Stick

by Michael Harmon

  I swallowed, checking the clock on my nightstand. It was well into beer time. “No problem. This is Preston.”

  Dad nodded to him. He took a breath, then spoke. “Brett told me what happened with Lance Killinger and Tilly.” He hesitated. “And that Coach Williams allowed it. It should have never happened, and I’m sorry.”

  Preston stared blankly at him, in typical form, then glanced at me. I could tell he was almost bursting to say something odd, but he didn’t. “That’s okay. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  I knew then that for however blunt and literal Preston was, he was also polished at dealing with parents. My dad took another breath, uncomfortable, then went on. “I wanted to do this in private, but I learned some things today.” He fished in his pocket and took out what looked like a poker chip, staring at it for a second. He handed it to me.

  I looked at it, flipping it over. It had the number 24 etched into both sides. “What is it?” I asked.

  He swallowed, his eyes flitting nervously from Preston to me. “It’s a 24-hour Desire Chip. I went to my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting this morning.”

  He could have shot me with a cannon and I wouldn’t have been as blown away. I stared at the chip, then looked up to him. “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Brett.” His eyes moistened just the slightest, and he looked away. “I’m an alcoholic. I’ve treated you poorly, and for all the wrong reasons. I love you,” he finished, then looked to Preston. “It was nice meeting you. I’ll order some pizza. It’ll be on the counter.” He walked out, closing the door behind him.

  I stared at the chip in my hand, speechless. I’d learned two things in the last few weeks. The first was that my father was a broken and very lonely man. The second was that he wasn’t dumb. He was a human being, not just a dad.

  After a moment of stunning silence, Preston spoke. “I’m allergic to pepperoni.”

  Friday rolled around with two changes in my life. First off, my dad had thrown away the case and a half of beer in the garage refrigerator. We hadn’t spoken about it since he’d told me he was going to AA, but things were different. He slept in his bed every night, instead of the recliner, and he was on edge. Nervous. Almost jumpy. He didn’t talk a lot, but I could tell he was struggling. I cooked dinner both nights, we sat in the living room eating crappy food and watching TV, and I accepted the silence, knowing that his demons were considerably more demonic than mine. Not a single word was spoken about football, which I thanked God for.

  Now that I was passing math, the only thing I had to worry about was not getting beaten to a pulp by half the Saxon team. And a small second thing.

  The second thing was that Preston was cornered in the bathroom by Tilly and Killinger at lunch on Thursday. They’d stripped him naked and stolen his clothes, leaving him shivering in a bathroom stall. Instead of cowering in there until he could be rescued, he’d blithely left the bathroom, walking down the halls naked among the laughter and shock of everybody until a teacher dragged him into a room.

  I could’ve imagined Preston doing it, just like ignoring the eggs, but of course nothing was left to the imagination. They’d filmed it on their phones, and somebody uploaded it to the Internet. It went viral within hours, and Preston was instantly tagged “Nakedboy.” I could have killed myself.

  With the Shadle game in less than six hours, I should have been completely focused on football, but my head was full of one thing: Lance Killinger.

  Twenty minutes before sixth period ended , I faked stomach cramps from a bad lunch and skipped out. I got my car and headed straight for the Hamilton parking lot, searching until I found Killinger’s car, a tricked-out Honda Civic, lowered and with a spoiler big enough to fly a small plane. Typical Killinger.

  Flashy, loud, and useless.

  As I sat in my car waiting, I stared at the gaudy thing. No doubt his stereo system was worth more than my entire car, and I was tempted to grab the baseball bat from my trunk and go to work on it.

  Fully into my fantasy of what a Louisville Slugger in my hands would make his car look like, I didn’t notice him until he was almost to his car. I took my keys out of the ignition and opened the door.

  He saw me, and for the slightest second, there was something on his face that I never figured I’d see. Fear. In an instant it disappeared, replaced with the contempt I was used to. He looked up, studying the sky, then wiped his forehead. “Hot today. Almost makes you want to”—he looked at me, then grinned—“strip down and go natural.”

  I stepped up to him. “It’s gone too far. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Says you?”

