#1 Out of the Tunnel

by Patrick Jones

  The meeting started with a prayer, and then Mr. Willard spoke for a long, long time. You could tell that unlike my dad, he wasn’t in sales, because he didn’t know when to shut up. He droned on like some history teacher. I tried not to doze off until I heard the words “Tunnel of Love.” No one mentioned the bet—would they speak of it out loud?—but they talked about the different rides in the carnival fund-raiser held the weekend before double sessions began. I listened a little more until they started talking about fund-raising.

  “Let me know if anything interesting happens,” I told Dylan, excusing myself and stepping outside of my room.

  “Shane, it’s BN,” I said quickly into my phone. “No worries, it’s happening again.”

  “Good. But the real question is are the two of you in or out?” Shane snapped.

  “Um, we don’t have that kind of money,” I replied for both Dylan and myself.

  “Ask your dad already.” Shane sounded bored. “Figure it out.”

  I hedged, coughed, and made excuses. I’d told Dylan about the bet, and we decided there was a line and this was it. We’d party some, we’d joke along with Shane and the guys, but we were not doing that. I’d find some other way to repay Stan.

  “What is your problem, Brian?”

  “Look, I don’t have a girlfriend, and—”

  Shane cut me off. “You don’t need one. We’ve got a new bet. Are you in or out?”

  “What are you talking about?” Did he sense the panic in my voice?

  “Just man up,” Shane said.

  “Look, Shane, I appreciate how you’ve helped me and Dylan, but—”

  “It’s not just me. Devon can try harder when Dylan blocks, so Dylan looks great. Or maybe Orlando and Terry don’t get open, so I throw the ball to you more. Coach Z calls most plays, but I make it happen. Once practice starts in August, we can make you two look awesome.”

  “Like I said, thanks for—”

  “Or we can make you look bad,” Shane explained. “We’re going to win with or without you, but with you, we might have a chance of going undefeated. I want that just to rub in Coach Z and Coach Whitson’s faces.”

  “Okay, we’re with you,” I said, unsure of the words as they came out of my mouth. I wished that life had instant replay and I could change the decision I’d just made.

  “Like I said, we do things a little different now, but your dad doesn’t need to know that,” Shane said, sounding more relaxed. “Besides, he was Big Six. He knows the rules of the game.”

  I started to respond when I saw Dylan’s text: Coach Z is talking & he’s a little drunk, get back here ASAP, Dylan wrote.

  I told Shane, who seemed to get a kick out of button-down, always-in-control Coach Zachary slurring his words. “You need the money by the carnival. If not, you’re out.”

  I agreed, hung up, and headed back toward my room. Down on the porch, these men who’d first met in high school ten, twenty, or even thirty years ago still remained friends. Troy football was the cement that bounded them then, now, and forever.

  8 / SATURDAY, AUGUST 4—FRIENDS OF TRQY FOOTBALL CARNIVAL

  “Dad, can I ask you something?” His early morning yawn transformed into a knowing smile.

  “It’s about the carnival and—”

  Bigger smile, too big for his face. “And you’re part of the six starting backs and ends.”

  “So, I need money for, you know.” This was so odd. How could he approve of this?

  Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “What is it now, about twenty each?”

  I stared at the floor. “Two hundred. A hundred for me and a hundred for Dylan.”

  “I didn’t realize things had changed so much.”

  “Dad, it’s something we need to do. You did it. Coach Z too. Now, it’s our turn.”

  Dad’s smile vanished, replaced by a lost-dog frown. My eyes darted back to the floor, in part to hide my knowing smirk. Mom was a language arts teacher and grammar queen, but I wondered if Dad noticed my pronouns: we and our. Whatever doubts I had about the Big Six, the bet, or any of it had washed away with the beer, the babes, and bonding that I did with Shane, Devon, Terry, and Orlando in Columbus. I was one of them.

  “How will you win?” Dad finally spoke. “You don’t even have a girlfriend . . .”

  “It’s different now.” Just how different was something Shane had yet to explain.

