Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  “Tuh-try again,” I tell him.

  “Boy,” Chandre snarls, still itching to lay out our king, “you better hope I don’t catch you with that ball. You get it and your ass is mine.”

  “Bring it.”

  I don’t know there’s a DJ up in the stadium booth remixing the words caught on my helmet mic until Ashville calls a time-out. That’s when the Jumbotron fills with a cartoon potato chip snapping into pieces as the sound system rumbles with chewing noises. The game’s Big Munch Crunch is brought to the fans by the sponsor—a Fray’s potato chip. Then the screen fills with Chandre’s face caught in my helmet cam’s fish-eye lens just before I hit him. The hit booms like a road accident on the sound system and the DJ adds a freight train whistle. “Boy-Bring it! Boy-Boy-Bring-Bring-Bring Bring it! Boy-Bring It!” raps out from the stadium speakers as the DJ mixes mine and Chandre’s words together with a beat under it. The fans go nuts.

  “Damn, Kurt,” Terrence tells me. “That rap’s going to make you and Chandre superstars on iTunes.” I nod, trying to hide a smile, trying to obey Coach’s warning not to talk with the helmet on.

  By halftime we lead 14-10. Still too close for anyone’s liking. It’s the first game I play as a Knight that feels like we might not control our own fate. Ashville makes us pay for any yardage we manage to scrape together with some wicked hits. Studblatz does his own share of prowling the line and smashing Ashville’s offense, but somehow it feels like Chandre Jackson is striking deeper to the bone. Our starting linemen drag themselves into the locker room. Jankowski’s breathing real heavy. Pullman bows his head like he’s already beaten.

  “We are a team and we are being tested, right here, right now,” Coach hollers, smacking his rolled-up playbook pages across Pullman’s shoulder pads. “They are going to wear us down and try to get an easy score at the end. You can be sure of it. Men, we have thirty minutes left and four points might as well be zero points, might as well be minus-four points. I want us to attack, attack, attack. We need to send them a message, cut off the head, hurt them. Studblatz, you’ve got to get to their quarterback. They are stuffing you up at that line like a virgin on prom night. Is that the best you got?”

  Studblatz jerks his head as if Coach has finger-hooked him by the nostrils.

  “Boy, you better up your vitamin intake if that’s all you can bring. Those scouts are going to take back their offers if you’re going to play like a girl all night. Now get out there and hit someone. Hurt someone. Hurt someone bad. You send a message. You let Ashville know this is our house. You understand?”

  Studblatz, huffing, eyes going demonic, nods that he understands.

  “You’ve got thirty minutes to prove to me that I’m not making a mistake, putting my reputation on the line with those schools, telling them how good you are, how you’d be a fine addition to their teams. You go out there and you bring me back a head.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “What?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “Pullman.” Coach wheels on our beaten lineman. “I don’t care if you have to sucker punch those sons of bitches when they go past you on the double-team. Step on their feet, or leg-whip someone, but by God, if you keep letting half their defense slip by you, letting them dance past you like swishy faggots, and, so help me, one of them hurts Scott, I’m making you wear a dress at Monday practice. You are not making your daddy out in the stands real proud tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to hurt those bastards, you understand. Hurt them!”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “ Scott, good job so far. Good passes. Stay relaxed. Stay focused. You’re in good hands with Kurt, you understand. Brodsky’s making some beautiful stopgap plays. He’s saved your butt at least three times tonight by my count. Kurt, keep playing hard, keep hitting.”

  “Yessssssir!”

  As halftime ends, we jog back to the field in broken clumps. The marching band horns blurt and the drums crackle and thump as special teams take position for the kickoff. Win or lose, I’ll handle this game, I’ll handle the rest of the season just fine, I tell myself. That’s when Scott comes up behind me and slaps the top of my helmet.

  “You keep picking up the slack, Kurt. Keep playing for me, playing for the team, and everything is going to be all right,” he says. These are his first nonfootball commands to me since the meeting in Coach’s office. “We take care of each other, right?”

  I look at him without answering. He’s too close and I can see his face behind the mask.

