Worship You

Chapter Two. Only You

This was in September. Football was starting and I had to practice every day. I don't want to go on too much about it, because now it bores me. But back then, I was so into it. At our school it's taken very seriously, this game. There's practice every morning and afternoon. That means getting up two hours early so you can get to school, suit up, bang into other people for an hour and then wash off the sweat in time to go to school. And also, just as an aside, this is kind of illegal. You are not supposed to work kids more than two and a half hours a day at a sport in our state. That's the rules. But like I said, they take football seriously at our school. And nobody takes rules seriously. Not ones they don't care about, anyway. Note that well.

And I was no different. I loved hitting people to begin with, because I'm very angry and on a football field not only are you allowed to hurt people, you are positively encouraged to commit criminal assault.

I loved that part. Furious inside that helmet, looking out through that cage, covered in all that gear and armor, untouchable, anonymous, lethal, licensed to kill, just like James Bond.

I went the extra mile. You're not supposed to do it, but I learned way back in the Pee Wee League how to spear people. Spearing. That's hitting people with your helmet. Which has your head inside of course and your brain, but who cares? If you know how, it's safe enough except for that rare accident when you're caught off balance or something. Then what happens? You break your neck. And if you don't die, you spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair, shitting into a bag, that's what. But that's your national pastime for you.

I learned it on TV actually: watching slo-mo on NFL Today! BOOM! says the fat guy. And some guy is separated from his senses and falls to the turf like a corpse. Also, every coach I ever had gave me pointers on form and technique. It's all just science really. Impact = Mass x Velocity2. All that means is, if you run faster you hit harder. Simple and effective. And then that hard hat you're wearing is a weapon. You can really lay the hurt on somebody.

It's illegal but you can get away with it. You make a show of putting your shoulder out and at the last second come up with your forehead and drive through the other kid's face like an uppercut in boxing. I broke a kid's jaw that way last year. There was some furor about it, mostly from the kid's mother, but in the films it looked like it could have been an accident. And they give you the benefit of the doubt. You're just a kid, after all. What do you know?

We watched the hit on video several times at the County High School League hearing on "The Incident." (Yes, it made the papers.) It was all I could do to keep a straight face and not go, YEAH! (pump fist). Each time that kid dropped like somebody had cut his puppet strings and he turned from being cute and lovable to being a two hundred pound sack of shit. I know it sounds bad, but I happen to know this kid was taking huge amounts of steroids, so he knew the deal.

I promised not to go on about that so...

There I was, the afternoon of the day I met Cassie, standing on the practice field behind the school, staring into space while I had a cut on my leg treated by Mr. Kaminetsky, the assistant coach and the team "trainer." (God help us if we ever really got hurt. He knows as much about first aid as I do about speaking Hindoo.)

I looked down at Kaminetsky's bald spot. There was a large black mole on top of his head I had never noticed before. It made me gag. Mr. K was spreading some kind of antibiotic crap on my leg with a popsicle stick. What was the point? I would sweat it off by the end of practice. I thought I should be getting a tetanus shot and I was trying to remember the last time I got a booster. I got the cut because some asshole had broken a beer bottle in the end zone and I got cut with the glass. Although to be fair, the asshole might have been me. Somebody should clean up the field once in a while.

I looked up at the school wondering where Cassie was right then.

Kaminetsky finished putting a bandage over my cut (which probably needed stitches but never mind.)and he said, "You're good to go, my man!" and slapped me on the butt in that awful Elks Clubby secret Homo way that seems to be the standard of behavior in football but found nowhere else. What if they did that in Congress? ("Mr. Speaker the President of the United States!" Prez walks down the aisle, congressmen - AND CONGRESSWOMEN!- patting him passionately on the butt) It would be a national crisis. Although to be fair they would probably like to, as horny as those politicians are.

"Let's GO, buddy!" says Mr. K.

Kaminetsky. Yeah, America's the best! Get out there and make a brain-damage case out of yourself.

Hope that mole's not cancer. Buddy.

I just stood there.

"Let's go!" Kaminetsky screamed, "stop daydreaming, you're not hurt that bad!"

I turned to him and quietly handed him my football helmet, that prize possession, that badge of honor, that primary example of "the tools of ignorance." Here, kid! Put this on and bang your brain into the brains of other morons like you! Don't worry! What could happen?

Well, you could end up not being able to remember stuff, for starters, but who cares, right? And, if you're really lucky, you could end up pooping into a bag for the rest of your days! You're a football Hero! Wipe the drool from the Hero's chin, mom.

I just stood there.

"What's this! What do you think you're doing?"

"I believe I've had enough of this particular shit. Sir."

And I walked back to the locker room to take a shower, douse myself with stuff that smells good...

And find Cassie.

I found her waiting under the spreading oak in front of the school.

"Well, it took you forever," she said, "I wouldn't have waited for everybody like this, you know." She swept her hair away from her neck and said, "Only you."

Only you.