Gym Candy (20 page)

The pregame warm-ups were like they always were, but when the horn sounded, signaling the start of the game, instead of feeling an adrenaline rush, I felt sick inside. It was Dave Kane who'd be taking the field, not me.

Then, just before the game started, Drew sidled up next to me. "Don't panic, Mick," he said. "You're better than Kane. I've seen you both run, and I know. You'll be fine."

Woodinville won the toss, but they deferred, which meant we'd have the ball first. Whenever a team does that, they're disrespecting you. They're saying, "We
know
our defense can stop your offense."

And they did. Drew's passing wasn't sharp, and the linemen were blowing blocking assignments, but it was Kane who was completely out of sync. On the first series, he was flagged for a false start, and then he broke the wrong way on a simple handoff, going to Drew's left side when Drew was looking for him on the right. On the second series, he dropped a swing pass and then had another false start.

I didn't need the XTR to outplay him; just a routine performance would have put him on the bench for the second half. But I didn't want to put him on the bench for the second half—I wanted him on the bench for the rest of the year, for the next two years. I wanted to grab my starting job back, grab it and hold it by the throat. I had to try everything, pull out all the stops. "Coach Carlson," I called. "I'm going into the locker room for a second. My stomach."

Carlson turned toward me. "Okay, but hustle."

I raced down the tunnel, grabbed my duffel, and headed to the bathroom. I stepped into the stall way in the back, pulled the door shut, and latched it. My hands were shaking so much that I dropped the syringe. It was plastic, so it didn't break, but for a second I wondered if somehow someone had seen it. A crazy thought—everyone else was on the field.

It had been nearly two months since I'd done an
injection, but it all came back. I used the isopropyl alcohol to clean my skin and the needle. Then I injected myself. Once the juice was in me, I cleaned the site again and massaged the muscle. I stuck the syringe and the vial back in the kit, wrapped the kit in the towel, and put it all at the bottom of the duffel. A minute later I was back on the sidelines.

"You okay?" Carlson said to me as he walked the sideline. "You're not too sick to play?"

"I'm fine," I said. "I can go in anytime."

Carlson stuck to his plan. Kane stayed out there the entire first quarter even though he scuffled on almost every play. Finally the quarter ended, and Carlson said the words I was waiting to hear: "All right, Mick. Get out there and do something."

Drew gave me a smile when I joined the huddle. "Counter thirty-four on two." He took the snap, pivoted, and then slipped me the ball. I cut inside and was by the Woodinville linemen before they knew I had the ball. I racked up twelve yards and a first down before being tackled. Next came a slant pass to Jones that clicked for six yards, but after that it was my number again, this time on a toss sweep that I broke back against the grain for fifteen yards. I wanted the ball again, but Carlson had Drew stretch the defense with
a long bomb to DeShawn.The pass fell incomplete, and we came back with a screen pass to me. When I took in that pass and turned upfield, the guys in the Woodinville secondary were all ten yards off the line of scrimmage, afraid of being burned deep. Inside their forty-five, I gave their cornerback a hip fake, cut left, then immediately cut back to the right, leaving a second guy in my wake. After that I was in the open field and nobody was going to bring me down one-on-one. The guys that were faster than I was weren't strong enough, and the guys that were strong enough had no chance of catching me. It was as if I were going at full speed and they were all in slow motion.

"Touchdown Shilshole!" the public address announcer called once I crossed the goal line, and seconds later the guys swarmed me. After that touchdown, I raced to the sidelines. Carlson slapped me on the shoulder pads. I took a long swig of Gatorade, and then stood waiting, anxious. I figured our defense would stop them and then I'd go out there and score again and again and we'd have them buried by halftime.

Woodinville had other ideas.

After the kickoff, their offense came out firing on all cylinders, and it seemed that whatever defense Carlson called was the wrong defense. When we
blitzed, their quarterback unloaded his passes quickly and accurately to a wide receiver. If we stayed back in a conventional defense, their running backs nickel-and-dimed us to death. Woodinville scored the tying touchdown on a bootleg by the quarterback. The guy could have walked in—that's how completely out of position our defense was. Woodinville had held the ball for what seemed like forever.

