Leverage (24 page)

I
n our first gymnastics meet since the attack, Bruce leads the team in mistakes, but I pull ahead in the vaunted “Bonehead” category. Luckily, there's only, like, eight people in the Farmington High bleachers to witness the carnage and no one's taping for YouTube. I'm not sure if the rest of the team has figured it out, yet, but neither of us wants to be here. After almost two weeks away from the gym, the skin on my hands has softened and my body feels clumsy. During warm-ups on high bar, I trick myself into thinking I'm fine. The chalky steel bites into my palms in a rough but familiar way, like a handshake from my mom's brother, Steve, who works construction. He'll sit smoking Pall Malls and drinking Budweiser at our kitchen table and tell me and Dad story after story about Mom when she was my age.

The high bar's handshake turns painful, though, after a couple more warm-up swings. My palms grow tender, then sting, then get hot the way they do before they blister and rip open. Worse, my timing is off from lack of practice. I miss my easiest release moves in warm-ups, splatting on the thick mats during both attempts.

“How about we keep it nice and simple,” Coach suggests after my second crash. “Leave out the big tricks today.”

“Sure,” I say. Even the crash is unable to shake me from my weird dream state.

Bruce starts the downward spiral early, falling out of position two times on rings and stepping out of bounds during his floor exercise. The rest of us follow his example.

I'm signaling the judge and back on high bar. I can't remember what moves I agreed to take out. Wait! Where the hell am I in the routine?! I've just skipped most of my tricks. I've got to throw
something
before the dismount. Might as well be the big one. I don't really throw the up-and-over-the-bar suicide so much as simply let go and see what happens. What happens is the steel pipe slams into my chest just below my throat.

What happens is I'm shattering.

A flash-bomb goes off and the world spins and tumbles and there's Coach reaching out, trying to catch me, trying to stop me but the floor's going to beat him to it. I tuck my chin to my chest, trying to form a ball, trying to roll through the fall and keep from snapping my neck. The angle I hit at drives out all air as either my teeth or spine cracks like plates.

Silence.

I lie motionless, unable to breathe, unable to move. The first moments after breaking my neck.

“Danny? Jesus Christ! Danny!”

Coach's shouting above me. I feel his hands squeezing my arms as he aligns my body. I can feel him.
I can feel him?
I make a fist and wiggle my feet. I'm not paralyzed.
I'm not paralyzed!

“Unngh.” I gasp, the wind still knocked out of me. My teammates circle me, hover over me, their faces wrinkling into prunes of fear and concern. It frightens me. I've got to move. I have to be all right. I have to be all right.

“Just lay still, Tiger, I got you,” Coach says, but I don't believe him. No one has me. No one can catch me. No one caught Ronnie. I roll to my side while fighting for air, feeling it slowly come back into me.

“Just lay back, dude,” Fisher says in a voice I've never heard, a serious voice, and that scares the crap out of me.

I sit up. “Fuck you, Fish,” I croak. My teammates start laughing. It's not that funny, so I think they're mostly relieved.

“Okay, little pill,” Coach says, “I'm guessing you're fine, but why don't you just relax for a minute.”

Turns out, I am okay, minus the giant horizontal bruise running across my sternum. We lose the meet. By a lot. Bruce and I both set personal worsts. We're untaping our wrists and stuffing sweats into our bags when Farmington's team comes over to our bench.

“We heard about your teammate,” their captain says. He's a shaggy-haired, freckled guy named Oscar. I remember him from last season, plus he placed second on pommel horse in state meet. “We had a guy on the swim team do that last year,” Oscar says. “It sucks. It really does.”

We mumble agreement back at him while mopping our brows with T-shirt sleeves. Oscar and his teammates go off to tear down their equipment and move it out of the gym. Coach Nelson's over on the side talking with the Farmington coach and I'm pretty sure they're discussing Ronnie.

“Guys,” Fisher says. “Let's go up to the quarry Saturday. Weather's supposed to be perfect, like a summer rebound. We'll do a little tribute or séance or something. For Ronnie.”

“Water's too cold now to go swimming,” Paul says.

“Then we don't go swimming,” Fisher says. “We'll just climb this time. Coach'll lend us the ropes and gear.”

