Damage - A. M. Jenkins [14]
“Amen,” says Coach. The room rustles as everyone prepares to head for the field.
“Amen,” you agree. For once, you’re feeling downright hopeful.
The first touchdown of the season is yours.
First quarter, 0–0, and Stargill’s just picked up a first down—not much pressure, not yet. It’s long and out, just like at practice, and when you turn to look at Cox, the ball’s heading toward the exact spot you’ll be in a second. You don’t think at all, just stretch out till your fingers feel the firm scrape of pigskin. You tuck it in and run twenty-five yards, the final ten free and clear.
Last year, you scored fifteen touchdowns. After each you were so pumped you almost danced off the ground, raising your arms and yelling with the crowd. Last year, every little success sent you spiraling into the night air, high above the stadium.
Tonight, your feet cross the line and you feel nothing.
Smack! Brett Stargill has hurled himself at you. Helmet meets shoulder pads and you find yourself being hugged, faceless, into purple cloth. Brett pounds your back in a wordless frenzy. You can hear the shouts of joy from the field, the cheers from the stands.
You suppose you might be smiling. Then again, you might not be. Hard to tell, when you’re not feeling anything at all.
You drop the ball onto the turf and start walking back.
This was supposed to be the very best moment of the game. The first of a long line of best moments—the best of the season, maybe even your life.
When you get to the sidelines, Coach gives you a friendly slap across the helmet. “That’s it, Reid,” he says, “that’s the way.”
Coach seldom gives compliments, so you should be pleased. But his words skitter on the surface and float away, meaningless.
As soon as the extra point clears the uprights, the fight song comes blasting out of the band, too fast, as if somebody spiked the concession stand Cokes with adrenaline.
You barely hear it. You keep your helmet on. Keep your back to the stands. Watch the kickoff like it’s something that’s happening on TV.
The Panthers win, 21–17. But at the team meeting the next morning, Coach doesn’t seem to have noticed that fact.
“I couldn’t hardly sleep last night,” he says, plopping the game tape into the VCR. “Burlington’s got the worst offense in the district, and we gave ’em seventeen points. We come up against a real team, we’re going to get plowed.”
You’re sitting there, attacked by the usual day-after-a-game soreness. Your muscles are stiff; your shoulders ache, and the backs of your thighs. Every once in a while your left ankle gets one of those twinges that feels like somebody’s tightening a screw in it.
“Looky there how high Billings comes out,” Coach says as he points to the screen. “See how he gets brushed off? Billings, you know better than that. I know you know better. Palmer, you got to pay attention to where that marker is. We should’ve had a first down right here.”
Inside you’re still feeling nothing, but it doesn’t seem so important now. Your body will keep doing what it’s supposed to do, at the time it’s supposed to do it. And everything will just keep moving around you, no matter what.
“Kemp, you have too much coffee before the game? That’s twice you let that guy draw you offsides. Twice! All he had to do was twitch his nose, and there you go.”
It’s impossible to get interested in game films.
All there is of Curtis are his long legs stretched out on the other side of Stargill. He’s sprawled in his chair, his attention on last night’s game.
“You guys on the offensive line have to give Cox more time,” Coach is saying. “Hernandez, you’re giving up too soon—keep driving till you hear the whistle. Nice run there, Reid,” Coach adds, and sure enough, there’s number 83 on the screen. That’s you.
The tape rolls on. Every once in awhile Coach pauses it, hits rewind. Your eyes stay on the screen now, on number 83. He’s physical proof that you were there last night. And it’s good to have the aches and pains pinning you into your body. Otherwise you feel you might just disappear, sink through