Jamdown

Chapter 6

Irwin Pristine

This suffocating helmet had me wanting to heave up my unprocessed lunch. I wasn’t supposed to be here. My desire to never play this sport was clear in my mind, but here I was. I rolled my shoulders back and forth to shake off the tightness of this infernal suit.

My nose tickled at each potent odor. It was like my body was on overload in this suit of armor. If my old friends saw me in this, they would have laughed. 

Why had I joined this team again? Money, yes, that's the reason. My memory had to keep that in mind. As long as I remembered why I was doing this, I could get through this nightmare.

I blew out a breath of burning exhaustion rather than disdain, for I was going to be trapped within this contraption for one hour. Putting it on, securing the tape around my arm and leg joints, fitting the first layer of protection with the team shirt slid over on top of the plastic shoulder pads. Securing each point was a pain.

Players in America did this every day, well, not every day, but I am sure someone got my point. It took me a while to suit up. The others got it down in minutes. It took more than half an hour, which had them laughing at me.

I looked sideways, for above us, were whistles flying over a scattered cheering mass of people shouting White House Snakes. They were the team we were playing against.

It was beyond the stroke of six in the night. The air contained a hot electrifying surge to it that burned the chill I should have surrendered to. This suit was still making me sweat even at night.

I hated this sport.

My back shook to a hit from the back, so I twirled around swiftly to see a player, my teammate. “Loosen up man, no worry ‘bout the last play, we can still make a turnover if anything.”

I screwed up on the kickoff. My job was simple, tackle the White House player with the ball. The White House players dressed in white with blue stripes along the side of their shirts laughed at their luck, because I missed the tackle. They got a down so damn close to our goal line. I never got so many sour looks from my teammates in my life. My team never needed to say anything, because I screwed up.

“Hut, hut, hut!” A white House Player shouted.

Cheers as a White House Player shot pass Malt and ran the last baby steps to the endzone.

“Touchdown!” was shouted over the loudspeaker. Yes, they gained a point. Another hit in my back, the player slid on his helmet and bounced on the spot like he was trained to go and I could only watch him with contempt.

What was he so happy about? 

“Irwin.” Malt stopped in front of me, his helmet off. The black suit with white dots sprinkled off the left shoulder trickled into a rocket-like splash of white. The helmet was a neat mixture of black with white stripes cutting across the helmet.

That was our uniform or presentation, whichever you wanted to call it.

“Don’t worry about it, we will get those points back. Just follow Hill’s instructions,” Malt said.

I nodded and we went on as the defense walked off begrudgingly. We, he said we, like we were together in this. Maybe we were, or maybe I was not a good fit considering I sucked at this sport. Can’t catch, can’t tackle, what was I supposed to do? 

They said I could run. That was all I needed to do, just run.

I ran onto the field, while the announcer called out over the speaker. Everything slowed, yet my arms and legs shivered. A cold gripped me, but it was akin to being naked. The stadium was not filled, a mere fraction. They still cheered in tandem with the grooves and hits of each play, so I was shaken. 

An ensemble played beautifully the sweet sounds of competition. The cheers resembled a spunky echo of jazz. Balloons of kids flew in the tempest wind, while cameras rotated and glided over us. Floodlights in pairs were situated around the stadium as the many officials wearing zebra print shirts made more nervous than the at-home TV audience.

The chain of the tall metal pole jingled as a young official carried it across the border of the field. He stood on the side with an enthusiastic smile, arms shaking on thighs as sat. Guessed he might as well enjoy the show, since his job was simple. Each team lined up. 

I breathed easier out here, still when had I noticed it? Was the field always so big? It was daunting, but I wondered if I ran, if I kept running, maybe reaching the end was not impossible, right?

I sped up and reached the guys. One of them said, “Screen Five.”

I looked at him with a blank stare. What the hell was that? Leon was Malt’s best friend I think and he muttered something. Hill was the leader of the team. I was surprised it wasn’t Malt. The way Malt was going around begging for people to join, I would assume he was the leader. Hill nodded and waved his arms in uncertainty. I was about to ask what was with the staring, but Hill uttered as he looked at the White House Players gathered in a circle. “Fake pass, you pushing through the center. The others are guarding you, ok, Irwin?”

I hated my first name. “Call me Prix and yeah, I got it.”

They looked amongst each other and then giggled.  

“We forgot we did not let you study our plays,” Leon said.

Ember was the only tall guy here besides me and shrugged in reply. “Most of our plays are shit anyway.”

Hill came into the middle of the huddle. “Roll in.”

The referee whistled after we positioned ourselves. I stayed still watching the scrimmage as they called it. Two lines of men, but it became chaos when the battle started. I caught my breath and tensed my arms hunched on my thighs. 

Ok, the end zone, that was where I was going. If I ran there, no, I had to. 

Malt told me there were three levels to getting a touchdown. One, get pass the big guys. Linesman, the monsters in the trenches. 

Two, get pass the fast guys. Linebackers and Corners, the vicious knives of the defense.

Three, get pass the smart guys. Safety, the last fortress of the defense.

“Hut!” Hill shouted.

I shot forward, whirling around Hill. The ball was thrown into my chest. I ran to the side. A hand almost grasped me. 

There were too much men, too many men, why were they so many men coming at me!? 

Where was my wall!? 

I shivered in fright. Like hell, I was going to get caught! My body spun towards the far edges of the field. I saw the endzone through the hole opened out for me. 

A power consumed my heart and laced my legs with the high to fly through that hole.

I saw one White House Player jumping left when I twirled, but he jumped right and closed in. He tricked me, for I couldn’t cut back.

One teammate bashed into the White House Player. I whirled around them making my way to the second level.

Surrounded, I held my breath, and dropped my feet, yet twisted on it around the tackling linebacker. I bobbed and weaved around their desperate lunges.

The field was huge now. So much space was on the third level. I blinked. Two players encircled me. I lowered myself and cleaved through the rushing gale. I left them grasping air.

The wind glazed through the helmet, so the sounds were muffled in the rush of it. My eyes got touched with a tear and I shook the rigor of air pressure on my body. The weight crushed on my limbs and tightened a protection deeper than a mother’s forlorn love. Here I thought this field was so big. 

The pounding tightness of my legs clashed against the brittle grass. I heard something. This opus accompanied me, yet it sang. Yes, making beautiful music for me as I shot forward, but that was it. I already reached my stride and yet I already slowed to a stop. Voices raised and the song became muffled background noise. It was over, so I dropped the football.

“Touchdown!”  the announcer bellowed.