“I like it,” I hear myself say, picturing the one place still unpolluted by the attack. “The quarry's perfect.” I've got a break-n-shake chemical freeze pack pressed just below my throat. I'm imagining the quarry forest, far away from school and the halls and classrooms and locker rooms and that awful thing that lives like a monster in our gym's storage room. “I'm in,” I say. “Fish, I'm in.”

“Yeah, me too,” Gradley says, building momentum.

“Yeah, why not,” Paul Kim says, and bumps Menderson, who nods that he's coming as well.

“What about it, Bruce?” Fisher asks. Bruce has been in his own world as much as me. He's either thinking about the question while he stuffs his leather grips into his bag and pulls off his socks or he isn't even listening. Fisher's about to ask again when Bruce finally answers.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

There's one more person who needs to come with us up to the quarry, I decide. Showing Kurt the team's secret place is the only way I can think of to thank him for saving me and Bruce that day.

“I've got a piano lesson on Saturday,” Pete says.

“So skip it,” Fisher tells him. “It's not like you're going to be a concert pianist or anything.”

“Did you just say concert
penis
?”

“Pianist, dumbass. Pianist.”

M
en, tonight will be our toughest fight yet.”

Coach Brigs begins his pregame locker-room speech only after we all settle in a circle on bended knee around him and his staff. “Our school, our community, our family and friends have suffered a terrible blow this week from a mixed-up boy too weak to face the doubts and fears that plague us all from time to time. I pray for Ronnie Gunderson's poor parents. I pray they withstand the awful cruelty he inflicted on them. I take little comfort in his eternal damnation since it cannot make up for the fact that his cowardice has placed a black hole of doubt in the hearts of each and every one of the parents out there in the stands tonight. Doubts that grow about their own children and what may become of them if they go down the wrong path.”

Huh?
It sure feels like an odd pep talk before a game. I glance around the huddle and see teammates with heads cocked to the side and eyebrows knitting together trying to make sense of the words. If nothing else, Coach sure has our attention.

“That is why,” Coach continues, “it's up to us, here, tonight, to reassure not only your parents and families but our entire community. It's up to us, here, tonight, to show our neighbors how righteous soldiers, how good and decent men behave when faced with challenge and adversity. Righteous soldiers do not run. We do not hide or cower under our mama's skirts. We face that challenge head-on. We face our fears and overcome them. We do
not
lay down and die.”

“Hoo-wah!” booms from behind me.

“Hoo-wah!” answers from across the huddle.

Could Ronnie really be in hell for killing himself? I doubt it. And, anyway, if he
is
there, then Scott, Tom, and Mike are surely joining him someday. I glance around the huddle, nervous the others smell my doubt. I tell myself I'm still here, still playing, because I don't want to let the team down by quitting. There's a part of me that knows better, though, knows that I'm scared of the consequences —from my captains, from Coach, and even from Patti—if I walk away. Guys nod along with Coach's speech like they really get him, but I see them do this with other coaches and teachers, too, even if it's a lecture about splitting atoms—which I guarantee none of us get at all.

“We've got a good game plan tonight,” Coach says. “If we stick to it, we play hard, leave our guts on that football field, then we'll emerge victorious. We'll walk away heroes.”

“Hoo-wah.” Studblatz thumps his chest. Coach reaches out to him and slaps his shoulder pads.

“This man—this soldier—is ready to go to war.” Coach grins. “Now, who else is ready? Ready to close ranks with your brothers? Ready to fight the good fight and show our community we cannot be broken?”

Coach's words ripple out across the huddle, ringing our bodies with electric current, connecting each of us to the other. “Hoo-wah. Hoo-wah. Hoo-wah,” we chant, completing the circuit. The chant pulses from my throat down to my chest and belly. It tingles up over my scalp and crosses my shoulder blades. It no longer matters what I believe or doubt because my body believes and needs to belong. In Coach's battle, I—we—are all heroes. It's a lifetime away from feeling like dirt. I'll tackle a steel I-beam just to hold on to it a little while longer; I'll break my arm to keep it. For Coach, for the team, my body'll do anything.

“And now that we've got
all
our warriors back in the lineup”—Coach raises his voice above the chants—“I expect nothing less than a total ass whupping tonight.”

“Hoo-wah!”

“Give me thunder out there!” Coach shouts. “And total decimation. I want to see body bags on that field!”

