by Alan Janney
The stadium was massive. A fitting home for Tank. I felt like a human sacrifice being led into the temple bowels. In the locker room, the team stared at the ceiling, envisioning the over-whelming assemblage it would take to make these walls shake. We dressed silently.
Coach addressed us, reviewed the game plan, and we marched out for warm-ups, greeted with swirling jeers. The early fans laughed and caterwauled. The grass was painted in sick shades of green and black, and seats rose to the sky, preventing direct sunlight. Soon, Hidden Spring Eagle fans began populating the visitor section.
My ears pricked when Katie arrived. She came with friends who sheltered and escorted her to safe seats. News broke yesterday about her breakup with Tank, and she’d been ripped apart on social media for twenty-four hours straight, by both the Dragon fans and wanna-be celebrity gossip blogs. For her safety, I wish she hadn’t come.
There were two fights before the game started, both requiring security intervention. Croc and Samantha stood at my shoulders, watching the tussle in the seats.
“These people are idiots,” Samantha grumbled.
Croc grinned. “Chockers with dills and dogs.”
I had no idea what that meant, and I didn’t ask. The crowd roared with delight as Tank finally made his appearance.
He looked like an NBA player standing among middle-schoolers, almost comical. The size differential would be funny if he hadn’t injured multiple players in every game so far, some of them severely. He wasn’t nineteen yet, but he would already be the biggest kid on his college football team.
Tank! Tank! Tank! Tank! Tank! Tank!
Samantha noted, “Carter says he’s pretty much indestructible once his adrenaline is flowing. Strongest person on earth.”
Croc winked. “Maybe we can drown the drungo.”
“That’d work. Too bad we’re in a drought.”
The National Anthem was sung. The crowd belted the song too, one big happy American family. Or not. Soon the referees would call for team captains, but Tank was already there, standing alone at mid-field. Just like last year.
I’d been dreading this.
The crowd screamed and began calling for me. Me! By name! Jack-son! Jack-son! Jack-son! Jack-son!
Croc had to shout, “What’s going on, mate?”
“He did this last year too,” I grunted, grabbing my helmet. “Sort of like a challenge.”
The fever was already burning in Croc’s eyes. “I don’t like this.”
“Just a game.” My mouth twisted into a lopsided and unhappy grin. “Right?”
I left the sidelines and teammates behind, and trotted out to meet Tank. I tried to ignore the forty-thousand-person mob stacked over my head going bonkers.
“I know you took her!” he shouted before I got to him. His eyes were red, his face strained, and his muscles appeared to be constantly flexing and relaxing and flexing. He was…insane. “I know you took her from me!”
“And I know you ran her off the road!” I shot back.
“Did not.”
“Then you paid someone who did!!”
“I know you stole her. On purpose!” Spittle flew from his mouth. Tank was usually a very handsome kid, but not right now.
“Katie can make up her own mind. She doesn’t need my help.”
“I told you I loved her!” The crowd was quieting, probably hoping to hear our conversation, and they would if he kept shouting. “I wasn’t ever going to hurt her!”
“You already did! That’s one of the differences between us.”
“No difference,” he snarled. “We the same.”
“No. You had to possess her. Own her. But I don’t. I love her, no matter what. We’re not the same.”
Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. He placed a big gloved hand over his left ear and pressed, wincing, like he was ignoring a siren. “We the same.”
“You’re in pain. Aren’t you. Your mind. You need help, Tank. Talk to me after the game, and I’ll do what I can.”
“The game. Just a game.” He chuckled, shook his head, and then pulled his helmet on. “Kids die during football games all the time. Just a game.”
Finally the referees approached and called for captains. All the players slapped hands, except Tank and I. We faced off, fuming and hating.
The Eagles won the coin-toss and elected to receive. The Dragons kicked but our returner, a kid named Gavin, couldn’t field it properly. He was pelted with single-A batteries from the stands. The game suspended temporarily as the batteries were retrieved and police investigated.
Then we got the ball and the game began, at last.
