9 / SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23—STATE PLAYOFF GAME VS. CLINTON TIGERS
Since the Division I state playoffs and finals in Ohio are always played on Saturdays, and we didn’t have too far to travel, we bused in from Troy that morning and watched the lower divisions play ahead of us. I won’t lie. I was walking on the clouds. Coach Z told me the night before that the start would be mine, and judging from the look on Ian McNamara’s face, he knew I was the man. All the work, all the extra time and sweat and sore muscles, all the stress—it would all pay off today. I could feel it.
We won the toss and elected to receive. Coach Z sent in Orlando Green, our star wide receiver, to bring back the kickoff. Orlando has a kind of speed I can only dream of—and, man, did he ever shine that day. He dodged and pivoted, got blocks in all the right places, and brought the ball back to our forty-five.
I lined up behind Shane as the crowd started to turn up the noise. These first couple plays were just blocks for me, opportunities for Shane to test Clinton’s pass coverage. Nothing doing. Clinton’s guys were all over Orlando, and Shane had to settle for connecting with Terry for a few yards on second down.
Third and five at midfield. My turn. I took the handoff from Shane and sprinted outside, pumping my legs like my life depended on it. A huge Tiger linebacker came at me. I dodged inside, then broke a tackle from my left. Orlando made a fantastic block for me—you gotta love a wide receiver who puts it on the line for a back. And there it was, wide-open field stretched out like a long green ribbon in front of me. Two guys on my heels, but I left them wondering what had just happened. My cleats pounded the turf to the thirty... the twenty... No stopping me now. Yes! Trojans up, six–zero.
“Red Hot! Red Hot! Red Hot!” the crowd cheered. I pictured Charise up there among them, knowing this touchdown was just for her.
Everybody’s got a different style when they score. I keep it mellow. None of that showboating in the end zone. I’ve seen guys do their little dances, pat themselves on the back, bow to the crowd. It’s all about making themselves look good. I’d rather drop the ball and high-five my teammates. The glory is the same. The only difference is how much class you exhibit while you bask in the moment.
Seconds later, I punched through for the two-point conversion—Ian’s signature play—and I wondered if he was cheering or fuming on the sidelines. Eight to zip.
From there, the game turned into a cake walk. The Tigers just didn’t have it. They dropped passes, fumbled twice, and generally made themselves look more like a JV squad than a state championship contender. I scored again in the second quarter, and Orlando pulled in a touchdown as well. Score at halftime: Troy, twenty-four; Clinton, three.
In the locker room, Coach Z applauded us for kicking butt—then reminded us that a twenty-one-point lead can evaporate in minutes.
“Don’t get arrogant,” he said. “Don’t think ahead. Get today’s job done today.”
As if to prove his point, Clinton put together an opening drive that led to a touchdown. But Shane answered a few plays later with a long, sweet pass to Orlando that put us up by twenty. Then I got my second score, a quick slant run from the five. Clinton managed another field goal, but we answered with a touchdown yet again to make it Troy, forty-five; Clinton, thirteen.
After that, it was all clock management. Clinton needed three touchdowns to win or even just to tie, and with nine minutes to go, their chances were lousy. Shane kept the ball on the ground, giving Dylan and Terry and me plenty of opportunities to carry. We ended up adding another TD plus two points along the way. Clinton was too rattled to respond—they never scored again after the third quarter.
We were in. We were going to state.
We were going to state!
10 / SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23—AT HOME
I don’t think I really knew what the word bittersweet meant until that moment. We were going to the finals—something I’d dreamed of doing since Coach Z’s Half Backs youth camp. And it was happening in my sophomore year. Not only that, but I’d played a key part in getting us there. Yeah, this was some kind of sweetness.
But the bitter? Knowing I didn’t do it on my own. Knowing we didn’t do it on our own. I mean, come on, a big chunk of the offense was juicing! Even if some of the guys on the other teams were doing it too, like Coach Kramer was always saying, we’d never know whether our victories came out of our ability, our guts, and our desire—or a pill bottle and a syringe.
