Damage - A. M. Jenkins [13]
Curtis sits on a bench next to the water fountain. He’s already off in whatever world he goes to before a game. On the bus and in the locker room, he likes to keep himself apart, likes to build his concentration to a pinpoint that’ll knock anybody to their knees if they happen to get in its way. Right now he has his helmet on, chin strap in place, and he’s leaning forward as if praying, elbows on knees as he stares at the floor between his feet.
You walk along the benches, around the freestanding lockers, and back. Placing each foot precisely on the floor—because that’s what you always do, because you’re always careful to keep the lid on, to keep all that energy trapped inside, ready to be unleashed at the right place and the right time. You can’t feel it tonight, but surely it’s there. Isn’t it? Way underneath?
On your third trip around the room, you stop to get a drink of water. Curtis is still sitting next to the fountain, but he doesn’t look up. You’re not sure he even knows you’re there. You straighten to wipe your mouth on your sleeve.
It’s scary, to feel nothing. What if you never feel anything again?
There Curtis sits, steady and calm as always. It makes you feel better for a moment just to be in the same room with him.
“A long time ago,” Curtis says to the floor, “when a guy was about to become a knight, he spent the whole night before getting purified. You know, like baths and prayer and getting dressed in ceremonial clothes. And the next morning, when they were about to have the ceremony itself, he’d have all his friends around, helping him to get armed. It was like a ritual.”
He raises his head then, and looks at you.
“Everything,” he says, “had to be done exactly right. First, the guy had to be one of the chosen. He had to have the ability, and the desire. He had to be ready on the outside—and then he had get ready on the inside.” Curtis pauses. “He’d use the time before the ceremony to get ready. You know what I’m saying?”
You nod. For Curtis, football is a moment of single-minded purity that last four quarters.
“And then,” he continues, “at the very last, he could put on his clothes and his armor and his weapons. And then he could become a knight.”
He stops as Coach comes in and calls everyone together. You look around the locker room, at everybody. Ankles taped, some right over the cleats. Wristbands and gloves. Pads strapped on. Snowy white socks and pants, and over them, the bright purple jerseys. Face masks like visors.
When Coach has everyone’s full attention, he begins.
“I want everybody playing hard for sixty minutes. Don’t let up on these guys. Don’t even think about stopping till after you hear that whistle. I expect every one of you to play four full quarters of football.
“Make all your tackles. Make your catches. Follow through on your blocks. Defensive ends, cornerbacks: Don’t let any sweeps get outside of you. Contain, contain, contain!
“If I catch anybody making any mistakes, they’d better at least be doing it at full speed. You all clear on that?”
“Yes, sir!” everyone shouts on cue.
“I have never lost a season opener.” Coach’s voice echoes around the locker room. “Not as a player. Not as a coach. That is not going to change tonight.”
His words fall, coming to rest in absolute quiet.
“Now, we’re going to have a moment of silent thought.”
Coach folds his hands in front of him. Heads bow. You take another slow look around, at the helmets and pads, like armor.
Even Curtis’s head is down. You bow your head and stare at the floor. You visualize the scene:
The ball’s sailing right at you. Your hands are up and open, fingers spread. You watch the ball all the way into your hands. Wrap it up. Take off running.
You play the scene again. And once more. You’ve always had the ability to be the best. Tonight, you’ve got the desire. It’s not like last year—still no butterflies. But you