Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  I enter the main locker room just in time to spot a freshman cross-country runner, tiny as me, getting pinballed pretty good between three varsity football players. Distracted by their prey, the three miss me sneaking into the gymnastics team room to change. It’s the same three varsity members who have stalked our lockers all week: Scott Miller, the Knights’ starting quarterback; Tom Jankowski, his offensive tackle; and Mike Studblatz, a defensive linebacker.

  In the gymnasts’ locker room, Bruce Nguyen, our captain, sits on the bench, winding tape around his wrist while frowning. Already changed, he wears gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He’s a specialist on rings, which takes muscle. Bruce’s biceps and shoulders look like someone’s stuffed oranges and grapefruits under his skin. He could pose on the cover of one of those bodybuilding magazines, except he’s only five foot two. As captain, Bruce normally offers a friendly greeting to all of us, but today he keeps to himself. I nod to the other guys and change fast, embarrassed by my nakedness. None of us can help overhearing what’s going on just outside the team room.

  “Hey, runt, if you’re such a fast runner, how come Studblatz caught you so easy?” It’s Scott Miller’s voice. “You think a little runt like you should be able to represent our school?”

  “Please . . . I’m going to be late for practice,” comes the faltering voice.

  “Think I give a crap? Think we care about whether you’re late for your little jack-off session with all your pansy-ass teammates?”

  “Please . . .”

  The clank of metal tells me they just smashed him into the lockers. I know the sound well from personal experience.

  “Please . . . let me go . . .” I hear sniffling now and know that sound equally well, know how crappy the bullying feels. But all I can do is be thankful it’s him and not me.

  “Lookit his skinny little butt in those shorts. Looks like a little girl. Lookit him shake. Tom, yank down his shorts. Yeah. Lookit. The runt thought he had a pubic hair until he pissed out of it. What kinda sport takes a boy without any hair on him?”

  “Pl-please . . .” Little cries replace everything else. I make sure the drawstring on my own sweatpants is double-knotted. No one’s going to do that to me. Bruce is still winding a roll of white athletic tape around his wrists—way more than he needs—to prevent bone splints. We have boxes and boxes of the white tape and a few of the guys use it up like toilet paper.

  “Dipshits,” Bruce mutters under his breath. Vance Fisher, Paul Kim, Bill Gradley, Larry Menderson, and I stand around, pretending to get dressed even though we’re ready to go. All of us small in our own way.

  “What does Coach Brigs feed his goons?” Gradley asks under his breath.

  “Something you need a prescription for,” Fisher answers.

  “Come on, guys,” Bruce says, and we follow him. We might be small, but we are a pack, and packs are a safe bet. We turn out of the room in time to find Tom Jankowski pushing the cross-country runner belly-down on the pine bench and Mike Studblatz yanking his shorts and jock-strap down past his knees. Scott Miller’s snickering. The kid’s face, turned sideways on the bench, is bright red. He sees us and he’s not hoping for help. He’s expecting us to join in the laughter and humiliation. That’s how it works.

  Bruce slows. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks the three varsity football players. That he says anything startles me and makes me proud of my captain all at once.

  “Why do you care, pussy?” Tom Jankowski asks, daring Bruce to admit he actually cares. Caring is for the weak. Bruce shrugs his shoulders.

  “I don’t. But it’s weird you like to pull down boys’ pants,” Bruce answers. “Maybe Chrissy would find that interesting, Scott. It would be a shame if the homecoming couple broke up because the quarterback likes feeling up freshman boys.”

  Scott’s eyes narrow and so do Jankowski’s. But they let the kid go. The boy tugs up his pants without saying anything and bolts out of the locker room.

  “You faggots try spreading lies about this to anyone and you’re all dead. You understand, Chink Kong?”

  Bruce is Vietnamese-American, so Scott thinks his joke is really, really hysterical. Paul Kim is Korean-American, so I’m guessing both he and Bruce are laughing hard on the inside.

  “Yeah, chink-faggot!” Jankowski echos like a toilet bowl fart. “Mind your own business.”

