Gym Candy

by Carl Deuker

  Once on ESPN I had seen an old Muhammad Ali-Joe Frazier fight in which those guys just stood toe to toe, exchanging punches. That's how the second quarter went. I stayed in the zone, knowing just when to go for the corner and just when to cut back, chewing up big chunks of yardage on nearly every carry. But everything I did, they matched. When the clock hit 00:00, ending the first half, the score was 14–14.

  Carlson gave us a quick talk and then told us to rest. I was itching to get back on the field, but I looked around and saw all the guys with their heads down, wet towels around their necks, sucking air. Until that moment, I hadn't thought about the XTR. But once I saw how exhausted the other guys were, I knew the steroid buzz had kicked in. Not that I felt one hundred percent fresh—I didn't. I felt bruised and battered. But I knew from my teammates' eyes that I was stronger than they were, which meant that I was stronger than anybody on the Woodinville team, too.

  I didn't play better in the third quarter. I had the same burst I had before, but everyone else had slowed a step, and some guys had slowed two. The six- and eight-yard gains I'd made in the first half were now ten- and twelve-yard gains. I was slicing through Woodinville like a sharp knife through a tender steak, cutting them into pieces. Carlson stopped pretending he was using the passing game. It was all me.

  I kept pounding at them and pounding at them until, near the end of the third quarter, Woodinville cracked. I had six carries in a row, none of them for less than six yards. Instead of putting their bodies on the line to take their best shot at me, the linebackers and safeties were reaching out with their arms. When they finally did manage to bring me down, I'd pop up quickly to show them that I was still fresh. It was as if I were the Energizer Bunny, and they realized that nothing could shut me down. The drive ended when I took the ball eighteen yards straight up the gut and into the end zone, shedding tacklers the whole way. For the rest of the game, Woodinville's defense wanted no part of me. The 14–14 halftime tie turned into a 41–21 romp midway through the fourth quarter.

  And then came what should have been the cherry on top of the ice cream. With one minute left in the game, I broke a ninety-four-yard touchdown run, cutting back twice and fighting off two tacklers at the ten-yard line. The league record for longest TD run was ninety-one yards. I knew because it was my dad who held it. As I crossed the goal line, I turned and looked back, expecting to see my teammates racing toward me. Instead, I heard the referee's whistle and saw him waving his arms, motioning for me to bring the ball back to the line of scrimmage.

  A yellow penalty flag was lying on the ground.

  I knew why. Out of the corner of my eye I'd seen DeShawn, split out ten yards and not even part of the play, move early. His penalty had wiped out my record-setting run.

  At that instant, I wanted to get at DeShawn. I turned and started racing upfield toward him. I was going to smash him to the ground, pulverize him, and tear him to pieces the way a hurricane pulverizes a house.

  But somewhere around the fifty-yard line, my brain clicked in. DeShawn's penalty didn't matter. We'd won. I was back in Carlson's good graces, both a starter and a star. I slowed, forcing myself to think, fighting the XTR, fighting the rage. My sprint turned into a run and then a jog. By the time I reached the huddle I had myself under control.

  On the ride back I sat right in the middle of the bus. Sometimes three or four guys would talk to me at once, telling me how great I'd played, how quick and fast and powerful I'd been. I got punched in the shoulder so many times that it hurt, but I didn't want the ride to end.

  At home, my mom and dad were waiting for me. "Where's that game been?" my dad asked when I stepped through the door, a big smile on his face. I had cake and ice cream and then went upstairs and showered. When I stepped out of the shower, I knew I was still too wound up to sleep. I pulled on my jeans and slipped downstairs, careful not to make a sound. I started up the Jeep and headed into the night. The dark was what I wanted, the soothing blackness of night.

  I drove to Golden Gardens Park, parked the car, and walked past the duck ponds and onto the beach. The only light came from a sliver of a moon; I could barely make out the white foam of the waves as they rolled in. The waves were hypnotic; a thousand years ago they had looked the same, sounded the same. A thousand years from now they would look the same, sound the same. I stared out at the water, wondering what it would feel like to go out into it, go out and swim and swim until you couldn't swim anymore, until the water swallowed you up.

