—Yo, Chase’s parents were in the stands. Mom’s face went like—
—After the game ended, Jimbo continued, Hightower marched Chase to the practice fields and made him run sprints until he collapsed. And here’s what gets me—to this day, Chase stays trying to win Sadie back. My girl fucks me over before the biggest scrimmage of my life? I’ll boot her ass to the curb, let the garbage truck take her away. But I bet you twenty you’ll hear him on the phone with her at the hotel, begging her to return his goddamn manhood.
The break ended, and I followed Jimbo and the others to numbered cubbies built into the hallway wall next to the equipment room entrance. Jimbo explained that, after finishing a practice or a workout, you stuffed your dirty clothes into a purple laundry net and slid the net into your cubby, which communicated with the other side of the wall. By the time of the next activity, a warm purple net would be waiting in your cubby, your clothes having been washed and dried during the break.
Along with my clean clothes, I found a white practice jersey waiting for me, number 42. Jimbo lifted his chin at the jersey.
—Coaches use your cubby like a mailbox, he said. You make it onto first- or second-team defense, you’ll keep getting a white jersey. But if you’re kicked down to the threes, it’ll be red. That’s how you know you’re redshirted.
—When do they start handing out red jerseys? I asked.
Jimbo shook his head.
—Don’t worry about that yet, rook. One practice at a time.
After meetings I fetched my helmet and cleats from my locker and walked to a tall Gothic arch embedded into the wall of the first-floor hallway. I sat on a metal bench just inside the arch to tie on my cleats and then walked down a dark, cool, gently declined tunnel. The tunnel emptied into an open-air stadium that was built in the mid-1920s, with whitewashed concrete benches instead of modern metal bleachers. The game field’s grass was roped off for preseason pampering, and we had to walk on the straightaway of the running track that ringed the field. Past the Jumbotron scoreboard at the far end zone lay three full-sized practice fields bordered by forest. Groups of vets stood scattered on the fields, gossiping, idly stretching, but I wasn’t brave enough to join one uninvited. So I stood alone near the punters and watched them warm up their legs—thud, a football sailing into the blue, nicking the brutal sun, descending into the arms of a kick returner who ran for a five-yard burst.
Following team stretch was Individual period, in which each position group and its coach ran drills to hone technique. The linebackers started a drill in which a linebacker would crouch in his stance across from another linebacker, who pretended to be an offensive lineman, while Coach Hightower, standing behind the lineman, pretended to be the quarterback. At each Hightower “Hit!” the lineman would simulate either a running block, upon which the linebacker should step up to meet him, or a pass block, upon which the linebacker was to drop back into coverage and catch a ball Hightower threw his way. This was to practice the “read step,” the first, most crucial step a linebacker takes.
Each time it was my turn, I read the lineman correctly. Whenever Coach Hightower threw me the ball, I caught it and returned it at a sprint.
—Good shit, Furling!
Chase, on the other hand, could do nothing right in Hightower’s eyes. He got no word of encouragement when he made a correct read, and if he did anything that had even a whiff of a mistake about it, Hightower pelted him with vitriol.
Chase’s turn again. I acted as the lineman, with Hightower standing behind me. Hightower barked:
—Hit!
I stood for a pass block. Chase correctly dropped back. But when Hightower threw to him, the ball was much too high. Chase had no chance of catching it.
—Get your fucking head on straight! Hightower yelled. Do it over!
We all reset.
—Hit!
I stood once more, Hightower threw the ball, but this time the pass was much too low, forcing Chase to dive to the ground.
—Same cunty shit I saw during spring ball! Again, McGerrin!
I could have watched this all practice.
Chase continued bullying me the rest of the day, right up to when we entered our Marriott room a little after nine-thirty. He acted like he had the place to himself, taking his sweet, smelly time in the bathroom, leaving his shoes and clothes strewn on the carpet. I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me, but I was too exhausted to take the bait. After brushing my teeth I slid between the soft, almost erotically cool bedsheets and fell asleep.
I was