  “And more expensive!” Dad joked. “But you don’t mess with tradition. You know I was the one who started that. It was our undefeated year when we won state, something no Troy—”

  “I can’t believe Mom let you do that to her,”

  I said to stop hearing that story yet again.

  “It wasn’t your mother.” His smile turned into a smirk. “It was Coach Zachary’s sister.”

  “We’re in.” I handed Shane the money. Dylan stood behind me, in but not in.

  “Great,” Orlando said to the crowd. He rarely spoke to me directly for some reason.

  “But, Shane, won’t Christina be angry—” I started.

  Shane’s laugher cut me off. “Like I told you at camp, that’s not how we roll now.”

  “That’s your old man’s way of doing things,” Devon said.

  “We’ll modernize the tradition for the twenty-first century,” Shane said, although as he spoke, he seemed distracted by the Troy football fans flocking toward the carnival. The starting ends and backs sat in Shane’s pickup, high above everyone. They all looked up to us: the Big Six.

  “So, we’ll break up into three squads of two people and look for girls,” Shane explained.

  “The younger the better,” Terry said. “They’re easy to convince.”

  “I’m not good at talking to girls,” I said, “let along convincing them to flash people at—”

  Everybody laughed but me and Dylan. “Brian, don’t you get it. That’s old school.”

  “Then what are we convincing them to do?” Dylan asked. I sensed fear in his voice.

  “Brian, you, and me,” Shane said.

  “I’d go with Orlando,” Devon said. “But two black guys together in Troy would scare these nice white country folks. DD, you’re my blocker off the field too. Let’s go meet some ladies.”

  “Let’s meet back here at ten,” Shane said. Lots of nods and grunts, just like a huddle. “Okay, let’s go find some honeys for the pole of love.”

  “Pole?”

  Once again, Shane replied to my question with a laugh, a grin, but no answer.

  “Over there,” Shane pointed at a girl siting alone. “Don’t choke, Brian.”

  I nodded, ashamed. It had taken Shane all of ten minutes to snare the phone number of some incoming ninth grader. Despite being with Shane and wearing a Troy football T-shirt that showed off the muscles I’d been building all summer, I wasn’t having any success. I liked girls just fine; I just couldn’t talk to them, let alone get a phone number and invite them to a party.

  “Look, Brian, maybe I was wrong about you...”

  With a deep breath, I slowly walked over to a girl with dyed red hair. She sat alone just outside the midway games. She had one hand covering her face, the other clutching her stomach.

  “Hey, you okay?” I asked from a respectful distance. She looked up at me.

  “Brian?” she said softly. “It’s Amber. Amber Murphy, from yearbook last year.”

  Shane had more or less said this was my last chance. Maybe I’d have better luck with someone I sort of knew. I took yearbook because it was also on the easy-A list, while people like Amber took it because they were into photography and journalism and stuff.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Wait. I don’t know, everything,” she said through tears. “My boyfriend left, and he—”

  Fortified with pickup lines from Shane, I pounced on her like she was a fumble. “I know this,” I said softly as I sat next to her, hands in pockets to hide the shake. “If I was your boyfriend, you wouldn’t
be sitting alone and you wouldn’t be crying. You’re too pretty to cry.”

  The blush on her face matched the redness of her hair.

  “You need to cheer up, Amber.”

  She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her white long-sleeve T. “How do I do that?”

  “How do I do that, Brian?” My tone of voice was a balance of flirt and fear. She laughed. “There’s a party tomorrow eve, you in?”

  Amber smiled, nodded her head, just enough to say yes.

  “Great. What’s your number?”

  9 / SUNDAY, AUGUST 5—BIG SIX PRE-PRACTICE PARTY

  “Any questions?” Shane asked me and Dylan. When neither of us responded, Shane walked back into the living room of his uncle’s house. His uncle was out of town, and no one was likely to bother the twelve people in his house.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Dylan said, but it was more like a whisper, given the background noise of music, laughter, and quarters bouncing into beer glasses.

  “I know, Dylan, but we’re here, so you have to pretend you tried. You don’t need to win.”

  “I don’t know how you can call any of this winning.”

