Crackback (6 page)

Nobody says anything in the shower. I turn the water on hot and it blasts my back. I fold my arms on my chest and stare at the pool of water in the bend of my arm.

First Jonesy, then Stillwell, now Coach. Bad news comes in threes, but this is terrible. I don't want to think about Stahl being head coach. I soap myself and piss. It's a small release after all the bad news.

“C'mon, Miles.” Zach is dressed. “Let's go.”

In the truck we ride in silence. Finally, Zach says, “Coach Stahl's a good coach. He's got a lot of energy, new ideas. We can use that.”

“I don't know. I've got a bad feeling.”

“What kind of attitude is that?” Zach swerves to avoid a dead squirrel. “Coach Stahl deserves a chance. Give him a break.”

“Why can't he give me a break?”

“Listen to what he says. And don't talk back.” Zach turns up the CD. “You taking those pills?”

“Yeah.” Why am I lying to Zach? He wants me to be a better football player. So does Dad. They have different ways. I've got to find my own.

“Tyson's ordering some new stuff, better gear,” Zach says. “We'll get it this week.”

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't like lying to Zach.

September's garden time at our house. At dinner we have corn, eggplant, zucchini, basil, potatoes, cucumbers, and tomatoes that Dad grew. The only thing not from his garden is the bread, and if I mention that, he'll probably start growing wheat and make me grind the flour. “I've got some bad news.” I set my fork down.

“What?” Martha says. “You're not going to the dance?”

“No, it's
real
bad.” Mom looks worried. “Coach Sepolski has cancer. He's going to have surgery. He's stepping down as coach.”

“What kind of cancer?” Mom asks.

“Prostate.”

“What's prostate?” Martha looks to Mom.

“Part of the male reproductive system,” Mom says. “Did they catch it early?”

“I'm not sure. Coach says he's going to beat it.”

“Who's the new coach?” Dad stops buttering his corn. “Coach Stahl.”

“He's been waiting for his shot.” Dad frowns. “But this is a bad time to take over.”

A week ago Dad was all over Sepolski, but he doesn't
look pleased now. “Coach Stahl's walking into a tough situation,” he says. “Make sure you listen to him. Make sure you respect him.”

My stomach twists in knots and I can't eat. I'm sick of bad news.

After dinner, Martha invites us to the front lawn for a science demonstration. “You fill a bucket with water and swing it around in a circle, and even when it's upside down, not a drop spills. That's because of centrifugal force.”

“Centrifugal force,” Mom says. “That's impressive.”

Martha fills an ice-cream bucket three-quarters full and starts spinning it like a human windmill. She's right; not a drop spills out.

“Brava!” Mom claps.

“Cool trick.” I pat Martha on the head.

“What did you think, honey?” Mom asks Dad.

“Big buildup for such a simple demonstration.” Martha's smile disappears. “But it's good. Good science.”

The Villareals, neighbors from down the street, ride by on their bikes. They wave and we wave back. I try to imagine what we look like—a happy family together on the lawn. What a small part of what happens in a family other people see.

I'm floating like a bird, gliding above trees along the river. I can tell from the land that I'm above Confluence, but there are no buildings or people. I glide past the spot the rivers come together and continue north along the Clearwater. Then I realize I'm flying. I panic. How am I going to stay up? How do I avoid crashing? I drop lower. Trees come closer, darker, full of sharp branches.

My arms flap faster and faster. That doesn't help. I'm plunging down. There's nothing to cushion my fall.

Suddenly I jerk awake. I'm shaking. A dream, just a dream, but the images are so clear. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. My eyes are bright and wide, as if I've seen something bad.

Back in bed, I can't sleep. I roll and turn, and each time I close my eyes, I see green shapes with white dots shifting and spreading. They look like cells under a microscope and then form a word in block letters: C
ANCER
. Coach Sepolski said he's going to beat it. As if cancer were our next opponent. As if he can call new plays, make the right adjustments, and score more points.

“Our Father, who art in heaven.” I pray for Coach, who's been like a father to us. The repetition helps ease my anxiety.

Then I remember Stahl's head coach. That's a real nightmare.

On Wednesday, there's a note on the locker-room door: F
OOTBALL
P
LAYERS
—R
EPORT TO THE
G
YM
I
MMEDIATELY
!

“File in, men. Take a seat on the bleachers.” Coach Stahl wears a gray shirt marked H
EAD
C
OACH
. Behind him is a huge blue sign: S
ECOND
P
LACE
I
S
F
IRST
L
OSER
.

“I don't want any of you thinking about second place.” Stahl points to the sign.

I'm confused. I haven't been thinking about second place. I've had other things on my mind, like Coach Sepolski having cancer.

“Second place…” Stahl holds the pause for emphasis. “…is first loser. We're not in the business of being first losers.”

What's he on? We're not in business. We're in school. Then I remember Dad's warning about respecting Stahl.

“Men.” Stahl scans the bleachers looking at each of us. “You are about to begin the most important six weeks of your lives.”

