come home from her games saying he spoke with a coach or recruiter from UCLA, LSU, Michigan, etc. “Vito, ya know, that is the kind of girl you should be dating.”

“Yo, yo, yo. Check out her shoulders,” said Sonny, pointing at Maria with his eyebrows. “What’s her name again?”

“Maria,” I said.

“Maria. Right. Ya think she’s fightin’ tonight?”

Uproar.

“Yo, I bet she could knock your ass out,” said Joey. “She’s got a tight body, though. Look at that ass.” And we looked at that ass, high and tight in black So Low pants.

Finally, Logan shut the garage doors and corralled us together to go over the rules one last time.

“Come on, come on. We got it already,” Joey interrupted Logan as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Alright, Lampedusa, you want to fight first? Pick someone who’s in, and no, you can’t pick Brian’s girlfriend.” He nodded his chin toward Maria. “Even though I think she’d kick your ass!”

Uproar.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. I pick Ching Chang,” he said, pointing to the biggest Chinese kid in the group, whose name most certainly was not Ching Chang.

“Whoa, whoa, none of that,” said Logan, trying to hide a smile. “That’s Jeffrey. Jeffrey, you want to fight Joey?”

Jeffrey was already putting on the helmet and gloves before Logan could finish his sentence.

“Yo, he looks pissed,” said Carmine.

“Fuck it. Eyy, no using karate.” And Joey put on the helmet and gloves and proceeded to beat the shit out of Ching… I mean Jeffrey. It wasn’t even close. Logan and a couple of the offensive linemen had to hold Joey back from ground-pounding the poor kid into the cement.

“Alright! Alright! It’s over! Joey, you’re done for the night.”

“Still undefeated!” he said, whipping off the helmet and spiking up his hair and strutting in true Green Knight fashion.

After a couple of offensive lineman matches and a melee between a Ukrainian and a Brazilian, interest in Fight Club started to wane. “Whoa, eyy yo, what about the annual freshman fight? I did it when I was a frosh. What freshman do we have here?” asked Logan. “What? No, no. Ferraro isn’t fighting.” Logan stepped into the ring. “Yo, I can’t have the athletic director’s son fighting in my garage. What if he hurts his arm?”

Uproar from my paisanos. Joey burst into argument as if summoning the legal specter of the fictional Jerry Gallo, and Carmine started rubbing my traps like I was already seated in the corner of the ring getting my gloves laced up.

Maybe it was the testosteronic atmosphere of sweaty, stinking sports equipment and unadulterated vodka (none of that razpberry pizzazberry bullshit), but I had lived on the cusp of violence for too long—with the guys from Westfield, with Pierce Stone in the Charlie Brown’s parking lot, with Pierce Stone in Jared Rosenblatt’s basement, and any time Pierce Stone had cracked a comment about my arm hair or school bus of a lunchbox during my Glenwood youth. Where is he?! Where is he?! Where is he?! I’d break him in half and then go take one of the girls viewing the spectacle right off of her boyfriend’s arm. Maria and I would make beautiful, athletic children—you got it, Dad. To the victor go the spoils; to Victor go the spoils, or so goes the motto of the Legions, but I wasn’t some Roman grunt—sorry, Dad—I was a goddamn gladiator, a blue-eyed, pale-skinned, goddamn Goth from the North who made even the Saxons shake in their animal skins. Where is he?! Where is he?! Where is he?! I don’t fear or fight dragons, I ride dragons into battle—I ride atop Smoag with a sword of flames: I am fire. I am death. I am reborn; renaissance through violence.

“Vito!” Tank shook me by the shoulders. “Holy shit, dude. You okay?”

“What?”

“You put the helmet on and just started mumbling to yourself.”

“You good, cuz?” asked Carmine.

The football players and the Ukrainians, Chinese, and Brazilians surrounded me and stared like I was some sideshow attraction. Through the hockey mask cage and over shoulders in sweaty t-shirts, I could see Maria DiMonica looking at me, biting her lower lip as she let go of the point guard’s arm.

Text from Maria <3<3: What am I going to do?

Text to Maria <3<3: OK, jus relax.

Text from Maria <3<3: Victor this could ruin my life. You know how I feel about abortion.

Text to Maria <3 <3: OK. Baby, jus go to prctice and take a test when u get home. Evrythng is gonna b fine.

The cling clang, cling clang of weights lifting and crashing on the racks coupled with the grunts and yawps of morphing masculinity didn’t do my burgeoning nausea any favors—this was our second pregnancy scare in a year.

“Eyy! Ferraro, DeVallo, what are you’ds doin’?” called Coach Porcello from his office. (You’ds was a personal plural pronoun in New Jersey—as in you guys, you all, y’all.) “Get your lifts in.” Coach Porcello was thick and stout like a veal-parmesan-eating bulldog. “Eyy, Ferraro, I got a call from the coach at East Stroudsburg. They want you to visit this summer.”

“East Stroudsburg!” said Tank. “Coach, Vic isn’t going to bumblefuck Ohio to play ball. He’s the next QB at USC or Texas!” he said, performing his own imitation of a three-step drop.

“Eyy, watch your language. And East Stroudsburg is in Pennsylvania and a solid Division Two school.”

“Hey Coach, you hear anything from Hawaii?” I asked.

“Nah, nothing. I think it’s time to move on from them, buddy. They just sent you a letter right? Last year?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. But eyy, don’t think about that now. We gotta beat Caldwell and Livingston this year. You play well, the recruiters will come,” Coach said and went back into his office.

Trojans, Longhorns, Hurricanes, Buckeyes, Scarlet Knights, Rainbow Warriors—I would’ve happily joined

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