Gym Candy

by Carl Deuker

  "But—"

  "No discussion, Mick. Go back to class."

  ***

  Every afternoon that week I stood along the sidelines in my street clothes. I clapped and called out "Good play!" whenever anyone did something good. I kept a smile on my face, but inside I was tied in knots. I respected Carlson; I respected everything about him. I didn't want him thinking I was some cheap shot artist. I wanted him to respect me. But I wanted to play, too. I wanted to play and I wanted to win. What I needed was time, time to figure it all out. Only a football season doesn't take a time-out; it goes like a whirlwind.

  The hardest part was talking with my mom. My dad had been right—the newspapers hadn't reported anything about the ejection. I would have been so embarrassed, so ashamed, if she'd ever found out what I'd done. But because she didn't know, I had to make up some explanation for missing Friday's game. On Wednesday I decided to tell her that I was going to sit out because my ankle was sore. But once I told that lie, she kept asking me about my injury and I had to lie over and over.

  11

  Carlson wouldn't let me stand along the sidelines, so I watched Friday's game against Bothell from the top row of Memorial Stadium. From up there, I spotted Kaylee and her friends down just behind the band. I thought about going down and sitting with them, but since I'd skipped Heather's party, I was pretty sure they wouldn't want me.

  It was tough watching. You play together with guys week after week and suddenly you're not there with them, and a feeling of emptiness comes to you. We needed to keep winning to make it to the playoffs, but there was nothing I could do to help.

  We started the game decently. All through the first half, Dave Kane ran hard. On a couple of plays I was sure that if I'd been out there, I could have broken a long one, and then I'd feel sick inside, but Kane kept moving the ball forward, and he didn't fumble. When we did get in third-and-long situations, Drew was on the money with his passes.

  We scored the first three times we had the ball. DeShawn hauled in a pass in the corner of the end zone on a fade pattern for our first touchdown. The second drive stalled, but K. J. Solomon kicked a fortyyard field goal, his longest kick of the year, to push the score to 10–0. Early in the second quarter, Kane bulled over from the four-yard line, carrying two Bothell guys into the end zone with him. The extra point made our lead 17–0.

  That's when the momentum turned.

  Solomon's kickoff was a short line drive. The Bothell returner took it on the dead run, followed the wedge of blockers up the middle, broke left, and was gone. His seventy-yard runback cut the lead to 17–7, and it brought the Bothell players back from the dead.

  If we'd been able to sustain a drive and get a touchdown or a field goal or even a couple of first downs, we'd have regained the momentum, but Bothell's defense stuffed Kane on two runs and then batted down Drew's third-down pass. After a short punt, Bothell took over and drove right down the field, scoring on a flanker reverse. Their kicker missed the extra point, so at the half our lead was 17–13.

  The third quarter was one of those quarters in which nothing happens. Bothell would get a couple of first downs, then stall because of a penalty or a dropped pass and have to punt. We'd get a couple of first downs, then stall because of a penalty or a dropped pass and have to punt. All we managed was one field goal to push the lead to 20–13.

  By the time the fourth quarter began, I was pacing back and forth by the wall at the top of the stadium. I ached to be down on the field, the ball under my arm, the blockers pushing forward.

  The quarter started ugly: lots of penalties, lots of dropped passes, lots of blown assignments, lots of nothing. But with five minutes left in the game, Drew found DeShawn over the middle with a perfect strike. He had one safety to beat, and for a split second it looked as though he might break into the clear. But the Bothell guy didn't go for DeShawn's move, and as he made the tackle, he stuck his helmet right on the football. It popped loose, and another Bothell player fell on the fumble. Instead of scoring a game-clinching touchdown, we'd turned the ball over near midfield.

  "Hold them!" I shouted, and my voice echoed off the wall so loudly that some adults from down below turned and looked up at me. I didn't care. "Hold them!" I shouted again and again.

  The Bothell drive ate up the clock—no big plays at all. It was three yards here and four yards there. Twice Bothell converted on fourth-down plays. Their drive was part skill, part luck, and part determination. With thirty-one seconds left, the quarterback punched the ball into the end zone on a sneak. Our lead had shrunk to 20–19.

