Author's Note: This was loosely based on a true story, but it didn't happen to me personally.
“Yeah, I’m serious.”
“Jesus, Max. You must be stupid, too. They’re gonna—wait, hold that thought… I need a drink.”
“A drink?”
“Yeah, and you’ll probably need one too.”
A boy with sandy blond hair stood up from the lawn chair that he had been lounging on in the backyard of a suburban home. On an adjacent lawn chair sat a boy of greater height and with dark brown hair, who also stood and apprehensively followed his good friend through the grass up to the sliding glass door that led into the basement of the house. It was the Fourth of July, and the two had just finished watching the fireworks display. They were set off in downtown Huntsville, but everything was visible from Max’s back yard, saving them a trip into the city.
“Dalton, we
really shouldn’t—“
“Where does your dad keep the cooler?”
“It should be downstairs, but…”
Keeping quiet, the blond-haired boy slid open the door and slipped inside, accompanied by Max. In the corner of the room, between the stand of a wide-screen television and the wall, they found Mr. Palmer’s white Yeti cooler left unattended.
“Jackpot.” Dalton grinned, snuck up to it, and flipped the lid open. Inside various beers were nestled among a bed of clear ice, which, in the hot and humid basement, almost seemed to output a clear mist into the air. “What’s your poison?”
Max peered over Dalton’s shoulder into the cooler and tried not to grimace. He had never drunk before, but the drinking itself wasn’t half of what was worrying him; he was more concerned about his father catching them in the act of stealing his beer and then cutting off both of their asses to hang over the fireplace.
“I don’t care. Just grab some so we can get the hell back outside!”
“Alright, alright. Let’s see…” He rummaged around, causing the ice to rattle and the bottles and cans to clink together, but his hand suddenly froze. Not from the ice, of course, but because the door leading upstairs opened with a loud creak, filling the basement with the lively chatter of the adults upstairs.
“Shit!” Dalton said in a strained whisper, but Max was already making a beeline for the door. He reached inside, grabbed an armful of bottles, and hustled back outside just as a pair of feet began to descend the stairs. Max was off to the side from the door, breathing heavily and sweating slightly, not feeling any bit better to see Dalton emerge alive and shut the door with his elbow. They made their way back to their lawn chairs, where Dalton gingerly laid the six bottles onto the grass.
“Looks like we’re drinking Blue Moon tonight,” commented Dalton as they both gazed down at their treasure. He reached for one, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and used its case as a makeshift opener to pop off the cap. “Okay, that’s three for each of us. Not a lot, but we can make it work if we chug ‘em.” He handed Max the bottle after which he opened one for himself.
Max felt a little uneasy about drinking what seemed like a lot to him on his first go, but he dismissed the thought from his mind. Dalton drank every now and again, but he hadn’t done so in a while, so he assumed their tolerances would be more or less equal.
“You scared?” Dalton asked after taking a long sniff from the bottle.
“Kinda,” Max admitted.
“Hah, you should be more scared about tomorrow. To Max’s survival!” He raised his bottle and Max waited a second before tapping the neck of his bottle against his. “Okay, ready? Go!”
They gulped down the foamy liquid as fast as they could. Max didn’t exactly have time to savor its taste, though he was surprised to find it was carbonated like a Coke. Dalton finished first; Max had to take a few breaks to breathe or to cough, but he managed to wash down the rest as well.
They were quiet for a moment, then Dalton burped, breaking the tension a bit.
“Not bad. You feel anything yet?”
“Yeah, I feel a rock in my stomach.”
“That’ll go away. Take a seat before we do the second one.”
With Max sighing deeply, the two took their seats. Everything looked especially dark in comparison to how brightly lit up the sky was just a few minutes earlier with all the fireworks. A few lightning bugs danced around the pine trunks, and an entire opera of crickets sang all around them.
“So, why the hell are you thinking of trying out?”
“Because, you know exactly why. I’m tired of being nothing to my dad.”
“Yeah, but… I mean look at us, Max. Kids like you and me don’t play football. Our role is to get drunk before the games and support the team. And a team ain’t nothing without its fans!”
“Well, my dad doesn’t think support’s good enough. He’d rather I play.”
“Who cares about what your dad thinks?”
“I do! You know how much it sucks to feel like you’re constantly disappointing someone? That’s what it’s like with my dad.”
Dalton shifted in his chair uncomfortably, thinking. “I mean… No offense, but you’re no Justin.”
“Exactly. You’d think already having one child superstar would be enough, but no.” Max shrugged.
“…I’m sorry, man.”
“Whatever, it’s fine… Hand me that second beer.”
7:00 came around fast and smacked Max upside the head. Each blaring tone of his alarm clock sent shockwaves of searing pain across his scalp. He scrunched up his face and let out an agonized groan as his trembling hand slipped out from the covers and switched off the horrible sound.