We’d never know if we would have won without the juice. Without cheating.
I couldn’t fall asleep that night. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed about needles, dozens of discarded syringes with some kind of foul green liquid dripping from the tips. I woke with a jerk to find myself covered in sweat. It was three a.m.
I sat up in bed and turned on the light. Marion Motley gazed back at me from my desk. I wondered if they had the juice back in the 1940s and 1950s. Would Motley have taken it?
Something in my heart told me no.
The next day, we had team practice followed by Elite Warriors. No break on Sunday for a team that’s going to state. When Coach Kramer called us to line up for our supplements—he’d switched us back to the pills again—I got in line like usual. But when my turn came, I looked him in the eye and cleared my throat.
“No, thank you, sir,” I said.
“Whoa,” one of the other guys said in a low voice—Terry, I think. And then there was silence.
“It’s not optional, Burns,” Coach said.
“No, thank you, sir,” I repeated.
Coach Kramer got up in my face and stared me down. I’d never noticed how beady his eyes were. Beady and greenish, like a snake’s.
“Son, let me just make sure that you understand the choice you’re making here,” he said. “You are on a conditioning program as a high-potential playmaker for this football team. You deviate from that program, there is no going back. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir. I just don’t think—”
“That’s right. You don’t think. I’m talking no more Elite Warriors. I’m talking no spot in the starting lineup at state. I say the word; Coach Z gives that slot to McNamara. And I will say the word.” His face was turning redder with every syllable.
“I’d rather go back to second string than do something that’s not right, sir.”
“Second string? Second string?” he sputtered. “Burns, you will be wishing you could get back to second string if you leave this program. You’ll be lucky if you get any minutes at state at all.”
The longer I listened, the madder I got. Did Coach Kramer really think he had the right to keep me off the field for deciding not to juice?
He put his finger right in my face. I stepped back. He stepped forward.
“You want to talk about what’s not right? Not right is you disregarding your obligation to this team, Burns. Not right is you claiming some glory while it’s easy, then turning your back on your teammates and your coach when you start feel a little uncomfortable. Not right is—”
I’d heard enough. I turned around and walked away. I figured he’d keep yelling at me, but it was deadly quiet. As I made my way out of the locker room, he spoke one more time.
“McNamara,” he said, keeping it loud. “You ready to see some action, son?”
I didn’t have to wait to hear how that conversation turned out.
11 / TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26—FOUR DAYS BEFORE STATE FINALS
I woke up feeling like somebody had taken an ice-cream scoop to the inside of my skull. And I was tired. Not football tired, not getting-sick tired, but a new kind of tired, something I’d never felt before. My whole body felt heavy, like my muscles just weren’t interested in doing their job. Every step felt like walking through quicksand. Or molasses. Something thicker and stronger than I was.
All I wanted to do was go back to bed.
Maybe I was getting the flu, I thought. It was lousy timing. Not only did we have intensive practices all week to prep for state,
I had a biology test that morning. And I had to be on my game academically if I wanted to keep my parents from putting me in tutoring.
I popped a couple of Advil on the way to school and reviewed my notes from class while Mama drove. She nodded approvingly.
“That’s my son,” she said. “Darius, I’m so proud of the way you’re making school your top priority even though football’s taking up so much of your time.”
If only she knew. I’d fallen asleep at my desk the night before while studying for today’s test. Even a B minus seemed out of reach, much less the kind of grade my parents expected.
Why is it that the hardest classes are always early in the day? No lunchtime or study hall to help me get ready. I’d just have to wing it.
Ms. Winthrop passed out the tests and warned us to keep quiet, keep our eyes on our own paper, all the usual stuff. My headache felt worse than ever, and now I felt a stabbing pain in my gut too. I tried to focus on the words in front of me. Plants...yeah. Photosynthesis. Okay, I knew that one.
