Leverage (3 page)

“Cuh-cuh-cuh-Coach suh-suh-said, ‘Tu-tu-tell them suh-suh-suh-sonsabuh-buh-bitches if they don't have their asses out on that field in fuh-fuh-fuh-five minutes, they can ruh-ruh-run sprints until muh-muh-midnight.' ”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jankowski woofs.

“Kuh-kuh-kuh-Kurt Buh-buh-Brodsky. Your new fuh-fuh-fullback.”

Miller, Jankowski, and Studblatz all cock their heads as if hearing their master's sharp whistle. They push past us in their hurry to get back to their locker room and change into their practice uniforms, not bothering to wait for their new teammate.

T
here he is,” Coach Brigs says, waving me into his office while his other hand holds a phone up to his ear. “Bibi, our future star has finally arrived,” he tells the phone, winking at me, getting his fill of my face, taking in my scars without apology. He did the same thing—wink and everything—the first time we met. I try forcing a smile, but the best I can do is get the left corner of my mouth to lift a little. Coach gestures for me to sit down on an old vinyl couch with cracks in the seat cushions while he nods to something said on the other end of the phone. My butt hits the couch, and it keeps on sinking until I'm sure it's about to go clear through to the floor. When it finally stops, I'm almost squatting. My knees poke up toward my chin, making my high-water pants ride up even farther, almost to my calf.

“Bibi, that Jumbotron is going up in our stadium. I don't care if they have to slash the budget for those other sports to cover it. Hell, half of 'em aren't real sports anyways. Everyone knows our program generates the revenue. We subsidize the rest of them. Without football they don't exist. That Jumbotron is coming. Bet on it! My baby is coming. Tell the alumni association it's the best damn recruitment tool around. Hell, we'll have half the state scrambling to move into our school district to get their boys in our program. We'll beat the pants off any charter schools and double—maybe triple—state contribution revenue. Property values will go through the roof. And the school board'll get their cut in increased property taxes . . .”

I wait for him to finish his phone call and watch players pass by outside the large window made of shatterproof glass—the kind that has chicken wire sandwiched inside it—separating Coach's office from the rest of the varsity team locker room. Inside his office, the wall behind Coach Brigs's desk is filled with team photos going back at least two decades. Trophy shelves line two other walls, brightening the painted cinder block with cheap-looking gold figurines, all of them helmeted with arms cocked back to throw a football. The maroon and gold paint, the team colors, must've been applied right after they built the place, based on the gray murk dulling them now.

“It's about time we got our hands on you, son,” Coach Brigs says after finally hanging up the phone. He stands up and comes around his desk, and it takes me a second to get unfolded from the couch. When I do he shakes my hand, gripping it hard and pumping it twice before dropping it to put his hands on my shoulders. He stands there staring at me, his eyes returning again to my scars before traveling over the rest of my body. “You been eating enough?” he asks. “You look like you might've lost some weight since last we talked in person. We got some great supplements. We'll get you on a program. Assistant Coach Stein will set you up. Need to make sure my soldiers stay strong and healthy.”

I nod at him.

“Now, I talked with your foster mama,” he continues, still eyeballing my arms and legs. “I told her I'd send you home with a little something to pass along to her, make sure she feeds you enough. We need big Knights on this team. It's a tough division. We got to take care of our own, you understand that, son? We are one family here. No enemies in the ranks, only soldiers and family. We gonna take care of you, now, Kurtis, because we expect great things from you. All of us. Not just me and my staff, not just your teammates, but your fans. You heard me, your fans. You watch the students' eyes light up when they see you coming down the hallway after we get a few wins under our belt. You walk like a hero because you are a hero in their eyes. You're going to be part of our great tradition of fine, upstanding men that others look up to and want to be like. And if you turn out to be a real star, like I got a hunch you will be, then the sky's the limit. You can have anything you want, just about. Great warriors deserve their just deserts.” And that's when he finally takes his hands off my shoulders. He delivers his speech close enough to my face that I smell every cup of coffee he drank this week. Still, I ain't about to find fault with his words. In one minute, he's offered me more than anyone else ever has.