  “Yes.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “You can’t do anything about it, Patterson.”

  I started toward him. I could end this, and I could end him. I would end him. His eyes widened for a second, and he jumped back, raising his hands and laughing. “Hold on, big boy, just hold on. Violence is never the way,” he said, mocking me.

  I knocked his hands away and grabbed him by his varsity jacket, slamming him against his car. My face was inches from his. Lance Killinger expected this. He expected me to lose my temper, and if I did, I’d lose a lot more, too, because he had power and he knew how to use it. He was untouchable because Coach Williams was the king of Hamilton High School, and the man would do anything or overlook anything in order to win games. Lance knew it, too. I stared at him, then let him go. He smiled, spreading his arms out, inviting me. “Come on, Patterson. What are you going to do? Hit me. Come on, pussy.”

  The difference between dumb and stupid. I nodded. “You know, Lance, I don’t have to do anything. You’re the one who has to figure out what to do.”

  He pointed at me. “You’re the one, Patterson. You’re dead. So is your little fag friend.”

  I smiled. “The only reason you’re all butt-hurt is because you know.”

  He paused, staring at me. “Know what? I don’t need to know anything other than you’re mine.”

  I shrugged. “You know you’re not as good as you say, Lance. You know that without me to catch for you, you’re nothing but a second-string arm with a first-string mouth. And that hurts, doesn’t it?”

  The vein in his neck pulsed, and I could tell I’d hit my target. He worked his jaw muscles. “I can throw better—”

  “No, Lance, you can’t. That’s why you’re so pissed off at me. Because you know what you are. Deep down, you know. And the only thing you can do about it is to go after a fifteen-year-old dork because you’re too chicken to come after me.” I nodded, lowering my voice. “You’re my bitch, Lance. You like that? Feel good?”

  He jerked his jacket off, throwing it on the hood of the car. “Fine. You and me. Right now.”

  I smiled, looking around and gesturing. “Can’t beat me on the field, so you want to try in a parking lot? You’re sad, Lance.”

  He stood there, trembling he was so mad. “I can take you anywhere, anytime.”

  “Huh. Really?” I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “How about this, then. LC plays Hamilton next Friday. If we beat you, this ends. If you beat us, I’ll meet you and Tilly anywhere you want.”

  Lance pursed his lips, thinking. Then he smiled. “Tilly and I are going to end you no matter what you do. No deal.”

  “Name your terms, then.”

  “If LC wins, it’s over.” He spat. “If we win, you quit football. Quit the Tigers.”

  “Preston is left alone either way, or no deal.”

  He laughed. “Deal. Get used to sitting at home, bitch. And by the way, it’s only over after the game. Not until then. Watch yourself,” he said, then put his jacket on, got in his car, and drove away.

  As I watched him go, I exhaled, feeling like I’d held my breath for ten years. Lance Killinger was playing my game now. The only thing I had to do to win was stay one step ahead of him.

  “Patterson! In my office!”

  Lacing up my cleats, I hustled through the locker room. Whe
n I got to the office, Jordan Appleway and Dillon Yance, the starting wide receivers, were standing there. Jordan nodded when I walked in. Dillon shuffled his feet.

  Coach Larson threw his pen on the desk. “I didn’t say tomorrow, Patterson.”

  “Sorry, Coach,” I said. Coach Larson was incredibly cool, but he expected you to do what he wanted before he even knew what he wanted you to do. I’d learned quickly enough that he expected two things at all times from his players: one hundred percent effort and psychic abilities.

  He also didn’t mince words. Sitting back in his chair, he nodded to me. “You’ll be starting wide receiver with Appleway tonight. Right side.”

  I glanced at Dillon. He was a nice guy, and by the look on his face I could tell he was destroyed. “Thank you, Coach.”

  “You earned it. Keep earning it.”

  “Yessir,” I said.

  “You boys need an invitation to get out of my office?” he barked. “I’ve got to figure out how to get you knuckleheads to win this game.”

  I nodded, smiling.

  Outside his office, Jordan slapped my shoulder. “Looks like you got it, babyface. Just try to keep up with me,” he said, laughing.

