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He was one of the first I’d managed to befriend after joining the team. I wasn’t sure about the other guys, but there wasn’t anyone who openly hated me, at least. As long as I played well and didn’t get in the way, most of the team could tolerate me alright. This had more or less been my approach in high school, too. Score points and keep my head down. It was all I was expected to do. Even if I knew I was capable of so much more.
“What’s up Mountain?” I asked, reaching Mike, and Mickey “The Mule” Mullins.
“Just my adrenaline, man. I’m ready to crush these guys.”
“Just don’t do it literally, and we should be fine.”
“I’ll try, Ghost.”
“Gattis, Lawson, let’s go,” Mullins called, already halfway to the locker room.
In addition to the star kicker, Mullins was also team captain, and therefore entitled to be a bit of a prick. At least he was actually good at it. I couldn’t stand people with power but no competence, or even conviction, behind it. From what could tell Mullins had both. He meant what he said and was usually right.
As we headed to see what the fate had in store for us, I put in my earbuds and cranked some Wagner to get myself psyched up. Nothing like “Flight of the Valkyries” to prepare one for battle.
We were the first but not the last. The rest of the team nipping closely at our heels as we suited up. Any worries about being cold evaporated like our breath as we hustled out onto the field. Announced first because we were the home team. Lined up and ready, the opponents of the day emerged, small change bouncing off the shoulder pads. A traditional welcome, the forgotten roots of which dated back nearly sixty years. I figured if anything, it would make them angrier, and more likely to win. Maybe the guys were looking for a challenge.
Mike was right. We absolutely crushed them. At least in the metaphorical sense. If nothing else, we would easily hold the number three spot on the league tables.
“You coming to the party later?” Mike asked, as we emerged back into the parking lot.
“Don’t you have to go study?” asked Matt Thomas.
They called Matt “Tank” because of how he plowed through people. An admirable attribute in a Safety, not so much anywhere else. He was a smarmy rich boy and a champion bully. The kind of guy who would have pushed me around as a kid, had I given them the chance.
What very few bullies seemed to understand was to make good on their threats, they had to be able to actually catch their targets. “Where is it?” I asked, taking the path of least resistance.
I knew Mike would step up for me if it came to a throw down, but I didn’t want to put him in that position.
“Mickey’s place off-campus.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I didn’t tell you when.”
“I can guess,” I said, getting in and starting up.
Fact was, I didn’t give a shit. It was a courtesy appearance to show I was part of the team. I’d tried being an outsider, and it hadn’t worked out well.
Taking a quick shower, I changed into my off-duty jock clothes. Sneakers, jeans, and a varsity polo shirt. As much a uniform as what we wore on the field, it was the way the sports teams demarcated themselves when among the regular student body. Sports were a major part of the school’s identity, and there were advantages to being identified.
I settled into the nicely padded office chair I’d liberated from the corner, it had a free sign on it, so everything was legal, and finished another chunk of Caging Skies before even thinking again about going to the victory party. Not that they needed a reason. The party culture on campus made Bret Easton Ellis’ Camden College look like a seminary.
The house was right on the border of the campus, making it an easy walk from the dorms. Part of Mickey’s clever plot to cut down on drunk driving. One of many points on which we agreed.
“Gattis,” Mickey said, with a nod.
“Mullins,” I replied, stepping through the threshold.
Relieved of my jacket and sneakers, Mullins a stickler for clean carpets, I began to mingle, at least enough to show allegiance. All the while the story of the brilliant novel continued running through my head, as I formed theories and made mental notes for class the next day.
Academics were such an incidental factor for the other guys, none of them had really noticed I was an English major. A situation which suited me fine, though I was beginning to wonder if a few of them might be closet intellectuals too. I had spotted Mullins with a copy of In Cold Blood in his bag and could have sworn I once overheard free jazz on Mike’s earbuds.
