by Davis Ashura
The film was blessedly short, but narrated by someone from the sixties or seventies. He had lank hair combed over to the side, oversized glasses, and the dull, lifeless diction common to that era of instructional videos. Despite his droning, soporific monotone, William managed to stay awake through the entire video.
When the lights came back on, Mrs. Nelson gathered everyone around her lab table at the head of the class. “You won’t be expected to do everything seen on the film,” she said, “but for today I want each table to have the skin dissected off one leg. Let me show you what I mean.”
William and Serena stood toward the back of the group, and they had to step onto stools to see Mrs. Nelson’s work. She had her mousy head bent over the demonstration frog.
William wrinkled his nose at the stench of the formaldehyde. “Does it stink so bad because it’s dead?” he asked Serena in a whisper.
Serena’s eyes crinkled as she bit her lower lip, shaking with silent laughter.
Steve Aldo, who stood nearby, chuckled as well. “I hate the way this stuff stinks, too.”
William shot him a surprised expression. Steve’s friendliness was unexpected, especially since he was on the football team and friends with Jake. “I’m sorry the team lost,” William whispered to him.
“Me, too,” Steve replied. “But that wasn’t your fault. That was Jake’s.” He shrugged. “They shouldn’t have done what they did.”
Once again, William’s eyes widened in surprise.
Before he could reply, Serena interrupted their conversation. “Will you two be quiet?” she whispered. “I’m trying to listen.”
William gave Steve a shrug and returned his attention to Mrs. Nelson. With a few efficient slices, their teacher had the skin removed from a thigh of her frog. “See how easy it is?” she asked. “Simple. Now go back to your tables and I’ll get the frogs.” She ducked into her office and returned with a sloshing, white bucket. “Glove up and grab one,” Mrs. Nelson said. When she reached William and Serena’s station, she paused and waited expectantly.
William reached into the bucket and scowled in disgust. Though the frogs were dead, with their cold, slimy, squishy gross skin, they still managed to flop through his grasping fingers.
“Just grab one,” Mrs. Nelson said impatiently.
“They’re slippery,” William said.
“For heaven’s sake, just pick it up,” Mrs. Nelson said in exasperation. “It’s not that hard.”
William gritted his teeth and grabbed a frog. It almost slipped free, and he had to grasp it more firmly so it wouldn’t escape. With a firm jerk, he pulled the frog out by one of its hind legs and all but threw it onto the dissection tray. It plopped down with a wet smack.
“Ack!” Serena cried out. Some of the liquid had splattered into her hair.
William gasped. The first girl who had ever showed any interest in him, a beautiful one, too, and he’d splashed frog juice in her hair.
“William Wilde!” Serena exclaimed.
The class burst into laughter.
“Settle down, everyone,” Mrs. Nelson said, trying to remain stern, but her quivering lips gave way to chuckles as she moved to the next station.
“William,” Serena said, drawing his attention to her. She glared at him, something she’d never done before. “This is unacceptable!”
By the barest margins, William managed not to shrink away from the intensity of her gaze. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“I don’t care,” she snapped.
“If I say sorry again, will that make you even angrier?”
Her jaw briefly clenched, but then she sighed. “Never mind.” Her voice and posture no longer seeped anger, but coldness laced her tone. “Let’s just get this done.”
William nodded. “I paid attention to the film. I can skin the leg if you like. You know, that way you don’t have to get your hands covered in frog goo.”
“Dissect,” Serena corrected. She shoved the tray toward him. “You dissect the leg.”
William carefully grasped the dead frog the way Mrs. Nelson and the monotonous man had, but it escaped from his hands. He tried again and had the same result.
Serena growled. “Just give it to me. The way you’re going, we’ll be here all day.”
She took the tray, pulled it close to her, and used her forceps to clamp down on the frog and hold it in place. With a few deft slices, she had the skin filleted off one hind leg. The muscles were clearly visible.
Serena wasn’t finished, though. She plucked William’s forceps from his hands, inserted the head into the frog’s open thigh and pried apart the various muscles, separating them until they stood out. She’d been as efficient as Mrs. Nelson and as skilled as the man on the film.
William’s jaw dropped.
“Now that we’re done, I’m going to try and wash this gunk out of my hair,” Serena said as she stood up.
“You cut that thigh apart like it was nothing,” William said, still gaping.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty good with a scalpel,” Serena replied.
“Remind me not to ever get on your bad side.”
“Finally, you demonstrate wisdom,” Serena said.
After the confrontation with Sonya Bowyer, the rest of the week passed uneventfully. But then came Friday, and another loss for the football team. Hell followed on the following Monday. The other students’ anger at William—not just from the football team this time—was palpable. Somebody even vandalized his locker, writing ‘traitor’ on it. Serena told him to ignore the veiled insults and pissed off stares, but that was easier said than done.
On Tuesday, the anger from the team and everyone else continued, but that was when Jason came up with the not-so-brilliant idea for the two of them to try out for the football team. It was midseason and doing so shouldn’t have been possible, except that with Lance out for the season and half his defense still suspended, Coach Rasskins needed the players.
