“It’s awfully quiet today, huh, Coach?” Cowan said.
Coach Cowan was broad, above average height, with a salt and pepper mustache.
Coach Ware smiled. “I heard a lot a trash-talkin’ these past three days. Ain’t nobody got nothin’ to say now, huh?”
“Today we separate the men from the boys.”
The players weren’t exaggerating – Coach Ware’s skin was as dark as his shades. He was tall and muscular, his hair cut tight to his head.
Coach Ware erupted, stopping the stretch. “Townsend got two buckles undone. That’s twenty pushups for everyone. Count ’em out!”
The team groaned and assumed the pushup position.
After stretch, the lines converged and they did fifteen yards of high knees, butt kicks, shuffles, bounding, and backpedals. Halfway through, Coach Ware flipped out.
“I’m tired of watchin’ this lack of effort! Do it over,” he said. “We’ll stay here all day if we have to.”
After three tries, Coach Ware finally seemed satisfied with his team’s efforts. Coach Cowan blew his whistle.
“Eye openers, everyone to the bags,” Coach Cowan said.
Six soft rectangular bags, each the size of a man, were laid on the ground about three yards apart. The team huddled in front of Coach Cowan.
“Now listen up, because I’m only gonna explain this once.” Coach Cowan looked around at his players, his Bike shorts tight to mid-thigh. “Runners make a line behind the bags, and defenders make a line here.” He pointed in front of him. “It’s simple, runners will pick a hole and defenders will fill it. This is one hundred percent live, full contact. Let’s see good hard tackles with your heads up. We’ll do this drill first thing every morning through camp. We call it eye openers because, well – ” The coach smiled and looked around. “’Cause it’s gonna wake you up.”
Lines were formed on both sides of the bags. Three identical drills were set up ten yards apart to accommodate the mass of players.
“Let’s go. Even those lines up,” Coach Ware said.
Runner after runner picked a hole and sprinted through, their shoulders lowered. Defenders crashed through, meeting them in between the bags. Some were stopped cold to the sounds of ohhhs, ahhhs, and damns. Others were planted by the runner, run over like roadkill.
Some players, Ben included, jockeyed for a “favorable” position in line. They counted their position, then the corresponding position in the opposite line to find their opponent. If they’d drawn a particularly intimidating opponent, they switched places in line. The brave or foolhardy would always end up with the toughest adversaries. Carter was destined to face all two hundred and seventy-five pounds of Zach Goodman. He made no attempt to switch places.
Carter stood facing Zach across the bags. He watched Zach’s waist as he moved. Carter mirrored him, waiting to see which hole he would choose. Zach dipped his shoulder and rumbled into the third hole like a battering ram. As soon as Carter saw the dip of his shoulder, he burst into the hole to meet him. At the last moment, Carter lowered himself and crashed into Zach’s kneecaps, upending him.
Coach Cowan blew his whistle. “Individuals,” he said.
The players sprinted to different corners of the field to their position groups. Carter and Ben ran to the bottom corner. Coach Pitts stood holding a football. Two squares were marked out with cones to form areas about fifteen yards across. Coach Pitts had dark skin, balding short black curls, and a weightlifters physique.
The defensive backs stood in front of their coach.
“What are y’all waitin’ for?” Coach Pitts said with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
“What are we doin’?” Noah asked.
Coach Pitts smirked. “What do we always do? The course, of course.”
The players backpedaled along the square denoted by the cones, jogged across and came back down.
“Turn and run to the left,” Coach Pitts said. “Let’s go, Ben. That turn’s gotta be lower and faster.”
A short, thin black kid backpedaled, turned his hips, and in the blink of an eye sprinted to the end of the square before easing up and coming back the other way.
“It’s Devin, right?” Coach Pitts asked, looking at the athletic tape on his helmet.
Devin nodded, his facemask bouncing up and down.
“That’s perfect. You’ll never get beat deep with a turn and run like that.”
They backpedaled, planted, sprinted forward, and backpedaled again.