Once on ESPN I had seen an old Muhammad Ali-Joe Frazier fight in which those guys just stood toe to toe, exchanging punches. That's how the second quarter went. I stayed in the zone, knowing just when to go for the corner and just when to cut back, chewing up big chunks of yardage on nearly every carry. But everything I did, they matched. When the clock hit 00:00, ending the first half, the score was 14–14.

Carlson gave us a quick talk and then told us to rest. I was itching to get back on the field, but I looked around and saw all the guys with their heads down, wet towels around their necks, sucking air. Until that moment, I hadn't thought about the XTR. But once I saw how exhausted the other guys were, I knew the steroid buzz had kicked in. Not that I felt one hundred percent fresh—I didn't. I felt bruised and battered. But I knew from my teammates' eyes that I was stronger
than they were, which meant that I was stronger than anybody on the Woodinville team, too.

I didn't play better in the third quarter. I had the same burst I had before, but everyone else had slowed a step, and some guys had slowed two. The six- and eight-yard gains I'd made in the first half were now ten- and twelve-yard gains. I was slicing through Woodinville like a sharp knife through a tender steak, cutting them into pieces. Carlson stopped pretending he was using the passing game. It was all me.

I kept pounding at them and pounding at them until, near the end of the third quarter, Woodinville cracked. I had six carries in a row, none of them for less than six yards. Instead of putting their bodies on the line to take their best shot at me, the linebackers and safeties were reaching out with their arms. When they finally did manage to bring me down, I'd pop up quickly to show them that I was still fresh. It was as if I were the Energizer Bunny, and they realized that nothing could shut me down. The drive ended when I took the ball eighteen yards straight up the gut and into the end zone, shedding tacklers the whole way. For the rest of the game, Woodinville's defense wanted no part of me. The 14–14 halftime tie turned into a 41–21 romp midway through the fourth quarter.

And then came what should have been the cherry on top of the ice cream. With one minute left in the game, I broke a ninety-four-yard touchdown run, cutting back twice and fighting off two tacklers at the ten-yard line. The league record for longest TD run was ninety-one yards. I knew because it was my dad who held it. As I crossed the goal line, I turned and looked back, expecting to see my teammates racing toward me. Instead, I heard the referee's whistle and saw him waving his arms, motioning for me to bring the ball back to the line of scrimmage.

A yellow penalty flag was lying on the ground.

I knew why. Out of the corner of my eye I'd seen DeShawn, split out ten yards and not even part of the play, move early. His penalty had wiped out my record-setting run.

At that instant, I wanted to get at DeShawn. I turned and started racing upfield toward him. I was going to smash him to the ground, pulverize him, and tear him to pieces the way a hurricane pulverizes a house.

But somewhere around the fifty-yard line, my brain clicked in. DeShawn's penalty didn't matter. We'd won. I was back in Carlson's good graces, both a starter and a star. I slowed, forcing myself to think, fighting the XTR, fighting the rage. My sprint turned into a run and
then a jog. By the time I reached the huddle I had myself under control.

On the ride back I sat right in the middle of the bus. Sometimes three or four guys would talk to me at once, telling me how great I'd played, how quick and fast and powerful I'd been. I got punched in the shoulder so many times that it hurt, but I didn't want the ride to end.

At home, my mom and dad were waiting for me. "Where's that game been?" my dad asked when I stepped through the door, a big smile on his face. I had cake and ice cream and then went upstairs and showered. When I stepped out of the shower, I knew I was still too wound up to sleep. I pulled on my jeans and slipped downstairs, careful not to make a sound. I started up the Jeep and headed into the night. The dark was what I wanted, the soothing blackness of night.

I drove to Golden Gardens Park, parked the car, and walked past the duck ponds and onto the beach. The only light came from a sliver of a moon; I could barely make out the white foam of the waves as they rolled in. The waves were hypnotic; a thousand years ago they had looked the same, sounded the same. A thousand years from now they would look the same, sound the same. I stared out at the water, wondering what it would feel like to go out into it, go out and swim and
swim until you couldn't swim anymore, until the water swallowed you up.