William thought that trying out this late in the season was a dumb idea, but he went along with it anyway. Miraculously, they both made the team. Of course, Jason had been a shoo-in, but William’s own athleticism had been surprising, especially to himself. He still thought of himself as being weak and slow, and to find out he was strong and fast took getting used to.
However, during that first practice, the rest of the team gave William a scornful once over and voiced their opinions about him in no uncertain terms.
“Who let that loser on the team?” someone muttered.
“Probably got Jake suspended just to take his spot,” another answered.
“How did I let you talk me into this?” William asked afterward.
“It’ll be fine,” Jason promised.
It wasn’t.
Jason thrived while playing football. He had natural instincts and an athleticism that few others possessed, and in three days he transitioned from walk-on to starting wide receiver, but William struggled mightily. He had been assigned to defense, and while he had plenty of speed and strength—two years of martial arts hadn’t been for nothing—that wasn’t enough for football. Positioning was critical, and William was always out of position. The offensive players enjoyed blocking him into the dust while he was busy trying to remember his assignment.
William ended up playing third or fourth string, and being way down the depth chart was fine as far as he was concerned. That way he wouldn’t be expected to actually play.
Lord forbid if that happened!
Friday, game day, eventually arrived, and the morning dawned cheerfully sunny, unlike William’s worried, gray mood.
“I still don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” William said to Jason at their lunch table that day. “Tonight’s Homecoming. We have to win.”
“Stop worrying,” Jason replied. “We will. Besides, you probably won’t even make it out onto the field. You’re third string, remember?”
“Fourth.”
“Whatever. You’re overthinking it,
” Jason said. “That’s always been your problem.”
“Thinking is what I do best. It’s who I am.”
“Maybe you need to change that,” Jason said. “Maybe you should trust yourself. Let your muscle memory and instincts take over.”
“Jason’s right,” Serena said. “When you tricked Jake Ridley, you had a plan and you executed it. This game is the same. You play, you make a decision, and you go with it. It doesn’t matter if it turns out wrong because at least you’ve made a commitment. Freezing up and doing nothing would be worse.”
When put like that, it sounded so simple, William thought. Nevertheless, he continued to worry after the conversation around the lunch table moved on.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, and after school, Serena stood with William on his front porch.
“I have something for you,” she said, handing him a small box. “I made it this week and I wanted to give it to you before I forgot. Open it.”
William unwrapped the present and found himself holding a gold-colored handkerchief bearing a Chinese pictograph on a shield. William looked to Serena for an explanation.
“The shield is you,” Serena explained. “Your name means ‘warrior’ in German, and the pictograph is the Chinese word for ‘serenity.’ Wear it during the game and maybe it’ll help you.”
William smiled, his first moment of pleasure all week. “Thank you,” he said, drawing Serena into a hug.
Rather than her typical composed confidence, Serena wore a shy, uncertain expression. “Do you like it?” she asked.
“I love it.”
“Good.” Serena kissed him on the cheek. “Then good luck with the game.”
October 1986
An hour before kickoff, William kept twitching like a live wire. Nothing helped to settle his nerves. Not prayer, not meditation, not even listening to “Bad” by U2. He paced about in the locker room, alone, restless, and anxious.
Tonight’s game wasn’t just homecoming. It was also against the Blackward Crusaders, St. Francis’ bitter rival. Bragging rights for a year would be determined tonight. Plus, St. Francis still had an outside chance of winning the city title and making the playoffs. But it all started with a win tonight.
As he waited for kickoff, William’s nervousness gnawed at him, stealing his confidence and leaving him nauseated and angry. Jason kept telling him the emotions were only natural, but William didn’t care. He just wanted the feelings gone. And he wanted this game over with, and of course, St. Francis the victor.
Shortly before the team exited the locker room, they all gathered round when Coach Rasskins entered the room. The team greeted him with a riot of sound. Feet pounded the floor, hands slammed the lockers, and a shouted call-and-response of ‘We are! . . . St. Francis!’ roared out.
William’s heart stirred, and some of his anxiety abated.
Coach Rasskins grinned and clapped along with the players before lifting his hands, calling for quiet. “Before we go onto that field, boys, I want to talk to you. I’ve got words to say.” The room quieted. “Some people will tell you that this is just a game, and they aren’t wrong. Some people will tell you, it’s only high school football, that it’s not important. They aren’t wrong, either.” Coach paused. “But those are just some people. They aren’t you. They won’t have to wake up in your shoes tomorrow. You will.”
William listened in rapt attention. He’d never heard anything like Coach’s words before.
“And I want you to think about that. Pretend tomorrow comes and think about what that’ll be like. How will you face the day? Will you think about this night and have a clear conscience? Will you know that you gave everything you had, everything in your heart, your soul, and your body for the boys sitting next to you? That you fought to the end, never quitting, never letting go of the dream you share with every member of this team.”
The room stilled utterly.
