Gabby had called the crowd hypocrites at the top of her lungs, and she was right. Everyone who sang the praises of a system that bulldozed people like Marion was complicit. I was complicit in continuing the cycle if I stood for the anthem. I’d made my choice, but it wasn’t really a choice at all.
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air.
My legs bent and I sank to the ground, feeling the crinkle of grass beneath my shin as I took a knee.
11
My heart hammered in my chest, and my hands were shaking well after the home of the brave echoed through the stadium. My legs trembled so fiercely I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get up. I pushed off the ground with both hands, willing my strength to return. Darrell gripped me underneath my elbow and tugged me up the rest of the way.
“You done it now.” He grabbed my arm tighter as he gazed at the opposing stands. They were frothing with more rage than before. Security guards rushed to the other side of the field, where a Shreveport fan was trying to breach the gates leading to the turf. Other men stood behind him, red-faced and energized as they waved their fists at us.
Coach was livid. The vein in his forehead throbbed as he threw his headset on the ground. A muffled curse escaped Darrell’s lips before he spat on the turf. When he saw Fontenot making his way toward us, his eyes grew wide. “Incoming.”
“What in the Sam Hill?” Coach barked as he rumbled down the line. “Russell, have you lost your damn mind?”
“Have I lost my mind?” I gulped but managed to hold my chin up. I pointed to the stands, at the police reinforcing the left gate with their bodies. “Listen to them, Coach!”
Lock him up! Lock him up! Lock him up!
“We can’t let them get away with what they did to Dante Maynard or to Marion. This system is—”
“Unfair?” He lifted his eyebrows and let out a humorless chuckle. “Hell, we all know that. But I said keep a low profile. I said don’t give the refs a reason to rain fury down on us. I told you to lead by example. And you just made things a lot harder for yourself. You’re cutting your team off at the knees!”
He wiped his brow with his forearm and looked across the field, his eyes flitting in panic as he watched the head referee and the opposing coach gather in the center. My teammates packed in close, encircling us. Some of their faces echoed Coach’s frustration, and I was afraid to look them in the eyes. I hung my head.
“Ain’t no room for personal agendas in the game.” He rammed his finger toward the bench. “Ain’t no way you’re going out on my field.”
My jaw slackened as I failed to find my words. Coach was taking me out of the game before it even started. My eyes burned with bitter tears as I stepped over the painted line on the grass separating the field of play and the sidelines. First Marion’s disappearance, then Shreveport’s heckles, and now this?
Sinking to the bench, I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my lip from trembling. Indignation and shame swirled in my belly, settling into an anger that smoldered as I continued listening to the crowd’s jeers. They could crucify us, and Coach was punishing me? I thought he would understand since he was Black, but I was wrong. I buried my head in my hand, frustrated with my own powerlessness.
After kickoff, our backup quarterback jogged to his place on the field. Dwarfed by the meaty linemen on Shreveport’s side, Ricky was clearly much smaller and younger than the majority of the senior players. He called a huddle, and the Jackals on the field gathered around him. I prayed he could hold his own. A quarterback needed to have a firm lead on the play.
I should be out there. Marion too. It’s so unfair.
The huddle broke, and the formation set. My nails dug into the bottom of the wooden bench as I gripped the edge harder. At the blare of the whistle, the two sides collided for the first play. One by one, the Jackals succumbed to tackles by Shreveport, who had obviously anticipated Ricky’s play. Unable to find an open running back, Ricky panicked and tried to run the ball himself. His small legs were no match for the defensive lineman, who snaked his arm around his waist and threw him to the ground. Ricky hit the ground hard, a true sack.
“Come on, Coach!” I hopped off the bench instinctively, hoping that Coach Fontenot would finally let me play.
“Sit down!” he yelled from down the line. By the way his eyes narrowed, I knew he meant it.
Darrell tossed his receiving glove at me, and it hit me right in the chin.
“Bro, sit your ass down.” He frowned, beads of sweat running down his face. “You can’t fix this tonight.”
I caught Clayton and Gabby in the corner of my eye, and for a moment, my clenched muscles relaxed. Gabby’s natural hair bobbed with the wind as she jumped up and down and clapped in my direction. She didn’t know a thing about football—probably didn’t know we were playing like crap tonight. But she was still excited, still on my side. It was ridiculous enough to make me smile. But only for a minute.
The sacks happened again and again—every play we ran ended incomplete. It ended with an embarrassing fumble of the ball that the other team caught. Watching my team fall apart against Shreveport was torture. Every time one of their players ran to the other side of the field, my stomach churned like I was gonna puke.
And if there were any recruiters in the stands, I could only imagine what they thought of us. There was no way any of us would get Division 1 scholarships playing like amateurs. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be noticed from the bench.
But there was someone who would see me—Pops.
I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see his face, but I could almost feel his cold, steely eyes boring into my back. I turned around, looking to my parents’ seats beside the announcer’s stand, and my chest tightened. They weren’t there. Another pair of spectators stood in their place, as if my parents had left the game and given up their spots.
