American Outlaw - Jesse James [27]
We punished them that game. Thrashed them into the ground, embarrassed them, made them hate the sight of a football and everything it stood for. They had thousands of their own fans at the game, and the lewd chants and rowdy discontent between the opposite sides of the stadium increased palpably as the time ticked down on the clock. By late in the third quarter, the game had long since been decided, but we were still gutting hard, going for murderous hits on every play. You could feel the drunken hate of the crowd hovering in the fall air. It was special. It was why we played.
Our cornerback, Albert Cornejo, looked up at me and grinned. “Almost too easy, huh?”
“Way too easy,” I yelled, loud enough for the other team to hear.
“You guys think you’re funny, huh?” spat one of their linemen. His uniform was messy, ripped, dirt-smeared and grass-stained.
“We are pretty funny,” Cornejo agreed. He pointed up to the scoreboard, which read 45–14. “But that shit . . . is hilarious.”
A play or so later, I faked a charge at Nordbeck, then immediately cut back to cover the short pass. The ball came spinning in the air only a few feet out of my reach. I jumped as high as I could, and managed to bat it lightly with my fingertips. The football played in the air for a moment, then descended straight into my hands. I pulled the ball to my chest and took off running down the field, uncontested.
Halfway to the end zone, I realized that no one on either squad had bothered to follow me. The entire Notre Dame football team, to a man, had executed a rotten sneak attack on Albert Cornejo. They were hell-bent on bludgeoning him to death with his own helmet.
Immediately, our squad retaliated with the deranged force of teenaged fury. Our littlest man, Paulie Thompson, jumped atop Notre Dame’s giant center, clawing at his face, trying to force his mouth guard down his throat.
Both benches emptied. I dropped the football and fled back to the scene of the crime, screaming gleefully. Even our band rushed on the field, swinging their tubas and drum kits like barbarians.
“Save CORNEJO!”
Bobby was buried under a pile of Notre Dame assistant coaches who flailed about, determined to smother him and send the funeral bill to his mother.
“SAVE CORNEJO!”
The stands emptied and packs of psychotic parents jumped into the melee, swinging. Cops swarmed the field, and the rabid mob instantly seized their billy clubs.
The fighting and general mayhem raged on for what seemed like forty-five minutes. Finally, backup cops arrived and the crowd was subdued. The game was called: a double forfeit. I felt it was a pretty punk rock night of football.
“My jaw feels broken,” Bobby groaned, when we were back in the locker room.
“I’m kind of torn up myself,” I admitted, surveying the damage the mob had exacted upon me.
“I don’t even really like Cornejo,” Bobby confessed. “I was just there for the punching.”
Gingerly, I pulled my sweaty uniform off me. “So . . . what was it you wanted to talk to me about before?”
“Oh yeah, the store!” Bobby said, instantly cheered. “The haul. Man, we got so much shit, we don’t even know what to do with it.”
“That easy, huh?”
“Goddamn, man, it was child’s play.” Bobby spat on the floor. “You’d think they’d have realized that people know how to disable a burglar alarm these days. I mean, they truly gave us no credit at all.”
“That’s . . . very rude of them,” I said, gently.
“Eh,” said Bobby, shaking it off. “Anyway, I can’t keep all of it at my place. I literally don’t have the closet space. What do you say you hold some pieces for me, until I can sell them off? I’ll give you half the dough I make in exchange.”
I considered. “Yeah, sure. Whatever I can fit in my room, how’s that?”
“Perfect.” Bobby looked relieved. “Look, I owe you one, okay?”
“Save Cornejo,” I answered. We looked at each other, then busted out laughing.
——
As the season wore on, I began to realize that it could actually be really cool to bring up the