American Outlaw - Jesse James [20]
Mike had the kind of fat girth you could get away with on a football field: his shapeless bulk packed tight around an oblong skeleton. His bright red hair was complemented by freckles and a hapless expression on his doughy face.
“Jesse,” Mike whined, “why don’t you ever get hurt, man?”
“Built way too tough,” I explained. “Bones made of titanium, Mike.”
“I’ll shoot him for you, Mike,” Bobby volunteered. “For the right price, he’s a dead man.”
Tom Dixon and his gang of seniors had graduated. That meant that it was pretty much Bobby’s and my team, even though we were only juniors. We kind of battled with each other for authority. I preferred to lead by example; Bobby, by the force of psychotic bluster.
“No FUCKING UP tonight!” he’d scream in the locker room before our games. “NO PUSSIES, NO CRYING!”
“Let’s play smart and hard,” I announced firmly.
“TAKE ’EM OUT AT THE KNEES AND GOUGE THEIR EYEBALLS!!” Bobby boomed.
The kids on the team looked vaguely confused, not to mention mildly frightened by the spastic giant screaming in front of them. “It’s all about protecting the football,” I explained.
“TAKE ’EM HARD, CUZ THEY DESERVE TO DIE!”
“Let’s get out there and win,” I added.
It was interesting, because I was such an angry, sick fuck on the field, but in the locker room, I was your average kid. Maybe even a little bit quieter than the rest of them. Yet under the lights, it was like a switch would turn over in me, and I was out for blood.
Our first game that year was with Notre Dame, our rival high school. There had been several articles about me in the paper, referencing the good year I was coming off of. Well, the other teams didn’t like that at all. So right away, the first play of the game, Notre Dame decided to try to get into my head. Their tight end was a big white guy with an even bigger mouth.
“Yo, Jesse James,” he yelled. “I heard your mom’s a whore! Actually, I know she is, because I put my balls in your whore mom’s mouth just last night! Hey, are you deaf, Jesse James?”
I didn’t say anything. I was letting the hate build up in me, letting it heat my blood.
He kept going. “You know what? Fuck you, faggot! And your whore mom, too.” His voice was harsh and loud, and he was so relentless, people up in the stands could probably hear him. “She didn’t lick my balls right! Can you finish the job?”
No response. I just stared into the top of his skull, at the stripes that bisected his helmet, willing them to become the entire universe for me.
“Aren’t you gonna say SHIT?” he said, just as his center hiked the ball.
I flew off the line and punched him. It was maybe the best uppercut of my life. I punched him so hard, and in precisely the right place, that my knuckles punched up behind his sternum, and my hand disappeared beneath his rib cage.
He gasped awfully. He dropped to the ground, and I ran over him and sacked the quarterback. As I was lying there, on top of the QB, savoring the moment, the foulmouthed kid stumbled to his feet, then jumped on my back. He wailed away at me with harmless, puny blows. “You DIRTY SON OF A BITCH!”
I just covered up and laughed, letting him work my back. Eventually, my teammates pulled him off me and beat him down into the ground some more. Their team came to his rescue, and soon a whole bunch of heads were getting knocked, just like they should in high school games.
“Nice punch, James,” Bobby whispered to me, out of breath, as we lined up again.
“Maybe I should get into boxing,” I said, laughing.
“Both of us should. There’s good money in it.”
I wasn’t all that surprised when my dad started coming to games. I was getting press in the local papers and stuff, slowly becoming a star player. So sure enough, that’s when he started showing up. He would sit up in the stands all alone, high up, in a section all by himself, so I could be sure to see him.
“That your pops, James?”
I frowned. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“I thought you and him didn’t talk anymore.”
“We don’t.”
“So why’s he here?”
“Beats me,” I muttered. “Maybe the man just loves a good game