Our whole plan was based around Tank. Stay away from the beast. If he lined up to our right, we would run or pass left, and vise-versa. No one could block him, not even Cory, so we wouldn’t even try. Last year, Coach Garrett told us, “Keep Tank away from Chase!” This year, he told us, “Don’t worry about Tank! Beat your man and Chase will keep the ball away from him.”
It worked for a few plays. We didn’t need to change the plan at the line of scrimmage; we all knew. Tank lined up to our left, so I hiked the ball, the players crashed into one another, our running back sprinted to the right. He gained seven yards before Tank and the Dragon linebackers wrestled him down. Tank lined up to our right, so I passed to Josh Magee on the left. Thirteen yards. Again and again, up the field, automatically moving away from Tank, who bellowed like a bull, enraged and impotent.
The Dragon coach sent in new orders: Tank, line up in the middle!
“Hike!” I called, and Tank vaulted over my offensive line. He easily chased down Gavin and knocked the wind out of him. Next play, new running back, same result. Pow! Just like that, we were going backwards. Next play, we had to pass, but Tank gave me no time. He came howling like a freight train; pass or die. I threw it early, and he shoved me down anyway. Incomplete.
Samantha kicked an absurdly easy fifty-yard field goal and the Eagles took a 3-0 lead. Eagle fans yelled and cheerleaders danced. Our team congratulated each other, all except Coach, me, Samantha and Croc.
“How we gonna stop that?” I asked. My jersey was already dirty, which hadn’t happened much this year.
Coach Garrett chomped ardently on his gum. “Working on it, kid.”
“I got ideas, if yours don’t work.”
Croc and the defense took the field. So did Tank. Unlike last year, Tank now played both offense and defense. He was the state’s leading defender and rusher, an absurd fact.
Tripping him was the only option opponents had, and it usually required the whole team. Photos in newspapers captured Tank running with six defenders clinging on. But those teams didn’t have Croc.
Croc prowled the field, using intuition to delve the run’s direction and then attacking. He was no match for Tank physically, but time and again he dove at Tank’s shoes, wrapped them up and spun him down while other Eagles piled on.
“Learned it Down Under,” he would pant later. “Gotta hogtie cattle!”
Despite Croc’s best efforts, the Dragons moved down the field. Tank’s rushes were reduced from fifteen yards per carry (against other teams) down to four (against Croc). But still. That was a lot of yards, and Croc’s vaunted pass-defense was completely absent, so focused was he on Tank.
Tank rumbled and stumbled into the end zone six minutes later. Touchdown Dragons. The fanatics frothed and roared and threw debris onto the field in celebration.
Touchdooooooooown Dragons!
“He’s a battler! That’s bloody hard business!” Croc laughed, limping off the field. “And it didn’t even work!”
“It worked, buddy,” Garrett said. “That lasted almost seven minutes. Usually takes them ninety seconds. Keep it up, kid, and we got a chance. He’ll fumble eventually.”
“God, I don’t want to lose,” Samantha muttered.
We took the field again. Coach put a running back to either side of me and kept the three receivers split wide. “You can toss or throw it either way, jus
t don’t get killed, kiddo!”
I had about one second each play. One second to evaluate what Tank would do and then respond. One second to decide and throw. One second to decide and toss. One second before Tank could murder me legally within the rulebook.
We inch-wormed down the field. Our plan wasn’t elegant or particularly effective. In fact it was exhausting. But it worked well enough to get within field goal range, and we only suffered one injury: Rawls, the back-up running back (Tank wrenched his leg out of socket, which I didn’t know was possible). Between plays, Tank pounded through his helmet at his left ear. He was in pain, or hearing voices. Samantha kicked another field goal, narrowly missing Tank’s fingers as he leapt to block it.
The Dragons got the ball and ended the half by scoring another touchdown. 14-6, Dragons were winning. Each team only got the ball twice, a shockingly low number, because the drives took so long.
In the locker room, Coach Garrett clapped and railed and encouraged the troops. The three of us freaks sat in the back and put our heads together.