  They'd blown one conversion already, and their kicker looked shaky, so the extra point was anything but automatic. Everyone was up screaming. The snap was good. The placekicker drove forward with his kicking motion. It wasn't until no ball came off his foot that I realized the fake was on. That's when I spotted the holder. He had the ball and was rolling out to his right. In the end zone was a tight end, wide open, with no Shilshole defender within ten yards. It was right there, the two-point conversion, the win, and the end of our run to glory. All the Bothell guy had to do was toss the football to his buddy, the kind of toss he must have made a million times. But with the pressure on, he short-armed it. The ball wobbled out into the flat; the tight end came back for it, diving. He got his hands on it, and for an instant I thought he'd win the game for them with a miracle catch, but the ball hit off his fingertips and bounced harmlessly away. The guy who'd thrown the pass fell to his knees and pounded the ground as our guys jumped around and hugged one another. We'd gotten the win. It had been close, and it had taken luck, but a W is a W.

  Foothill was waiting.

  12

  When I woke up the next morning, I had it all figured out. On Monday, Carlson would reinstate me. I'd work like a demon all week at practice. By game time, I'd be ready, and so would the whole team. I wouldn't take the XTR. I'd be so pumped with adrenaline, I wouldn't need it.

  We wouldn't blow them out; Foothill was way too good to be blown out. They would fight us to the end. But in the fourth quarter, I'd get my shot at redemption. There'd be a fourth-down play, fourth and goal, with the game on the line. Carlson would call my number. Foothill would be expecting me; number 50 would be waiting for me. But I'd make it anyway. Somehow, some way, I'd make that final yard.

  And Monday afternoon Carlson called me into the coaches' office, exactly as I thought he would. He even said almost exactly what I thought he'd say. "You're back on the team, Mick. Whether you stay on it is up to you."

  I left the office and went into the locker room. The guys nodded to me, nobody overly friendly, but nobody turning away, either. I'd never really given much thought to practice; it was just something I did. But the suspension made me realize how much a part of my life it was. Getting the shoulder pads just right, lacing up my cleats, snapping the chin strap—it felt great to be doing the little things again.

  On the field, I was the leader. First one in line for every drill, one hundred percent effort. Carlson praised me a couple of times and the guys around me responded, too, pushing their own effort level up. It was all just as I'd pictured it.

  And then I got the shock.

  When we broke into groups to walk through the plays, Carlson sent me to Coach Brower, who was handling the second team and the special teams. Dave Kane stayed with Drew and DeShawn and the rest of the first team.

  I hadn't seen it coming. I should have—it was obvious. I'd screwed up big-time, and Kane had done okay against Bothell. Not great, but he hadn't fumbled the game away. I'd thrown my spot away with my crazy personal foul; Carlson wasn't going to give it back to me. I'd have to earn it.

  Only there was no opportunity. Monday, Carlson spent the whole time with the starters. I was forty yards away, running every play as if I were in the Super Bowl, but he didn't see anything. Tuesday we watched Foothill's game against Woodinville for an hour, and the practice afterward was light, no pads at all. Wednesday we had some contact drills, but they were short
, and if I did anything to catch Carlson's eye, he didn't mention it. By Thursday doubt was tearing at me. Everything I'd done had been done with my eye on Foothill. He couldn't keep me on the bench. It just couldn't happen.

  About an hour into practice, Carlson had Kane walk through the plays—my plays—and he called me over and made me watch, rubbing my nose in it. When the walk-through ended, Drew slid up next to me. "Don't worry, Mick," he said.

  "What?" I said.

  "Carlson's going to play you. He's aching for a shot at a state title."

  "So why am I back on special teams? Why is Kane getting all the reps?"

  "He's testing you, making sure you can keep your cool. So long as you don't do anything stupid, you'll play. You won't start, but you'll play."

  Carlson blew his whistle. "Special teams practice next," he called out. "Three-quarters speed. Nobody gets hurt."

  "I don't think so," I said to Drew.

  "Trust me."

  ***

  Friday morning my dad came down while I was eating breakfast. "So, what do you think? You going to play tonight?"

  "I'm not starting."

