And again, that was what was so fucking creepy about Seanie. Who could tell if he really was kidding?
And then, as we were about halfway up the hill toward the pitch, as if Casey Palmer’s inflated sense of masculinity hadn’t been assailed enough, we all heard a soft, familiar voice with an English accent say, “Why are you boys staring at my players’ asses?” Because I guess Casey and Nick just kept watching us as we walked up the hill.
Coach M knew what was up. He’d never let the football team get away with any shit on us.
Not ever.
Chapter Sixteen
PRACTICE WAS LIGHT. COACH M said we weren’t going to start hitting until he could see what he had; and I was okay with that because I was weak and felt so shitty after what I’d gone through.
We ran through a usual warm-up: a slow jog, some stretches, a few quick-hands passing drills, then we ran some forties and suicides, and that’s when Coach M noticed that I was definitely
He said, “Did you slow down over the summer, Winger? You’re going to need to put on some speed if you expect to keep your job.”
And that made me feel even worse, because not only did I screw things up for myself and Annie, but I let Coach M down too. So, before we broke up into teams for a little touch sevens, I asked Coach M if I could talk to him.
“I’m sorry, Coach, I’m just really sick today. I’ll be back up to speed tomorrow.”
“What’s the matter, Ryan Dean?”
“I just . . .” And then, “Last night was my first night in Opportunity Hall. And I couldn’t sleep at all. I feel horrible.” It wasn’t really a lie.
He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I understand, Ryan Dean. Let’s hope you can get your shit straightened out this year and get out of O-Hall.”
See? That’s just how he talks, but it sounds so musical and soothing with that English accent. And then he added, “Before Chas Becker turns you into an asshole.”
Coach M picked four guys to be team captains, and then we had a little sevens tournament. Sevens is a scaled-down version of rugby where there are only seven, as opposed to fifteen, players on a team. And we were playing touch instead of tackle, so the entire game was really based on speed and ball handling.
I was still surprised, though, when Joey, who is our regular Backs Captain, picked me first to be on his team. JP was also on our team, along with a couple centers and some of the second-string loose forwards.
Seanie actually ended up on a team with Chas and Kevin, so I knew the games would be really competitive, and, when it came down to the end, it was our two teams in the final match. I scored first off a sweet fake-loop pass from Joey, because as soon as I had that ball in my hands I was gone. But that was all we managed to put up, and Chas’s team came back with three unanswered scores to win the tournament.
Sometimes, losing in rugby is more fun than winning. On that day, at the end of practice, Coach M made the three losing squads jog down to the practice fields and sing a song to the football team. Joey led us, and we all decided to sing “Oh! Susanna,” but we changed “Susanna” to “Casey.” And we are horrible singers, but we sing really loud, so Casey and the other football players couldn’t do anything about it. They tried to ignore us, but they were helpless, and all they could manage to do was fire out comments like “What a bunch of faggots.”
When we were finished, some of the football players actually clapped. At least they got it, that it was all in fun and that if you messed with the rugby team, we were going to mess right back. But it wasn’t a threatening or intimidating “messing with”—it was always meant to show that we could take a joke, and joke back, too.
Casey started it with his “nice shorts” comment at the start of practice, and now he had to endure being the object of our serenading. When we finished the first verse and one chorus, we jogged down to the locker room.
The day had finally ended, and as I sat down on the bench and took off my cleats, the horrible day I’d had came back to me, and I thought again about what a loser I was already turning out to be on the first day of my eleventh-grade year.
Chapter Seventeen
I THREW MY CLOTHES ON without showering. I could do that back at O-Hall, even though the showers here in the locker room were so much cleaner and more private. But all I wanted to do was get away from school and deposit myself into bed. So I just wadded up my gear and stuffed it into my locker. I put my sweater inside my backpack and sloppily hung my tie over my shoulders without even buttoning or tucking in my shirt. The day was over, and now it didn’t matter if we were dressed properly or not.
I didn’t even wait for Seanie and JP to get out of the showers. I shook hands with a few of the guys as I left the locker room.
I guess it was about four thirty when I made my way down the hill on the path toward the lake. I could see some people walking around the campus below, but most kids at that time of day were either back in their dorms or finishing up whatever team sports were being practiced in September.
I noticed Joey walking on the path, maybe about a hundred yards ahead of me, obviously heading back to O-Hall too. But when he got down to the football field, I saw Casey and Nick step out of a crowd of players who were standing around doing nothing (which is what most football players do all practice) and run over to Joey. And I could tell just by the way they were moving that they were looking to start shit with Joey, so I turned around, but no one else from the rugby team was walking down from the locker room yet.
Great.
Me and Joey versus the entire steroid-crazed-dumbass football team.
I started walking faster. Casey and Nick didn’t even notice I was coming. They looked up the hill toward the locker room as Joey got closer, but who would notice my skinny-bitch-ass body coming down that way? Or, if they did notice me, what would it matter to them, anyway?
Then I saw Casey, puffing his chest out, walk right up to Joey and push him hard, knocking Joey back. And Casey said, “You think you’re funny with your song, queer?”
I threw my backpack down and ran as fast as I could.
I knew Joey would fight. He wasn’t afraid of anyone. You had to be like that to be a fly half, and I’m sure that Joey had been hit square against his unpadded body at least a thousand times more than Casey ever had. But I wasn’t going to let him get gang-jumped by those assholes.
So I ran faster than I did in practice. I had to. And just as Joey was making a fist, Nick was circling behind him, and Casey was in the process of throwing the first punch, I launched myself, head up and shoulder down, right into Casey’s knees and wrapped my arms around his legs, driving him, crashing, to the ground.
I sprang up off Casey.
Casey said, “What the fuck?” and he punched me in the face just as I got to my feet, knocking me down into Joey.
And just then, one of the football coaches saw what was happening and yelled at us to cut it out. The coach just stood there, down the field, holding a clipboard and spitting tobacco, watching us like he was too lazy to come over and see if this was really a fight or not.
All I can say is that if Coach M had seen what I did, my ass would be done. Over. Off the team. Kicked out of school.
“What the fuck you think you’re doing, you little piece of shit?”
I could only assume Casey Palmer was talking to me.
Then I noticed my chest was covered in blood and my unbuttoned, once-white school uniform shirt was splattered with red. My knees buckled. I had to sit down.