I don't know how long I stood looking into the Sound. Finally a train whistled in the distance, and I turned and headed back to the car.

With the win over Woodinville, it wasn't only the football team that was on a high—it was the whole school. I knew what would happen if I let myself get too high, so that whole week I kept to myself everywhere—in the classroom, on the practice field, in the gym.

It worked. I stayed on an even keel with no big highs or lows. Only one thing went wrong all week. After Thursday's practice, I was about to change into my street clothes when I remembered an elbow brace I'd left out on the field. Coach Carlson had wanted me to try it out but it had been too tight, so I'd thrown it off to the side. I trotted out to retrieve it and then brought it to the equipment room. When I returned to the locker room, I saw Drew rifling through my duffel bag. Instantly, my heart froze. The kit with the XTR and the syringe was still wrapped in a towel at the bottom.

"What are you doing, Drew?" I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

Drew held up his arm, showing me his forearm. It was raw, and the piece of gauze he had over the torn-away flesh was flapping free. "I'm getting tape to hold this on. You got tape, right?"

I reached over and pulled the duffel bag out of his hands. "I'll get it for you," I said. I was trying to be natural, but I pulled too hard.

Drew's eyes went wide and his face broke into a huge smile. "What are you hiding? You got a stack of
Playboy
s in there or something?"

Dan Driessen and Lee Choi and a bunch of other guys turned to look.

"I'm not hiding anything," I said.

"So what's the big deal?" Drew's voice wasn't so light.

"No big deal. I just don't like people going through my stuff."

I reached into my duffel, pulled out the tape, and tossed it to him. "There you go."

Drew caught the tape, peeled off a section, and then tossed it back.

Game seven was against Liberty High way out in Issaquah. They were good, but not great—the kind of team that could beat us only if we turned the ball over or committed a ton of penalties.

All week long I told myself I could play the game straight, that I didn't need anything, but on game day, I made sure the kit was in the bottom of my duffel.

Carlson had gotten a bus. On the ride out, I again held on tight to my duffel, trying not to look as though I was holding on tight. Every once in a while I'd glance at Drew and wonder if he suspected. Then I'd look at Stimes and think the same thing. Finally I realized how stupid I was being. They weren't thinking about me; they were thinking about the game.

The Liberty locker room was like every other one—dark, damp, and smelly. I sat down on one of the benches and got into my gear. Then I picked up my duffel and made my way to the bathroom, again choosing the stall farthest from the lockers. I thought I'd be less nervous, but my hands still shook. When I finished with the injection, I wrapped everything up in the towel, put it into the duffel, opened the stall door, stepped out, and looked back toward the locker room.

That's when I saw Drew. He was standing just inside the restroom door, about thirty feet away. For a moment we stared at each other, silent. "Let's crush these guys," he finally said.

I slung the duffel over my shoulder. "Okay by me," I answered, and I headed out to the locker room, my chest tight.

A couple minutes later, we huddled as a team at the mouth of the tunnel leading to the field. Around me guys were starting to scream and bounce up and down. The noise spread like a disease. An adrenaline-steroid-amphetamine craziness came over me, and pretty soon I was screaming and bouncing up and down more than anyone. The next thing I knew, I was running onto the field, then doing jumping jacks and pushups, and a few minutes later the game was on.

You play a team at their field, and it always takes time to get comfortable. I don't know why—a football field is a football field. We bumbled our way through the first quarter. I was too jumpy, too high, hitting the holes before the blocks had opened anything up. Drew turned the ball over on a fumbled snap, killing one drive, and another drive died when he tripped dropping back to pass.

Liberty had the ball near midfield at the start of the second quarter. I was standing along the sideline,
wound tight as wire, watching our defense, when I felt someone staring at me. I looked, and as I did, Drew looked away. I went over to the trainer and got myself some water and then glanced back at him. Now he wasn't looking at me at all but was talking to DeShawn. They both laughed at something, then DeShawn gave Drew a push and Drew pushed him back. As I drank the water down, I told myself to stop imagining things.