A guy puts his hands on your ass and screams, “Haaa-eeee!” What would your reaction be?
Run like hell. Call the cops.
That’s not what the center does. The center leans back, leans into it. When O. screams, that’s my cue. I lift the ball, twist, and push it up and into his hands. That’s the snap.
O. says the snap is the starting point of all things. It’s the trigger of the gun.
But there’s one other little part to it. While I’m crouched down, there’s a huge, ugly guy standing three inches in front of me, waiting to kill me. The second the ball leaves my hands that guy smashes into my head.
Football. Good times.
Today after calisthenics and running, we set up for snap-and-pass drills. O. calls out some numbers then screams, “Haaa-eeee!” I snap the ball back… but instead of going into his hands, I fling it right past him onto the ground.
“Crap,” I say.
“Relax,” O. says. “You’ll get it.”
O. calls another play. I snap again. This time I feel a crunch as the ball bangs into the tips of his fingers. I see the Neck shaking his head like I’m a lost cause.
Maybe I am.
The cheerleaders are working out over on the soccer field. It’s impossible not to keep looking over there. They’re wearing short skirts and jumping up and down. The other players look a little bit, but they’re subtle about it. They don’t really look, they glance. That’s the difference between guys who get girls and guys who don’t.
Cool guys glance. Geeks gawk. Two seconds too long, and you’ll be spending your Saturday nights with a box of Kleenex. That’s the cruel reality of high school.
“Where’s your head at?” O. says.
“Right here,” I say. It’s just on the wrong field.
I snap the ball and almost break O.’s fingers again. He snatches it away and calls a time-out. Then he walks me to the sideline.
“What’s the plan?” O. says.
“I want to play football.”
“The real plan,” he says. “What’s the real plan?”
A cheerleader screams. I look over to see April flying into the air, thrown aloft by two girls in short skirts.
O. catches me looking. “Got it,” he says.
“That’s not the plan,” I say.
“Girls are great,” O. says, “but here’s the thing. When you’re on this field, the guys are depending on you. I’m depending on you.”
I reach for my inhaler. I don’t suck it, just hold on to it in my sweatpants pocket. It makes me feel better knowing it’s there if I need it.
“Can people depend on you?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Prove it,” O. says.
He hands me the ball.
“Maybe I’m no good at this,” I say.
“Don’t force it,” O. says. “You have to find the rhythm. It’s like dancing. You know how to dance, right?”
I think of the dozens of weddings I’ve been to, all the couples I’ve seen dancing. It feels like I’ve danced a million times, but when I really think about it, I realize I’ve never actually danced. I’ve only watched other people do it.
“No,” I say.
“It’s time to learn,” O. says.
O. screams, “Go again!” and everyone sets up. This time Bison leans down in front of me and stares into my eyes. This is not the smiling Bison. This is someone I haven’t met yet. I feel O. lean over behind me, one hand pressed under me, the other patting the small of my back.
Suddenly I hear music in my head. At first I don’t recognize it, and then I remember I heard it at the last wedding. “True Colors.” A bad, wedding version of it.
Embarrassing.
But it relaxes me. I lighten my grip on the ball like O. taught me. I breathe. I listen to “True Colors” in my head.
“Haaa-eeee!” O. screams.
I push up and back, moving to the music, and I feel the energy of the ball transfer from me to O. It’s effortless, as if the ball disappeared from my hands and I had nothing to do with it. Maybe this is what dancing is supposed to feel like.
I’m so excited about my discovery, I forget all about what comes next.
Bison comes next.
He crashes into me, squashing me to the ground, then jumps past me and tackles O. The ball pops out of O.’s hands, and Bison scrambles after it. There’s a jumble of bodies, and then Bison appears, smiling, holding the ball over his head like a trophy. I glance to the sidelines, and Coach is cursing and slamming his fists against his thighs.
“What in God’s name—Zansky! What are you doing to my quarterback?!”
Coach rubs his stomach like he has a cramp. “Let me tell you what your job is,” Coach says. “You are a wall. You are impassible. You are the Great Friggin’ Wall of China. Do you know how long the Great Friggin’ Wall has stood, Zansky?”
“No, Coach,” I say.
“Ten thousand two hundred and eighty-three friggin’ years. Repelling all invaders. Do you have that kind of commitment?”
I’m pretty sure Coach has his dates wrong by about eight thousand years, but it’s probably not a good idea to correct him now.
“I think so,” I say.
“You think so? You’re going to let some Mongolian son of a bitch jump the wall and take my fried rice?!” Coach screams.
All the guys are looking at me.
“Absolutely not, Coach!”
“Will you protect my rice for the long haul? Will you keep it safe for ten thousand friggin’ years?”
“Yes, I friggin’ will!”
Coach’s voice drops back down to normal. “Well, then. That’s all I wanted to know.”
He blows his whistle. “Hit the showers, gentlemen.”
The guys slowly unwind, taking off their helmets and moving towards the locker room.
Coach pats O. on the back. “Mr. Burch pulled me aside for a little chat,” he says.
O.’s face darkens.
“I blew the quiz,” O. says. “It was a one-time thing.”
“We need you to do well this year.”
“I’m handling it. Guaranteed.”
“All right, then,” Coach says. “I have to motate. There’s a protein shake in the fridge with my name on it.”
“Protein shake?” O. says.
Coach pats his belly. “Hey, I’ve got to maintain my girlish figure.”
Coach is on some crazy diet where he drinks six protein shakes a day. I should introduce him to Mom. They could count calories together.
“Who’s Burch?” I say when Coach is gone.
O. moves closer and lowers his voice. “He’s my English teacher. I flunked English last year.”
“No way.”
“It’s not my fault. Burch thinks that because he’s a genius, everyone else should be, too. He makes us write these huge book reports. It’s too much.”
“I thought athletes got automatic As,” I say.
“Maybe if you live in Texas or something. But it doesn’t work like that here. If you flunk a class, you can’t play. C-average minimum. That’s the athletic contract.”
“But you’re playing this year.”
“Coach convinced him to give me an incomplete and let me take the class again. That’s why I have to do well.”
Everyone’s hanging out in the back of the school talking, but O. and I are still on the field. It’s amazing how quiet it is with just the two of us out here.
“What if we helped each other?” I say.
“What’s that mean?”
“Like I could be your English tutor, and you could help me with football.”
“Like a football tutor.”
“Why not?”
O. thinks about it for a minute. “Our secret, right?”
“Completely.”
“It’s an interesting idea,” O. says.