  “I’m the faggot?” Bruce asks, ignoring the chink part. His voice isn’t so calm anymore and his face starts turning red. “Last I checked, it was you three playing grab-ass in the locker room.” This gets Vance Fisher, our team’s clown, laughing. Bruce is getting into dangerous territory. Jankowski and Studblatz are huge, but worse than that, they are just plain mean. And Scott, their leader, is cruel. You hear it in his laugh and what he finds funny—basically things involving torture. Jankowski and Studblatz step over to Bruce. We monkeys circle around the three gorillas, keeping our distance but not retreating. Larry Menderson sidles down the hallway toward the gymnasium, ready to run and call the rest of our team for help.

  “Don’t talk again,” Jankowski growls. “You understand?” He pokes a heavy finger into Bruce’s chest. As strong as our captain is, he looks puny compared to the overstuffed lineman, but as Bruce stretches his flushed neck to try to meet Jankowski’s face eye-to-eye I can tell he is way past logic. If Tom pokes Bruce’s chest again, it’ll be like pressing a detonate button. I cringe as Tom pulls back his finger just enough to poke Bruce one more time in T minus three ... two ... one ...

  Click-click-click ...

  The sound of approaching football cleats on cement pauses doomsday. The man-giant, Kurt Brodsky, in a varsity Knights’ football uniform—shoulder pads spanning across him like vulture wings—turns the corner and fills all remaining space and light. This time his eyes do not search the floor, but land like concrete blocks on every single one of us. His scars look wicked cool. He seems capable of anything.

  “Suh-suh-Scott,” he says, addressing Miller, somehow knowing he’s the leader. “Cuh-cuh-cuh-Coach sent me to fuh-fuh-fuh-find you. Ta-ta-ta-told me to introduce muh-muh-muh-myself after delivering his muh-muh-muh-message.”

  Kurt Brodsky, either because of, or in spite of, his stuttering, has everyone’s full attention. Miller, Jankowski, and Studblatz, faces full of confusion, blink dully and nod in unison for him to continue. Actually, we might all be doing that.

  “Cuh-cuh-cuh-Coach suh-suh-said, ‘Tu-tu-tell them suh-suh-suh-sonsabuh-buh-bitches if they don’t have their asses out on that field in fuh-fuh-fuh-five minutes, they can ruh-ruh-run sprints until muh-muh-midnight.’ ”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Jankowski woofs.

  “Kuh-kuh-kuh-Kurt Buh-buh-Brodsky. Your new fuh-fuh-fullback.”

  Miller, Jankowski, and Studblatz all cock their heads as if hearing their master’s sharp whistle. They push past us in their hurry to get back to their locker room and change into their practice uniforms, not bothering to wait for their new teammate.

  4

  KURT

  There he is,” Coach Brigs says, waving me into his office while his other hand holds a phone up to his ear. “Bibi, our future star has finally arrived,” he tells the phone, winking at me, getting his fill of my face, taking in my scars without apology. He did the same thing—wink and everything—the first time we met. I try forcing a smile, but the best I can do is get the left corner of my mouth to lift a little. Coach gestures for me to sit down on an old vinyl couch with cracks in the seat cushions while he nods to something said on the other end of the phone. My butt hits the couch, and it keeps on sinking until I’m sure it’s about to go clear through to the floor. When it finally stops, I’m almost squatting. My knees poke up toward my chin, making my high-water pants ride up even farther, almost to my calf.

  “Bibi, that Jumbotron is going up in our stadium. I don’t care if they have to slash the budget for those other sports to cover it. Hell, half of ’em aren’t real sports anyways. Everyone kn
ows our program generates the revenue. We subsidize the rest of them. Without football they don’t exist. That Jumbotron is coming. Bet on it! My baby is coming. Tell the alumni association it’s the best damn recruitment tool around. Hell, we’ll have half the state scrambling to move into our school district to get their boys in our program. We’ll beat the pants off any charter schools and double—maybe triple—state contribution revenue. Property values will go through the roof. And the school board’ll get their cut in increased property taxes . . .”