  I watched Dillon walk to his locker. “Yeah.”

  Jordan put fingers to lips and whistled. Everybody suiting up stopped what they were doing and looked at us. He raised his voice. “Y’all listen up! Looks like babyface learned how to play football since he got here. Boy is going to take his diapers off and be my wingman tonight, so be easy on him.” He clapped me on the back again to the cheers of the team. He turned to me, jutting his chin at me and grinning. “So you think you’re Stick, huh?”

  “Some people think so.”

  He walked down the aisle, then turned, calling out, “Well, then I guess you are Stick.”

  —

  We hit the field running, and I felt the electricity coursing through me again. The lights. The crowd. The announcer’s voice blaring through the speakers. It felt like it’d been a whole season, not weeks, since I’d played. As I ran to our bench, I smiled, realizing that I hadn’t played for over a season. Not the way I wanted to, anyway.

  The only thing that had me on edge was my dad. Ever since I could remember, my dad had arrived early to every game, taking a spot four rows back at the fifty-yard line. I glanced up, hoping I wouldn’t see him, but he was there. Yeah, things were better with him not drinking, but he still hadn’t said a word to me about football.

  The stadium was packed, and as we lined up for the most horrible rendition of the National Anthem I’d ever heard, Ben Lynch, standing next to me, bumped my arm. “Looks like you’ve got some fans.”

  I looked to where he was looking, and there, at the highest row of the stands on the Tigers’ side, was the starting line of the Saxons, including Mike, Killinger, and Tilly, all wearing their jerseys. They also held poster boards.

  Patterson = Traitor.

  Stick doesn’t stick.

  Turncoat.

  Quitter.

  LC sucks.

  I shook my head. Deal or no deal, Lance Killinger couldn’t help himself. But the main thing I cared about was that they lay off Preston. The other thing was that Mike, my best friend for years, was one of them standing up there holding a sign.

  After the anthem and the coin toss, Coach Larson called me over. He put his hands on my shoulder pads, staring at me through my face mask. He nodded to the stands. To the Saxons. “I don’t care why you left, Brett, because it doesn’t matter. The right here and the right now matter. Focus on the field. The game.”

  The shadow lifted, and the electricity came back. I was playing for all the right reasons, and Coach knew it.

  We lost the toss, and as we were about to take the field, Jordan jogged up to me, slapping my helmet. “You a Tiger?”

  “You bet.”

  He smiled through his face mask. “We got you, buddy.”

  Shadle was playing zone, not man on man, which was my strong suit because I could confuse them, and I was excited. I’d watched tapes of the cornerbacks and safeties and I knew their weaknesses. Give me the ball and I could take them. I knew I could, and between Jordan and me, I knew without a doubt we were the strongest team in the league. Adrenaline flowed through me like quicksilver.

  We took the field, and the stadium quieted as we huddled for the first play. Fans chomped down on hot dogs, drank their sodas, and watched. The cheerleaders finished their cheer, and Ben should have called out the play in the huddle. He didn’t. His sardonic smile and easy drawl came like a greased pig out of a chute. “Looks like some people don’t know whose house they’re in.” Then he called out the play. He went on, looking me in the eye and talking to the guys. “We got some schooling to do. Let’s do it.” Then he broke huddle.

  Nobody went to position. Every Tiger on the field lined up, facing the stands. Then they raised their right arms, pointing to the top row, to my old teammates. Silence reigned in the stadium. Soon, every Tiger on the sidelines had turned to face them, pointing. Three thousand faces in the stadium stared at the Saxons.

  Slowly, a voice at a time, the crowd started booing. In another ten seconds, you couldn’t hear yourself talk over the noise.

  My old teammates tried to slink down the aisles and disappear, but I saw a group of over twenty guys from LC meet them halfway up. Security swarmed. I laughed. Ben slapped me on the back, yelling over the crowd, “Let’s play some ball, Stick.”

  I found out soon enough what Coach Larson was all about. Shadle had me pinned to the ground from the start. They’d based their whole defense on Coach Larson using me to whip their asses. I was double-teamed every play, but I’d studied them. I knew them. I knew their play.

