by Greg Herren
Just then Glenn looked up and saw me. “Hey,” he said with a shrug, turning his eyes back to his shoelaces.
“How’s it going?” I asked, unlocking my locker and pulling my shirt over my head.
“Honestly? It’s not half as bad as I thought it would be.” He grinned at me. “I just wish the teachers would just shut the fuck up already. Some asshole defaced my locker, big deal. It’s not the first time someone’s called me that, and it’s not going to be the last time.” He rolled his eyes. “I think they’re all afraid I’m going to go home and hang myself or something. I mean, I guess I kind of get it, but they’re just making things worse.” He laughed. “Like Mrs. Drury—you know she’s making us write an essay about civil rights?” He made a face. “Yeah—that’s going to make people really happy I came out.”
“Don’t even joke about suicide,” I replied, undoing my shorts and stepping out of them. I folded them neatly and put them in my locker, pulling on a pair of workout shorts. I sat down and started tying my own laces.
He stood up and leaned against the lockers. “They need to stop worrying about me. I’m not a victim. I won’t be a victim. If someone has the balls to say it to my face, they’ll get punched. And what happened to my locker doesn’t make me feel bad, you know. It didn’t hurt my feelings. What it did was piss me off.” He slammed his fist into the locker he was leaning against. The loud clang echoed through the empty locker room. “If I find out who did it—” He threw another couple of air punches, making noises that I gathered were supposed to simulate his fists breaking bones.
I slipped a tank top over my head. “Come on, Rocky. Take out some of that aggression on the bench press, okay?”
The only other people in the weight room were a couple of sophomores who just nodded when we walked in and started putting plates on the bench press bar. After that, we didn’t talk much—we were focused on the weights and getting a good workout in.
But I noticed that afterward, when we were showering, the sophomores were nowhere to be seen.
I got undressed and wrapped a towel around my waist. Glenn didn’t even glance at me, which I am sorry to say made me feel a little better.
I hated myself for even thinking that way, for worrying about him looking at me.
There were only two more classes to get through before the day was over. My class load wasn’t particularly difficult—government with Mr. Howell was probably going to be the toughest; I’d barely scraped by with a C in his history class my junior year, and probably wouldn’t have done that without Glenn’s help. His government class was supposedly even harder than history, and passing was a requirement for graduation. As Mr. Howell thundered his version of the “acceptance” lecture before going over everything that was going to be required of us in his class, I couldn’t help but wonder how I was going to pass. The government textbook was definitely going to be coming home with me that night.
As it probably would every night, for that matter. It was going to be a long year.
But the final bell rang at last, and the first day of school was officially over. I ran to my locker and got rid of everything before heading back to the locker room to change into my pads. There was no way I was going to be late. Being late meant extra laps—Coach Roberts was a stickler for being on time.
The locker room was crowded, and everything seemed fine. Glenn was changing in front of his locker, and guys were changing into their pads all around him, laughing and joking and talking shit the way they always do. I relaxed and unlocked my locker, squeezing in between Glenn and Jody McClane. Jody was a nice guy, kind of quiet. He was a tackle, and was a big kid, about two inches taller than me and about forty pounds heavier. He grinned at me and turned his back to me so I could pull his practice jersey down over his shoulder pads.
“Thanks, Tony,” he said, stepping over the bench, his cleats clicking on the cement floor.
Coach Roberts was not only a stickler for being on time, he was also a firm believer in working us in practice till we were ready to drop. If I had a dollar for every time I thought about saying the hell with it and walking off the field during football practice, my mom could have quit her job and never worried about money another day in her life. For one thing, the weather was never right for football practice. In August and September it was hot as hell, and the ground baked in the sun until it was solid as concrete. We didn’t have sprinklers on the practice field, so what little grass there was when we started two-a-days in early August was long gone by the first week of school.
In October it rained a lot and started getting colder—which turned the practice field into mud that grabbed hold of our cleats and didn’t want to let go. Hitting hurt a lot more the colder it got—and by November it was so cold some of us wore thermal underwear under our pads. It didn’t matter, though—Coach Roberts drove us hard at every practice from the minute he blew the whistle twice to signal the start of practice to when he blew the whistle three times to send us to the showers at the end.
As hard as he was on us, his methods worked.
Southern Heights hadn’t had a good football team since the late 1970s—and on the rare occasions when we had a winning season, it was an aberration. Most of the other schools in our league considered Southern Heights to be little more than a bye week, a practice scrimmage for them to try out trick plays and things they wouldn’t try against better teams. Southern Heights was so used to losing that winning more than one game was considered a good season. When I was a freshman we hadn’t won a game in four seasons—but we did win three games that year. Our sad history of failure was reflected in what passed for our “stadium.” The battered field was barely better than our torn-up practice field. There were more bare spots than grass. No one expected us to ever win—and the school board certainly wasn’t going to spend any money making things better for a team that lost all the time.
