—Bet you’d like to see me in an apron. No, a little bird told me it’s Furling’s birthday.
Hightower turned to me.
—Why didn’t you tell me last year, son?
I had been a bottom feeder this time last year, when Hightower had done his best to pretend I’d never been born. But I couldn’t hold that against him now.
—You’re only eighteen? Cornelius asked, holding up a cupcake. Been sleepin’ on you.
I took a cupcake. Everybody was enjoying themselves, chatting and scarfing down the treats—save for Chase, who sat alone at a table at the front, his back to us.
—McGerrin, you allergic to chocolate? Hightower asked.
—No sir.
—You too good for my wife’s baking?
Chase grudgingly stood, took one of the cupcakes, and returned to his seat. The rest of us took our second (or third) cupcakes and sat at our tables. Coach Hightower walked to the white board, sucking icing off his fingers. I could tell he was nowhere near done with Chase.
—What’d you get Furling for his birthday, McGerrin?
—Nothing, Coach.
—Nothing? Seems kinda rude. You gotta get your fellow Will something on his birthday. We’re a team, ain’t we?
Hightower pretended to think, and then snapped his fingers.
—I got it. What about the starting spot?
Players laughed. Chase tried to force a smile.
—That’s okay, Coach, he said. I’ll get him a card.
—Shit. Eighteen’s a big birthday. No one’s gonna remember a fucking card. The one spot, though, I feel like he’ll remember that. What do you think, Furling? If Chase gave you his spot, would you take it?
—Yes sir, I said, laughing.
—Settled, then. Furling with the ones today, McGerrin with the twos.
Coach Hightower was notorious for flogging a joke far past the time of death, and I saw the other linebackers couldn’t tell, either, whether we were supposed to still be laughing.
—Are you being serious, Coach? I asked.
—What, you not interested in running with the ones?
—No! I mean, yes sir. I am.
—Well, good. Make it count.
I didn’t entirely believe he meant it until we went down for the last practice, and even when I was sent out with the starting defense, I waited for Coach Hightower to laugh and admit he’d been fucking with me. But that didn’t happen. I ran with the ones, and not for just a few snaps before Chase was subbed in—for every rep that practice.
By the time we returned to the locker room, everybody had heard about Chase’s humiliation. Vets agreed it was the worst way a King player had ever been demoted.
Practice ended early to give us time to move into our housing for the school year—on West Campus now for Reshawn and me—and the team reconvened at Training Table at seven. Once dinner ended, Training Table staff set up a long folding table at the head of the room, arranging six chairs behind it, while the chef emerged from the kitchen pushing a two-tiered cart displaying six warm apple pies, which he laid on the table, one before each chair.
Vets were on guard for any talent show performance that wasn’t sufficiently humiliating, and we booed at the sight of the pies, thinking the first group was trying to get away with a boring eating contest. Then, to further stoke our annoyance, the six performing freshmen—and, strangely, the sous-chef Judy—locked themselves in the men’s bathroom.
We grew restless, stamping our feet.
—Getting blow jobs from Judy isn’t a talent!
—Let’s go!
The door opened at last, and our wait was rewarded with the sight of six freshmen stumbling out of the bathroom in high heels, black cocktail dresses, blonde wigs, and the lipstick and rouge Judy had helped them apply. Players fell to the floor laughing. They rushed over to slap the freshman asses so prominently hammocked in the tiny dresses. A fight was only narrowly averted when Jimbo yelled to Cornelius:
—Orin looks like Sandra!
Orin was a six-foot-seven, 323-pound freshman defensive end, and Sandra was an All-American shot-putter on King’s track and field team, as well as Cornelius’s longtime girlfriend.
The dresses turned out to be an ingenious twist on the eating contest. The freshmen took their seats, gripping the bottoms of their chairs to prevent themselves from using their hands, and on the count of three pounded their faces into the pies—wigs flailing, lipstick smearing, globs of cinnamony filling jumping into breast cups. By the time the winner was called, the room was shaking with stomping feet.
The following two groups were a mixed bag. The second group was made up of four freshmen who’d evidently waited until the last minute to figure out what to do. They walked to the front of the room holding plastic sacks of water containing live goldfish and explained their talent would be swallowing the fish alive. But while it was indeed entertaining to watch them hesitantly dip their hands into the bags, tip their heads back, and gullet the fish, the routine was spoiled when one of the freshman, a cornerback from Santa Fe named Alfonso Carpentier, dropped his sack and clutched his throat. Luckily there was a trainer in the audience who could Heimlich him, and after three heaves the mangled fish fell to the floor with a pathetic little plop, while Alfonso was escorted back to his chair sniffling like the scared child he was. The next group was a trio dressed in khaki pants, polo shirts, and King Football hats—coachwear. They proceeded to rap, in alternating Beastie Boys style, a clever original song dense with inside jokes about the team. The song was good, but most of us were distracted by Alfonso, who was struggling to get hold of himself after his brush with death.
The show was saved by the fourth and final performance. It featured Slo-Mo, our cherubic starting fullback, and Errol. Slo-Mo carried a cardboard box filled with props and announced they were going to do a series of impressions. This alone got a chuckle, since the idea of marble-mouthed Slo-Mo doing an impression of anybody was amusing. But Slo-Mo turned out to be little more than