  "But are you going to play?"

  "I don't know for sure."

  He frowned. "Mick, if you're going to play, I want to be there. Lion understands that. But if you're going to sit on the bench, then I need to be at work. So which is it?"

  I sat silently, thinking about what Drew had said. At last I looked up. "I'm going to play."

  13

  When I pulled the Jeep into the driveway after school that afternoon, my dad was sitting on the porch with a football in his hand. "I figured you'd be a little tight," he said, "so I thought we could head over to the park, shake out some of the jitters."

  I was tight. "Sounds good," I said. "Just let me put my backpack in the house."

  It was gray and windy, a tough night for quarterbacks to throw. As my dad tossed the ball to me, he told me not to think about last year's game. "That one is over," he said. "What happened then has no bearing on tonight."

  Around four-thirty we returned to the house. I climbed the stairs to my room, put my duffel on the bed, and unzipped it. At the bottom, wrapped up in the towel, was the kit filled with the vials of XTR and all the other stuff. I was about to take it out when my dad knocked on the door, opened it a foot, and leaned in. "You'd better get moving," he said. "If your coach is mad at you already, you don't want to be late."

  I shoved my extra socks into the duffel. "I'm going right now," I said.

  He stayed, rooted in the doorway, his eyes on me. No way could I pull the kit out without his asking what it was. I zipped my duffel shut, slipped by him, and headed down the stairs.

  ***

  When I arrived at Memorial Stadium, the locker rooms hadn't been opened. Drew and DeShawn and a few other guys were standing around out front. I sat down on the curb, my duffel under my knees. Finally the guy with the key showed up. I carried the duffel inside, careful to treat it the same way the rest of the guys treated theirs. As I put on my gear, my heart was pounding like a drum. It would be too unfair to get caught now, when I wasn't even going to use the stuff.

  Before every game the adrenaline flows, but this game was like no other. It was a championship game, two undefeated teams, and it was a revenge game, too. As game time neared, guys started hollering encouragement to one another, shouting how this year was our year, hitting shoulder pad to shoulder pad, helmet to helmet. Carlson gave us the final instructions, which were all about not getting too high or too low but to stay on an even keel, because it was going to be a long, hard game against a worthy opponent. It all sounded good, but everybody was already way over the top, including Carlson. Beads of sweat had formed across his forehead, and his nostrils were flared. "One hundred percent effort!" he shouted. "One hundred percent concentration! Now! Now! Now!"

  Screaming and howling filled the locker room. My ears were ringing; I couldn't tell my voice from the voices of my teammates. Somebody grabbed hold of me; I turned around—it was DeShawn. His eyes were like saucers; I'd never seen them like that. "It's our turn!" he shouted. "Our turn!"

  Somebody grabbed him and spun him around. Then somebody else started pounding on the lockers, and then everyone was pounding, and the volume kept rising higher and higher, and I was electric from toe to head. This wasn't the game to hold back. Not now, not against Foothill. Everything the team had worked for all season, all off-season, absolutely everything was riding on this one game. It wasn't my brain that decided; it was my body.

  I picked up my duffel and headed toward the bathroom.

  I went to the last stall, stepped inside, and locked the metal door behind me. I could hear the shouting outside; I knew that soon Carlson would release us through the tunnel. I cleaned my skin, cleaned the needle, and then filled the syringe with the XTR. I pushed the plunger forward, forcing out all the air, not stopping until a few drops of liquid dribbled out. Then I jabbed the needle into my flesh and pushed down. A little more isopropyl alcohol, a quick massage of the injection site, everything back in the duffel—it was done. I took a couple of deep breaths to compose myself. When I felt completely relaxed, I slid the metal locking bar back, pushed the metal door open, and stepped out.

  Drew was standing right there, right in front of me, blocking my way. I felt myself starting to reel, as if I were on a ship in a storm. "What are you doing?" he said.

  I don't know how I heard him. The screaming was still going on out in the locker room, and his voice wasn't much more than a whisper. But I heard him.

  I gave a confused laugh. "What are you talking about?"

  "What's in your duffel?" he said.

  "My duffel?"

  "Yeah, Mick. Your duffel. What you got in there?"