  “Brothers, right?” he adds. I still don’t answer, not because I don’t want to, but because I cannot.

  “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you . . . Mr. Wolf?” Scott slaps my shoulder pads, smiling at the nickname. He’s got no right using it, got no right calling me by it. After everything that’s happened, what they did to Ronnie. It’s all just a joke to him. No big deal.

  Just like that, my mind is back in that storage room, Scott holding that dirty broomstick while making me an offer. “You want a shot, Mr. Wolf?”

  A light drizzle that started before halftime now comes down heavier, making the field slick. Chandre Jackson revs up across the line, still itching to inflict pain. Right from the start he bosses Pullman around, knocking him flat on his ass and then catching Terrence from behind in our own backfield, again, wasting the nice hole Jankowski has blown open in the line. My concentration crumbles while Scott’s question keeps playing in my head. Static pours into my helmet’s ear holes, and I don’t know if it’s the sound of rain hitting the plastic shell or maybe the water’s shorting out the wiring to the mic and camera. I shake my head but the sound is still there, distracting me so I can’t remember the snap count. Not wanting to be flagged with an offside penalty, I play it safe and decide to wait a half beat after the ball snap.

  You want a shot, Mr. Wolf?

  Something shifts.

  You want a shot, Mr. Wolf?

  The gods on the field grow angry.

  You want a shot, Mr. Wolf?

  Images of Scott and Ronnie bring up memories of Meadow’s House. The rain-static creeping into my helmet’s ear holes grows in volume. It reminds me of the sound duct tape makes—that brrrraaaapp sound—when it’s pulled off in long strips from the tape roll and you can’t move because you’re cramped up tight in a plastic storage bin with your best friend, both of you smothering and that brrrraaaapp sound tells you you’re being sealed into the box to be taught a lesson that you’ll never, ever forget.

  Chandre Jackson blitzes.

  He sniffs out the pass, knows Pullman is broken now, and easier to slip past than an orange gym cone. With one head fake and a stiff arm, Chandre’s by Pullman and accelerating, afterburners flaming. In full sprint, Chandre’s eyes lock on our quarterback, anticipating the big hit, check-mating our king and tossing our team. Scott’s busy rolling right, looking downfield for the deep strike that will stab Ashville in their heart. The gods place me on the center of the seesaw, allowing me to tip that balance either way. And all I can hear is, You want a shot, Mr. Wolf? And all I can see is Scott standing in that room, offering Ronnie up like a piece of meat.

  Chandre Jackson blasts forward.

  I move to intercept him, dipping low to catch his weight and cut him off at the knees. I lunge at a good angle but my feet slip on the wet grass. My legs shoot out backward, behind me. I go down quick, face mask planting harmlessly into the turf. The last thing I see is Chandre Jackson’s graceful stride as he hurdles over me on his way to murder.

  CRUNK!

  The hit sounds like a refrigerator dropping out of the sky. I roll over in time to see Jackson wallop Scott at his most blind and vulnerable—with his throwing arm cocked back, staring downfield, about to launch. Jackson spears Scott just to the left of his spine, tagging his kidney. The impact snaps Scott’s helmet backward while his arms spread outward in crucifixion, the ball dropping from his hand. The momentum lifts Scott off his feet and drives him dow
n, down, down, shoulder- and helmet-first into the grass while Jackson rides along, making sure to add his weight to the landing.

  Chandre Jackson roars. His triumph fills the night sky while the bleachers, the hill, the fans, and both teams suck air in together at the vicious hit. Terrence is the only one moving for a moment, scrambling to recover the loose, live ball and fall on it until a whistle blows the play dead. Jankowski wastes no time marching over and shoving Jackson in the back as boos rise from the stands like steam clouds. Both teams start moving toward each other until the refs blow their whistles like crazy and let fly with the yellow flags. When the players pull back from the scuffle, Scott’s still lying on the turf, groaning.

  “It’s his arm!” Jankowski shouts, waving in the trainers. “His arm!”

