Crackback (5 page)

Zach leans over on the bus. “We gotta turn it up on D.”

“Yeah.” Maybe Stillwell's injury won't be serious, but from the way he was wheeled off, it looks bad. Two quarterbacks down. Going to State is going to be a lot harder. I bite my nails as we drive through the dark.

Zach and I swing by Izzy's. The usual crowd is there yelling and celebrating.

“Confluence rules,” a girl in a blue Bug yells.

So many people don't know anything about football. They see 28-7 and think it's great. They have no idea that Stillwell getting hurt is worse than losing the game.

Strangler's saved us the booth in back. “How's Stillwell?”

“He's at the hospital in Clifton for X-rays.” I don't feel hungry.

Jonesy comes over with a large Mountain Dew. “Bad news. Stillwell's leg is broken in two places.”

“How'd you find out?” I slide over to make room.

“We called his house and his brother told us. He has to have a screw put in.” Jonesy can't get the paper off his straw, so I rip it.

“Who'll be the new quarterback?” I look to Zach.

“I think it's Fox. Nobody else was any good in tryouts.”

“What do you think, Jonesy?”

“If it's Fox, we're screwed.”

“There's a party at Tyson's tonight,” Zach says. “Let's check it out.”

I remember Tyson shoving us around as freshmen. Maybe Zach's forgotten. “Who's going to be there?”

“Guys from the team. Sophomore girls.”

“Let's go.” Jonesy throws his cup at the trash with his left hand. “Depressing sitting here.”

Tyson greets us at the door holding a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Grab a Bud, boys.”

The living room is full of senior linemen eating Doritos and drinking beer. I knew Tyson partied after games, but I didn't know this many guys did.

“Hey, guys.” Seniors greet us. We're the only juniors here.

Zach hands me a beer. “Drink up.”

I twist off the cap.

“To Eagle football.” Zach raises his Bud.

“To Eagle football.” We clink bottles, and I take a swig of beer. I don't even like the taste.

At the dining room table, guys try to bounce quarters
into a glass of beer. Tyson's lands in the foam and he points to Jonesy.

“Chugalug, chugalug,” they chant. Jonesy downs the beer.

Everybody seems to have forgotten about Stillwell. Maybe they haven't. Maybe they're scared about Fox being the quarterback. Maybe they're drowning their fear.

It's getting hot, so I pull off my sweatshirt. Zach grabs me around the shoulder and pulls me to the bathroom. “I've got something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of pink pills.

“What's this?” I catch our reflection in the mirror. Zach looks confident. I look worried.

“D-Bol.” He shakes one out for me.

“What?”

“Dianabol.” He takes one for himself. “You'll put on five pounds in a week.”

“I don't know.” I look at the pill. How does something this tiny make you big?

“It works. You'll add muscle fast.”

I need to be bigger. Five more pounds would help. Zach swallows his pill. “C'mon, Man.”

I put mine in my mouth and wash it down with beer.

“Take three a day. Doctor's orders.” Zach hands me the packet. “I'm getting another Bud. Want one?”

“Nah, I'm good.”

In the living room, the DVD of
Gladiator
is playing. Each time a gladiator is injured, everyone drinks.

Strangler comes over. “No girls. Just football players drinking. I'm heading out.”

“I'll go with you.” I grab my sweatshirt. I wave to Zach as we leave. He gives me a thumbs-up while he, Jonesy, and Tyson drink to
Gladiator.

When Strangler drops me off, I let myself in. Dad's snoring in the TV room. The volume's loud, but I don't dare turn it off. Instead, I tiptoe upstairs.

In bed, my mind bounces like a pinball. I close my eyes and see pink pills. I remember signing the Conduct Code with Dad before summer practice. Dad said, “You've given your word. Keep it.” I broke it tonight. But so did a lot of guys. If that party got busted, we wouldn't have much of a team.

“Doctor's orders.” Does Zach know what he's doing? Can I trust him on this? I turn on my light and go to the dresser. In the back of my underwear drawer is the packet. I examine the tiny pentagons. They look like little pink houses. Is it cheating to use them if other guys are?

I can't fall asleep. My body's exhausted, but my mind's wired. I see Stillwell plant his foot and the Clifton guy
slam into his leg. That's how fast your season can end. Not just your season. That's how fast football can end.

