by Allen Zadoff
“Absolutely not.”
“The form is signed, right?”
“Of course.”
“Bring it tomorrow,” Coach says.
“Will do,” I say.
But there’s no way I can bring it tomorrow. Mom won’t sign, and Dad won’t sign without Mom. Maybe Coach will get busy with other things and he’ll forget. Maybe I can stage a Mission Impossible–style break-in, steal the file cabinet, and drop it in the Charles. Maybe we’ll have a late season nor’easter and the school will be destroyed—
“Zansky!”
“What is it, Coach?”
“Wake up, son. I’m talking to you.”
“I’m wide awake.”
“You don’t have the epilepsy, do you? My cousin’s son had the epilepsy. The boy used to fall asleep on his feet. One time he rode his bike off the side of a parking garage, didn’t know it until he hit the ground.”
“It’s not epilepsy. I just think a lot.”
“You know what thinking does to a football player? It gets you killed. I don’t need you thinking. I need situational awareness.”
“I’ll work on it,” I say.
“That’s the right attitude. Now get out there.”
out there.
Do you know what a center does?
Get this.
I crouch down like a sumo wrestler, take the ball in my right hand while I lean on my left knee. O. Douglas bends over behind me, and he kind of puts his knuckles up against my butt, and he screams a whole bunch of numbers until he gets to “Hike!” It doesn’t even sound like “hike” when he says it. He has his own style. Something more like “Haaa-eeee!”
A guy puts his hands on your ass and screams, “Haaa-eeee!” What would your reaction be?
Run like hell. Call the cops.
That’s not what the center does. The center leans back, leans into it. When O. screams, that’s my cue. I lift the ball, twist, and push it up and into his hands. That’s the snap.
O. says the snap is the starting point of all things. It’s the trigger of the gun.
But there’s one other little part to it. While I’m crouched down, there’s a huge, ugly guy standing three inches in front of me, waiting to kill me. The second the ball leaves my hands that guy smashes into my head.
Football. Good times.
Today after calisthenics and running, we set up for snap-and-pass drills. O. calls out some numbers then screams, “Haaa-eeee!” I snap the ball back … but instead of going into his hands, I fling it right past him onto the ground.
“Crap,” I say.
“Relax,” O. says. “You’ll get it.”
O. calls another play. I snap again. This time I feel a crunch as the ball bangs into the tips of his fingers. I see the Neck shaking his head like I’m a lost cause.
Maybe I am.
The cheerleaders are working out over on the soccer field. It’s impossible not to keep looking over there. They’re wearing short skirts and jumping up and down. The other players look a little bit, but they’re subtle about it. They don’t really look, they glance. That’s the difference between guys who get girls and guys who don’t.
Cool guys glance. Geeks gawk. Two seconds too long, and you’ll be spending your Saturday nights with a box of Kleenex. That’s the cruel reality of high school.
“Where’s your head at?” O. says.
“Right here,” I say. It’s just on the wrong field.
I snap the ball and almost break O.’s fingers again. He snatches it away and calls a time-out. Then he walks me to the sideline.
“What’s the plan?” O. says.
“I want to play football.”
“The real plan,” he says. “What’s the real plan?”
A cheerleader screams. I look over to see April flying into the air, thrown aloft by two girls in short skirts.
O. catches me looking. “Got it,” he says.
“That’s not the plan,” I say.
“Girls are great,” O. says, “but here’s the thing. When you’re on this field, the guys are depending on you. I’m depending on you.”
I reach for my inhaler. I don’t suck it, just hold on to it in my sweatpants pocket. It makes me feel better knowing it’s there if I need it.
“Can people depend on you?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Prove it,” O. says.
He hands me the ball.
“Maybe I’m no good at this,” I say.
“Don’t force it,” O. says. “You have to find the rhythm. It’s like dancing. You know how to dance, right?”
I think of the dozens of weddings I’ve been to, all the couples I’ve seen dancing. It feels like I’ve danced a million times, but when I really think about it, I realize I’ve never actually danced. I’ve only watched other people do it.
“No,” I say.
“It’s time to learn,” O. says.
O. screams, “Go again!” and everyone sets up. This time Bison leans down in front of me and stares into my eyes. This is not the smiling Bison. This is someone I haven’t met yet. I feel O. lean over behind me, one hand pressed under me, the other patting the small of my back.
Suddenly I hear music in my head. At first I don’t recognize it, and then I remember I heard it at the last wedding. “True Colors.” A bad, wedding version of it.
Embarrassing.
But it relaxes me. I lighten my grip on the ball like O. taught me. I breathe. I listen to “True Colors” in my head.
“Haaa-eeee!” O. screams.
I push up and back, moving to the music, and I feel the energy of the ball transfer from me to O. It’s effortless, as if the ball disappeared from my hands and I had nothing to do with it. Maybe this is what dancing is supposed to feel like.
I’m so excited about my discovery, I forget all about what comes next.
Bison comes next.