  By now, players and fans are standing around watching the slow-motion replay on the Jumbotron while the paramedics rush onto the field with a backboard. Each time the screen shows Scott taking the hit from behind, the fans boo. Part of me sees my failure to stop it. Part of me sees justice.

  “It’s dislocated,” the trainers report to Coach Brigs, Assistant Coach Stein, and the rest of us grouped ten feet from Scott and the paramedics on the field. “Might be his collarbone is broken, too.” The fans clap and whistle as Coach Stein and one of the trainers help Scott limp off the field clutching his bad arm with his opposite hand.

  “At least it’s not his throwing arm,” Pullman offers. No one answers him. Except me.

  “He’ll be fuh-fine,” I tell him, getting close enough that my helmet clinks his.

  Chandre Jackson and Tom Jankowski are both flagged with unsportsmanlike conduct penalties. Warner comes in as backup quarterback. It’s too late in the game and the score too close to test our backup’s confidence, so everyone knows he’ll be handing off the ball more than passing it.

  “We need you to send a message,” Coach Brigs tells me on the sideline, then explains what he wants. Same three plays in a row. Fullback carry up the gut, behind Jankowski’s blocking. Coach wants—everyone wants—some payback delivered to Chandre Jackson. Same play three times in a row. Predictable. No surprises. A good way to clear out game pieces.

  On the first handoff from Warner, it takes me a second to adjust to his timing. I find the hole in the line and bull forward. Gaining yards is fine. Administering punishment is more the point. Ashville’s defense tangles me up after three yards and I find Chandre Jackson dragging me from behind, tripping me until I topple.

  “What kind of pussy tackle is that?” Tom asks Chandre, standing over both of us, offering me a hand up to my feet. I take it. Then he spits on Jackson still down in the grass.

  “Fat boy, I’m gonna take you down next,” Jackson fires back.

  The second handoff is smoother. I hit the line quicker and Tom, even angrier, blows out a hole easy for me to punch through. My knees pump high, feet stomping on blue Ashville jerseys falling under me. My helmet is a missile aiming in one direction, puncturing chest numbers, listening for yelps over the sound of the ocean now filling my ears.

  The third handoff gives the crowd what they want. Jankowski rips open a good-size hunk of real estate for me. I clear the line easily, gaining momentum and building speed. Chandre Jackson comes into view, moving fast, but he has to stop me and all I have to do is pound him. Thighs driving hard, knees pumping, I aim through him, lowering my head, charging like a ram. A puff of breath escapes him, sounds like a hiccup, as he tries to wrap me up.

  “Ooofff.”

  Chandre Jackson deflates around me, his body collapsing over my head and shoulders; his belly smears across my face mask like a bug on a windshield. I carry him like that for a few yards and then drive us both deep into the turf, plowing him under the dirt.

  We both lie motionless for a second, the collision taking its time to chew us up. Then I push off Chandre Jackson’s chest, stare at him through his face mask, see him trying to smile like it doesn’t hurt, but we both know better. “Stay down,” I tell him, “’cause more’s coming.”

  “Fu . . . yo” is all he can manage.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Coach uses me like a battering ram the rest of the game, unleashing me into Ashville’s defensive unit to deliver more and more pain. Jackson stops prowling the line. He also stops his trash talk. He just plants himself like a soggy cat, waiting for me to nail him while the clock burns down. I can’t pull oxygen into my lungs fast enough. My thighs tremble near the end, a few times threatening to stop working altogether. My brain aches from using my skull as a weapon. On more than a few plays, Ashville cornerbacks grind their cleats into my back or ankles while I lie at the bottom of a gang tackle. Hurt drives me into Ashville’s line, where sometimes I harpoon a tackler rather than aim for open field. Hurt I know well. Hurt I understand. Hurt, in the end, can be counted on to always arrive. So hurt I rely on, knowing I can weather it better than most. I punch a four-yard carry into the end zone behind Jankowski’s blocking. I drag Jackson, wrapped up around my hips, into the goal with me. That finishes it at 21-10.

  “KNIGHTS! KNIGHTS! KNIGHTS!”