  Coach Larson completely ignored me.

  By the second half, I’d only held the ball twice, each time a diversion to put Shadle back on to me. Jordan was having a stellar game, and Coach Larson played a running game against a team that had planned a passing game. Their zone defense was left with basically chasing me around the field while Jordan and the running backs were raising hell on them.

  I couldn’t even bear to look up in the stands at my dad.

  I’d gone through hell to be here. I’d made the right choices, worked my ass off, proved myself…and Coach wasn’t using me.

  Back on the field before third quarter, I stepped up to him. “Coach?”

  He turned to me, saying nothing, waiting.

  “Did I do something wrong? I mean, I thought I showed you what I can do. I earned it, but you’re not using me.”

  His jaw snapped shut, and his eyes glinted. “You look like a wide receiver to me, Patterson.”

  I blinked. “Yessir.”

  He worked his jaw muscles. “So, you’re not the coach of this team, then?”

  “Nosir. I’m sorry, I just…”

  He pointed. “Then get your ass on that bench. You’re out until I say you’re in. You got that?”

  I hadn’t been benched before. Ever. “Yessir.”

  He furrowed his brow. “I said now. Get out of my face.”

  I sat on the bench, my helmet planted between my feet on the turf, for the entire third quarter, watching Dillon struggle through the plays. I could almost feel my dad’s eyes burning holes through me. I’d screwed up. I’d failed, and I was a fool. I had nearly every state record under my belt, and…nothing. I sat and watched the game, and my father’s judgment ripped through me like wildfire.

  We were down three by the fourth quarter. Jordan and Ben ignored me, but their eyes didn’t. Every time they came off the field, they looked at me. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking, but there was a question in both of their expressions.

  Just before the fourth started, Coach walked up to me, jabbing a finger in my face. “Tell me what football is to you, Patterson.”

  “It’s about doing what you love, sir.”

  He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. “If life was that easy, I’d own an island in the South Pa
cific and sit drinking girly drinks with umbrellas in them. I also wouldn’t have to deal with a bunch of snot-nosed idiots like yourself every damn day. It’s about being a part of something that’s bigger than you, and loving being a part of something that’s bigger than you. It’s not about a game, Patterson, it’s about life.”

  I nodded. “Yessir.”

  “This team does not exist for you, and as long as you don’t see it that way, you’ll sit on my bench. You got that?”

  My stomach shrank. “Yes, Coach.”

  He leaned down, bringing his face to mine. “I don’t give a single damn about what one person does on this field. I give a damn that when my players leave this school, they know what being a part of something is. Are you ready to play some football, Patterson?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Are you ready to be a part of this team?”

  “Yessir.”

  He grinned, nodding. “Then I’ll coach this team and you’ll play for it. Get off that bench and do your job.”

  I did. And the ball never touched my hands. I couldn’t figure it out. Ben called run play after run play, handing the ball off every time as we ground our way down the field. Shadle had turned their full attention to the run game, and I was all but being ignored.

  Still down by three with seconds left on the clock. We’d come up short, with the ball at the forty-yard line. As we huddled, Ben smiled. “Stick, you ready to do something besides run in circles?”

  I nodded.

  “Quick Ace 38.”

  I blinked.

  He went on. “They’ll be expecting the ball going long to Jordan. We got one shot at this.”

  As we lined up, I took a breath. Ben looked up and down the line, then called the snap. Jordan and I were off the line like lightning, heading downfield as Shadle ran a blitz toward Ben. With Jordan streaking down the sideline and staying wide, I stopped ten yards out, spinning on a dime. The cornerback on me didn’t see it coming, and I was completely open. Just as Ben was swallowed by green and yellow uniforms, he threw the ball.

  I caught it, feeling the leather slap my hands, and I ran. I ran like I’d never run in my life, sweeping past the cornerback, feeling the adrenaline pump through me. Everything slowed down, just like it always did when I had the ball. I had no conscious thought, just clear shapes on the field. Patterns. Avenues to run, shapes to avoid.