He crashes into me, squashing me to the ground, then jumps past me and tackles O. The ball pops out of O.’s hands, and Bison scrambles after it. There’s a jumble of bodies, and then Bison appears, smiling, holding the ball over his head like a trophy. I glance to the sidelines, and Coach is cursing and slamming his fists against his thighs.
“What in God’s name—Zansky! What are you doing to my quarterback?!”
Coach rubs his stomach like he has a cramp. “Let me tell you what your job is,” Coach says. “You are a wall. You are impassible. You are the Great Friggin’ Wall of China. Do you know how long the Great Friggin’ Wall has stood, Zansky?”
“No, Coach,” I say.
“Ten thousand two hundred and eighty-three friggin’ years. Repelling all invaders. Do you have that kind of commitment?”
I’m pretty sure Coach has his dates wrong by about eight thousand years, but it’s probably not a good idea to correct him now.
“I think so,” I say.
“You think so? You’re going to let some Mongolian son of a bitch jump the wall and take my fried rice?!” Coach screams.
All the guys are looking at me.
“Absolutely not, Coach!”
“Will you protect my rice for the long haul? Will you keep it safe for ten thousand friggin’ years?”
“Yes, I friggin’ will!”
Coach’s voice drops back down to normal. “Well, then. That’s all I wanted to know.”
He blows his whistle. “Hit the showers, gentlemen.”
The guys slowly unwind, taking off their helmets and moving towards the locker room.
Coach pats O. on the back. “Mr. Burch pulled me aside for a little chat,” he says.
O.’s face darkens.
“I blew the quiz,” O. says. “It was a one-time thing.”
“We need you to do well this year.”
“I’m handling it. Guaranteed.”
“All right, then,” Coach says. “I have to motate. There’s a protein shake in the fridge with my name on it.”
“Protein shake?” O. says.
Coach pats his b
elly. “Hey, I’ve got to maintain my girlish figure.”
Coach is on some crazy diet where he drinks six protein shakes a day. I should introduce him to Mom. They could count calories together.
“Who’s Burch?” I say when Coach is gone.
O. moves closer and lowers his voice. “He’s my English teacher. I flunked English last year.”
“No way.”
“It’s not my fault. Burch thinks that because he’s a genius, everyone else should be, too. He makes us write these huge book reports. It’s too much.”
“I thought athletes got automatic As,” I say.
“Maybe if you live in Texas or something. But it doesn’t work like that here. If you flunk a class, you can’t play. C-average minimum. That’s the athletic contract.”
“But you’re playing this year.”
“Coach convinced him to give me an incomplete and let me take the class again. That’s why I have to do well.”
Everyone’s hanging out in the back of the school talking, but O. and I are still on the field. It’s amazing how quiet it is with just the two of us out here.
“What if we helped each other?” I say.
“What’s that mean?”
“Like I could be your English tutor, and you could help me with football.”
“Like a football tutor.”
“Why not?”
O. thinks about it for a minute. “Our secret, right?”
“Completely.”
“It’s an interesting idea,” O. says.
clutch.
A day later I’m sitting in O.’s living room tutoring him on Huckleberry Finn.
I like the story of Huck, and I’m trying to get through to O. about it. I think he understands the basics, but every time I try to talk about themes, he gets confused.
“You’re saying Huck and Jim are the same?” O. says.
“Not the same, but they have the same problem.”
His eyes fuzz out like Jessica when Project Runway comes on.
“Think about it,” I say. “Huck has everything, all the advantages, and he hates it. Jim has nothing and he hates that. So they’re both trapped by the same system, just on different ends of it.”
O.’s face lights up. “Kind of like you and me, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“High school, dude. The system.”
I look at O. sitting there, his stomach flat as a board. I understand how I could be trapped. I mean, fat and high school don’t exactly go together. Kind of like barbed-wire underpants. But O.?
“How are you trapped?” I say.
“Don’t get me wrong,” O. says. “I’m not complaining. Things are good. Absolutely. But sometimes—I don’t know. People expect things from me, and I have to deliver or I’m screwed.”
“Like your dad?” I say.
“No, he doesn’t care so much.”
“He doesn’t want you to be a jock?”
“He’s fine with it. I mean, he used to be a jock in high school, but I don’t think he even remembers. He’s not one of those guys who dreams of the golden days. More like the golden parachute.”
“So who then?”
O. opens his arms. “The school,” he says, and he spreads his fingers wide.
I think about that for a second. I feel like there’s so much pressure on me. Mom and Dad, Eytan, they all want stuff from me. But then there’s me. I’m always putting pressure on myself, trying to prove myself, be smarter, or thinner, or cooler. When you’re fat, that just comes with the territory. You walk through the door like Babar the Elephant, you have a lot of ground to make up for. At least that’s how I think of it.
But when I think of O.’s life, I realize it’s not just about him. There’s a whole team relying on him. There’s an entire school expecting him to be something. That’s like pressure on a whole different level.
“You still there, dude?” O. says.