Oh, shit.
As much as it usually embarrassed me, Pops was always rooting for me—screaming louder than anyone else in the audience. Of course, his enthusiasm often got him into trouble. Coach said he was sometimes too involved in the game. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d looked to the stands and hadn’t seen one of my parents. Now, in the wake of his silence, I felt more alone than ever.
Had they left because I took a knee? Or because I was benched? Either way, it wasn’t good, and I wondered what I would face when I got home.
* * *
In the locker room after the game, I knelt to untie the laces on my cleats. They were clean and tidy, the mark of an unused player—a benchwarmer. I wanted to throw them against the wall, I was so angry at not having played. But I kept my cool. That was expected of a team captain.
I peeled off my pristine uniform, unblemished from an evening of sitting and watching. I’d never ended a game without a mark on my uniform. And I’d never ended a game feeling so fractured with my teammates.
I set my cleats on top of Darrell’s duffel bag straps—an honest mistake in such close quarters. But his blood was hot from a rough game, and his rage was searching for release. He snatched his bag straps from under my shoes.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I knew what a hothead Darrell could be and wanted to douse his temper before he got started.
“Yeah, you should be.” Darrell slammed his fist on the metal grating of his cubby.
“What’d you say?” I whipped around, irritated at his level of disrespect. I narrowed my eyes, warning him to tread carefully.
“You heard me.” He stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides. His chest heaved as he breathed deeply. “You should be sorry for costing us the game.”
“Oh, so your interceptions are now my fault?”
He lunged across the aisle, hands outstretched. He collided with me so hard that my back banged into my locker. I shoved him back, and he stumbled over the locker room bench. I crouched, ready for his next move but
hoping he would leave it there.
Darrell had a right to be upset, but so did I. I’d lost big tonight—in more ways than one. But I wasn’t going to take this lying down. I was prepared for a fight...but Terrance stepped between us.
“Ain’t gonna be no more drama tonight.” Terrance held his arms out. He looked from Darrell to me to make sure we heard him.
“No. Let’s lay this all out on the table.” Darrell shook his head, then turned to the rest of the team. “This fool cost us tonight’s game.”
“Shut up, D!” I stepped forward, pushing into Terrance’s outstretched palm. “Westmond cost us the game last week, and we still payin’ for it.”
Our game this week was lost the second I was called a nigga by a white boy who received absolutely no discipline—while Marion took those punches and ended up in handcuffs. Meanwhile, we’d been deprived of our most valuable player. But Darrell wasn’t hearing any of it.
“You ain’t fool nobody. What you did was selfish as hell. You knew exactly what would happen. You knew Coach would be pissed off. You knew that would rile Shreveport up. And you still did it.” He pressed his index finger to his temple. “Think about it. You could have written an Instagram post. You could have talked to the reporters after the game. You could have done literally anything else, but you weren’t thinking. So, you realize this is your fault, right?”
“Are you forgetting what happened to Marion? He was jailed by the same cop who shot and killed a kid five weeks ago.” I raised my chin so that my voice carried to the far corners of the vast locker room. “Have you ever stopped to think how scary that must have been? And you’re over here talking about how terrible losing tonight’s game is. Shit. You could lose a whole lot more. Dante did. Marion did. Who’s it going to be next?”
“You could’ve given us a heads-up,” Terrance said, letting his role as mediator fall to the wayside. “We could have chosen another time.”
“Yeah, why you do this when we’re down a member?” Darrell flared his nostrils, bobbing his head to the side. “You the captain. Supposed to think about the team.”
“I am thinking about the team. And the team should think about its members. Or have y’all already written Marion off?” I stepped toward Darrell, daring him to contradict me. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m not about to stand quietly while a murderer is policing our streets and while those white people are yelling to lock us up. Man, y’all are trippin’.”
“All I’m saying is that tonight we were down two players!” Darrell paced in the small space along the line of lockers. “You think you ’bout to save us from the system? Man, you didn’t do nothing but make things worse.”
I wanted to call them cowards. I couldn’t believe they were turning against me like this. But I left it there because it was overwhelming to feel my team—my family—turn against me when I needed them the most.
“Whatever, dude.” I waved a hand dismissively. “I can’t with you right now.”
I snatched my bag off floor and barreled toward him, clipping his shoulder before making my way down the hall. Alone.
12
The Jackson Jackals bus dropped us off at our school, and I quickly shuffled to my car, doing my best to avoid Darrell. I flipped my hoodie up and turned the keys in the ignition, eager to put distance between me and football for a while. The Civic’s headlights whipped through the spindly trees, which looked almost bald without all their leaves. The weather was shifting, the wind picking up. I cranked the heater to full blast, fighting the early crispness this September night promised to bring. The vents blew out cool air—exactly the opposite of what I needed.
Nothing was going right tonight.
Darrell’s words taunted me, demanding my attention. I gripped the steering wheel so tight, my knuckles turned white.
You realize this is your fault, right?
