Damage - A. M. Jenkins [47]
The day inches by.
After school, when you’re heading across the parking lot to the field house, football is just a long, dark that you can’t escape.
When you walk into the field house, Coach isn’t there. There’s a note on the marker board, written broad, square black letters:
SUIT UP AND GO TO THE FIELD.
And, below that:
FULL PADS.
On the field, Coach is standing on the grass alone, apart from the gathering players. He’s got both hands in his jacket pockets and he’s staring toward the scarred goalpost as he lets one of the assistants put the team through warm-ups.
He doesn’t acknowledge you when you walk past. When warm-ups are over and he finally turns around, he does just what you expected. He gives you one glance then spits in the dirt—Coach doesn’t like having a hardened ball-bobbler on his team—and tells the other guys to get in a circle. He tells you to go stand in the middle. Just like you knew he would.
You pull on your helmet and head into the middle all those eyes.
Coach stands a few feet outside the circle, hands in his pockets. “I got some news for you boys,” he announces. “This is football. And in football, you’re going to get hit. Some of y’all don’t seem to be able to get that idea into your heads.”
When he takes his hands out of his pockets, there’s something in them. It’s a long torn strip of towel. “I got variation that’s going to do you some good, Reid,” he says. “This works wonders for receivers. Take your helmet off for a second.”
You obey, and he walks toward you with that long cloth. “Anybody on this team wants to listen for footsteps—that’s all they’re gonna do, is listen.”
He uses the piece of towel for a blindfold. The thing you see before he ties it on is Curtis looking like smells something bad, and then the thing is on so that the terry cloth bends your eyelashes.
All the things you do wrong, all the moments—and still everybody thought you were the Pride of the Panthers. It’s only right that you should the one to get pounded. It should have been you all along.
You fumble your helmet back into place and stand, waiting. You hear how all the other guys are dead quiet, hear how birds are squawking in a tree across the track. You can hear your heart beating thinly inside your chest.
And then something else—a faint snapping sound, followed by a hollow thud on the grass near your feet.
“Hightower?” That’s Coach.
But you don’t hear Curtis answer.
“Hightower,” Coach grunts, a little louder.
No sound from Curtis.
And then you hear Coach say grimly, “Whatever. Let’s get to work.”
He blows the whistle.
You hear pads creak; you even think you can cleats gripping grass, in the moment before something smashes into you and then the ground slams up to crush what’s left of your breath from your lungs.
Suck more air in. Struggle to your feet.
The whistle blows again.
Coach must be taking it easy since you can’t see. It’s the first time all season he hasn’t called them on two at time. And he gives you enough time to get up, between.
Eventually you’re lying there and no more whistles sound and you hear Coach say, “All right. Looks like could use some sled practice. Get moving, ladies.”
Your tailbone is hurting, and the back of your skull where it meets your backbone. But you get up, and, like Curtis, you don’t complain.
When you remove your helmet and reach up fumble at the knotted towel, Coach’s fingers are there, untying it for you. “You’re a good player, son,” he’s saying quietly. “Don’t let your imagination keep you from being a great one.”
When the knot comes loose and the blindfold disappears back into Coach’s pocket, you immediately look around for Curtis.
He’s not there. Not heading out toward the sleds with everybody else. Not running laps, like he should be Coach is mad at him. He’s not anywhere that you can see.