  I said nothing as I reflected on the rules of the bet that Shane had explained to me and Dylan before the party started. What awaited Amber and five other girls wasn’t a ride down the tunnel of love but a dance with a shiny metal pole.

  “Man up, DD!” I said, which wasn’t fair, since he’d been handling handoffs with a broken thumb. “We’re not kids anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dylan fired back. “That’s all this is—kid stuff. It’s not about football or anything important. Shane’s a spoiled kid getting his way, and the rest of us are helping him. I’m done.”

  “Dylan, this is what we’ve talked about forever. You and me starting for Troy Central. And not just starting—playing positions where we can shine, on a team that might go undefeated. You’re done with all that?”

  Dylan grew quiet, especially given the contrast to the noise in the other room.

  “Look, stay, play the game—you don’t need to win,” I said.

  His lip curled in disgust. “Brian, trust me. Nobody wins on this. Nobody,” he said as he walked not toward the back door but back into the living room, where games, girls, and opportunities awaited. Dylan was normally right about lots of things, but he was wrong. Somebody would win. Me.

  10 / WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8—FIRST DAY OF DOUBLE SESSION PRACTICES

  “Gentleman, if you don’t believe in heaven, you will after these next two weeks, because you’re about to spend your time in hell,” Coach Z announced to the fifty-plus hopefuls.

  For the first time since fourth grade, I listened to a football coach’s opening practice speech without Dylan by my side. He’d stayed at the party but left after I’d won the bet and maintained the Troy Central High football tradition. I’d texted him many times since, but he hadn’t replied.

  “I recognize almost all of you,” Coach Z bellowed. “That’s good. It means you followed the coaching staff’s instructions to attend conditioning, lifting, and skill drills.”

  “But if you thought that was hard, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” Coach Colby added.

  “I’ve spoken with the office, and it seems a few of you can’t follow instructions,” Coach Z said. I tried to guess who he was looking at, but he’d yet to hit anyone with his death glare. “Before you can practice, you needed to turn in paperwork documenting you’d had a physical; the health questionnaire; the parental consent form; the signed code of conduct; and most importantly, a check for three hundred dollars made out to the school athletic department.”

  There was a small murmur, mainly from the kids without jerseys. Those of us from the team last year brought ours from home, sparkling clean. Not because we hadn’t worn them all summer but because we knew Coach Z liked it that way. What he liked, we liked.

  “We need that money to maintain the program,” Coach Z said. “I know that is a lot for some of you, but it must be paid. Heck, I bet some of you can pay it out of pocket right now.”

  I was halfway into another seven a.m. yawn when I sensed something was wrong. I opened my eyes and Coach Z stood directly in front of me and repeated, “Pay it out of pocket.”

  Was the sun in his eyes, or did he just wink at me? Behind me, I heard Shane and our crew laugh.

  “There’s nothing funny about double sessions, ladies,” Coach Whitson snapped.

  “For you newbies, here’s how we run things,” Coach Z said as he walked away from me, allowing the sun to hit my face again. Did he know I won the bet?

  “Double sessions are mandatory practices. In the morning, we start with conditioning, drills, and then we scrimmage, starting day one. You get better at playing football by playing football. But also by talking football, so we’ll meet as a team, and then coaches will break you up and meet with you in smaller groups. There, you’ll listen with your ears, not your mouth.”

  Each of the eight coaches stood behind Coach Z, posed like clones: arms crossed, lips pursed, and chins held high. They wore silver whistles around their necks, blue and gold Trojan football T-shirts, and steely glares of determination that would scare any child.

  “Practice starts at seven, and we go until noon,” Coach Z explained—spelling it out for those unable to read the handbook, I suppose. “We’re back at five and go until eight. If you miss a practice, you’d better have a dead relative going in the ground or a broken bone sticking out of your skin.”

  A couple of people laughed, but I didn’t. I thought about Dylan’s broken thumb and our busted friendship. One would heal with time. What would it take to mend the other?

  “Football is a sport of mental and physical preparation, so double sessions are key to preparing for the season,” Coach Z continued. “You’ll get a playbook at noon today. Between sessions, I’d better see your eyes focused on that playbook and not on your phones.”

