The Front Porch Prophet

offensive and defensive right guard and tackle. The Sequoyah Indians kicked off, and Sand Valley returned the ball to their own thirty-yard line. The trouble began on the first play from scrimmage. Big Mayo hit his stance about five yards behind the line, and when the ball snapped he lumbered straight for A.J. When he plowed into old number nine, A.J. knew he had been hit. To make matters worse, as he ran over A.J., he slugged him hard in the solar plexus. A.J. grabbed Mayo’s leg when he went by, and when the play was over he found himself under a pile of sweating, swearing country boys with Mayo on top of him biting his calf. A.J. knew he was in for a long game.

The first half was a study in pain, with A.J. doing everything he could think of to keep his opponent at bay. Even so, Mayo sacked the Sequoyah quarterback five times during the first half and spent most of the rest of his time chasing the beleaguered general all over the backfield.

“A.J., you’ve got to stop that motherfucker,” Booger Brown told him during one huddle. “He’s gettin’ here faster than the ball is.” Booger was the quarterback. Luckily, he was a fast one or he would have already been killed.

“I could shoot him,” A.J. growled, “but I’m afraid it would just piss him off.” He was in sad shape and not receptive to criticism.

Sequoyah was down twenty-eight points at halftime, and Coach Crider was not happy with the way the first two quarters had gone. “I don’t know what you pussies think you’re doing out there, but you’re damn sure not playing football! Hell, I could dress your mamas out and do better than this! This is the most pitiful excuse for a football game I’ve ever seen!”

Football was very important to Coach Crider. He had played professionally for two years with the Chicago Bears back in the days when a good lineman made twenty-five thousand a year and was proud to get the work. Unfortunately, he had received two torn ligaments in Cleveland and a bus ticket home shortly thereafter, which was how the pigskin used to bounce in the National Football League.

Homing in from the general to the specific, Coach Crider turned his attention to A.J. “Longstreet, just what the hell do you’re doing out there? I’ve seen legless nuns in wheelchairs hit harder than you’re hitting that damn hog.” A.J. was lying on his back on the floor wondering why he was playing football at all and where, exactly, Coach had seen legless nuns play. He supposed it was one of those Chicago things. His nose was smashed. His jersey was ripped, and his pads were hanging out. He had what felt like a cracked rib, and his arms were solid blue, just two long bruises. He was bleeding from several bites, and his left thumb was broken and taped to his hand. Mayo had beaten him like a drum.

“You want to go hit him?” A.J. asked wearily, holding up his helmet to the coach. He was beyond fear or caution, even with Coach Crider. He felt that nothing anyone could ever do to him again could possibly compare with what Mayo had already done. He had underestimated. Coach got down on his hands and knees and positioned his face about an inch from A.J.’s.

“Get your weak, sorry ass up and go out there and take that big piece of shit out! You get him, or you’ll be running laps until your feet are gone.” Coach had a dynamic effect on the boys, and they were always eager to please him. A.J. climbed to his feet and went and stood, uniform and all, under a hot shower, preparing himself mentally for one final attempt.

It was and is a Southern tradition to send adolescent boys to men like Coach Crider to learn to play the game of life. A.J. was not particularly interested in the game of life at that point, but neither was he yearning to run laps for the next three decades or so, and Coach was not prone to idle talk. After the kickoff for the second half, Sequoyah returned the ball to their own twenty-three-yard line. In the huddle, A.J. outlined his plan.

“Booger, take the snap and lie down. Eugene, hit him in the nuts as hard as you can. I’m going to hit him in the throat. If we’re lucky, he’ll die.”

It was a simple plan, but it had potential. The ball was snapped, and they executed Operation Mayo. He came thundering in, and A.J. and Eugene fired like cannonballs at their targets. Charlie Trammel, the Sequoyah center, got a mean elbow into Mayo’s kidney for good measure.