  "What do you think? My street clothes, some tape, a water bottle."

  "Yeah? So why bring it to the john?" He motioned with his head toward the stall. "What were you doing in there, Mick?"

  My ears were burning, my heart was pounding, but somehow I kept my voice calm. "I was in the john, Drew. What do you think I was doing?"

  "Unzip the bag, Mick. Let me see what's inside."

  I stared at him, unsure what to do. And then I was saved. Coach Brower leaned his head in the doorway. "Move it, guys. Your teammates are halfway through the tunnel."

  Drew turned and headed out to the locker area. I followed him, found an open locker, shoved my duffel inside, and then ran to the tunnel. A second later I was screaming along with fifty other guys as we raced onto the field.

  14

  As we came pouring out, our fans rose, cheering as one. A minute later, the Foothill players charged onto the field, and their fans were up and cheering. It was a cold, drizzly night, but the place was alive.

  We won the coin toss, so Foothill kicked off. Kane's runback took the ball out past the thirty, and our offense charged onto the field. I reached for my helmet and had nearly pulled it over my head before I remembered: I wasn't starting.

  Everything happens fast on a football field, but a running back has to have patience. He has to wait for an opening and then make his move. And he has to be twice as patient in the rain, with the wet turf slowing the linemen, making every play take one beat longer. But Kane couldn't wait, not in a game with this much pressure. He'd take Drew's handoff and just plunge into the line, sometimes running smack into his own blockers. Time and again, possession after possession—the same thing. I was going crazy on the sidelines. Carlson had to see what I was seeing; he had to know what I knew. So when would he yank Kane and put me in?

  Near the end of the first quarter Foothill caught lightning in a bottle. On third and inches inside their own twenty, the Spartan quarterback faked a handoff to the fullback. Both of our safeties bit, so when the QB rolled to his right and looked downfield, his wide receiver was open by ten yards. The pass was long and high, giving the receiver plenty of time to run under it. He took it in stride at the forty, and five seconds later he was in the end zo
ne.

  Foothill 7, Shilshole 0.

  I was sure that touchdown would be my ticket into the game, but Carlson stuck with Kane for another series. We managed a couple of decent plays—both of them passes from Drew to DeShawn. But on third and one from Foothill's forty, Kane smacked into the back of our center and fumbled the wet ball. A Foothill linebacker covered it, and minutes later their kicker split the uprights with a thirty-yard field goal, pushing their lead to 10–0. "Johnson," Carlson called as the ball sailed through, "put your helmet on. You're going in."

  He didn't have to say it twice. And once I was on the field, Carlson didn't mess around: on nearly every play my number was called. Six yards ... four yards ... five yards ... five yards. Foothill's defense was the best in the league, maybe the best in the state, but I was rested and ready and strong, and I had the XTR racing through my bloodstream.

  On second and six from their thirty-three, Drew faked a handoff to me. The linebackers were so focused on me that they had all come up, leaving our tight end wide open over the middle. Drew's pass was on the money, and Jones rumbled all the way until he hit pay dirt. Our fans went crazy as the band struck up the fight song. We blew the extra point, so at halftime the score was Foothill 10, Shilshole 6.

  The Foothill guys got their legs back at the half, and they were stronger off the line in the third quarter. I ran hard, but our blocking wasn't consistent. If I had a sliver of a hole, I'd break a five- or seven-yard run. But if there's nothing there, there's nothing there. Our drives stalled and we had to punt.

  Sometime in the third quarter, the drizzle had become a steady, chilling rain. My body was somehow frozen from the rain at the same time it was hot from my sweat. I didn't let myself feel my own misery. I kept pounding the ball at them, pounding it and pounding it. Early in the fourth quarter, the left side of their defensive line broke. I sliced through them for eight yards, then twelve, then six. I thought Carlson would run right, or maybe throw a pass, but he came back with another running play left. I broke into the secondary and then cut back. A cornerback went for an ankle tackle that I stepped out of. A safety missed me and I was gone, down the sideline and into the end zone for the touchdown that put us ahead. This time Solomon made the extra point, so with seven minutes left in the game, the score was Shilshole 13, Foothill 10.