“Yeah. I’m just thinking,” I say. “You represent things to people. Like if you succeed, the entire school succeeds. Right?”
“Kind of, yeah. And if I fail—”
“Newton sucks royal ass.”
“You got it.”
“But check it out, O. I’m thinking how when we represent things to people, it’s not really about us anymore. It’s like it’s their problem. Not ours.”
O. rubs his head. “You’re deep, dude.”
“And wide, too.”
“Wide’s a good thing on the O-Line.”
“I guess.”
“Bigger is better,” O. says. “Especially in football.”
“And in boobies,” I say.
“What do you know about boobies?”
“I know I like them. And I wouldn’t mind touching one before I die.”
O. laughs and flips Huckleberry Finn onto the table.
“All in time,” he says. “But listen, my head is about to explode. You want to get out there and throw the ball around?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Enough of this philosophizing crap. Let’s bang into something and make it bleed.”
“Easy, killer,” O. says.
We begin with simple handoffs. O. teaches me how to grip the ball properly, curving my wrist so the laces are aligned when I hand it to him. He shows me the basic snap, the quick snap, and the long snap where he stands a few yards behind and I pitch it back to him.
“I can show you the basics in an afternoon,” O. says. “But once you have them, there’s only one thing left to do.”
“What’s that?” I say.
“Practice for about ten thousand hours.”
“I guess we’d better get started,” I say.
Inside the house when we were studying, O. was edgy, nervous, and uncomfortable, but the minute we start to play, his whole energy changes. He relaxes and his body does what it knows best. Run. Jump. That kind of thing.
I’m the exact opposite.
My body knows how to sit, eat Spicy Cheetos, and program TiVo.
So when I get into the squat, it all goes to hell really quickly. I can sense where O. is, but I don’t know how to orient the ball right.
“Just do the dance,” O. says.
“I’ll try,” I say.
I listen for the music, and after a minute, it comes. “True Colors.” Only it’s a waltz version. I imagine I’m dancing with April. Her hair swirls as we move.
I don’t think about what I’m doing. I just snap the ball. Perfect.
Now it becomes a disco song. I snap a dozen times, each better than the next.
Now I’m listening to a version by The Killers. It sounds like it’s playing through the wall from Jessica’s bedroom. I snap again and again, fifty times in a row, feeling the energy transfer between O. and me, sensing him come towards me and drop back, always knowing where I should direct the ball.
We do snaps until my back is on fire, and I’m sweating right through my shirt. Usually I’d be nervous about it sticking to my body because then you can see my fat, but alone with O., I barely notice.
“Let’s grab some Gator,” O. finally says.
“That’s probably a good idea,” I say, “before I pass out.”
“You’re still getting into shape. Stick with it for a few weeks, and you’ll see some real changes.”
I imagine myself at 180 with a six-pack stomach. I peel off my shirt in gym class like I saw Rodriguez do, and the girls start to sweat.
O. opens a little cooler that he brought outside. “What’s it going to be? Red or blue?”
I look at the bottles of Gatorade.
“Is there a difference?”
“The blue goes down easier.”
“I’ll take red.”
O. smiles. He cracks two bottles of red, and we drink. I want to down the whole thing in one shot, but I know better. You have to pace yourself or you cramp up. I learned that the hard way.
O. moves his shoulder back and forth and winces.
“Are you hurt?” I say.
“Just a little tight,” O. says. “My shoulder got jammed up last season. Nothing to worry about.”
It never occurred to me that O. could get injured. It’s stupid, but he seems sort of invulnerable, like a superhero.
“Why don’t you ever change in the locker room?” O. asks. I must wince or something, because he says, “No big deal. I’m just wondering. A couple of the guys noticed.”
“I don’t know why,” I say.
“Do you have a tiny wiener or something?”
“No way,” I say.
The truth is it looks kind of small compared to my thighs. Then again, a garbage truck looks small compared to my thighs.
“I’m just not comfortable,” I say.
“Being naked in front of people.”
“Being naked anytime. I don’t even like to take my clothes off when I’m alone in my room.”
O. laughs. “That’s cool,” he says. “I’ll keep the guys off your case.”
O. finishes his Gatorade and crushes the bottle in his fist. I do the same. O. burps really loudly, and I burp, too.
“So what’s up with that new girl?” O. says.
“Which one?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” O. says. “I see you giving her the eye.”
“You mean April.”
“Pretty hot. She a sophomore like you?”
I start to feel nervous. I don’t like talking about this with O.
“There’s nothing going on,” I say. “I mean, she knows I’m alive, but that’s about it.”
“Do you want to go out with her?”
O. studies my face. I want to tell him everything. I want to know if he believes in love at second sight or if he thinks it’s stupid. Every girl in school is in love with O. He has to know something about this.
O. says, “I’m worried about you losing focus.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“She’s just a girl. Keep it in perspective. That’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s in perspective.”
O. grabs the ball out of my hands and drops back to pass. “Go long,” he says, and points to the edge of the backyard.