  I don't know how long I stood looking into the Sound. Finally a train whistled in the distance, and I turned and headed back to the car.

  8

  With the win over Woodinville, it wasn't only the football team that was on a high—it was the whole school. I knew what would happen if I let myself get too high, so that whole week I kept to myself everywhere—in the classroom, on the practice field, in the gym.

  It worked. I stayed on an even keel with no big highs or lows. Only one thing went wrong all week. After Thursday's practice, I was about to change into my street clothes when I remembered an elbow brace I'd left out on the field. Coach Carlson had wanted me to try it out but it had been too tight, so I'd thrown it off to the side. I trotted out to retrieve it and then brought it to the equipment room. When I returned to the locker room, I saw Drew rifling through my duffel bag. Instantly, my heart froze. The kit with the XTR and the syringe was still wrapped in a towel at the bottom.

  "What are you doing, Drew?" I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  Drew held up his arm, showing me his forearm. It was raw, and the piece of gauze he had over the torn-away flesh was flapping free. "I'm getting tape to hold this on. You got tape, right?"

  I reached over and pulled the duffel bag out of his hands. "I'll get it for you," I said. I was trying to be natural, but I pulled too hard.

  Drew's eyes went wide and his face broke into a huge smile. "What are you hiding? You got a stack of Playboys in there or something?"

  Dan Driessen and Lee Choi and a bunch of other guys turned to look.

  "I'm not hiding anything," I said.

  "So what's the big deal?" Drew's voice wasn't so light.

  "No big deal. I just don't like people going through my stuff."

  I reached into my duffel, pulled out the tape, and tossed it to him. "There you go."

  Drew caught the tape, peeled off a section, and then tossed it back.

  9

  Game seven was against Liberty High way out in Issaquah. They were good, but not great—the kind of team that could beat us only if we turned the ball over or committed a ton of penalties.

  All week long I told myself I could play the game straight, that I didn't need anything, but on game day, I made sure the kit was in the bottom of my duffel.

  Carlson had gotten a bus. On the ride out, I again held on tight to my duffel, trying not to look as though I was holding on tight. Every once in a while I'd glance at Drew and wonder if he suspected. Then I'd look at Stimes and think the same thing. Finally I realized how stupid I was being. They weren't thinking about me; they were thinking about the game.

  The Liberty locker room was like every other one—dark, damp, and smelly. I sat down on one of the benches and got into my gear. Then I picked up my duffel and made my way to the bathroom, again choosing the stall farthest from the lockers. I thought I'd be less nervous, but my hands still shook. When I finished with the injection, I wrapped everything up in the towel, put it into the duffel, opened the stall door, stepped out, and looked back toward the locker room.

  That's when I saw Drew. He was standing just inside the restroom door, about thirty feet away. For a moment we stared at each other, silent. "Let's crush these guys," he finally said.

  I slung the duffel over my shoulder. "Okay by me," I answered, and I headed out to the locker room, my chest tight.

  A couple minutes later, we huddled as a team at the mouth of the tunnel leading to the field. Around me guys were starting to scream and bounce up and do
wn. The noise spread like a disease. An adrenaline-steroid-amphetamine craziness came over me, and pretty soon I was screaming and bouncing up and down more than anyone. The next thing I knew, I was running onto the field, then doing jumping jacks and pushups, and a few minutes later the game was on.

  You play a team at their field, and it always takes time to get comfortable. I don't know why—a football field is a football field. We bumbled our way through the first quarter. I was too jumpy, too high, hitting the holes before the blocks had opened anything up. Drew turned the ball over on a fumbled snap, killing one drive, and another drive died when he tripped dropping back to pass.