I see myself smashing into the Pirate quarterback on my blitz. I still get a rush from hitting him that hard and causing the fumble. I wonder how he's doing?

One other scene: I'm at Kyra's locker asking her to the dance. Did that happen today? I see a dark drain and watch myself swirl down. Why did I think she'd go with me? “I'm going with Josh Stillwell,” she says. “He's the new quarterback, you know.”

Not anymore, Kyra. You're going to the dance with a guy on crutches.

Mom and Martha are shooting hoops in the driveway Saturday morning. Mom shows Martha how to aim for the square on the backboard. Mom makes five in a row. She played in high school and still has a good shot. She's tall and thin. I'm built more like her than Dad.

I eat my cereal and look at the sports section. Underneath the headline “E
AGLES
L
OSE
A
NOTHER
QB” is a picture of Stillwell on the ground. Coach Sepolski says, “We have to dig down deep to see what we're made of.” I don't know about digging deep. What we need is a healthy quarterback.

I go outside and call for the ball. Martha tosses it, and I launch a three pointer. Nothing but net.

“Nice shot,” she says.

“Hold your left hand still.” I demonstrate. “Your left hand just holds the ball. Push with your right hand. Hit the corner like Mom showed you, and it'll go in every time.” I bank it in off the board.

Martha makes two in a row and jumps up and down. “That helps, Miles.”

Mom turns to me. “Your dad wasn't happy after the game.”

“Yeah, we lost another quarterback.” My mind races. Is there anything else?

“Your dad forgot some printer software. He's coming by to pick it up.” Sounds like a warning. She didn't tell him about the Blast, did she? Or did he find out about the party?

Martha rebounds for me and I make three jumpers in a row. I wipe my face with my T-shirt. It's already hot out.

Dad pulls in the driveway, and it takes one second to realize he's angry. He comes straight at me and seems bigger than his three hundred pounds. “That was a pisspoor performance last night.”

“I know. Stillwell broke his leg in two places.”

Mom and Martha pick up the ball and leave.

“I'm not talking about Stillwell. I'm talking about you. You make one play and spend the rest of the game screwing around. What were you doing dancing on the sideline with Jones?” He's pointing his finger in front of my face. “I was trying to cheer him up.”

“That's not your job. You looked like a couple of morons. Do you have any idea who was sitting behind me watching that crap?”

“No.”

“Two college recruiters, the guys who give scholarships. They liked that first play of yours, but after that you didn't do a damn thing. Just pranced around the sideline. They noticed that, too.”

I'm sure those scouts were watching Tyson, not me, but it's better to stay quiet.

“A college scholarship is worth a lot of money. I suppose you haven't thought about how to pay for college.”

Dad's right. I haven't thought about it.

“When I played football, if we weren't serious, we got our butts kicked. If I pulled a stunt like that, my dad would have whipped me good.”

I never knew my grandpa. It's hard for me to picture anyone whipping Dad.

“And why did Sepolski have Stillwell in there in the fourth quarter?”

“I don't know.”

“Why the hell's he calling that center screen?”

“I don't know. He didn't ask me.”

“That's the dumbest call he's made yet. Up by twenty-eight and running a center screen. Getting your quarterback hurt.”

I nod my head and avoid eye contact.

“Don't let me catch you doing that crap on the sideline again. Next time, I'll come out of the stands and haul your ass out of there.”

“Okay.” I look at the laces of my shoes. Please let this end.

“Don't forget.” Dad storms into the house.

I don't want to be around when Dad's like this, so I walk downtown. He's always exploding. He takes something small and makes it huge. Why do I just stand there and take it? I cross over to Crescent to avoid going by the paint store. I don't want to see it.

Not much is happening downtown. Not much ever does. A woman in a flowery hat looks at romance novels outside the used bookstore. Drivers of matching PT Cruisers honk at the bank drive-through. Who'd drive a PT Cruiser? They look stupid.

The library overlooks the spot where the rivers come together. The AC will feel good, and I've got something to look up.

At the computer, I type my library card number and Google “Dianaball.” Sounds like a girl's name.

It is. Diana Ball's a wrestler from Finland who's into weight lifting. That's not what I want.

I scroll down and click on Dianabol, the steroid. Up pops a picture of the pink pills. “Dianabol is an anabolic steroid used to produce rapid weight gain.”

