James A. Jordan is pursuing his PhD at Georgia State. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Greensboro Review, New South, Quarterly West, among others. He received his MFA from the University of New Orleans.
Wednesday practice and halfway through warmups sweat already rolls down your back. Molasses, the running back, leads the stretches. People call him Molasses because he’s slow but everything sticks to him. He carries defenders, always seems to catch a ball thrown in his area, doesn’t fumble. Molasses counts out the rhythm of the jumping jacks.
One-two-three-four-clap, Molasses says. One-two-three-four-clap.
Molasses started calling you Big Sexy freshman year and now the whole team does. They call you Big Sexy because it’s a joke.
Get those hands all the way up, Big Sexy, Molasses yells.
The shoulder pads make this almost impossible but you manage to get your fingertips to touch.
That’s a boy, Big Sexy, Molasses says.
You smile and show your teeth. Any other expression would be seen as soft, unable to take a joke, not one of the boys.
This Friday is the first home game of the season. Faith in Grace has dropped the first two games and this one’s more than a long shot. CFA are reigning state champs with an established pipeline that pumps players to the big SEC schools. Faith in Grace has one player being scouted and only by a few small colleges, and that player is not you.
Coach says, Huddle up, men. Come on over here. Coach played offensive tackle just like you. Coach is bald and fat with a stubby goatee and a voice an octave too high. Coach wears knee socks with gym shorts and old t-shirts with pit stains.
This week, Coach says, holding his pointer finger up. We show the whole Faith in Grace crowd just how good we can be. CFA’s a good team, a darned good team, but we’ve got one thing they don’t have. We got heart.
Who cares if it’s a win or loss? Who cares if there’s not been a winning season in a decade? You don’t. You just stare at Coach and count the freckles on his big old head.
Coach says, Let’s pray. Coach says glory and God’s will and to not let us squander our talents like the man who buried his but to sow them all over the field.
Amen, Coach says.
Amen, the team says.
Coach blows the whistle.
Run run run. Coach says, What you doing, boys? Hit up the pizza buffet one too many times today at lunch?
Look at me, says Coach. I’m a big man and even I can run. Coach runs. Coach stops, red-faced.
Get your butts over here, Coach says. How any of you gonna amount to anything if you can’t even run to a huddle?
Again, Coach says. Huddle up again and this time move move move.
Get down in a three-point stance. Keep that back flat, that butt low, or there’s going to be hell to pay.
Mark eyes you across the line. He’s thinking about plowing you over and you better think about holding him up. Better not think about last Friday night, drunk, when you and he fell asleep naked in his basement, woke up to see his pecker hard, and you got hard just looking at it. You got to think about pushing him around. You got to think about God’s will. God’s will is to let Molasses make it past the line of scrimmage. Let big Mark through and you’ll be running sprints for sure after practice. Coach might forgive hustle, but he never forgives sloppy play. Sloppy play is what gets you in third and longs. Sloppy play’s what gets your quarterback hurt. Sloppy play’s what exposes you.
Forty-two red, says Rollins, the quarterback. Rollins likes to strut around naked in the locker room wearing a ball cap because his hairline’s already receding. You don’t mind Rollins but you wouldn’t call him a friend. He’s a liability and those drive you crazy. Every time he slides across the wet tile you think, oh shit oh shit, there goes the season. Big boys like you don’t walk around naked unless it’s to be laughed at. Big boys like you been told one too many times you’re the big uglies, a compliment that means you aren’t good for much more than bumping up against another big ugly and moving your hands all over the place.
Hut hut, says Rollins.
Up against Mark you feel nothing but pad. You’ve got yourself squared up to him and there’s nothing you can do except drive those hands inside. But Mark’s got big arms and a penchant for playing dirty and he’s slapping away at you. A hand lands on your neck. A hand lands on your arm and stings and stings and stings. You hold on. The whistle blows and you push him down.
Motherfucker, Cousins, Mark says as you help him up. Mark is the only one who doesn’t call you Big Sexy.
Coach pulls the O-line aside. Coach says, Boys, you know how I spent my weekends when I was your age?
Chasing tail? says Peters, the center. Peters is the only black player on the team and got feet as fast as concrete. Can’t swing block or nothing. All he’s good for is staying upright.
Sort of, Coach says. Coach holds up a pocket knife and flips the blade open with his thumb.
Castrated bulls in my daddy’s field, Coach says. With this here knife.
The blade is a dungy brown, and you hope it’s not old dried blood.
Franklin, the other tackle, throws up through his helmet.
Dammit, Coach says.
Get yourself together, Coach says. Look here, if I could swipe this blade under those boys and take away them baby-making parts without getting myself killed you got no excuse for not blocking the hell out of the opposing defense.
Coach played ball at college, D1, but not one of the big powerhouses. Coach was good. Good enough that he could have gone pro except he blew out his knee in a bowl game. When we were already up by thirty, Coach said. That ended it. That and a pregnant wife. Coach lives in a trailer right now on account of the divorce. Coach sleeps with a rifle by his side on account of him living near all the Blacks and Mexicans.
Coach whistles for a water break.
Now you running, Big Sexy, Coach says with his whistle stuck between his two big teeth.
But you ignore him. You put your mouth onto one of the holes in the PVC pipe trough, suck hose water down, and then throw some water on your neck.
Mark’s face is beet red.
This heat, Mark says. God, I want a cold one right about now.