Stamen. Anther. Xylem. I was pretty sure the stamen was the skinny part in the middle of the flower, but otherwise, I was lost. It might as well have been Greek.
Come on, Darius! I rubbed my temples. You know this stuff. You studied. Well, you studied some. Remember? Come on, picture the textbook. Picture the words.
No good. I just needed to close my eyes for a minute. Let this headache pass.
Next thing I knew, somebody was ringing a cowbell right next to my ear. I opened my eyes, blinked a few times, and saw everybody around me passing their tests forward.
The cowbell wasn’t a cowbell. It was the buzzer to signal the end of class.
I looked down at my paper. One definition filled in. The rest, blank. And a nice little puddle of drool right where I’d written my name.
I’d slept the entire period.
“Darius?” Ms. Winthrop stood over me, looking expectant.
“Um...” I scrambled for a strategy. “I’m feeling sick, Ms. Winthrop. Like, really sick.” Actually, that wasn’t a strategy. Just the truth.
She frowned. “I see. Well, let me write you a pass to the nurse. We’ll discuss your exam later.”
I let out my breath in a hiss. Biology tutor, here I come.
It wasn’t until I was sitting in the nurse’s office with a thermometer stuck in my mouth that I understood what might be happening to me. I pulled out my phone and searched “steroid withdrawal.” There it was: fatigue, headache, nausea, abdominal pain...the list went on and on.
The best part? Going off steroids all at once, without tapering the dose, could be life-threatening.
Too bad Coach Kramer hadn’t bothered to mention that. A flunked test was nothing. I’d be lucky if I didn’t end up in the hospital.
12 / WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 27—LOCKER ROOM, BEFORE PRACTICE
It wasn’t me who wound up in an ambulance, though.
The whole locker room was buzzing. Ian had gone down on the way to school that morning—just passed out right in the street. Paramedics revived him and took him to the hospital. Rumor was he had heart palpitations. Coach Z promised to keep us posted, but nobody could focus in practice that day.
It looked like I might be starting in state after all. Not that I wanted it to happen this way. I tried to imagine how Ian must be feeling. Was he scared? Angry? Did he feel like he was to blame for putting his parents through a world of hurt and worry?
The next day, Coach Z told us McNamara had improved. His doctor was keeping him in the hospital for observation, but he could have visitors.
Curtis drove me to see him after practice. “I’d come in with you,” he said as he pulled up to the main entrance, “but hospitals give me the creeps.”
“You and me both,” I said. “Thanks for the ride, bro.” We bumped fists, and I got out of the car.
Troy General Hospital must have been built in the 1970s, maybe earlier. It had a dated look, with ancient orange chairs in the waiting rooms and chipped tile floors underfoot. Even the walls looked tired, like nobody could pause long enough in the chaos of caring for patients to slap a fresh coat of paint over the dinginess.
I wandered among people in scrubs hurrying down corridors, visitors looking dazed and sometimes grieved, and the occasional patient being pushed in a wheelchair.
What was I doing here?
It wasn’t that Ian was a friend, obviously. It wasn’t even that he was a teammate, though that was part of it.
It was because of the juicing that I needed to see him. It was knowing that it could have been me lying in that hospital bed. Still could be, for that matter.
I found him on the sixth floor in a semiprivate room with an old man snoring in the other bed. He looked surprised to see me. His mom got up from the chair beside his bed and murmured something about going down to the cafeteria for dinner.
“Darius,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Hadn’t expected you to show up here.”
“Hey, Ian.” I put out my fist. He hesitated a moment, then pulled his hand out from under the covers and gave me a bump. A gadget was clipped to one of his fingers, with a cord leading to one of the machines beside the bed. A hospital bracelet wrapped around his wrist.