“G
ET
H
UGE AND
S
HREDDED IN
N
O
T
IME
” flashes the banner. “Guaranteed to add fifteen pounds of pure muscle in
three weeks.” What football player wouldn't want that? It takes months of weight lifting to gain muscle. I'd love to speed it up. I'd look better for girls, too.

A box pops up for a free issue of the magazine
Testosterone Extra
. I type in my name and address and click the send button.

Another site describes “stacking,” using multiple steroids for maximum growth. Charts show recommended dosages and schedules. “C
LICK
H
ERE FOR
H
OME
D
ELIVERY
.” It's that easy?

When I go to sites that are not selling steroids, though, the information is different. “Steroids, which are artificial means to increase testosterone, may cause health problems. These include liver damage, cancer, shrinking testicles, reduced sperm count, severe acne, and impotence.”

Zach didn't mention any of this. With that list of side effects, it's odd that the one I focus on is severe acne. Maybe because I've got bad skin. Impotence sounds bad, too. I don't want that.

When my computer time's up, I log off. Then I remember my homework for Halloran's class. The librarian at the reference desk looks helpful. “Do you have information on the Middle Passage?”

“That's not a request we get often.” She glances up from her screen. “You're the second person to ask today.”
Silver flashes in her mouth as she talks. She's got a tongue stud. “Is this for a class?”

“Yes. Who else asked?”

“A tall girl with dark curly hair, green eyes.”

Sounds like Lucia.

“Here's the section number for books.” The librarian hands me a slip. Does a stud like that hurt? “You can also check the Internet and the holdings of other libraries on the combined catalog. We can have books sent from any library in the state.”

“Thanks.”

I search the library, but Lucia's not here. I sit down at a table and begin looking at books. “The crossing between Africa and the Americas was called the Middle Passage. Over four centuries, millions of Africans were captured and shipped to North America, South America, and the Caribbean. Exact numbers are not known, but estimates are that thirty to sixty million Africans were taken from their homeland. As many as twenty to forty million people died on the way to ships or crossing the ocean. Only one-third, approximately ten to twenty million, reached the New World.”

Thirty to sixty million people taken as slaves is so overwhelming that it's impossible for me to get my mind around the number. But then I read something very
specific. “So many people died and were thrown overboard that schools of sharks followed the ships. If the Atlantic Ocean were drained, there would be trails of bones indicating the major routes of the Middle Passage.” Why haven't we learned this before?

Walking back from the library I decide four things:

One, I need to know more about things like the Middle Passage.

Two, I'm sick of Dad running my life.

Three, I'm not asking anyone else to homecoming.

Four, I've always done things with Zach, but I'm not sure about steroids.

At home, Mom's gardening in the front yard. “Look, Miles, the monarchs love the meadow blazing star.”

“Yeah.” Orange butterflies flit among purple spikes.

“Monarchs winter in Mexico,” Mom says. “They look fragile, but they're resilient. They'll be back next year.”

“Yeah.”

“Grandma called. She's eager to see us next week.” Mom weeds around the blazing star.

“Yeah.”

“What's the matter with you?” She stands up.

“Why's Dad got to be like that, always blowing up?” The words burst out. “Why do we have to walk on eggshells
trying to be perfect, trying not to make him angry?”

“Listen, Miles. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You're not the only one with problems.” Mom pulls off her gloves. “Your dad hasn't had it easy. Don't forget, he lost his mom when he was thirteen, and those boys had to look out for themselves.” She shakes her gloves at me. “Your dad's father was difficult, very difficult.”

“But why's he always on me?”

“He wants you to do better. He doesn't want you to make the same mistakes he did.” Mom sits down on the front steps. “Your dad cares deeply, Miles. He loves you.”

“Well, why doesn't he show it?”

“He shows it in lots of ways. He always has. I remember in the delivery room when you were born. He was so excited. ‘Look at the size of this guy,' he told the nurses. ‘He's going to play football.' The hours playing catch with you. Coming to your games. Your dad supports you in lots of ways. It's not his way, though, to talk about how he feels. You have to accept that.”

“Why?”

“Because that's the way he is.”

On Tuesday, Fox is running first offense and Coach Stahl is clapping. “Let's go, men. Crisp blocks. Drive them. Look sharp.”