  Liberty had the ball near midfield at the start of the second quarter. I was standing along the sideline, wound tight as wire, watching our defense, when I felt someone staring at me. I looked, and as I did, Drew looked away. I went over to the trainer and got myself some water and then glanced back at him. Now he wasn't looking at me at all but was talking to DeShawn. They both laughed at something, then DeShawn gave Drew a push and Drew pushed him back. As I drank the water down, I told myself to stop imagining things.

  Our defense held, and we were back on the field. We managed a couple of first downs before we had to punt. The whole game was stuck—neither team could do anything. Right before halftime, the Liberty kicker punched through a thirty-two-yard field goal. The ball actually hit the goalpost, but it flopped through on the opposite side, and those three points were the only points of the half.

  During halftime, Carlson fumed. "You thought you were going to walk in here with your undefeated record and they were going to roll over for you, but they're not. I don't like losing when the other team is better, but I hate losing to a team that isn't as good. There's one reason they're ahead: they want it more than you. And they're going to beat you unless you turn it around. Now go out there and play some football."

  For the rest of the break, the guys stretched out on the benches, resting. But I was too keyed up to do that. I kept pacing back and forth. "Sit down, Mick," Middleton said. "You're making me tired."

  I broke a few tackles on my first run of the second half, and then a few more tackles on the next run, and I could tell the Liberty defenders were back on their heels. We had the ball, second and four at their thirty-eight. I took Drew's handoff and worked my way toward the sideline, forcing them to pursue laterally. Driessen made a great block on their middle linebacker, and I cut upfield behind it. I had a full head of steam going as I broke into the secondary. A safety came up to try to tackle me, but I lowered my shoulder, sent him sprawling, and staggered toward the goal line before tumbling into the end zone for the first touchdown of the game. Shilshole 7, Liberty 3.

  Liberty took the kickoff, but a holding penalty pushed them back into the shadow of their goalposts. Because of their terrible field position, they ran three straight running plays, and a bad punt gave us great field position. On first down, Carlson called the same stretch play again. I broke into the secondary, and there was that same safety coming up on me again. I'd embarrassed the guy the time before. He was a football player—he wanted to get revenge by laying a big hit on me, so I used that against him. Instead of taking him on, I juked left, took one step right, and then went left. He crossed his feet trying to stay with my move and then tripped and fell. I was by him like a flash. Shilshole 14, Liberty 3.

  I thought we'd broken them. I thought our defense would hold them and that I'd be back on the field in minutes. I could hardly wait to get out there and crack that defense again, crack it the way you crack an egg against a pan.

  But Liberty didn't quit. They slogged to a couple of first downs, and then, on a third and four near mid-field, they burned us with a trick play. It looked like their stock running play: a pitchout to their halfback sweeping right. The play developed slowly ... too slowly. As our cornerback came up to tackle him, the halfback dropped back into a passing position. And there was Liberty's quarterback, streaking down the left side of the field, totally uncovered.

  The halfback's pass was a wobbly spiral, but it led the quarterback perfectly. He caught the ball in stride and then raced down the sideline for their first touchdown. Liberty went for two on the conversion, hoping to pull within a field goal, but their fullback was stopped short.

  Shilshole 14, Liberty 9.

  The Liberty crowd went crazy and the players were pumped up, smelling the upset victory over the undefeated, ranked team. And they had the momentum back, no doubt about it. Still, there were only five minutes left in the game. If we could run out the clock, we'd have it—a win against a good team on the road.

  Carlson put the game on my shoulders. I was still strong, still feeling jacked up, while everyone else was slowing. On first down, I took the ball for eight yards right up the middle, and then went off tackle for seven and a first down on the next play. Four minutes and change left in the game.

  The next play was a quick pitch. I'd been cutting back all game long. This time, I went for the corner, never even looking for a lane. I got it, too, and I was in the open field with nothing but green grass ahead of me. Fifty ... forty ... thirty ... twenty ... fifteen ... ten—

  That's when I eased up. And that's when their safety—the guy I'd beaten twice—reached in from behind and poked the ball free. It skittered into the end zone, and before I realized what was happening, he flopped on it. In seconds I'd gone from hero to goat; I'd fumbled away the ball—and perhaps the game and the season along with it.

