29. clutch.
A day later I’m sitting in O.’s living room tutoring him on Huckleberry Finn.
I like the story of Huck, and I’m trying to get through to O. about it. I think he understands the basics, but every time I try to talk about themes, he gets confused.
“You’re saying Huck and Jim are the same?” O. says.
“Not the same, but they have the same problem.”
His eyes fuzz out like Jessica when Project Runway comes on.
“Think about it,” I say. “Huck has everything, all the advantages, and he hates it. Jim has nothing and he hates that. So they’re both trapped by the same system, just on different ends of it.”
O.’s face lights up. “Kind of like you and me, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“High school, dude. The system.”
I look at O. sitting there, his stomach flat as a board. I understand how I could be trapped. I mean, fat and high school don’t exactly go together. Kind of like barbed-wire underpants. But O.?
“How are you trapped?” I say.
“Don’t get me wrong,” O. says. “I’m not complaining. Things are good. Absolutely. But sometimes—I don’t know. People expect things from me, and I have to deliver or I’m screwed.”
“Like your dad?” I say.
“No, he doesn’t care so much.”
“He doesn’t want you to be a jock?”
“He’s fine with it. I mean, he used to be a jock in high school, but I don’t think he even remembers. He’s not one of those guys who dreams of the golden days. More like the golden parachute.”
“So who then?”
O. opens his arms. “The school,” he says, and he spreads his fingers wide.
I think about that for a second. I feel like there’s so much pressure on me. Mom and Dad, Eytan, they all want stuff from me. But then there’s me. I’m always putting pressure on myself, trying to prove myself, be smarter, or thinner, or cooler. When you’re fat, that just comes with the territory. You walk through the door like Babar the Elephant, you have a lot of ground to make up for. At least that’s how I think of it.
But when I think of O.’s life, I realize it’s not just about him. There’s a whole team relying on him. There’s an entire school expecting him to be something. That’s like pressure on a whole different level.
“You still there, dude?” O. says.
“Yeah. I’m just thinking,” I say. “You represent things to people. Like if you succeed, the entire school succeeds. Right?”
“Kind of, yeah. And if I fail—”
“Newton sucks royal ass.”
“You got it.”
“But check it out, O. I’m thinking how when we represent things to people, it’s not really about us anymore. It’s like it’s their problem. Not ours.”
O. rubs his head. “You’re deep, dude.”
“And wide, too.”
“Wide’s a good thing on the O-Line.”
“I guess.”
“Bigger is better,” O. says. “Especially in football.”
“And in boobies,” I say.
“What do you know about boobies?”
“I know I like them. And I wouldn’t mind touching one before I die.”
O. laughs and flips Huckleberry Finn onto the table.
“All in time,” he says. “But listen, my head is about to explode. You want to get out there and throw the ball around?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Enough of this philosophizing crap. Let’s bang into something and make it bleed.”
“Easy, killer,” O. says.
We begin with simple handoffs. O. teaches me how to grip the ball properly, curving my wrist so the laces are aligned when I hand it to him. He shows me the basic snap, the quick snap, and the long snap where he stands a few yards behind and I pitch it back to him.
“I can show you the basics in an afternoon,” O. says. “But once you have them, there’s only one thing left to do.”
“What’s that?” I say.
“Practice for about ten thousand hours.”
“I guess we’d better get started,” I say.
Inside the house when we were studying, O. was edgy, nervous, and uncomfortable, but the minute we start to play, his whole energy changes. He relaxes and his body does what it knows best. Run. Jump. That kind of thing.
I’m the exact opposite.
My body knows how to sit, eat Spicy Cheetos, and program TiVo.
So when I get into the squat, it all goes to hell really quickly. I can sense where O. is, but I don’t know how to orient the ball right.
“Just do the dance,” O. says.
“I’ll try,” I say.
I listen for the music, and after a minute, it comes. “True Colors.” Only it’s a waltz version. I imagine I’m dancing with April. Her hair swirls as we move.
I don’t think about what I’m doing. I just snap the ball. Perfect.
Now it becomes a disco song. I snap a dozen times, each better than the next.
Now I’m listening to a version by The Killers. It sounds like it’s playing through the wall from Jessica’s bedroom. I snap again and again, fifty times in a row, feeling the energy transfer between O. and me, sensing him come towards me and drop back, always knowing where I should direct the ball.
We do snaps until my back is on fire, and I’m sweating right through my shirt. Usually I’d be nervous about it sticking to my body because then you can see my fat, but alone with O., I barely notice.
“Let’s grab some Gator,” O. finally says.
“That’s probably a good idea,” I say, “before I pass out.”
“You’re still getting into shape. Stick with it for a few weeks, and you’ll see some real changes.”
I imagine myself at 180 with a six-pack stomach. I peel off my shirt in gym class like I saw Rodriguez do, and the girls start to sweat.
O. opens a little cooler that he brought outside. “What’s it going to be? Red or blue?”
I look at the bottles of Gatorade.
“Is there a difference?”
“The blue goes down easier.”
“I’ll take red.”
O. smiles. He cracks two bottles of red, and we drink. I want to down the whole thing in one shot, but I know better. You have to pace yourself or you cramp up. I learned that the hard way.
O. moves his shoulder back and forth and winces.
“Are you hurt?” I say.
“Just a little tight,” O. says. “My shoulder got jammed up last season. Nothing to worry about.”
It never occurred to me that O. could get injured. It’s stupid, but he seems sort of invulnerable, like a superhero.
“Why don’t you ever change in the locker room?” O. asks. I must wince or something, because he says, “No big deal. I’m just wondering. A couple of the guys noticed.”
“I don’t know why,” I say.
“Do you have a tiny wiener or something?”
“No way,” I say.
The truth is it looks kind of small compared to my thighs. Then again, a garbage truck looks small compared to my thighs.
“I’m just not comfortable,” I say.
“Being naked in front of people.”
“Being naked anytime. I don’t even like to take my clothes off when I’m alone in my room.”
O. laughs. “That’s cool,” he says. “I’ll keep the guys off your case.”
O. finishes his Gatorade and crushes the bottle in his fist. I do the same. O. burps really loudly, and I burp, too.
“So what’s up with that new girl?” O. says.
“Which one?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” O. says. “I see you giving her the eye.”
“You mean April.”
“Pretty hot. She a sophomore like you?”
I start to feel nervous. I don’t like talking about this with O.
“There’s nothing going on,” I say. “I mean, she knows I’m alive, but that’s about it.”