Coach Roberts changed all that. He took over as head coach my sophomore year, and we only won one game that year—and even that was in triple overtime. But he was determined, and the first thing he did was try to break us of the mindset that we would always lose no matter what. “Boys, if you think you’re losers, you already are, and there’s no point in even stepping on the field,” he said on the first day of practice our junior year. “If you believe you will win, that’s more than half the battle.” He’d put together an off-season training and conditioning program. “You’ve been working your butts off ever since last season, and you didn’t do that to be losers this year. This year, we’re going to change the way everyone thinks about Southern Heights.”
He managed somehow to convince us we could actually win the conference, and we responded. We wound up going 7–2 that year, finished in second place in the league, and just missed getting a spot in the state play-offs—which had never happened in the school’s history. Only six seniors graduated from that team, so we were looking at not only winning the league but going to the play-offs.
Every practice started with two laps around the football field in the unbearable heat. Then, sweating and panting, the seniors led the team in calisthenics and stretching, lying down on the hard ground in our pads. When we were warmed up and sufficiently stretched, the team split up into backs and linemen. The backs went with Coach Roberts, the linemen with Coach Michalak. After an hour of drills and fundamentals, we’d scrimmage for an hour or so before running wind sprints. He’d send us to run a few more laps around the football field before hitting the showers.
There were about fifty kids out for the team this year. Glenn and I had both lettered as juniors, and both of us were expecting to be starters. Glenn was a good football player, might have even had the potential to be a great one. He certainly was a better lineman than I was a tight end. I think he had the talent to play at the college level, but the problem was his size. He was only a little over five-ten and weighed about 170—no matter what he did, he couldn’t gain any more weight. His dad bought him all kinds of supplements and protein shakes, but Gl
enn could never put on another ounce. He hated practice even more than he hated lifting weights. It was something he had to put up with to play in games. During practice, he was always unemotional and seemed like he was doing just enough to get by—like he did in the weight room. But during a game he was a completely different person. When he put on his game jersey, he wanted to kick someone’s ass. You might knock him down once, but you sure wouldn’t do it again.
Glenn got to start in one game our junior year when the starting right tackle got hurt during the Valley Falls game. Kirk Lizama was still injured the next week, so Glenn got to start. The defensive tackle that Glenn lined up against had at least five inches and forty pounds on him. On our first offensive play he knocked Glenn down, flat on his ass. The next play Coach Roberts sent into the huddle was a run off-tackle, right behind Glenn. Most of us had seen Glenn get knocked down and wondered if Coach had lost his mind. Our quarterback, Ray Jones, called the play and we lined up.
We scored. Glenn drove that big kid back like he wasn’t even there, and Randy Froelich ran seventy-three yards for a touchdown.
We won the game 18–0, and even had two touchdowns called back on penalties. All five touchdowns were scored as off-tackle runs—on the right side. Glenn dominated that big kid all night long. I don’t think the kid got even one tackle. And when the gun sounded, Glenn shook that kid’s hand, told him he’d played a hell of a game, and walked off the field without another word.
Both Randy and Ray told him in the locker room they’d rather have him blocking for them than Kirk—but Kirk was a senior and he was starting again the next week.
This year, Glenn and I were both going to be starters.
I had just made it out onto the field before Coach Roberts blew the whistle and everyone took off for the two laps around the playing field.
I was drenched in sweat, tired, and sore by the time we started scrimmaging.
Usually during scrimmages, Glenn would tackle the ball carrier as gently as he could. He’d stop him, yes, but it wasn’t a bone-jarring, knock the fillings out of your teeth tackle he could deliver in a game. But whenever Noah Greene or Randy Froelich got the ball, it was obvious Glenn wanted to kill him. The hit would echo across the practice field. Glenn went for the knees, trying to snap them like toothpicks. The look on his face was scary. I’d never seen him look like that before, and wasn’t sure I liked it.
Finally, after one particularly brutal tackle, Noah jumped up and threw the football at Glenn. It bounced off his helmet in a high arc. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“What’s the matter, asshole, can’t you handle having a faggot kick your ass?” Glenn shouted back, and then tackled him again.
Coach Roberts moved faster than I would have believed possible. He stood about an inch taller than six foot and had a mountainous gut that hung over the front of his coach’s shorts. With the silver whistle around his neck and the mirrored sunglasses, he looked like a sadistic prison guard from some old movie. He pulled them apart by the necks. “Knock it off, both of you!” he shouted, his face purpling. He was so mad he was shaking. “Lockhart, hit the showers and get your ass in my office. Now!”
With one last glare at Noah, Glenn dusted himself off and trotted off the practice field.
“Everybody else, line up for wind sprints!” he yelled, and walked angrily toward the locker room. His assistant, Coach Michalak, took over, and ran us ragged. By the time we were dismissed to the showers, my legs felt like they could barely hold me upright anymore. Glenn was long gone, and I took a long, leisurely shower, letting the hot water soak the tiredness and soreness out of my muscles.
Glenn was sitting on the hood of his car when I walked out to the parking lot. “Hey, Tony.” He made a face. “Hope you guys didn’t have to run extra laps because of me.”