Mark’s daddy is a preacher but he says he knows about boys. I was one, too, believe it or not, Mark’s daddy said. Whenever you come over he leaves you two alone in the basement with a fridge stocked with beer even though Mark’s daddy doesn’t drink. Better here than out somewhere dangerous, Mark’s daddy says.
Mark can drink just about the whole team under the table. One night, out at the Field, the team got so drunk that most everyone ended up passed out in the tall grass. Mark made it all the way back to your car, falling asleep in the passenger seat. You can outdrink Mark, but you will never let him know it.
Punt team, Coach says. Go go go.
You line up beside Mark this time. You hear him breathing. It’s heavy and raspy over the mouthguard, but you don’t mind. You’re used to it. It’s a sound you’re also making, your breaths are in sync with Mark’s. You try to eye him through the helmet, but he looks straight ahead like you should be.
Hut hut, says Rollins, who’s also the punter. Hut hut.
The ball snaps. You grab the boy across from you. He’s a newbie, a fresh face. All pudge and no muscle. Everyone calls him Lunchables because his momma still packs him kiddie food: Fruit Roll-Ups, individual packages of Oreos, sandwiches with no crusts. He hasn’t got the meanness in him, you can tell. He doesn’t like to get hit.
You hit him, drive him to the ground.
Again, Coach says.
You throw Lunchables to the ground again.
Mark looks at you, shakes his head. His sweaty blonde hair sticks to his face and has curled up into his eyes, but his fingers are all taped up. You reach your finger through his face mask and part his hair.
Thanks man, Mark says.
Lunchables stays on the ground.
Lunchables says, I don’t think I can breathe.
How you speaking? Mark says.
I don’t think I can move, Lunchables says.
Christ, Mark says.
Coach, Mark says.
What is this? Coach says.
Says he can’t breathe.
Well, he sure is panting awful loud for someone suffocating.
Coach, Lunchables says. I’m seeing little spots and my stomach’s turning something awful.
That’s nothing, Coach says. You might just be a little overheated. You get water at the break?
No sir.
Goddamn, Coach says. What kind of stupid are you?
Coach blows the whistle three sharp raps.
Trish, the team manager, brings the boy a water bottle. She’s got strawberry blonde hair and most all the boys on the team have had a crush on her at some point because Molasses said one time she fit a whole banana in her mouth and didn’t even gag. Some of them call her a tease. Teasing Trish, they say because she hasn’t slept with a one of them.
Trish sits down between you and Mark, cross-legged, and cradles Lunchables’s head while he sucks the nozzle. He gurgles and coughs water up.
The team laughs.
Damn if I won’t try that one next time, Rollins says, and winks at Trish.
Trish tosses the bottle at him.
Go for it, she says.
You laugh with the team.
Line up, Coach says. Let’s do it again.
Lunchables has got his head down like he’s trying to keep his face covered. He’s going to hate you when you throw him again, but what can you do?
Hut hut, Rollins says.
Lunchables steps in the space between you and Mark. Steps on Mark’s ankle and they are tumbling, wrapped up in each other, and you are falling on top.
Holy shit, Mark says.
Fuck, Mark says, breathing light and fast.
You roll off, pull Lunchables up by the pads. There’s blood on Lunchables’s arm, your hand.
Mark remains on the ground, his leg twisted. Bone sticks out above his cleat.
Oh my God, Lunchables says. Oh my God.
Give him space, Coach says. Everybody back the hell up.
Mark struggles to take his helmet off and Coach does it for him.
That’s a boy, Coach says.
Mark’s face is so pale you can’t make out his eyebrows. He stares at you, grits his teeth. You want to drop to the ground, prop Mark up on your thigh pad, give him water, whiskey, whatever.
You remember Saturday morning, waking up and seeing him holding himself and thinking for a moment that maybe you weren’t alone after all, but then you saw his eyes were closed and nothing was said. You remember the first time you two watched a porno together in his basement, and you noticed his face in the screen’s reflection. You remember a morning when he walked into class late, his hair wet and unkempt, and you wanted to slide your fingers through his curls and calm them down.
. . .
Thirty-five fucking minutes it takes before the trainers put Mark on a stretcher and haul him off to an ambulance.
Shit men, Coach says. He’s got tears in his eyes. He’s the kind of man who likes to cry in front of the team twice a year, and this is one of those times.
Who wants to say the prayer for him? Coach says.
Rollins says he will. Rollins calls Mark everyone’s best friend. The heartbeat of the team.
Bring him back in one piece, Lord God, Rollins says. And help us play our best for Mark.
Amen, Coach says.
Amen, the team says.
You stay silent. Lunchables pats you on the back and it takes everything not to reach out and break his chubby arm in your grip.
Let’s run it one more time, Coach says. For Mark. And this time let’s put all our heart into it.
Lunchables speaks to you across the line.
He’ll be all right, Lunchables says.
You think he’ll be okay? Lunchables says.
He’s not mad at me, is he? Lunchables says.
I didn’t mean to do it, Lunchables says.
Poor Mark, Lunchables says.
I swear, I swear, Lunchables says.
Hut hut, Rollins says.
You plow Lunchables over. You land on him and put all your weight into your knee on his stomach. He’s sucking wind beneath you. He moves his hands frantic, trying to push you off but there’s no whistle yet. You sink the knee in deeper, feel the water pouring down your face.