“They say you only get one chance to live the life you want, but that’s not true. You get many chances, but in each of those chances, there will be obstacles that you can’t handle by yourselves. You’ll need friends and family. People to help you. A team. Think about that. Obstacles you can only overcome with a team.” Coach Rasskins paused to glance around the room, meeting every player’s eye.
William’s heart soared. He wanted to leap and roar defiance, ready to reach for something he couldn’t name.
“Obstacles that only a team can overcome,” Coach repeated. “Tonight we play a game, but it’s also an obstacle. Remember that.” His voice rose, and he enunciated each sentence with a downward thrust of his hand. “And the only way to overcome that obstacle is by giving everything you got for the boys in this room. Everything.”
William’s heart pounded in response to Coach’s words.
“The legacy you want to leave starts with that choice: will I fight for my team, for my brothers? Will you?”
William shouted out, one voice amongst many as the team roared response to Coach Rasskins' question. He felt part of something larger than himself, an unstoppable force.
“And that’s why we’re going to win! Because we’re a team. Every one of us. Nobody out on the field, not Blackward, not their fans, not even our fans, nobody believes it, but I do. I know it. Be angry that no one believes in us. Be angry for greatness, and be angry for your team!”
Another roar, stomping feet, and pounding hands greeted his words, William as loud as any of the veteran players.
“Now huddle up with me, and let’s pray.”
The team closed in around Coach Rasskins, each one lifting an arm so they formed a tent of hands above him.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. . . .”
William bent his head and joined the rest of the team in saying the Hail Mary, and afterward, Coach led them through the dark tunnel that opened out onto the field.
The team roared like some prehistoric beast as it emerged into the blazing lights of the stadium. The hurricane sound of “Shoot to Thrill” blared over the loudspeakers. A cry like a battering ram met the team as the student body of St. Francis cheered them on.
William stumbled at the lights and the sound, but he quickly caught his footing and gazed about in wonder. The last of his anxiety receded. Adrenaline burned through his veins, and he screamed out with an undefinable passion alongside his teammates.
With the opening kickoff, the game started with a rolling, thunder roar from the St. Francis side of the stadium. Afterward, the riotous energy calmed into a more placid but still electric excitement. The game transformed into a tight contest, hard-fought, with both sidelines a feverish beehive of activity.
Neither team could establish much of a lead, and St. Francis was bitten by the hard luck of several injuries. Coach ended up waving William onto the field to play on special teams on both kickoffs and punts.
With only a minute or so left in the game, St. Francis clung to a slim lead of 21-17.
Blackward got the ball back, though, needing a touchdown to win. They began their drive pinned deep in their own territory. On two consecutive passes, Blackward gained huge chunks of yardage, driving to St. Francis’s two-yard line. Even worse, three of St. Francis’ defenders were injured and forced to hobble off the field. There was time enough for one more play. The Crusaders needed only a short run to win.
“Get in there!” Coach Rasskins shouted to William. “Don’t play scared. You can do this!”
William’s heart pounded. Fear coiled in his stomach like a wriggling worm. Their entire season was on the brink. “Lord, help me,” he prayed before strapping on his helmet and racing onto the field.
St. Francis’ defenders wore sagging demeanors. Several of them muttered in forlorn disbelief when William joined their huddle.
“We haven’t lost!” exhorted Jeff Setter, the defensive captain. He slapped players on the shoulder. “Get fired up! We got this. Remember your role. Remember your place. Don’t give them an inch. Your teammate’s right by
you. He’ll fight for you. Goddamn it! You better fight for him!”
William took heart from Jeff’s words. Resoluteness stiffened his spine. He would not be the reason St. Francis lost tonight. The anger that never entirely left him flickered to life, and William used it crush any remaining doubts. He bit down on his mouth-guard and slapped the sides of his helmet.
Ready!
Blackward broke their huddle and set up in a simple I-formation with their running back, the Notre Dame-bound, all-state standout Marcus Reed. A wide receiver went into motion, setting up on William’s side of the field. He paused just outside the tackle.
William recognized the play: a handoff to Reed.
William’s vision tunneled to what lay directly before him. The rest of the world faded, and silence reigned along the line of scrimmage.
The quarterback took the snap. Handoff to Reed. William darted straight to where he thought the running back would make his cut. The right guard pulled, rumbling along the line of scrimmage like a dump truck clearing a path for a Porsche. The lineman outweighed William by a hundred pounds.
In that moment, instinct took over, and William went with it. No doubts. No indecision.
He rushed straight at the pulling guard, feigning a direct assault. It was foolhardy, he knew. The Blackward player lowered his shoulder, ready to hammer him into next week. William got even lower, but just before the point of impact, he spun around the lineman. Reed was one stride away, and William had no chance to prepare himself. The Blackward running back smashed into him with a thud.
Without thought, William wrapped his arms around Reed. Hold. That simple word became the entirety of his world. William gritted his teeth and strained to keep the Blackward running back from pushing forward. For an endless second, William and Reed were locked in stasis.
William suddenly found himself stumbling forward. His teammates had arrived. They added their strength and weight to his own and buried Reed.
The world returned with a jarring crash, and the St. Francis stands erupted. St. Francis had held.
He had held.