I watch faces. Zach's listening closely. So are most of the guys. I hope this isn't the most important six weeks of my life.

“That's right, men.” I can tell already how much Stahl likes calling us men. “Because the next six weeks will determine whether you're champions or first losers. Think about it, men. You decide.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Coach Sepolski never talked to us like this. Stahl paces with his hands behind his back like he's a general addressing soldiers. “That's right, men. It's up to you. Let's see a show of hands: How many of you think of yourselves as first losers?”

I'm tempted to raise my hand. After Kyra Richman, I've got as much reason as anyone.

“Now, who wants to be a champion?”

Everybody raises their hands. Some of the sophomores raise two, but that's not enough for Stahl.

“I asked you a question. I want an answer. Who wants to be a champion?”

“I do,” some of the linemen bellow.

“I can't hear you. Who wants to be a champion?”

“I do,” everybody yells. Everybody but me.

At practice, everything's different. “We're going to play power football, smashmouth football. You need to be in shape for that. Let's have fifty sprints.” With Sepolski we used to do ten. “Don't give up. Don't give up.” Stahl looks at me. I keep my head down and run.

We do endless laps of “darkness.” Every time Stahl blows the whistle, we fall to the ground, do a push-up, and jump back up. He blows the whistle again and again. “I have a high tolerance for other people's pain,” he yells. “You need to be bigger, stronger, faster. You've got two choices: Become men or quit.”

I'm totally wrung out. I'm bending over with my hands on my knees. Zach's grinning. He's holding up better than anybody. I just want to make it without puking.

“One hundred push-ups,” Stahl shouts. “Make sure your chest touches the ground.” Coach Sepolski seems light-years away. This is Stahl's team now.

“Starting tomorrow, I want everybody in the weight room an hour before school four days a week,” Stahl says. “I'll post a schedule with stations and reps. We'll see who's serious. It's simple. If you don't lift, you won't play.”

I know I should lift more, but weight lifting doesn't determine how hard you hit or how smart you play. It doesn't matter what I think, though. There's one way now: Stahl's way.

Later, when we break into first defense, Coach Stahl comes down to talk to us. “Men, there are two types of football players,” he says. “Thinking players and reacting players.”

Stahl points to his head. “Thinking players observe, analyze, and make correct decisions. These are the players best suited for offense.”

What's his point?

“Reacting players don't think; they react. A play happens. Boom. They're on it. These are the players best suited for defense.”

Thinking and reacting aren't separate. You need to do both in football.

“Now, men, as defensive players, you react. When you see movement, you pursue. You're lions ready to kill. Don't think. React.”

This is stupid. Dad always says good players are smart players.

“The coaches will prepare the defense. React properly, and you will be champions. React poorly, you'll be first losers.” He looks at me. “Is that clear?”

Of course not. How do you not think? But nobody, including me, has the guts to say it.

I go to the library because the book I requested is in.
The Middle Passage: White Ships, Black Cargo
has a picture on the cover of black men with ropes around their necks being guarded by a white soldier. In the distance, a ship waits to take them across the ocean.

I sit down in a chair by the window and open the book. After the introductions, it's all black-and-white illustrations, one horrible picture after another. The ghostly image of a sailor rips a mother away from her child. Rats gnaw on the bodies of slaves in chains. A diagram of a tightly packed slave ship is imposed on a black man's body.

But the most disturbing picture is one of people jumping overboard to kill themselves. Sharks swirl around the bodies, and at the bottom of the ocean is a trail of skeletons. I can't get this image out of my mind, and rather than take notes, I stare out the window and imagine the horror.

“Pain is weakness leaving the body.” Stahl's pacing around the weight room. He's wearing shorts and a blue muscle shirt with B T T R in huge letters.

I'm finishing ten reps of 110 pounds on the bench. Lifting first thing in the morning isn't my idea of fun.

“Push it, Manning. Push it.” I strain on the last lift. “You've got to do better than that,” Stahl says. “We need strong corners.”

On the next bench, Zach whips off twelve reps of 150. Do the steroids make it that easy? Would I be lifting like that if I were taking them? “That's the way, Zach.” Stahl claps. “Lookin' good.”

When we finish, Stahl hands out muscle shirts. “B T T R, men, stands for ‘better than the rest.' You've made a commitment to football, a commitment to weight lifting, a commitment to excellence. You are superior to other students. You bleed and sweat for the glory of the school. You are better than the rest.”

I can't believe he's saying this.

“Wear these shirts with pride. You know what B T T R means, but don't tell other kids. They wouldn't
understand.” Stahl chomps his gum. “Men, you are members of an elite fraternity. Head off to first period.”

Last year, I remember how proud I felt when I wore my varsity jersey. Everybody in school could see that I was on the team. Now, after chanting yesterday and B T T R today, I feel like I'm in some kind of cult.

In Halloran's class, kids scramble to staple papers. Strangler claims he didn't finish because he had to take his ferret to the vet.