“Y’all should be tired right now,” Coach Pitts said as the kids labored. “Especially if you’ve been sittin’ on your ass all summer.” Coach Pitts watched Noah slog through the drill, his hips stiff and his body upright. “Lower, Noah. That’s way too high.”
Carter backpedaled, his arms swinging comfortably, his body low and loose. He planted and sprinted forward. “That’s nice, Two-Zero,” Coach said to Carter.
Coach Pitts blew the whistle and started to jog toward the opposite end of the field. “Let’s go, one-on-ones with the receivers,” he said. The defensive backs followed.
Luke and the backup quarterback stood together on the goal line in the middle of the field with Coach Ware. Wide receivers and defensive backs lined up near each sideline. One defender from each line jogged onto the field to cover the receiver. Carter was behind Ben in line. He counted the queue, hoping to draw Dwayne.
Carter tapped Ben on the shoulder. “You wanna switch?”
Ben looked at the line of wide receivers, counting. “Hell yeah.” They switched places in line. “He’s fast, and he’ll catch anything up high.”
Carter nodded. “No problem, it’ll be a lot of exposed ribs.”
Ben frowned. “You can’t hit him, remember?”
Carter smiled.
Coach Pitts marched over. “For you corners, I want you practicing your press man technique. Safeties, seven yards off in a backpedal technique.”
Carter jogged into position, stopping seven yards from Dwayne. The all-state receiver stood, one foot forward, one back. Carter focused on Dwayne’s belt buckle.
Luke said, “Set, go.”
Dwayne exploded forward and cut inside. Carter turned and sprinted downfield, mirroring him. After three hard steps inside, Dwayne planted and reversed course, headed outside to the corner. Carter flipped his head and hips, losing sight of Dwayne. He turned a hundred and eighty degrees and ended up glued to his opponent. Dwayne tilted his head up, looking for the spiral hanging in the air. Carter looked up. The ball was high and deep, out of Carter’s reach. Dwayne leaped into the air. His basketball hops, long arms, and six-foot-two frame put him over ten feet off the ground. His long fingers cast a net that cradled the football. Carter leaped as gravity tugged on the receiver. He shoved his right arm between Dwayne’s arms, wrenching the football from his grasp. Their bodies tangled and they fell to the turf. The ball fell next to them – incomplete.
Coach Pitts clapped his hands. “There you go, Two-Zero.”
Coach Ware stood with his arms crossed, staring under dark shades.
Dwayne hopped to his feet, pushing his hands out in front of him, signaling like a referee. “That was pass interference.”
“Looked clean to me,” Coach Pitts said.
“He was all over me,” Dwayne replied.
Carter jogged toward the end of the defensive back line. Ben came out to take his place.
“Hey, you,” Coach Ware called out.
Carter turned around.
“Yeah you, number twenty. Get your ass back in here.”
Ben returned to the line.
“Go again,” Coach Ware said.
Carter lined up on another receiver, this one slower and shorter. He ran three steps and cut inside on a slant pattern. As the ball touched the receiver’s hands, Carter drilled his facemask into the kid’s sternum. The ball jarred from his grasp – incomplete.
“Go again,” Coach Ware said.
Coach Pitts covered his grin with his fist
.
Carter stepped in front of an out route – interception. He drilled another receiver on a hook route. He knocked down a deep pass on a go route. He put his hands on his knees, catching his breath.
“Again,” Coach Ware said. “I know you ain’t tired yet.”
Another receiver, another incompletion. Carter wheezed for air, his legs weak. He was back to the top of the order: Dwayne.
“Ready to get burnt?” Dwayne said.
The receiver sprinted forward five yards and stopped on a dime. Carter stuck his cleat in the turf and blasted forward with malicious intent. Luke started to throw, but the ball stuck to his hand.
Shit.
Dwayne sprinted downfield on the hitch and go. Carter turned and chased, two yards behind. Dwayne put his hands up, the ball falling out of the sky. Carter leaped forward and wrenched the receiver’s right hand down just as the ball touched his hands. The superstar receiver simply caught the football left-handed – touchdown.
