I took a couple sips of water and then heard a huge cheer from the student section behind me. Franklin had fumbled the kickoff. "Go! Go!" Carlson was shouting. "Offense on the field!"

  I pulled my helmet over my head and raced onto the field. "Thirty-four sweep left, on one," Drew called out. Five seconds later I was breaking into the open field again, and ten seconds later the PA announcer was saying, "Mick Johnson scores a touchdown for Shilshole."

  That's how it went, drive after drive. I ran and ran, scoring twice in the second quarter and once more in the third. I was sure Carlson would yank me when the score reached 28–0, but he kept the first team in, on both offense and defense. I scored the last touchdown of the game on a sixty-yard run with a minute left. That touchdown pushed the score to 48–0.

  In the locker room afterward, guys pounded me on the back, hollering that I was all-world. I was smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt. In the middle of the celebration, Carlson called me into the office. I thought he'd be beaming, but his eyes were serious. "You're going to read all about yourself in the paper tomorrow. You set a bunch of records today. Touchdowns, yards gained—all sorts of records."

  "The blocking was great," I said. "It was the line that did everything."

  Carlson shook his head. "Our line was good, not great. You did what you did because Franklin was terrible."

  I stood silent, not sure what he wanted.

  "I don't like running up the score, and I don't believe in individual records. I let you rack up all those yards and touchdowns because I want the rest of the teams in the league—Inglemoor and Eastlake and especially Foothill—I want them to see the score and wonder about us, maybe even fear us. You understand?"

  I nodded. "I understand."

  "Good, because the one thing I don't want is for you to think you're Walter Payton just because you're wearing his number. Clear?"

  "Clear."

  "All right then, get back out there with your teammates."

  When I returned to the locker room, the craziness was ending and the exhaustion was setting in. Guys were sitting on benches, pulling off their shoes and undoing their shoulder pads. I went from lineman to lineman, patting them on the back and thanking them for all their blocks. Each of them looked up at me, tired but happy, just like I was.

  It wasn't until I got home that I even thought about the steroids. I'd stopped using them, but weren't they still in my blood and in my muscles? How much of what I'd done was me and how much them? I'd never know for sure. But there was one thing I did know—with every tick of the clock, I was moving closer to the day when I'd be entirely on my own. It was a good feeling, but it was a scary feeling, too.

  2

  When I stepped out of bed Saturday morning, I expected to have to crawl to the bathroom. All those carries meant that many hits, and a running back pays for every hit with an ache somewhere. I'm not saying I didn't hurt at all, because I did, but the pain wasn't half as bad as I'd expected.

  I went downstairs to eat. My dad was sitting at the table, waiting for me. Next to my cereal bowl was the Seattle Times. He had it opened to the high school sports page. The headline jumped at me.

  Mick Johnson Runs Wild

  Below the headline, in smaller type, were the words

  Record-Shattering Performance

  "Read it," he said. "Go ahead."

  I read the article and then reread it. I'd gained three hundred twelve yards and had scored six touchdowns. The list of school records I'd set or tied made me woozy: Most yards in a game. Most touchdowns in a game. Most yards per carry.

  "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.

  3

  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.