Page 17 of Notorious Man on Campus

It wasn’t that bad in high school because most of the kids knew about his mom dying, and though people didn’t talk much and certainly never felt sorry for him when he was a star QB, they gave him latitude, especially the girls. Most of us sensed his vulnerability underneath, understood where he came from.

I’d bet my last dollar that isn’t the case here at SPU. I’d bet no one knows about his mom or his stepmothers. He keeps it all hidden away and people accept his quirks because he’s a phenom on the field and fun and funny when he wants to be. Most of all because he has that unshakable, fuck-you-if-you-don’t-like-me self-confidence.

Chapter 7

Brick

The locker room is quiet for exactly one second after Coach finishes his talk, and then I take over.

I stand and move to the center of the room, everything I have in me coming to the surface as I open up, pull down the walls, let them crash around me. In this locker room, I’m invincible. This is my team. The energy inside me builds until it bounces off the walls and regenerates, multiplying in each body as we chant, as we meld our minds to a single pinpoint of focus.

“Play hard. Don’t stop. Until the end.” I repeat the chant louder and louder. My teammates stand and shout with me, shaking the room. I raise my throwing arm, holding the football high. My heart races as I break from the group and run through the tunnel, my team on my heels, Dylan catches up to me as I jump into place, waiting at the mouth of the stadium.

This is the part I love, where I let loose everything inside me that I hold back in my life, all the passion, energy, joy, anger, and hurt that comes out in a powerful fusion of emotion. Nothing held back so it seems nothing can hold me back. I feel ten feet tall, like I can do anything, beat anyone, conquer the world. Maybe even conquer the needy longing in my soul. I wipe the idea from my mind even as I glance at the stands.

The loudspeaker booms, “Here come the Wildbeasts!” I erupt off the balls of my feet and race to center field, jumping and pumping my arms to pump up the crowd. The sound is already deafening but I always demand more and they always give it to me. The marching band plays, kettle drums pounding, and I relish the vibration rippling through me. The team surrounds me and we do our ritual chant around the Wildbeasts logo painted on the turf then explode into our warmup formation.

After warmups I take the coin toss and jog to the sidelines. I’m revved and focused, my heart rate at that perfect blend of elevated and controlled. I glance up at the stands for a brief moment again, something I never do, breaking my concentration for a beat. Fuck. My dad and brother are at the fifty-yard line and I spot them, but I don’t acknowledge them, turning away. Nyla is up there somewhere. with Majik, but I don’t dare try and find her. She’s only come to a handful of my games in the past. Returning my focus to the field with a vengeance, I put them all out of my mind as the ref blows the whistle for the kickoff. We’ll be receiving the ball. It’s go time.

“Blanick.” Coach Radz always gets official with me during game time, calling me Blanick, and I swear half the freshmen on the team don’t know who the hell he’s talking about. I trot by him on my way to take the field and stop, concentrating to prevent myself from jogging in place.

“If you get to goal-to-go, the controls are off. Huddle up and call it. Read the D thoroughly and carefully. You’ve done the homework on them.” He nods, looking grim. My heart stutters under the force of a wild shot of adrenaline. Coach is giving me the shot to run a pro-style offense to enhance my chances of getting to the NFL. It’s something I talked to him about all last year. I nod.

“Thank you, Coach.” Not words I say often, so he knows I mean them.

“You earned it. Now get out there and don’t disappoint me.” Feeling more like a kid in grown-up clothes than is good for my confidence, I trot to the twenty-two yard line where we start our march down the field.

We huddle and I call the play as instructed, as we talked about. My offense surrounds me, nodding and fierce. “Let’s do this.” We clap and the teams line up. I line up under center, scanning the defense, identifying the Mike—the middle linebacker—who’s running their defense and most likely to run me down. Or try to. I call the play and take the ball, drop back three steps, shuffle side-to-side and then back two, watching the receivers run their routes. The wide receiver is out. He’s messed up his route. My running back choice is being jammed up good at the line.

Scanning downfield, I grip the ball with two hands, look left, keep my tight end in my periphery as he jets past his defender. I switch feet, shuffle back, and let the ball rip with a long arcing throw downfield. Watching, I pray we get within goal-to-go. In slow motion I watch my man look up and over his shoulder and lunge forward a step to catch the ball.

He makes the grab and hangs on as he rolls, his defender catching up to land on him. I throw my hands in the air, punching at the imaginary opponents on the field and the real ones in my head and heart. Pumping a fist, I run toward the eight-yard line where the ref places the ball and all at once the crowd noise pops into focus, deafening and energizing. I spin around, acknowledging the fans and joining in their celebration, until I reach the line of scrimmage.

As the game goes on, I can feel the rust as it flakes off me with each throw, each time I stare down the middle linebacker rushing at me as I force myself to stand in the pocket to execute my pass. With less than thirty seconds on the clock we end up on the five-yard line, a tricky place to be. Do we run or pass? I hear Coach bark in my ear, but his final word is QB option.

“Huddle up.” I shout the words to be heard, but it doesn’t take long for the crowd to catch up with me and settle down to a more practical decibel level.

“End run number twenty-six.” I look at each of them.

“We never run that play,” Roman says. I nod.

“We are today. Keep your head up and hands on your man. Slant right and open up a hole for me.” I slide my eyes around the huddle, hitting them all. Each of them nods. “Let’s do this.” I clap my hands louder than usual, stinging my palms. My teammates’ loud chant of GO surrounds me as we disperse to the line, the ring of determination in the word like a flamethrower lighting my veins, clearing a path for the adrenaline. My heart pumps as I take my spot under center, looking over the defensive line.

As predicted, they’re buying into a screen pass and I signal with my count the good news ending with twenty-six shouted loud and clear. My center snaps the ball into my hands and I step back, leaning as if I’m rolling right into a screen, then I stop and turn, tuck the ball, and look for the hole. Thank fuck it’s there, wide as a river, though it’s only a matter of a foot of daylight. I charge through, find Roman’s back, and he plows through the defense with me on his heels. Then I leap and dive forward over the pile he created crossing the plane of the zero-yard line into the end zone.

As the clock runs down to zero, the scoreboard says we won 28-12 with four beautiful touchdowns and no interceptions.

My postgame elation dies down as soon as my on-field interview is over and I look into the stands for my dad and brother. If I don’t see them it’s because they left after running into Nyla. Steeling myself, I scan the crowd near the fifty-yard line where I scored the best seats in the house by making rash promises to the ticket manager. I might have to take his niece to dinner without touching her. Worth it? Not sure my dad and brother will ever know or ask or care, but I need to make a lot up to both of them even if I’m the only one who thinks so.

They don’t know Nyla is going to SPU now. Why would they? I’m not going to tell them. Especially not Jimmy. Last thing I need is to reopen that old wound. We barely talk as it is. Finally my eyes land on them as they make their way down to the field.

Dad embraces me and his smile is as real as I’ve seen in a long time. My adrenaline threatens to kick up again, but I quash it. As I hug him back, his frame seems smaller every time a new season starts, like he’s shrinking or I’m getting bigger. I fist bump with Jimmy. His grin is always generous.

“Fantastic game. You’re a shoo-in for an early round in the draft. I like what the coach did with the offense, easing up on the control.” He nods, knowing I took his advice to talk to the coach about it.

“I’m real proud of you, son.” Dad puts a hand on my shoulder and leaves it there.

“Thanks, Dad. I’m glad you came all this way for the game.”