  I wait for him to finish his phone call and watch players pass by outside the large window made of shatterproof glass—the kind that has chicken wire sandwiched inside it—separating Coach’s office from the rest of the varsity team locker room. Inside his office, the wall behind Coach Brigs’s desk is filled with team photos going back at least two decades. Trophy shelves line two other walls, brightening the painted cinder block with cheap-looking gold figurines, all of them helmeted with arms cocked back to throw a football. The maroon and gold paint, the team colors, must’ve been applied right after they built the place, based on the gray murk dulling them now.

  “It’s about time we got our hands on you, son,” Coach Brigs says after finally hanging up the phone. He stands up and comes around his desk, and it takes me a second to get unfolded from the couch. When I do he shakes my hand, gripping it hard and pumping it twice before dropping it to put his hands on my shoulders. He stands there staring at me, his eyes returning again to my scars before traveling over the rest of my body. “You been eating enough?” he asks. “You look like you might’ve lost some weight since last we talked in person. We got some great supplements. We’ll get you on a program. Assistant Coach Stein will set you up. Need to make sure my soldiers stay strong and healthy.”

  I nod at him.

  “Now, I talked with your foster mama,” he continues, still eyeballing my arms and legs. “I told her I’d send you home with a little something to pass along to her, make sure she feeds you enough. We need big Knights on this team. It’s a tough division. We got to take care of our own, you understand that, son? We are one family here. No enemies in the ranks, only soldiers and family. We gonna take care of you, now, Kurtis, because we expect great things from you. All of us. Not just me and my staff, not just your teammates, but your fans. You heard me, your fans. You watch the students’ eyes light up when they see you coming down the hallway after we get a few wins under our belt. You walk like a hero because you are a hero in their eyes. You’re going to be part of our great tradition of fine, upstanding men that others look up to and want to be like. And if you turn out to be a real star, like I got a hunch you will be, then the sky’s the limit. You can have anything you want, just about. Great warriors deserve their just deserts.” And that’s when he finally takes his hands off my shoulders. He delivers his speech close enough to my face that I smell every cup of coffee he drank this week. Still, I ain’t about to find fault with his words. In one minute, he’s offered me more than anyone else ever has.

  Coach Brigs goes back around to his desk and opens up his very own locker and pulls out two jerseys: one white with maroon piping and numbers; one maroon with gold piping and numbers. Coach Brigs tosses me the maroon jersey while he holds up the white one, his fingers pinching each shoulder and spreading it open for me to read. Above the number 27 is the name BRODSKY running across the back. I want to think it’s stupid and that it just makes me a dumb animal they’ve branded, but the fact remains that seeing my very own name on a team jersey—a real jersey, not something Lamar and I made out of old T-shirts and a permanent marker—is pretty cool. It does make me feel special. Playing for Lincoln, we never got jerseys with names.

  “We expect nothing but greatness from you, son. And I know you won’t let us down. Not one bit. Welcome to the Knights.” And Coach Brigs flings the white jersey over his desk. I snatch it out of the air, this time feeling both ends of my mouth curl up into a smile that pulls on my scar. “Your locker number is the same as your jersey number,” he says. “How’s that for serendipity?”

  I nod again, not really knowing what the word serendipity means, but promising myself I’ll look it up as soon as I get a chance.

  “Now, you missed our summer camp two-a-days so it might take you a bit to get into our system. Just go where you’re told and do what me, Assistant Coach Stein, or the trainers tell you and you’ll be just fine.”

  Without realizing it, I’ve brought the maroon jersey up to my nose as Coach keeps talking. I inhale the clean smell of brand-new fabric mixed with the toasty tang of the silk-screened numbers and name—my name—customized at a print shop. Coach Brigs stops talking for a second and watches me. That’s when I realize what I’m doing. His eyes twinkle a little and it makes me feel ... kind of ... good. Foolish, but good.

