I was 211 pounds of muscle, after all, my mind an encyclopedia of techniques and assignments, and in practice that morning—and in every practice that week—I experienced a new confidence that melded body and mind, transformed me into a single, inexorable football thing. Need me to collision that fullback? I’d strike him so hard he’d walk away shaking his arm from a stinger. Need me to cover that tight end? I’d go step for step, and if the quarterback was foolish enough to throw in his direction, I would slap the ball away like the impertinence it was. Attaboy, Furling! I see you, Miles! That’s my man right there! Coach Hightower cheered, acting like he hadn’t treated me like scenery most of the last year, while Cornelius would ask me to clarify something about the newest defensive package we were installing, as if I was the senior and he the redshirt freshman.
What made this even sweeter was that while I was only just beginning to realize my potential, Chase was slamming up against the outer limits of his. Now that our physical sizes were equivalent, the weaker aspects of his game came into stark relief—his slowness, his choppy footwork, his tendency to get trapped inside his head after a mistake. I was showing him up in every meeting, every drill, every scrimmage, and he knew this, could not stop knowing it, couldn’t stop from obsessing about it. Such self-consciousness was blood in the water for Coach Hightower, and whenever Chase fucked up again, our coach seized the chance to marvel at how impressive it was that a retard like Chase could have fooled the coaches into giving him a full scholarship, to exclaim he had no idea a clitoris could grow legs and run around a football field. Get your fuckin’ head on straight, McGerrin! We got a goddamn season to prepare for! Is that the best you can fucking do?!
Everything built toward Saturday, the first day of full contact, when we would run the Oklahoma drill. I had dreamt for a year straight about redeeming last August’s performance, and in the lead-up to that morning’s practice I was concentration incarnate. I kept separate from the gossip and grab-ass in the locker room so I could visualize myself making the perfect tackle. I walked down to the practice fields alone, chanting under my breath that today was the day, today was the day. And down at the fields I moved far from the crowd, facing the chirring woods that bordered the fields, and crouched in my stance to rehearse my read step again and again and again.
Team stretch ended, and three hard whistle bleats sent the team stampeding toward Coach Zeller and the orange cones set up behind him: running backs versus linebackers, offensive linemen versus defensive linemen, wideouts versus defensive backs.
First up for the linebackers and backs were Cornelius and Devonté. Cornelius jumped up and down bellow-yodeling, hands convulsing at his sides. Devonté turned toward the running backs behind him in line so they could scream hype into his face and slap his helmet—not your usual nominal slaps but hard, painful strikes that turned the palms of the white running backs bright red.
—Ready!
Cornelius and Devonté crouched into their stances, and on the whistle the sharp sound of their collision was like a piece of sheet metal falling onto a sidewalk from a great height, THWAP! The sound of the collision was a credit to Devonté, who was thirty pounds lighter than Cornelius; but Cornelius dominated, lifting Devonté off his feet and ramming a shoulder pad into his stomach so that when they landed, a spurt of Gatorade-orange bile was forced from Devonté’s mouth, staining the back of Corny’s jersey.
Next for the linebackers, Chase faced Bellum Darcy, a freshman fullback who’d already won the starting spot and looked like a steroidal cherub—five foot ten, 245 pounds, with pinchable pink cheeks and corn silk curls that frothed out of the bottom of his helmet. Bellum was nicknamed Slo-Mo for his inching Ozarks accent and the fact that he brought up the rear of conditioning sprints, but the flipside of Slo-Mo’s molasses speed was his power, and when the whistle blew and he and Chase collided, you had an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. The speed Chase had as an advantage was neutralized by Bellum’s extra weigh, and they stopped where they met, their Clydesdale legs chugging in place. Coach Hightower ran up and screamed:
—Push, McGerrin! Puuuuuuushhhhh! Don’t you fuckin’ quit now!
They were stalemated, and you could see their bodies start to tire, standing up straighter, hands sloppily grappling as their legs continued to churn. Technique was giving way to pure mass, which tilted the advantage to Bellum, and with a final roll of the hips Bellum knocked Chase off balance and pancaked him to the grass. The team cheered, helping Bellum to his feet, hugging him. Chase pushed off the ground and punched himself in the helmet as Coach Hightower’s stare escorted him to the end of the linebackers’ line.
My dance partner was Kendrick. This was my moment, now was my chance. Hightower was watching me with his arms crossed, the whole team, all civilization, was waiting, and as I crouched into my stance I did something I had never done before on the field—I prayed. And though I was praying to my talent rather