I walked across the gravel parking lot and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Actually, Coach Michalak let us off pretty easy. What’d Coach say? He didn’t kick you off the team, did he?”
“Nah.” He grinned weakly. “He gave me the old ‘we’re all on the same team’ bullshit speech.” He rolled his eyes. “I told him someone might want to tell Noah and Randy and Zack that, you know?”
“You think they were the ones who—” I swallowed, trying to think of how to say it.
“Wrote faggot on my locker?” He laughed. “You can say the word, Tony. It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.” He slid off the car. “Yeah, it was them. I don’t know which one actually did it, but it was one of them.” He shook his head. “Hey, you want to go into Kahola and grab a pizza or something?” He slid his key ring over his index finger and started spinning them.
“Your dad—”
“—is at some stupid golf dinner at the country club,” Glenn finished my sentence. “He gave me twenty bucks this morning and told me to take you out for dinner, if you wanted. You want to just stay over?”
“Let me call my mom.” I dug my phone out of my backpack and walked away from the car. I hadn’t stayed over since—and I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to.
Don’t be an asshole like Zack and Noah, I said to myself as I dialed.
Mom sounded tired when she answered, and when I asked her she seemed relieved.
“Go ahead and have fun, that’s fine,” she replied. “I was just going to send your brother over to the diner to get us some burgers, anyway.” She paused. “You sure you’re okay with staying over there?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I said, almost wishing she’d said no, and at the same time hating myself for thinking it.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied. “You boys stay out of trouble, okay?”
I hung up, deciding to look on the bright side. Pizza was definitely a better option than anything I could get at the diner, which most people called the Greasy Spoon. I opened the passenger door and tossed my backpack into the backseat as Glenn started the car, plugging his iPod in. “Yeah, it’s cool. We need to stop by the house to get me some clothes for tomorrow, though.”
“You can sleep in the spare room,” he said, turning the key and starting the car. He didn’t look at me when he said it.
I wondered if it was a test. “Whatever.”
“Thank God that’s over,” he said, his grin genuine. He put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. “I mean, I knew the first day was going to be rough, but still.” He glanced over at me as he turned onto the county road.
“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” I asked, closing my eyes and letting the air-conditioning blow over me.
“It could have been worse,” he said, slowing down for the turn onto the Kahola Road. “Nobody came right out and told me to my face that I was going to go to hell, but I saw it written on a couple of desks.” He winked at me. “Someone even wrote Glenn Lockhart sucks dick on the desk I sat at in government class.” He shook his head. “No telling how many desks that’s written on.”
“That sucks,” I said before I realized what I was saying, and we both laughed.
“Well, it’s not true.” He shook his head. “Not yet, anyway.”
Glenn didn’t get out when we stopped at my house, and Mom was lying on the couch with a wet cloth folded on her forehead. It felt like an oven in my room, and I started sweating as I grabbed socks, underwear, and a clean shirt, shoving them into a duffel bag. I grabbed my toothbrush out of the bathroom and hesitated at the front door, wondering if she was okay.
“See you tomorrow,” I finally said, pushing open the screen door and walking back out to the car. I tossed the duffel bag into the backseat and buckled my seat belt. By the time we were back out on the Kahola Road road, the air-conditioning had dried my sweat and I was cooled off.
“Can you believe Laney’s going out with Noah Greene now?” he said as we sped along the road. He shook his head. “It seems kind of shitty, seeing as how she was Laura’s best friend.”
“Yeah, but Laura’s gone and isn’t coming back,” I replied. Laura Pryce’s parents ha
d been killed in a car accident right before the end of our junior year, and she’d gone to live with an aunt somewhere in California. “And it’s not like you and Laney were going to get back together anyway.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care about her.” He didn’t take his eyes off the road, but his face was grim.
“What have you got against Noah?” I asked. I thought they’d always gotten along. And Noah certainly wasn’t one of the douchebags calling him names behind his back. “Besides, they probably hung out together because they both missed Laura, and it just kind of happened.”
He glanced over at me and changed the subject. “What was the deal with you and Candy this morning? Looked like she was flirting with you to me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe,” I said carefully. I’d replayed the whole conversation with her in my mind several times during the day. I’d seen her in the hall a few times between classes—she was in the college prep courses with Glenn—and she’d smiled at me every time our eyes met.
“Why don’t you ask her out?” He turned the music down. “What have you got to lose?”
“Aw, man, I don’t know.” I looked out the window, watching the cornfields speed past. “How can I ask her out? I don’t have a car or nothing, and—”
“Dude, seriously.” He started laughing. He shook his head and looked over at me. “There’s going to be a victory dance after the game on Friday night. Ask her to dance—slow dance, you know? See what happens. The worst she can do is say no.”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“All right then,” Glenn replied. “Ask her out at the victory dance Friday night.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“What about me?”
“Come on, dude, you know what I mean.” I wasn’t sure how to say it, but I plunged ahead anyway. “Now that you and Clark are broken up, I mean.”