In the confines of my car, separated from my anger toward Darrell, I let the wave of guilt rush through me. Part of me was mad my brothers had turned against me, but I could not deny the doubt that had settled in my heart. Had I really done the right thing?
I feared the truth in Darrell’s statements—I had acted alone and impulsively, and those actions had spoiled our team’s chances to win against Shreveport on their home turf. Then I unearthed a deeper worry, something I’d allowed myself to bury deep within myself.
Was Marion’s arrest my fault too?
I’d been standing right next to him when Brad and Lawrence provoked him. I could have deescalated the situation instead of getting angry at Lawrence’s call to a nigga. I could have held him back when Brad kneed him in the gut. I could have bowed and backed up and apologized for things I didn’t do or say or mean, because that’s what a Black man in America was supposed to do. But I hadn’t done any of that.
I wasn’t about that life.
At the few stoplights Monroe had to offer, I resisted the urge to check my phone, which was too quiet. After a game, I usually heard from people at school—classmates from study hall, random kids from my classes, teammates texting about an after-party. I usually got something. But tonight—nothing.
And still nothing from Marion.
My car’s tires crept over the loose gravel of my driveway until I was parked right behind my dad’s truck. The lights were on in the kitchen, and Mama milled about, as if she was in the middle of cooking. They’d clearly been home for a while, confirming my suspicion that they’d left the stadium early. Still, I touched the hood of my dad’s truck just to make sure. It was cold. They must have left the game hours ago.
Foolish—that’s what Pops thought about Kaepernick, and he probably thought I was foolish too.
If I had more faith in the Civic, I’d have stretched the drive longer—maybe stopped at the diner for food. Anything was better than walking into the white-hot anger of Pops. But I was here now. I knew they’d heard me pull up. There was no turning back.
I took cautious steps up the porch, wondering if I could handle another tongue-lashing. Darrell had let me have it. And I expected nothing less from Pops. But before I could reach for the handle, a clatter drew my attention to the corner of the house. I approached with caution as I rounded the corner.
The light was on in the shed, a makeshift workshop my dad used for storage and odd projects. I tapped on the cloudy glass and received a grunt in response.
“Pops, you in here?” I leaned my ear closer and received another grumble. My forehead sank to the windowpane. “Look I—”
“Don’t wanna hear it.” His voice was followed by another clatter against the wall.
I pushed the door open, wondering what was making that noise. Nails dotted the workbench along the wall and the surrounding floor. Dad had a careful, steady hand when he did his work. He was obviously rattled enough to spill a can of nails. My actions tonight had unnerved him.
“Tread carefully,” he said, glaring up at me, and I wasn’t sure if he meant to watch out for the nails on the ground or the splinters in his voice. Maybe it was a little of both, so I stayed on the other side of the threshold.
“I’m sure you heard we lost the game.” I tossed my bag on the ground, imagining it was my whole football career. I was still on the fence about kneeling, my confidence shaken by the team turning against me. It didn’t quite feel like the right thing to have done, especially now that I was facing my dad’s disappointment.
It didn’t feel right to be silent either.
I kicked my duffel, feeling defeated—feeling like I could do nothing right. My dad’s head popped up so fast, it startled me.
“You know what I see when I look at that uniform? When I look at your duffel you tossed on the ground and kicked?” He wiped his hands on his gray work clothing and stepped closer. “That’s years of overtime in that bag. That’s my bad back from leaning over toilets.”
“I know you’ve sacrificed a lot
for me.” I inhaled sharply, unsure what to say. Countless times I’d heard the front door squeak open late at night, the sound of Pops’s work boots shuffling down the hall to my parents’ room. He took every call, every job he could get to keep the lights on. “Believe me, I know.”
“Do you?” He raised his eyebrows, then walked to the workbench and picked up a crumpled piece of paper. “Eleven years of football and hundreds of dollars a year, plus the cost of at least a dozen cleats along the way, plus various other expenses.”
“So what? You think that was a waste of money?”
“It didn’t look like a good investment tonight.”
My lips clamped down on the silence. I was unable to find words. I wanted to offer to pay him back every cent. But I couldn’t.
I’d made a snap decision on the field, and through the course of the evening, I was coming to terms with the consequences of that choice. I’d jeopardized my senior season and maybe my chances at a full ride to college by taking a knee. But my season had been upended the moment Marion was barred from playing. I played my best when I was surrounded by the best. I’d knelt for myself just as much as I’d knelt for Marion.
Pops didn’t see it that way.
“You don’t just owe it to yourself to finish big. You owe it to me.” Pops looked to the side, as if he could barely look at me. There were conditions to his good humor, and I’d evidently crossed the line. “But you’re throwing it away.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” I staggered backward, grabbing the doorframe for support. The old shack wobbled under the weight of my grasp. When I had firm footing, I held my head up, jutting my chin out as I decided to stand by my protest. I deserved better than to be labeled a criminal. Dante deserved better. Marion deserved better. And no one was going to do anything about it until people started pushing back on the silent compliance.
Kneel Page 10