“Your ferret wasn't sick because he ate your homework?” Halloran asks.

“Not the final paper,” Strangler says. “He ate the rough draft, and he's allergic to ink. That's why I had to take him in.”

“Bring it in tomorrow,” Halloran says. “I'll take points off for being late, but if you write a story about your inkeating ferret, I'll add a few back.” Halloran collects papers. “What was the most shocking thing about the Middle Passage?” he asks.

“How long slavery lasted,” says Strangler. “Africans were taken as slaves for over four hundred years.”

Halloran nods. He seems surprised Strangler knows this.

“How strong people had to be to survive the journey.”

“How many Africans died.”

“How the ships were packed so tightly because they knew many people would die.”

“How Africans were treated worse than animals.”

“How much money was made in England, Holland, and Spain and how the American economy was built on slave labor.”

“Yeah, slaves helped build the Capitol,” Strangler says.

All kinds of kids are raising their hands, including some who usually don't. Halloran doesn't comment. He keeps calling on people.

“Lucia.”

“I'm shocked by how religion was used to justify slavery. Many people believed it was God's will.”

“Anybody else?”

I raise my hand. “I'm shocked that people dove off the ships to commit suicide rather than be slaves.”

“Yes,” Halloran says. “All these things are shocking. It's difficult to imagine, but I want you to try. Close your eyes.”

I shift in my seat. Everybody closes their eyes.

“Let's explore this,” Halloran says. “Imagine if someone showed up in Confluence, put a gun to your head, and locked you in chains. Imagine being dragged from your family, held in prison, packed in a boat. Imagine being beaten by people who spoke a language you didn't understand.”

I try to picture this.

“Now imagine what you would have done if you had the chance. Would you have jumped overboard to kill yourself or would you have tried to survive?”

My mind blanks. I don't know.

“Which action do you think was braver?”

I don't know that either.

At lunch on Friday, guys are talking loudly at the football table. Fox already looks nervous. What's he going to be like tonight with blitzing safeties and trashtalking linebackers?

“You'll do fine, Foxy.” I slap him on the shoulder. He doesn't look convinced.

Zach waves me over. Am I imagining it, or is he getting bigger? “Shipment's in.”

At his locker, Zach looks both ways, then opens the door. On the middle shelf are three bottles and three syringes. “This is the best way to juice,” he says. “Meet me and Tyson here after school.”

I glance at the syringes. This is moving too fast for me. “I don't know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not sure.” I've never liked needles, but I can't tell Zach that. “I looked up some side effects: liver damage, acne, shrinking testicles, impotence.”

“You scared?” Zach closes the locker as a group of band students comes down the hall.

“I'm not scared. I just don't know if it's worth it.”

“Of course it is. You need some guts. You need to be willing to pay the price.” He slams his hand on the locker, turns his back, and stalks off.

Roid rage. That's another side effect. Guys going off. Zach didn't used to blow up like that.

I've got half an hour after school before the bus for Twin Falls. I'm not as fired up as I was last week. Maybe because Fox is the quarterback. Maybe because Stahl is the coach. Maybe because I'm not down with Zach and Tyson shooting up.

At my locker, I move my Spanish book from the middle shelf to the lower one. Sometimes I play these games, as if changing which shelf a book's on will improve my luck. Lots of athletes are superstitious, whether it's what they wear, how they get dressed, or who they stand next to. I carry this into my school life, too.

When the books are right, I close my locker. Coming down the hall carrying a violin case is Lucia. Light reflects off the blue beads of her necklace. She's seriously pretty.

Zach would know what to do. He'd say something smooth. I freeze. The only thing I can think of is, “Hi.”

“Hi.” She keeps walking.

I turn to watch. I wouldn't have a chance with her. She takes long strides away from me. Say something. Talk to her.

“Lucia,” I call.

“Yes?” She turns around.

“I'm Miles Manning.”

“Hi.” She comes closer. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. She's wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt that says: S
AVE THE
D
RAMA
, C
ALL
Y
OUR
M
AMA
. I don't know what that means, but I like it.

“I heard you were at the library Saturday.”

She squints.

“The librarian said someone tall with dark hair and green eyes had been in.” I can't believe I'm talking about the library. “I thought it must be you.”

“Yes, I was there.” She sounds puzzled.

“How do you like Confluence?” Why am I so nervous? Why am I talking like an idiot?

“It's okay, but I miss my friends. I miss the city.”

“Yeah.” My mind races for what to say. Lucia seems so calm standing there. She's got beautiful eyes and long lashes. “Are you going to the football game tonight?”

“No, I go to my dad's on the weekend.” She checks her watch. “I've got to get going.”

“Have fun.” I try not to sound disappointed that she's not here on weekends. I open my locker and pretend to get a book so I can watch her. She moves gracefully down the hall, like a dancer.

“Lucia,” I call.

She turns. “Yes?”

“What's your last name?”

“Lombrico.”

Lucia Lombrico. I like that name. “See you Monday.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Sometimes, moving a book for good luck works.