Dwayne smiled wide. He held the football in one hand like a loaf of bread. “What’s that smell? Is that you, white boy? You smell like some burnt toast.”
Coach Ware blew his whistle. “Team scrimmage. Down at the far end zone, comin’ out. Don’t be last.”
Carter and the rest of his teammates jogged toward the opposite end of the field where lineman, linebackers, and running backs waited. Devin Starks, the small but lightning quick cornerback with a white twenty-one jersey, jogged next to him.
“I heard you just transferred here?” Devin asked.
Carter spoke between heavy breaths. “Panama … dad’s in the army … you?”
Devin grinned. He had a gap between his upper teeth. “Germany. Army brat too. You did pretty good in one-on-ones.”
“Thanks.”
“I had a feeling they were gonna do a double move on that last one.”
Carter shook his head. “I shoulda known.”
They stopped on the sideline with the rest of the white jerseys.
He held out his hand. “I’m Devin.”
“Carter.” They shook hands.
Devin motioned with a nod toward the first team that was walking through plays. “What do you think of the safeties in front of you?”
Carter shrugged. “I’ll be starting week one.”
Devin laughed. “I don’t doubt it.”
“What about you?” Carter asked. “What do you think of the corners?”
“I’m faster than anyone here.”
“I believe that.”
Coach Cowan blew his whistle. “First O on the ball goin’ out. Give me a scout D.”
Coach Pitts jogged over to the sideline.
“Devin and Ben, you’re in at the corners. You, number twenty.” He pointed at Carter. “You’re in at free safety.”
Coach Pitts signaled in the play. Carter relayed the play in the huddle.
Luke placed his hands under the center, looking left and right. On “go,” the center jammed the football into his hands. He pivoted and tossed the ball to the running back behind him. Kevin Lewis motored for the sideline, his thick legs pumping, the ball secure in his outside arm. Devin and Carter converged with a crack, stopping the stocky back for no gain. Kevin popped up without a word. Coach Ware stalked to the scene of the crime. He grabbed the slender wide receiver by the facemask.
“Who are you supposed to block?” Coach Ware said.
The receiver pointed to Devin, his head stuck in the coach’s grips.
“And who made the tackle?”
The kid pointed to Devin.
Coach Ware shook the kid’s helmet with his head still in it. “Then block the god damn corner!”
The next play, Dwayne was blanketed by Devin on a post route. Luke forced the ball. Devin tipped it to Carter for an interception.
Coach Cowan took off his hat and shook his head at his quarterback. “Why’d you throw that? Kevin was wide open on the arrow.”
“It was a mismatch,” Luke said, referring to the height disparity between Devin and Dwayne.
“It was a pick,” Coach Cowan said.
Luke looked at the grass, his hands on his hips.
“Flip-flop the receivers. Dwayne you play the Z,” Coach Cowan said.
The next play, Luke threw a bomb to Dwayne for a touchdown, leaving Ben in his wake. As Dwayne pranced back to the huddle, he shook his head at Ben.
“Is that the best you can do? You should just quit now, save yourself the embarrassment.”
Ben looked down for a moment, then hit himself on the helmet. Carter walked over.
“Hey, you’re fine. Just give him a little more cushion.”
Two plays later, Dwayne caught another touchdown.
Dwayne strutted back to the huddle. As he passed Ben he said, “Damn, you really do suck.”
Ben shook his head and again smacked himself on top of the helmet. Carter glared at Dwayne, adrenaline coursing through him.
Three plays later, Luke went to the air again. Dwayne ran a quick slant, beating Ben to the inside. Carter was playing zone coverage in the middle of the field, but he cheated over toward Ben. Luke threw a strike right between the double eights on Dwayne’s chest. He thought he was going to score again. He thought Carter would be deep in the middle of the field, and even if he wasn’t it’s not like he could hit him. Carter wasn’t deep in the middle of the field. He was flying full speed toward Dwayne. At the exact moment the football touched his hands, Carter buried his facemask into Dwayne’s sternum. A loud crack echoed across the field. Dwayne was sprawled on the ground hyperventilating, the wind knocked out of him. The practice field fell silent.
