Red Dirt Rocker (7 page)

I think about my
bandmates
and their
very
warranted concerns. I secretly wish I could channel Superman's powers as I continued to juggle my family time, social life, football, and my band. I don’t want to let anyone down. School…check, band practice…check. Now it’s time for football—hut-hut!

I pull up to the field house and can see that Tiger Field is buzzing with activity. Hundreds of cars line the parking lot, and spill over into three acres of open field. The home stands are already packed with loyal fans. It’s Friday night and the high school football game is the place to be. There isn’t much else to do in town, so there’s always a standing-room-only crowd of loyal supporters.

I take a deep breath and enter the testosterone-filled locker room. All of my teammates’ voices automatically lower a few octaves as we talk major smack about our chicken-livered opponents. We put on our armor and prepare for battle.

I charge onto the dewy field with my fellow soldiers as the marching band fires up the fight song. The blast of the trumpets and the pounding of the drums is our war call.

I look to the steel bleachers and find my family in their reserved seats just below the press box. It gives me strength and comfort to see them there and feel their support. I know come rain, shine, sleet or snow, they’ll always be there for me. Hearing their cheers gives me an extra push. Mom and Dad wave wildly at me as I jog onto the wet, green, glistening turf. I pause at the giant air brushed tiger head painted at the center of the fifty yard line, slap myself in the helmet then sprint to the sidelines.

“Go get
em
,’
Fooreest
…LET’S SEE SOME GOOD HITS!” Dad booms. He’s in his element, enthusiastically coaching from his seat every game. Mama said it gives him an adrenaline rush to watch me on the field. Anyone can tell that it’s the highlight of his blue collar, or should I say, “brown collar,” UPS work week.

It’s kick-off time. The fans rally us on with clanking cowbells and homemade noise makers. Water bottles filled with gravel rattle the home stands. My team goes into attack mode.

Our game is close at half time, but we pull ahead after the third quarter, with a final score of twenty-seven to seven. The coaches pull
D.J
. out and let me guide the Tigers for the last three minutes of the game, where I connect a forty-yard pass with Kyle for the last touchdown. I can tell from his expression that
D.J
. is always angered when I step in for him. Quarterback is his position, and he doesn’t want me calling the shots.

My teammates and I celebrate the team's victory, but
D.J
. is busy sneering.

The Tiger marching band plays “Go Big Orange” on repeat as Heather comes bounding up to me in front of the field house.

"Forrest!" she squeals, jumping up and down. "You all
won
! Let's go celebrate, sweetie!"

"Hey, Heather," I huff, still out of breath. I try to greet her with a warm, sweaty hug.

"
Eeewww
!" she yells, pushing me away. "Go take a shower and I'll wait for you—you stink! There's a big party at
D.J.'s
house tonight. He even has an awesome hot tub," she quips, matter-of-factly.

"Heather, to be honest,” I hesitate, “I’m dog tired and really just
wanna
go home, put some ice on my wrist, and maybe watch a movie. Does that sound ok?" I don’t have to wait for her answer. I already know what it’s going to be.

"Now, Forrest, I am the head cheerleader. What would it look like if I didn’t attend the after-party? Really, you need to think about that," Heather returns. She swirls her curly, glossy ponytail between her fingers, trying her best to look bright-eyed and innocent as the bossy words roll off her tongue.

"Heather, why don't you go on to the party without me? I'll text
ya
in a bit. I'm not really up for a major celebration tonight," I reason.

I sure don’t want to go to
D.J.’s
. I know what after-parties consist of—a keg, smoke, and a lot of my friends doing things that I know they wouldn’t normally do under sober circumstances. It just makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Being straight-edge means I make the decision not to drink or smoke. It seems ironic to me that these days, being a straight-up teen means you’re considered a rebel of sorts—the odd man out.

I did go to one beer bust after our first game of the season. My buddy, Zane, talked me into driving him out to a cow pasture on Ben Lumpkin Road where they were having a
kegger
to celebrate the win. I became the “
D.D
.,” or designated driver. Well, within twenty minutes, the alarm was sounded. The cops were on their way! I helped snuff out the puny bonfire and the party was over. I led the pack, driving my Chevy like the
Dukes of
Hazzard
, bumping and skidding through the field like a bat out of Hell.

Zane had somehow managed to chug nine beers in less than thirty minutes and was already totally blitzed. As we high-tailed it out of the pasture, Zane let out a belch that registered on the Richter scale and began to mumble in a Captain Kirk-like voice.

“
Forressss
…
youuu
…are…my
besss
friend. I been
drinkin
’…but I’m
saaaafe
. I’m t-o-t-a-l-l-y
waaasted
, dude. And…you’re
drivin
’ me
tooo
safety. I
loooove
ya
, man!!!”

I then had to pull over to let The Zane-
anator
upchuck in the ditch. Yep…good times!