  The Liberty safety stood up, the football tucked under his arm, and smirked at me. A black rage came over me, the same black rage I'd felt when DeShawn had brought the penalty flag fluttering in. But the Liberty safety wasn't ninety yards away. The Liberty guy wasn't ten seconds away. There was no time for me to think, to gather control, to pull back. He was right there.

  The rage took over.

  I knew the play was dead, that it was a touchback, that he couldn't run the ball out of the end zone. I knew those things, but I leveled him anyway—stuck my helmet into his ribs and drove him into the turf, wiping that smirk off his face. He lay on the ground, rolling this way and that, writhing in pain.

  Yellow penalty flags flew all around me. Personal foul—fifteen yards: I knew that was coming. But then the ref pointed at me and pointed to the tunnel. I'd been ejected.

  "I thought he could run!" I screamed. "I thought he could run!"

  The ref turned and walked away. I started after him, but DeShawn intercepted me. A second later Carlson had me by the elbow. "Go to the locker room, Mick," he said. "Now."

  A chorus of boos cascaded down from the stands. I looked back to the field. The trainer from Liberty was out on the field; the player I'd hit was still down, still rolling in pain. In that instant, I knew that what I'd done was out of line—crazy and dangerous—and I was ashamed.

  As I walked down the tunnel leading to the locker room, the Liberty fans were up screaming at me, calling me a cheap shot artist and a thug. Somebody threw a Coke in my face.

  Once in the locker room, I went straight to a sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed it on my face. What had happened to me? The rage had come so fast and with such fury that I'd been powerless. It had come like a meteor falling from the sky. No, not like a meteor, like a bomb.

  I'd been in the locker room about five minutes when Mr. Stimes came in. I was sure he was going to tell me that Liberty had marched down the field and scored, sure that we'd lost because of my idiotic penalty, but Stimes gave me the thumbs-up. "We won," he said.

  "That's good," I answered. "Is the guy I hit okay?"

  Stimes shrugged. "I'm sure he's felt better, but he walked off on his own power." He paused. "Coach doesn't want you in the locker room when the team gets here. So grab your stuff and get onto the bus."

  I sat alone on the bus for half an hour before the team boarded. I took a window seat up front and stared into the street as the guys filed past me. The bus ride back took forty minutes, but it seemed like forty hours. I was
certain Carlson would come chew me out—I wanted him to come chew me out—but he never even looked at me.

  When the bus pulled into the school parking lot, I grabbed my duffel and was the first player off. My Jeep was parked toward the tennis courts. I had it started and was out of the parking lot before ten guys were off the bus.

  My dad had been at the game, right on the fifty, his usual spot. I was sure he'd be sitting at the kitchen table. I thought about driving around for a couple of hours to wait him out. But what would have been the point?

  I parked in the driveway next to his truck. When I opened the front door, I saw the light in the kitchen. I went in. His eyes were bright with anger. "What was that all about, Mick?" he said. "Have you lost your mind?"

  "Does Mom know?"

  He shook his head. "No. I told her you had a good game. Which was true, by the way, until you trashed it."

  "Will it be in the newspaper tomorrow?"

  "I doubt it. Writers go easy on high school kids. But if you pull something like that in college, it'll be on SportsCenter. The whole country will see it."

  For a while neither of us spoke. Then he waved his hand, dismissing me. "Go to bed. There's nothing to be said."

  10

  Monday morning, I was called out of English class to the library annex. When I got there, Carlson was sitting behind a desk. He motioned for me to sit, folded his hands on the desk, and then leaned forward, fixing me with his eye. "I like you, Mick. I like your intensity and effort. You run the way you've shown you're capable of running and nobody will beat us. I'm talking state title. But there's absolutely no room in the game for cheap shots. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm sorry for what I did."

  "Yeah, well, I'm glad to hear it. But being sorry isn't enough. Actions have consequences, which is why I'm suspending you from the team. You won't play this week."