“Dude, you look hot in that gown.” I cracked a grin, and McNamara laughed and told me to watch it. After that, talking to him got easier. I told him about practice, how everyone was asking about him and hoping he was okay.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” he said after a few minutes. “I mean, I’m fine now. I can’t believe they’re gonna keep my butt in this bed and make me miss state.”
“Sucks, man,” I said. “I guess you gave the docs a scare, huh.”
“Well, I did pass out. So, yeah, everyone was pretty freaked out. But I’m fine now. It’s just, you know, my parents want to be cautious, and the doctor says no way is he authorizing me to play football until I’ve had a few weeks with no further incidents.” He rolled his eyes.
I tried to imagine what it would be like, losing the chance to start at state. Then I realized I already knew exactly what that was like.
I lowered my voice. “What happened to you? Do they think it was because of—”
He cut me off. “Nobody knows about that. At least, not yet. But they’re testing my blood for everything they can think of. So they’ll know soon.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Nothing!” he said, scowling. “Not a thing. They can’t make me tell them where I got it. No way am I gonna let them find out, either.”
I had to admire his loyalty to Coach Kramer. I wondered what I’d do in the same position.
“Look,” I said, “I read online about the side effects. They said you had heart palpitations, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it was probably the juice that did it. And it could have been a lot worse.”
“What’s your point, Burns? You think I should rat out Coach Kramer?”
I shook my head. “I just hope you’ll turn him down if he wants you to keep doing it. That’s all.”
Ian exploded. “You don’t get it, do you? You aren’t gonna have to worry about me juicing, Burns, because once that blood test comes back, I’m through. It’ll get reported to the state athletic board, and they’ll ban me. Probably for good.”
It took me a minute to process his words. Banned from football? For good? But it wasn’t Ian’s fault, not really. We were all under a lot of pressure from a guy who held a ton of power over us. A guy we should’ve been able to trust.
“I’m sorry, man.” I tried to look him in the eye, but he turned toward the guy in the next bed, who had kept snoring through the yelling.
“Whatever. Enjoy starting at state.”
“I—”
“In my spot. Which, by the way, I earned. You quit the Elite. I stuck with them, and I earned the start. Now it’s all for nothing.”
I just stood there. He was wrong—the starting spot was rightfully mine. Wasn’t it? Besides, I had
good reasons for quitting the juice when I did. It was only the twisted logic of Coach Kramer that said I’d taken the easy way out.
This was no time to argue ethics, though.
“Just feel better, Ian,” I said. “Take care.”
I didn’t wait for another blowup, just turned and left the room. The headache I’d been fighting all day throbbed inside my skull. What had I been thinking, coming to see Ian? Of course he was angry at me. I would be too in his position.
Suddenly, all I wanted was to get out of that stupid hospital. I rounded a corner too quickly and smacked into a big guy.
“Watch it!” he barked.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Then I realized who I was talking to. It was Coach Kramer.
We locked eyes for a minute.
“No worries, Coach,” I said in a low voice dripping with sarcasm. “He’s not gonna give anything away. Your secret is safe.”
His beady green eyes narrowed. “You watch your mouth, Burns.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. And then, because I knew he could cause me plenty of trouble with Coach Z, I added, “Sir.”
“Out of my way.”
I’d made my point. I stepped aside and stared as my coach’s back as he went to visit the guy he’d put in the hospital.
13 / SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30—STATE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME DAY
The state championship game for our division takes place in Canton, home of the Pro Football Hall of Fame and Fawcett Stadium. We bused in the day before—the whole team got the day off school, along with the cheerleaders—and spent the night in a hotel.
A bunch of the guys went out for pizza with the coaches, followed by a swim party with the girls at the hotel’s indoor pool, but I begged off. All I wanted to do was sleep.
And then it was game day. It all came down to this. We’d go home tonight as champs or losers, no in-betweens.
In the morning, we held a short practice to get a feel for the stadium and the field. Nothing too strenuous, though I think Coach could’ve had us run suicides and still had a team that was ready for more punishment against the Athens High Raiders.
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