I don’t want to go hang out at
D.J.'s
house, and I know Heather is clued in to that. She’s beginning to show her true personality, which makes her suddenly not so attractive to me.

"Okay, party pooper. I'll talk to
ya
later," Heather says, pouting. She glances behind her and suddenly decides to give me a big hug, sweat and all. I’m pretty sure her public display of affection is intended to make
D.J
. jealous. It works. The cranky quarterback rumbles by.

“Get a room!”
D.J
. mutters sarcastically.

I’m not too surprised when Heather doesn’t get offended by the remark. She just giggles and pushes me away quickly.

"Tootles, Forrest.
Text me later, doll! Hey,
D.J
, wait up!" she yells, dismissing me with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand.

I really can care less where she goes or who she goes with at this point. I’m now just hoping to find the right time to break up with her. She is most definitely a beautiful girl, but her selfish attitude is wearing me thin.

After my team’s rowdy, towel-popping victory celebration in the locker room, which adds two more raspberries to the three I already have from the game, I head home alone. Between my school day, band practice and the football game, I’m beyond exhausted and totally ignore my promise to text Heather. I figure she’s too busy
partying
it up in
D.J.’s
awesome hot tub, more than likely in her teeniest bikini, to even care.

T
he aroma of salty, smoked bacon and pancakes with maple syrup is my favorite thing to wake up to in the morning. To my delight, the warm, comforting, sweet and savory smells drift all the way down the hallway and into my room.

Opening one eye, I decide that the promise of a mouth-watering meal and a tall glass of ice cold milk is worth opening them both at the same time.

I stretch my arm up and rotate my wrist to make sure it’s still in working order. I have scabs on both elbows, my back hurts and my neck hurts—my whole body aches from the game last night, but my wrist is my only concern.

I lift my arm toward the ceiling fan, roll my hand around, and breathe a sigh of relief. My arm is okay. I’ll be in top form for my band’s gig tonight.

Mama knocks on my door and enters with an especially sweet smile on her face.

“
Mooorning
, Mama,” I yawn weakly.

"Hey, sleepyhead.
It's already ten o'clock.
Are
ya
’ ready to get up and have breakfast?
I made your favorite—buttermilk pancakes and bacon," Mama says in a soft tone as she kisses me on the forehead, which is the only part of my body that isn’t in pain.

She messes up my curls and tells me that I look just like a cherub in a Renaissance painting. “You’re my rock angel,” Mama declares lovingly.

“Yes…I
am
an angel. That’s for sure,” I return teasingly. "Breakfast smells
soooo
good. Thanks, Mama. I'll be right there," I whisper lazily as I stretch my aching muscles and sing out my last long yawn in a tenor key.

Mama’s expression suddenly turns serious. "Hey, sweetie…I need to let you know…umm…I got a call yesterday evening right before your ball game. It was from a guy that’ll be coming to your show tonight. His name is Dan Manning. He's with Diamond Records.

“Dan’s coming to Tulsa to scout your band! He's heard all the hype, checked out your band's YouTube videos and is very excited to come hear you boys play tonight," Mama explains, her eyes open wide and fill with excitement. "I thought it might break your concentration if I told you right before your football game. I knew you'd need a good night’s sleep, so I figured that now was the best time to tell you." Mama laces her fingers together tightly and bites her bottom lip like she always does when she’s trying to contain her enthusiasm. I can tell she’s hoping I won’t be upset at her for withholding such pertinent information.

“Seriously?”
I question, in total shock. I suddenly bolt upright.
“Dude!
That’s awesome, Mom! I have to call the guys! They won’t believe it!” I feel thrilled and nervous at the same time—“
thervous
” is what Randy calls it. He says that’s how he feels before every Cellar Door Is Gone show.

My heart begins to race. “What an amazing way to wake up!” My thoughts buzz. I suddenly turn completely ADHD. I take three deep, calming breaths, grab my BlackBerry and nervously push speed dial for Jake’s number. I blurt out the incredible news. Jake flips totally out, of course, and says he’ll call Randy and Cody.

I grab my Mac and make the incredible announcement on my Facebook status. My page blows up. I get fifteen encouraging comments in less than three minutes.

We make plans for my mom and me to meet the boys up at Cody’s house at 6:00 sharp. Evening rolls around and, true to form, Jake, Randy and Cody are running late. They tell me to go on ahead. The three incessantly tardy boys will ride with Cody’s mom and dad and meet us at the venue in Tulsa.

I hear Cody holler from the bathroom that he’s having a bad hair day and is trying to fix it. I know better than that. Cody is famous for jumping out of the shower, running his fingers through his Justin
Beiberish
hair and
voilá
!

“All right, guys. I’ll see
ya
there. Just slap a beanie on
Codyman
!” I yell, as I leap off the porch like a seven-year-old. I slide into the passenger seat of my truck. Mama is my chauffeur for the night. She still doesn’t trust my driving skills on the busy expressway and truthfully, neither do I.