“Trainer!” Coach Cowan said.
Two athletic trainers attended to Dwayne. Zach, Luke and the rest of the first team offense stalked toward Carter. Coach Ware stepped in front and grabbed Carter by the facemask, shaking him.
“Are you color blind, boy?” Coach Ware said.
“No,” Carter said, looking into the emptiness of the coach’s black shades.
“Do you know what a red jersey means?”
“He should keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t wanna get hit.”
Coach Ware pulled Carter closer. “What did you say, boy?”
“I said he shouldn’t talk trash if he doesn’t wanna get hit.”
“I have half a mind to throw you off this team.” Coach Ware let go of Carter’s facemask. “You see this chain-link fence that runs around these fields?”
Carter nodded.
“You’re gonna run along this fence until I get tired. Now get your ass movin’!”
Carter started running. He ran until practice was over. He continued running as players left for lunch in their cars and trucks with bass pumping.
Ben walked onto the practice field, his hair still wet from the shower. He threw a hand up as Carter jogged toward him.
“Coach said you can stop,” Ben said.
Ben’s forehead was red from his helmet.
Carter put his hands on his hips. “Thanks.”
“You want to go get some lunch? Everyone goes to Shakey’s. They have a pretty good all you can eat buffet.”
“Sounds good,” Carter replied, his breathing heavy.
The locker room was empty. Carter hurried through his shower. Ben waited. They drove to the restaurant in Mrs. Wheeler’s Toyota Camry. Ben cranked the A/C and tuned the radio to 95.5 WPGC. Carter stared out the window, the music too loud for conversation.
Ben parked in the cracking asphalt lot of the buffet. It was a cloudless day, the sun high in the sky. Carter could feel the heat from the asphalt through his sneakers. Dwayne and Kevin were coming out as Ben and Carter were moving toward the door. Dwayne puffed up at the sight of Carter. His chin went up, his chest went out, and his fists clenched. Dwayne stalked toward them, with Kevin close behind.
“You tryin’ to ruin my scholarship?” Dwayne said. “Fucking scout team hero.”
“Relax, man,” Kevin said with a hand on Dwayne’s shoul
der.
Kevin was powerfully built, with tree trunks for legs.
“If you wanna talk trash,” Carter said, “it’s open season, red jersey or not.”
“I oughtta fuck you up,” Dwayne said, invading Carter’s personal space.
Ben backed up a few steps. Kevin still had a hand on Dwayne’s shoulder. Carter stood still, looking up at Dwayne.
“Go on then,” Carter said, clenching his fists. “I got nothing to lose.”
“It’s not worth it,” Kevin said. “Let’s go.”
“Punk ass bitch,” Dwayne said.
Kevin pulled Dwayne back and they walked away.
Carter took a deep breath and turned to Ben. “I’m starving, let’s get something to eat.”
They had heaping plates as they sat in a booth across from each other. Carter took a bite of a fried chicken leg.
“Man, this is good,” Carter said.
They ate as if the chicken could still run away from them. Ben pushed his plate of stripped carcasses to the side.
“I don’t need you to stick up for me,” Ben said, his deep set eyes still.
“I know that,” Carter replied.
“Then why did you do it?”
Carter shrugged. “He was being a dick.”
“I appreciate it, but I can stand up for myself.”
“Okay.” Carter took a drink of sweet tea. “Thanks for waiting for me.” Carter looked down. “And buying me lunch. I’ll pay you back.”
– 4 –
Go for the Gold
Raindrops pounded the cars and asphalt. Carter stood at his window, his fingers parting the plastic blinds. He watched the waves of water as they sluiced along the curbs and into the sewer. Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” played on his tiny tape deck, reminding him of Panama. Bob’s acoustic melody was interrupted by the shouting above him.
“I can’t keep doin’ this,” Jim Arnold said. “You spend it faster than I can make it.”
“What are you making?” Grace Arnold said. “You don’t have a job. I’m the only one that works in this house.”
Initiation Page 3