  The hill and bleachers start chanting along with the Jumbotron words as the game clock winds down. And then the chanting—and the Jumbotron—change to something new, something I’ve never heard before.

  “BROD-SKY, BROD-SKY, BROD-SKY!”

  I lift my arms up like a prizefighter and the stands roar. Middle-aged parents, white-haired grandparents, junior high and elementary school kids, guys long past graduation clap and stomp and whistle. They love the hurt. They love the pain. They love watching it flow in and out of me, seeing me take it and deliver it. I walk toward the sidelines surrounded by my teammates, knowing I could lead them if given a chance. I glance up at the Jumbotron and see it delivering the same view of the stands I got and then the view changes to itself. The helmet cam is on. The DJ up in the booth must have switched it to a live feed. The fans are watching themselves and this brings another cheer. Guys jump in front of me, grabbing my face mask, twisting my neck, to get in front of the little lens and stick their finger up, screaming they’re number one. My head throbs from all the earlier hits, feels like it might swell and get stuck in my helmet, but it’s a small price to pay to hear those chants and get a few moments quiet from all those awful pictures haunting my skull.

  33

  DANNY

  I sit shotgun in Fisher’s van as we roll into the McDonald’s parking lot Saturday morning. Kurt is there waiting, along with my teammates, and it secretly thrills me. He half sits, half leans on the hood of Gradley’s sedan, massaging his temples in slow circles while the other guys loaf around the duffel bags, minicoolers, and equipment plopped at their feet.

  “That big fucker actually showed,” Fisher says, voicing my thoughts, if not my exact word choice. “Thought that was just bullshit about you inviting him.”

  “Nope,” I answer, trying to hide my own disbelief. Fisher hand-cranks his window down and hollers out a greeting.

  “Morning, boys!”

  Menderson flips Fisher the bird. Kurt pushes himself off Gradley’s car hood and the suspension lifts about three inches.

  Bruce sits in the back of Fisher’s van, using the big cooler stuffed with ice, soda, burger patties, and hot dogs as a bench. Silent since we picked him up, he opens the back doors, now, and hops out like he needs air. Paul Kim, Larry Menderson, and Pete Delray pile into the back of the panel van, marking their territory for the long drive by throwing duffel bags, backpacks, and pillows over the scattered carpet samples Fisher uses as flooring.

  “I call the left wheel well,” Menderson shouts, jamming Pete with his shoulder and moving the small freshman out of the way.

  “The space behind Fisher’s seat is mine,” Paul calls.

  “Where am I supposed to sit?” Pete whines.

  “The roof is all yours,” Menderson says as bits of Sausage McMuffin spill out his mouth and tumble down his shirt.

  Kurt moves slower than the
others, like he’s banged up real bad. I get out of the prized front seat and offer it to him.

  “Take shotgun,” I say. He nods, still massaging his temples, stepping up into the van, rocking the whole vehicle with his weight. More guys pile into the back and then Gradley takes the leftovers in his sedan. Fisher swings through the drive-through and orders a seventy-two-ounce Coke to go along with his half-finished thirty-two-ounce Mountain Dew.

  “You guys ready to roll?” he asks. It is still super early for a Saturday and Fisher is the only one mainlining caffeine, so his question dies on delivery. We pull out of the parking lot and our convoy of two heads for the highway exit.

  “Anyone guh-guh-got aspirin?” Kurt asks.

  “Danny, you got anything for the superstar here?” Fisher asks snidely, then glances over his shoulder into the pit of groggy bodies trying to get comfortable on the jouncing floor. “Hey, dorks, any of you got aspirin?”

  “No!” Paul grumps.

  I nudge Menderson’s ribs with my toe until he opens one eye. “You got any aspirin?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Soda’s good for headaches,” Fisher says, handing Kurt his giant tub of Coke. Kurt takes it. “I always get a headache if I don’t drink a Coke in the morning before school.”

  I lean back against a rolled-up sleeping bag. There is no room for my legs with Menderson hogging the middle, curled up in a ball and snoring, so I prop my sneakers on his butt and shut my eyes.