  Terry jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. “He wouldn’t say that if he knew.”

  As Coach Z rambled on about teamwork, fellowship, and sportsmanship, my mind wasn’t on him or even football. It centered on the photo on my phone, on the phones of each member of the Big Six. In that photo from the party, Amber clutched onto the silver pole with both hands. She wore a drunken stare on her face and nothing else.

  11 / THURSDAY, AUGUST 16—END OF LAST DAY OF DOUBLE SESSIONS

  “Congratulations, Dylan!” I shouted as Dylan walked from our final practice. He walked with his head held high, having played the most minutes at fullback. Lots of Troy ninth graders walked head down, ashamed at not making varsity.

  “I said congratulations, Dylan!” I ran to catch up with him. The equipment over my shoulder didn’t slow me down. I’d grown stronger and faster this practice season, not just from hard work but also from getting my minutes. And the better I played, the more I played, thanks to the Big Six.

  “What do you want, 75?” Dylan snapped when I caught up with him.

  “What’s with the attitude?” I asked. “I’m a number to you now?”

  “It’s a good number.” Dylan smiled, in spite of himself, I think. Coach Quinn, who handled uniforms, had told me since I was playing tight end, I needed a new number. I chose 75 because of the interstate that ran through Troy. It was a prized pick for a junior like me.

  I tried to smile back at Dylan. All I needed was for him to ask a question, and everything would be back to normal. He must have sensed it. “Are you guys all mad at me?”

  I paused, but Dylan waited me out. He fiddled with tape around his thumb while I stalled for an answer. It was clear to Shane and our crew that two things had happened to Dylan over the past month. First, while we were away in Columbus building skills and our friendship, Dylan was back in Troy building muscle but not losing speed. A decent fill-in fullback on short yardage last year, Dylan had become a bulldozer blocker who could also run like a jaguar after a handoff. Mike, Oscar, Ian—nobody who tried for
fullback was better. And Dylan’s new skills made Shane and Devon look better too. Because teams would fear both backs, they’d pinch the D at the line, and that made Orlando, Terry, and me more dangerous.

  “Well? It’s a yes-or-no question,” Dylan pressed.

  And I knew the answer: me, Shane, and the others—we were the Big Five. Dylan would never find a way back in. The silver pole had broken his back. I started to explain all of this to Dylan, tripping over my words like some nervous actor in one of the plays Mom put on.

  “Look, Brian, I don’t care about Shane or the rest of them except as teammates,” Dylan said. “But you and I, bro, we’ve got a lot of years. Doesn’t that count?”

  “It would be easier for me, Dylan, if you’d just go along with—”

  Dylan shook his head. “I won’t tell on you all. But I won’t do any more of that Big Six stuff.”

  I didn’t get far in my reply, because Mike suddenly appeared from behind, greeting us both with a way-too-hard back slap. I can’t blame him for being angry at us since Dylan and I earned both of the jobs he’d tried out for.

  “What’s up, Mike?” I said. “Hey, sorry you’re not starting, but like last year, maybe somebody—”

  “It sucks,” Mike said, but he didn’t sound that sad or angry. “It would’ve been so cool.”

  “Nah,” I started, “it’s a lot of pressure when you start, because—”

  He waved me off. “No, cool to be Big Six. Football’s fun, but wow, you guys.”

  Dylan shook his head. “It’s not all that you’ve heard, trust me.”

  Mike laughed. “It looks like it’s better. Like that Tunnel of Love thing. Lots of us waited by the carnival ride, but what you guys did instead was even better.”

  Mike grinned and flashed his phone at us. I didn’t say a word as I stared at the nude photo of Amber on his screen.

  12 / FRIDAY, AUGUST 17—HOME SCRIMMAGE

  “Twenty-two red dog. On three, go.”

  Shane had to shout in the huddle over the roar of the crowd. We had more people watching our first scrimmage than some teams in our division had for homecoming. Mr. Willard had decided to charge admission this year, but it didn’t seem to matter.