“This isn’t fair,” Samantha sighed. “This is a game for teenagers, being decided by monsters.”
“Too right.”
I whispered, “But if the three of us don’t play, all the normal teenagers will get killed by Tank.”
“We’re going to lose anyway,” she grouched.
I said, “I got an idea.”
“Which is?”
“I’m going to play defense.”
Both teams stormed back onto the field, red and green armies invading the same territory. The crowd raved and heaved. The Dragons got the ball first.
I grabbed Caleb by the arm. He was a safety but he was terrified of Tank and reluctant to tackle him. I barked, “Caleb, sit this one out. I’m going in.”
He was so startled and relieved that he made no objection. Croc and I jogged onto the field and into position. It was such an unexpected move that Coach Garrett didn’t even notice. Nor the crowd. Nor Tank.
“Ready brother?” Croc called.
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
The alignments looked odd from this side. But at least I finally got to hit someone.
The Dragons hiked the ball and shoved it into Tank’s arms. He leapt forward, a 375-pound sprinter. From experience, he was ready for Croc. But he wasn’t ready for me.
Boom! I put my shoulder into his ribs like a battering ram and sent him stumbling backwards. His arms flew upwards in surprise.
The ball! The ball came free!
Fumble!
Nothing is as dehumanizing as the animal-pile on top of a loose football, all claws and gouging and screaming. Relatively sane kids turn into werewolves and zombies, bloodthirsty and desperate.
The Eagles recovered and the stadium groaned in disbelief. Tank had fumbled?! He wanted to come after me and tear my head off, but couldn’t; the refs were watching and he’d be ejected. Instead he issued a Jurassic Park roar that sent Croc and I scampering back to our sidelines.
Garrett yapped at me, “The hell you think you’re doing??!”
“Helping, Coach!” I grinned. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re too valuable! You can’t play defense. We need you for the next game.”
“Won’t be a next game if we lose! By the way, I’m installing Croc as my fullback. You call the plays, but I need him.” Before he could sputter a reply, Croc and I joined the huddle on the field. Our offensive players cheered and pounded him on the back.
Tiny little 195-pound Croc couldn’t stop Tank, but he slowed him down. On the first play, Tank came barreling over our line and Croc met him midair; the collision sounded like boulders breaking. Instead of having one second, now I had two. Maybe three. An eternity to throw or run. We started gaining more yards. After each play I pulled Croc out of the dirt. He rose gingerly but with a smile on his face.
“Most fun I ever had, mate!”
Four plays later, Gavin ducked his head and shoved across the goal line.
Touchdown Eagles…
14-13, Dragons still winning. Our contingent of fans was delirious.
Croc looked like he’d been wrestling a tornado. His jersey was torn and unrecognizable from dirt, and his hands and face were bleeding. I knew the vast host of cameras were enjoying his embattled figure; he’d always been photogenic, and now he was a sports hero too.
Samantha told him pointedly, “You keep this up, Mitch, and I might be tempted to rub ointment all over your body later.”
“Only on our honeymoon, sheila!”
Dragons’ ball again. This time Tank was ready. He stomped on Croc and went through me like a Peterbuilt diesel truck. Our impact was so violent I thought he crushed my soul. I tripped him from the ground, and the Eagles piled on but Tank still fell for the first down.
I could hear Katie holding her breath. Not possible, but I could.
Croc and I got back on our feet and did it again. Again he crushed us, almost breaking free for a touchdown. Our combined weight wasn’t much more than his. Another Eagle defender limped to the sidelines, this one holding his shoulder.
Croc grinned wearily. “A corker, ain’t he.”
Coach Garrett paced the sidelines, fists in his hair, watching his quarterback get steamrolled play after play. Samantha clapped and cried encouragement. There’s no way she could help; it would arouse too much suspicion.
We battled to a stalemate and the Dragons kicked a field goal. 17-13, Dragons.
Samantha helped shove chocolate granola bars and apples into our mouths during a pause in the action. “Doing good, boys! Keep it up!”