Jonesy in his sling and Stillwell on his crutches stand by the bleachers. Fox floats a pass that begs to be picked off, and Jonesy shakes his head. It's a huge drop-off at quarterback.

On defense, we run drills, but the energy level is low. Everybody's still in shock after losing two quarterbacks in two weeks.

“We'll end with special teams. Punting team, line up,” Coach Stahl shouts. “Go live.”

We haven't hit in practice since Jonesy got hurt, so I'm ready to crack someone.

“We've made some changes,” Stahl says. “Defense, go all out to block the punt.”

Zach jogs back to receive. Brooksy spots to prevent a fake, and I line up at right end.

“Down, set, hit,” Adams calls.

I charge out of my stance and cut the corner. Nobody blocks me, and I've got a wide-open shot. I dive and feel the solid thump of the ball on my arm.

“Good block, Man,” Zach cheers.

“You're holding the ball too long, Adams,” Stahl says. “Punt the damn thing. Do it again.”

“Down, set, hit.”

I rush off the line, and again nobody touches me. I dive and block it a second time.

“Dammit, Adams. Quit jacking off.” Stahl smacks him on the helmet with his clipboard. “Speed it up, or we'll get a new punter.”

When the offense comes to the line, Tyson points at me. “Don't block it.” Should I let up? Stahl said to go all out.

“Down, set, hit.” The count is quick, and I'm a half second slow. I cut right behind Tyson, dive, and get my fingertips on the ball. Third block in a row.

“What the hell's the matter with you?” Stahl yells. “You can't get a punt off?”

Normally everybody's excited about a block, but nobody's enjoying this.

“Manning, where are you coming from?” Stahl barks.

“End of the line,” I say. “Nobody's blocking me.”

“I didn't ask you about being blocked,” Stahl shouts. “Do it again.”

Now I don't know what to do. If I go hard and block it, Stahl will explode. If I let up, I'm not showing how easy the punt is to block.

“Down, set, hit.” I'm going after it. I run hard, dive, and feel the thump on my arm. I got it again. Adams gives me a look of sheer hate.

“You guys disgust me,” Stahl says. “We're going to run this until you get it right. I don't care if we stay out here all night.”

“Coach, I think if the end took one step back that would provide enough—”

“I don't care what you think.” Stahl yanks my facemask. His onion breath is overpowering. “Let's get one thing clear, Manning. This isn't a democracy. This is a dictatorship, and I'm the dick.” He lets go of my helmet. “Open your mouth again and you're on the bench Friday.”

Stahl's out of line. Sepolski's in charge, not him. “Do it again,” Stahl yells.

“Let him get it off so we can go in,” Tyson growls. I ease up and let Adams punt.

“That's the way, Adams.” Stahl claps his hands. “See, Manning, it didn't have anything to do with the blocking. Let's run it one more time and then we're done.”

Should I block it to shove it in Stahl's face or let it go?

“Down, set, hit.” I slow down to let Adams punt.

“That's it, men.” Stahl claps his hands. “That's better.”

Sepolski stands on the far sideline with his arms crossed. He hasn't said much all practice. Stahl's run everything.

Stahl blows his whistle. “Men, Coach Sepolski has something important to tell you.”

We all walk over and kneel down in front of Sepolski. His face looks pale. “Uhhh, ummmm.” Sepolski clears his throat and rubs his head. “You guys have been a fine group to coach.”

Have been? I didn't hear right.

“You know how much I love football, how much it means to me.” Sepolski's voice is softer than usual. “But there are some things more important. One of these is health. I found out I've got prostate cancer. My doctor wants to do surgery right away to keep it from spreading.”

What?

“He says I can beat it, but he wants me to make some changes. He insists I cut down on my stress. He wants me to step down from coaching this season. I don't want to do it, but I'm going to follow his advice.”

I can't believe it. It's one thing to lose players, but Coach is Confluence football. I can't imagine another coach. I can't imagine playing for someone else.

“I love working with you guys. It's the best thing I do.” Sepolski rubs his hand across his eyes. “I will miss it more than you can imagine. But right now, I've got to beat this.”

I feel numb. Coach is the one who made me a starter. He's the one who encouraged me to play hard, play smart, have fun.

“For the rest of the season,” Sepolski says, “Coach Stahl will be in charge.”