Coach Brigs goes back around to his desk and opens up his very own locker and pulls out two jerseys: one white with maroon piping and numbers; one maroon with gold piping and numbers. Coach Brigs tosses me the maroon jersey while he holds up the white one, his fingers pinching each shoulder and spreading it open for me to read. Above the number 27 is the name BRODSKY running across the back. I want to think it's stupid and that it just makes me a dumb animal they've branded, but the fact remains that seeing my very own name on a team jersey—a real jersey, not something Lamar and I made out of old T-shirts and a permanent marker—is pretty cool. It
does
make me feel special. Playing for Lincoln, we never got jerseys with names.

“We expect nothing but greatness from you, son. And I know you won't let us down. Not one bit. Welcome to the Knights.” And Coach Brigs flings the white jersey over his desk. I snatch it out of the air, this time feeling both ends of my mouth curl up into a smile that pulls on my scar. “Your locker number is the same as your jersey number,” he says. “How's that for serendipity?”

I nod again, not really knowing what the word
serendipity
means, but promising myself I'll look it up as soon as I get a chance.

“Now, you missed our summer camp two-a-days so it might take you a bit to get into our system. Just go where you're told and do what me, Assistant Coach Stein, or the trainers tell you and you'll be just fine.”

Without realizing it, I've brought the maroon jersey up to my nose as Coach keeps talking. I inhale the clean smell of brand-new fabric mixed with the toasty tang of the silk-screened numbers and name—my name—customized at a print shop. Coach Brigs stops talking for a second and watches me. That's when I realize what I'm doing. His eyes twinkle a little and it makes me feel ... kind of ... good. Foolish, but good.

“Now look here,” he says, pulling out a plain white envelope from his desk drawer and handing it over to me. On its front is Patti's name in blue pen, but it takes me a second to realize it's her because the envelope reads “Ms. Dornf.” “I want you to hand this over to your foster mama soon as you walk through that door tonight, you understand? It's sealed up and I'm the one who sealed it and I'm the one who knows exactly what's in it. So when I call her in a few days and ask whether or not she got my envelope, I don't want to hear her say, ‘What envelope?' and it turns out that you were just another blockhead that forgot all about the envelope—either intentionally or accidentally. You go home after practice and you give this to her right away and you tell her Coach Brigs sends his regards and will give her a call in a few days.”

“Yessssssir,” I say, staring at the envelope, thinking it might be the most valuable thing I've ever been entrusted with.

“Now, I don't normally do this, but I am very aware of your situation, and it's partly for that reason that I have such high hopes for you, Kurtis. A boy coming from your station in life, to make himself into a fine, upstanding young man, well, he needs to be applauded and encouraged from time to time. And it's for that reason that I'm going to give you a little something here on the side to help you out. Now, this is just between us, you understand.” And Coach Brigs pulls out a silver money clip and slips out four bills that I'm too nervous to look at directly. “And if anyone ever asks you, well, I never handed you nothing. I wish't it weren't that way but sometimes the bureaucrats get a little too stuffy with their rules when all someone is trying to do is help out a kid in need. This here's a little pocket money for you, to help you fit in, to help you adjust a little bit. Most of the kids that go to this school, God love 'em, are too spoiled to ever understand a single thing about wanting for something or going hungry or not getting the newest gadget or latest gizmo. I ain't giving you something these kids don't get ten times over from their coddling mamas and daddies already. That's why most of 'em couldn't even think of playing this game, even if they were the size of Godzilla. They're all too soft. Start bawling when Daddy even looks at them crosswise. But I've seen you play, Kurtis, and I know just how tough you are, son. You play like you got fire in your veins. I like your style. And I want to keep my soldier happy. So if you need to go out and buy yourself some new pants that fit you a little better, maybe a few shirts from the mall, well, this money is to help you do just that. Nothing much, nothing fancy, just a little something to help out.”