  “Now look here,” he says, pulling out a plain white envelope from his desk drawer and handing it over to me. On its front is Patti’s name in blue pen, but it takes me a second to realize it’s her because the envelope reads “Ms. Dornf.” “I want you to hand this over to your foster mama soon as you walk through that door tonight, you understand? It’s sealed up and I’m the one who sealed it and I’m the one who knows exactly what’s in it. So when I call her in a few days and ask whether or not she got my envelope, I don’t want to hear her say, ‘What envelope?’ and it turns out that you were just another blockhead that forgot all about the envelope—either intentionally or accidentally. You go home after practice and you give this to her right away and you tell her Coach Brigs sends his regards and will give her a call in a few days.”

  “Yessssssir,” I say, staring at the envelope, thinking it might be the most valuable thing I’ve ever been entrusted with.

  “Now, I don’t normally do this, but I am very aware of your situation, and it’s partly for that reason that I have such high hopes for you, Kurtis. A boy coming from your station in life, to make himself into a fine, upstanding young man, well, he needs to be applauded and encouraged from time to time. And it’s for that reason that I’m going to give you a little something here on the side to help you out. Now, this is just between us, you understand.” And Coach Brigs pulls out a silver money clip and slips out four bills that I’m too nervous to look at directly. “And if anyone ever asks you, well, I never handed you nothing. I wish’t it weren’t that way but sometimes the bureaucrats get a little too stuffy with their rules when all someone is trying to do is help out a kid in need. This here’s a little pocket money for you, to help you fit in, to help you adjust a little bit. Most of the kids that go to this school, God love ’em, are too spoiled to ever understand a single thing about wanting for something or going hungry or not getting the newest gadget or latest gizmo. I ain’t giving you something these kids don’t get ten times over from their coddling mamas and daddies already. That’s why most of ’em couldn’t even think of playing this game, even if they were the size of Godzilla. They’re all too soft. Start bawling when Daddy even looks at them crosswise. But I’ve seen you play, Kurtis, and I know just how tough you are, son. You play like you got fire in your veins. I like your style. And I want to keep my soldier happy. So if you need to go out and buy yourself some new pants that fit you a little better, maybe a few shirts from the mall, well, this money is to help you do just that. Nothing much, nothing fancy, just a little something to help out.”

  He palms the money and clasps my hand again, shaking it firmly. When he lets go, the bills sit nestled in my grip. Still afraid to look, I slip them into my front pocket. Thankful and surprised by Coach’s generosity, I can’t help feeling it’s more wrong than just breaking a few “stuffy, bureaucratic rules.” I don’t feel bad enough to give ’em back, though.

  “And if you want a pretty girl to take you shopping for clothes, you just let your quarterback know. He’ll introduce you to whoever you’d like to meet. You’re in good hands now, son. We take care of our own.”

  “Sssssir. Thuh-thuh-thank you, ssssssir.”


  “I see someone raised you right,” Coach grins. “Put those good manners in you . . .”

  At night he’d come into our room, pants half unzipped, coiled belt dangling from his fist like a strangled snake.

  “. . . but no need to be so formal, son,” Coach Brigs continues. “You can call me Coach.”

  I nod a few times to fill the silence. Coach slaps my right shoulder hard, like he forgot I’m not wearing pads yet.

  “Now go get your stuff and get ready for practice.”

  “Yessssssssir.” I open his door to leave.

  “Oh, yeah, one last thing, Kurtis,” Coach says.

  I wait.

  “Scott Miller’s your quarterback. He’s a top prospect. Letters coming into my office almost every day asking my help to sign him to some pretty good college programs. Tom Jankowski’s an all-state offensive tackle. Letters piling up for him as well. And Mike Studblatz is our all-division linebacker two seasons running. Big Ten coaches love watching him hit. These three are also team captains and they’re thick as thieves. These are my boys and I will lay down my life, in a manner of speaking, for them because they give me every ounce of themselves on game day. But they’ve let all that recruiting sweet talk go to their heads this last year. Started showing up late for practice last three days in a row, ever since classes started. I don’t know what they’re doing but I’d appreciate it if you’d go find them, introduce yourself to them, and give them this message from me, word for word . . . ”