Hightower swiveled toward me.
—So, how you settling in?
—Good, Coach.
—When I was a freshman, a vet put it perfectly to me: you show up to camp and it’s like someone hands you three balls and says, “Juggle, asshole,” and you never juggled in your life, but you gotta do it anyway. Getting homesick?
—Not really, sir.
He turned to that Polaroid.
—I grew up three hours away from here and still got so lonely I’d call my grandma every night. That’s her. Raised me after she already brought up nine kids.
I was learning smiles were rare with Coach Hightower. If he was pleased by something, he’d do a little shoulder shake, as if the laughter had snagged on something inside him.
—So, what? he said, turning back to me. You just come up to shoot the shit?
—No, sir. I wanted to see what else I needed to do to make the twos.
He nodded.
—You’re gonna find I ain’t sentimental—I don’t put someone on the field because I’ve known them all these years. Fade’s got the best physicality and the best grasp of the defense, so he’s one. Chase has the physicality, but he’s shaky as shit on execution. Two. I know you’re a smart player, Miles, that’s why we brought you here. So now I need to see how physical you are. Especially since you’re a little lighter than we’d like.
He stopped to think.
—Oklahoma is Saturday morning. You show me you can hold your own with the big boys, I’ll start getting you some reps with the twos.
“Oklahoma” was the first full-contact drill of the season. It would be the first time I tackled as a college player, and on Saturday morning the tunnel that led to the practice fields was nothing less than a birth canal, with me inching through the dark of preexistence toward a blinding light.
—Meat!
Fade and Chase were a few steps behind me in the tunnel. I didn’t turn around.
—Meat! Chase repeated. You getting nervous?!
—Yo, Fade added. I heard every freshman goes against seniors today. Scary shit right there.
Oklahoma was a high holiday for King Football. Down at the fields, waiting for the stretch whistle, players talked over one another about cataclysmic tackles from Oklahomas past, speculating on who would go against whom today. The whistle blew, and players hooted and hollered as they found their partners and formed stretching rows. I fell onto my back and raised my right leg for my partner to stretch, the seat of my football pants soaking up the cool dew. I draped my forearm across my brow to block the sun.
—Your balls dropped, Furling?
I slid my forearm away and squinted up at Coach Hightower.
—Sir?
—Well, don’t worry if they haven’t. One hit today and you’ll feel them plunk right on down!
I tried to laugh. Hightower’s voice turned serious.
—I’m expecting you to impress me today, son.
After stretch, we sprinted over to Coach Zeller and three sets of cones that had been set up behind him. Linebackers and running backs formed two lines facing one another; same for the defensive linemen and offensive linemen; same for defensive backs and wide receivers. The first linebacker and running back would step up from their respective lines, crouch into stances three yards apart, and on the whistle sprint at an angle toward a cone placed to one side. The running back, ball in hand, had the goal of passing that cone, while the linebacker’s goal was to bring him to the ground before he did so. Following the linebacker-running back collision, the linemen would face off, then the defensive backs and wide receivers. Whistle, CRACK, on to the next group—whistle, CRACK, on to the next. Many drills in football are nuanced, some even delicate, but not this one. In Oklahoma, the one and only goal is contact. Running-start, bone-jostling violence.
You counted your place in line and then counted the players in the opposite line to see who you were going to face. I was toward the back of the linebackers’ line and saw I was set to go against Kwame, a walk-on tailback. It was a fantastic draw: I was bigger and faster than Kwame. I was on scholarship and he was not. I would definitely overmatch him. Better still, Chase was second in line and would face Reshawn—would get obliterated by Reshawn, humiliated by a freshman who’d never taken a college snap.
First up were Fade and Devonté, two captains. Whistle, sprint, CRACK—Fade wrapped up Devonté, chopping his feet in the grass, lifting and upending Devonté well short of the cone. The team sprang into the air at the sound of the collision, screaming and shoving each other, and when Fade pushed off Devonté and stood, he was mobbed by the team—helmet slapped, shoulder pads shaken, heavy body lifted into the air while players drummed his elevated ass. Hightower stood to the side and snarled approvingly, making excited jabs in the turf with the toe of his right cleat.
Linemen were up, and we all watched big Tapps, a one defensive end, face off against big O’Connor, a starting offensive tackle, both well north of six foot six and 300