I gasped, “Why isn’t Tank getting tired??”
“Samantha, love,” Croc said and placed his hand into hers. “Pop my finger back into place, yeah? I get a little squeamish.”
Back onto the field. We bashed and crashed and exchanged punts, moving deep into the fourth quarter. Time wound down and so did our energy, even Tank’s. He moved like a tired lion with a limp. Neither team could score, and Samantha kept booming punts far into the night.
The Eagles got the ball back with two minutes left.
“Do or die, boys,” I croaked in the huddle, all of us bloody and broken. Cory’s eye was swollen shut from an illegal punch.
“Let’s go!” Brad Atkinson yelled. “I want to live forever!”
“Meh,” Croc panted. “S’not that great.”
The final drive was a legendary contest of wills, two minutes of valiant blocking, tackling and running for our lives. Katie would tell me later that, during the last quarter of the game, a mounting sense of apprehension settled over the stadium, an awareness that maybe something else was happening other than a mere football championship. The crowd no longer watched Tank, entranced and entertained, like they once had. Instead, the colossus on the turf, flinging around healthy young men, caused a sense of dread and sick apprehension. Perhaps he was more than just a genetically gifted giant. Something wasn’t right.
“Last play of the game,” Coach Garrett chomped and grinned anxiously. “Ten yards from a touchdown. Ten yards from victory. Want to run it in? You haven’t done that yet.”
I took a deep breath and said, “No. I want to throw it to Josh, in the end zone. Let the normal kids decide the outcome.”
“Normal kids?”
I nodded, still trying to catch my breath. “I’ll throw it up. Whichever team catches it deserves the victory.”
“Hell, son, just make it a good throw.”
“You got it.”
The stadium bawled and thundered, with the players at the base of a massive noise funnel. The world shook beyond my facemask. Katie was whispering prayers and chewing on her thin silver necklace.
Tank dug in like a bull. He wanted to decide this game, to beat me himself. I wasn’t going to let him.
“Hike!” I cried.
Tank and Croc crunched in midair again, fighting and shoving, all kicks, claws and wrath.
The two lines smacked together.
Linebackers howled and raced to cover the running backs.
Josh Magee zipped towards the far corner of the end zone. I lofted the pass towards him, a full half-second before Tank reached me.
He hit me anyway, a tsunami washing over a hill, and we both toppled.
Time expired.
The ball floated forever, arcing over intrusive fingers.
Josh Magee wanted it more. He out-jumped the Dragon defender, hauled the ball in, and landed on his back for a touchdown.
Game over. 19-14, Eagles victory.
We won!
The Dragon band stayed quiet. The prepped fireworks were doused. No eruption of confetti.
And no time for celebration. Tank released a peal of frustrated rage, grabbed me by the facemask, and Threw me. I mean, Threw me! My neck popped painfully and I soared. The stadium spun end over end, ground sky ground sky ground sky, until I landed forty yards away at midfield with an awkward, “Oof!” My impact shoveled up a thick divot in the ground.
The stadium rang in stunned horror. That wasn’t possible. Not even close. Not even human.
Tank grabbed Croc’s limp body by the ankle and hurled him like a discus into the Eagle bench, scattering coaches and players, defying human limitations.
He can’t do that! He shouldn’t be able to do that!
A monster among us!
Madness! The crowd panicked. Dragon coaches timidly tried calming Tank. The loud-speaker announcer stumbled through his post-game rituals. Police came stomping down the stadium steps.
“No no no,” I groaned, watching the world’s reaction; pure fear. “Tank, no!”
He raised a terrified referee by the throat and started to squeeze, but that’s when Samantha Gear arrived. She carried a football helmet by the facemask in each fist, and she cracked one against Tank’s skull. The impact sounded like a gunshot. He dropped the referee as the second helmet shattered against his temple, black and red Eagle colors. He hit her, a sucker punch, and she tumbled backwards into the Dragon coaching staff, who now slowly retreated.