“Hoo-wah!”

“Bring it!” Tom howls, standing up to slam into a locker with his shelled shoulder. Studblatz stands next, raising his arms up to the gods and yowling until his face is pink as a squished worm. He turns and punches a locker with his taped and gloved fist, punches it again, like he's mad it won't hit back, punches it a third time.

“Men, you've got your orders.” Coach pounds a fist into the palm of his hand as the rest of us stand up. “Bring home a victory. Nothing less.”

“Kill 'em.”

“No prisoners.”

“Destroy.”

“Go, Go, Go, Go GO, GO, GO, GO, GOGOGOGOGOGO!”

We hup-march out of the locker room and down the long hall, through the open doors, and along the grass path leading to our fenced field. The gated entrance has been rolled back for us. We build up speed as we near it, moving like an army in full attack. Scott slaps the top of Terrence's helmet, the signal for our running back to sprint ahead and lead the way through the big paper hoop with a giant
K
on it, smashing through it just as the new monster sound system growls like God Himself anointing us.

“Here they come. Theeeeeeee Knights!”

We rush the field through a boulevard of pom-pomshimmying cheerleaders; the stadium lights turn their glossy lips bright as camera flashes. The bleachers are a sea of bodies all praying for us, all wanting us to win. I can feel their love from here as they spill over onto the grassy hill and press up against the fence. The Jumbotron leads them in a chant that swells me with pride, washes over me in waves of love and worship.

“KNIGHTS . . . KNIGHTS ... KNIGHTS ... KNIGHTS . . . KNIGHTS ... KNIGHTS.”

The sound vibrates from my balls to my sinuses as the helmets come down, the chin straps snap tight, and the mouth guards wedge under lips. Now it's easy to see everyone as a thing, a unit, a piece in a larger game. No Scott, no Tom, no Mike, no Kurt, no Ronnie. Shutting down and not having to think, just doing what you're told, feels like turning into a machine in a good way. It feels like relief.

Ashville is undefeated, same as us, and most likely we'll meet again in the play-offs. Their line matches ours in size and strength. Their defensive unit is led by Chandre Jackson, a linebacker rumored to be crazy and known for his vicious hits. Mean as Studblatz but faster, if slightly smaller. What he gives up in size he more than makes up for in velocity when he slams into you. They say he's already signed a letter of commitment to Ohio State. Across the line of scrimmage, while the cadence is shouted out, I peer into Chandre Jackson's face mask and see the whites of his eyes barely containing two dark pebbles bouncing furiously back and forth, searching for an opening, searching for any chink in our team's protection. Chandre Jackson's eyes are jittery with the need to hit someone.

By second quarter, Chandre Jackson has marked his territory, prowling up and down the line of scrimmage and just banging the hell out of Pullman, treating our midsize lineman like a revolving door. Chandre's too smart to match up directly against someone as big as Jankowski. Instead, he attacks at angles, going at the flanks, jigging and juking to slip between our linemen and get at the ball carrier. And if he can't slip through in time, he makes sure to lay a good lick on whatever sorry Oregrove player happens to be in his way. First play of the second quarter he dives into our backfield and wraps up Terrence before we have a chance to set up the blocking scheme. Terrence's legs are still pedaling the air when he's brought down on his back, Chandre sprawled on top of him, screaming into his face mask, asking Terrence if that's how he lets his daddy fuck him.

Coach knows all about Chandre Jackson and has prepared for him. The crux of his plan involves keeping me in the backfield to pick up any blitzes that break through our line and protect the quarterback as he passes the ball. I ignore the fact that our quarterback is Scott. With his helmet in place, it's not so hard. I have a job to do. Scott is only a chess piece. My job is to allow our piece to pass the ball safely, unhit by Chandre Jackson's chess piece. Twice he's broken through as Scott steps back to unload, both times coming from Scott's blind side. Both times I intercept him, lowering my shoulder, keeping my eyes on Chandre Jackson's hips—not taking the bait offered by his weaving feet and bobbing helmet—and plastering a solid hit on the guy. Both times Scott gets the pass off to receivers downfield for good yardage. The first time I heave Chandre over my shoulder, he thumps his fists on my back in a tantrum, frustrated I'm not allowing free shots on the quarterback. Only after the whistle blows do I set him down.