After the play, everyone got up but Mayo Reese. He was in the fetal position, vomiting while trying to swear at A.J. and Eugene. They were both standing there shaking their heads, as if it were just a darned shame the young athlete had been hurt and was now being dragged to the bench by his coaches. He wasn’t terminal, but he was out for the game. Unfortunately, so were A.J. and Eugene, thrown out for unsportsmanlike conduct. As they approached the bench, Coach Crider came up to them. They figured they were in for it for sure.

Then Coach smiled and said, “Now that’s some goddamn football.” Sequoyah went on to lose forty-two to nothing, but Coach Crider didn’t seem to mind. He kept looking over at his boys, benched in disgrace. They reminded him of himself back in the golden days when he, too, had been a warrior, eager for the taste of battle and the sound of leather slapping flesh.

So A.J. and Mayo had history prior to their encounter in Sand Valley. While A.J. was willing to let bygones be bygones, Mayo seemed to feel the need to linger over old times.

“Let him up,” Mayo said to his companions. He pointed to A.J. “That’s the one we want.”

A.J. stood his ground with the shotgun aimed at the crowd. He eased the weapon to his left so it pointed at Mayo.

“You won’t shoot,” Mayo sneered. “You’re afraid you’ll hit him.” He pointed at Eugene, who was clambering to his feet. Mayo was correct in his assertion, but A.J. hoped he didn’t know that he was for certain.

“You’ll get most of it,” A.J. replied, wishing he had stayed behind the depot. Eugene shoved his way past Mayo and asked him how his sex life was these days. Recognition flickered across Mayo’s features when Eugene arrived back at the Lover.

“Start the damn car,” A.J. said tensely. Eugene gave his recent companions a gesture before doing as he was told. A.J. backed up slowly and got in, still holding the shotgun on the group in the street.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Mayo said, eyeing A.J. with raw hate.

“Not if I see you first,” A.J. replied as they fishtailed off with tires squealing. The Sand Valley rowdies made an attempt at pursuit, but the Lover was more than a match for their old Ford Galaxie, and soon Eugene and A.J. were just bad memories in the night. A.J. had acquired a headache during the ordeal and wanted a quiet ride home. Eugene, however, wanted to talk.

“Man, that was something,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t know if you were going to shoot or not.”

“I wasn’t going to shoot,” A.J. said, rubbing his temples. “Shut up and drive.” He was disgusted. All he had wanted to do was take a pee. But, no, Eugene had to run his mouth.

“No, you wouldn’t have shot,” Eugene rattled on. “You didn’t really have the stomach for it.” A.J. turned to Eugene.

“I didn’t have the shells for it. The gun was empty.” He closed his eyes and pressed his eyelids with his fingertips. Eugene absorbed the new information. The Lover slowed to a halt in the middle of the highway.

“You backed those pieces of shit down with an empty gun? Man. A.J. the badass. Man.” There was awe and respect in his voice.

“Just shut up and drive,” was his hero’s reply.

As A.J. thought back to that night long past, a sense of the unreal descended upon him. It was as if he were considering the foolish exploits of a young man in a faraway land rather than walking down memory lane. What a dumb ass, he thought. He shook his head and looked about him. The scene on the porch was much the same as it had been the previous week. He noticed the current incarnation of the eternal cigarette was burning in the hubcap. He picked it up and flipped it out into the yard.

“You’re not going to start that shit again, are you?” Eugene asked.

“Absolutely,” A.J. replied. “How do you feel today?” Eugene laid the shotgun across his lap and rocked slowly, reminding A.J. of Judge Roy Bean, Law west of the Pecos.

“I feel like shooting Johnny Mack’s bulldozer with this shotgun,” Eugene said, the old rocker creaking. He looked over at A.J. “I guess you’d rather I didn’t.” A.J. doubted any damage would occur but saw no point to the exercise.

“Johnny Mack’s jacket is behind the seat,” A.J. said. “I’ll hang it up on the Jeep, and you can shoot it.” It seemed a reasonable alternative.

“No, that’s okay,” Eugene said sadly, holding up his hand. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Maybe later,” A.J. suggested, but Eugene had already moved to another topic.

“I bet you had hell getting the dozer from Johnny Mack,” he said with a little smile.