He palms the money and clasps my hand again, shaking it firmly. When he lets go, the bills sit nestled in my grip. Still afraid to look, I slip them into my front pocket. Thankful and surprised by Coach's generosity, I can't help feeling it's more wrong than just breaking a few “stuffy, bureaucratic rules.” I don't feel bad enough to give 'em back, though.

“And if you want a pretty girl to take you shopping for clothes, you just let your quarterback know. He'll introduce you to whoever you'd like to meet. You're in good hands now, son. We take care of our own.”

“Sssssir. Thuh-thuh-thank you, ssssssir.”

“I see someone raised you right,” Coach grins. “Put those good manners in you . . .”

“. . . but no need to be so formal, son,” Coach Brigs continues. “You can call me Coach.”

I nod a few times to fill the silence. Coach slaps my right shoulder hard, like he forgot I'm not wearing pads yet.

“Now go get your stuff and get ready for practice.”

“Yessssssssir.” I open his door to leave.

“Oh, yeah, one last thing, Kurtis,” Coach says.

I wait.

“Scott Miller's your quarterback. He's a top prospect. Letters coming into my office almost every day asking my help to sign him to some pretty good college programs. Tom Jankowski's an all-state offensive tackle. Letters piling up for him as well. And Mike Studblatz is our all-division linebacker two seasons running. Big Ten coaches love watching him hit. These three are also team captains and they're thick as thieves. These are my boys and I will lay down my life, in a manner of speaking, for them because they give me every ounce of themselves on game day. But they've let all that recruiting sweet talk go to their heads this last year. Started showing up late for practice last three days in a row, ever since classes started. I don't know what they're doing but I'd appreciate it if you'd go find them, introduce yourself to them, and give them this message from me, word for word . . . ”

I
n the gym, I am somebody.

In the gym, school stops at the thick, fireproof doors, held back by air that tastes of chalk, turns spit into paste, cakes the inside of nostrils, and packs under fingernails in a white powder. Buzzing halogen lamps, hanging from the thirty-five-foot-high rafters, turn everything the pink-orange of a beach sunset. Wall-to-wall foam mats forgive my mistakes, offering no judgment, only a cushion when I fall.

“Gentlemen,” Coach Nelson announces as the team starts warm-up stretches on the thin tumbling mats, “we're running sets today.”

“Sets” are when my teammates and I throw ourselves through the air, battle gravity like X Games superchamps, and occasionally crash and burn. Drop a so-called real jock in here and watch them assume the fetal position while we blast through circus tricks they can't even figure out. The jungle of toys waits patiently for our arrival after school lets out. High bars, parallel bars, rings, pommel horse, vaults, and springboards. Here my secret plan—revealed to no one, not even Bruce—hatches:

Number four is the one that really counts. Number four makes it legit. Number four turns virtual daydreams into a lotto jackpot, lets me laugh at everyone thinking “Danny who?” while I start a new life in a man's body really fucking far from this place.

Full-ride scholarship
.
Full-ride scholarship. Full-ride scholarship.

I whisper the phrase three times every day while stretching, sending it out to the gymnastic gods, hoping they're listening.

“Danny?” Coach Nelson gets my attention. He sits among us in a hurdler's stretch, both arms reaching out to touch his toes. Coach Nelson knows way more about rock climbing than gymnastics but he does his best to offer tips and advice and makes a good spot-catcher if one of us is about to crash. He keeps his long hair pulled back into a ponytail and the weathered skin around his eyes is spiderwebbed with squint lines. Vance nicknamed him “Uncle Jesus” but he looks more like a retired special ops officer who's renounced all things military, because that's exactly what he is. He served over in Afghanistan, though he won't discuss it. Bruce told us that when he was a freshman—Coach Nelson's first year coaching and teaching at Oregrove after returning from the war—he had a buzz cut. Coach just never bothered cutting his hair again.