Very faint sunlight filtered into the room from the unclosed blinds, illuminating some stray motes of dust that drifted lazily in the air. A small television with an Xbox hooked up to it was set up on the opposite end of the room from Max’s bed, in front of a beanbag chair. On the other wall was a desk, which, despite it being the middle of summer, was littered with opened books, papers, his laptop, and some useless knickknacks.
He had ended up chugging all three of his Blue Moons with Dalton the night before, and successfully gave himself a decent buzz before they returned inside and Max passed out in his bed. He had no idea what time that was, but it certainly felt like he had barely slept at all.
As Max willed himself to stand up, he was thankful to note that there wasn’t any nausea waiting to greet him, though that didn’t alleviate his headache by any degree. Feeling much like a zombie, he shuffled out of his room and into the neighboring guest bedroom where Dalton was asleep on top of the bed covers.
“Dalton! I’m heading out.”
He squirmed slightly and moaned an incomprehensible response.
“Just go on back to your place when you get up.”
Dalton murmured back a faint, “Okay,” before Max returned to his room to get dressed. He had no idea what to wear. Max’s sense of fashion was rudimentary at best, his daily wardrobe consisting of a t-shirt, shorts, ankle socks and sneakers, despite however cold it may be outside. However, he assumed dressing for workouts shouldn’t be too much of a challenge; in fact, he chose to put on what he normally used. After lacing up his sneakers, he bounded down the stairs, grabbed a water bottle and an apple from the pantry and headed for the front door.
“Where you off to so early, son?”
Max came to an abrupt stop just as his hand was reaching for the knob. Turning around, he saw his father appear in the doorway leading to the living room. The man was tall, well over six feet, muscular but not exactly toned, and his face was covered in stubble. His stern expression had become a common sight for Max.
“I-I’m going for a jog, sir.” He swallowed hard.
“A jog?”
“Yes sir, just for a couple miles. Maybe downtown and back.”
The burly man stared at his youngest son for a good five seconds before scoffing.
“Why?”
“Uh… Never too late to get in shape, sir.”
He shook his head and crossed his arms. “Your friend still here?”
“Yes sir, he’s asleep. I told him to head home when he wakes up.”
“A’right.” He turned and headed back into the living room. “Good luck with your jog,” he chuckled sarcastically. Max was tempted to roll his eyes behind his father’s back. Typical of him to have the last laugh, leaving him feeling like shit. But Max shook off the pain. It wouldn’t be too long before, hopefully, he’d be proud of Max.
It was a thirty minutes’ walk to Our Lady of the Gulf Catholic High School. Justin would’ve driven Max there (and attended workouts too) but he was away at some sports camp for gifted athletes, so walking was the only option, and he was alone without any kind of brotherly guidance. In fact, Justin didn’t even know Max was planning on doing what he was doing. Maybe it was better that way; he wanted to do it on his own.
Upon arriving at the front doors of the somewhat larger-than-average private high school, Max found no indication of the football workouts or where they were being held. Thankfully, he had been inside the school plenty of times before, so he knew where the weight room was. He went in through the unlocked doors, headed downstairs, and found the double doors leading into the weight room… closed and locked. The lights were on inside, but it looked to be vacant.
Max stared through the small window on one of the doors and frowned at his reflection in the wide mirror on the far side of the room inside. He was
positive that workouts started on the fifth… Where in the hell was everyone?
“Is that J.P.’s little bro?”
Max turned around to see that the doors leading into the boys’ locker room had been pushed open, out of which sauntered an upperclassman that Max recognized as one of Justin’s friends on the varsity team. He was shouldering a gym bag and holding one of those big 32 oz. water bottles, which sweated a decent amount of condensation. The boy himself was also covered in a thin layer of perspiration. His white shirt read in gold letters, “Gulf HS Football.”
“What are you doing here?” asked the athlete.
“I’m, uh… trying to find where the workouts are.”
The upperclassman stopped mid-sip from his bottle, his eyes widening in surprise.
“You’re going to workouts?” he asked, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. He sounded more shocked than pessimistic or sarcastic. “Well, you’re in the wrong place, dude. You better hurry out to the field. They already started.”
Max’s heart skipped a beat.
“Oh, shit! What are
you doing here then?”
“I gotta head home early for a family breakfast.” He laughed. “Coach wasn’t so happy about that. It probably won’t help his mood to have someone showing up late.”
Max rubbed his face tiredly with the palms of his hands. His headache was still lingering somewhat, which only intensified his anxiety.
“Oh, god… Alright, I better get my ass out there, then.” He turned and started to jog down the hall.
“Good luck, little J!” shouted Justin’s friend as Max burst through the doors leading outside. “God knows that kid’ll need it…”
A piercing whistle cut through the air.
“Holden! Keep that chest up! I don’t wanna see you slumpin’!”
“Yes, Coach Robinson!”
A total of seventy or so high schoolers were on the school’s four hundred meter track that encircled the football field. They weren’t running though; they were lunging, snaking their way slowly around the circumference. A man, younger than Max’s own dad by perhaps only a few years, stood on the inside edge of the track, whistle hanging from his neck—must’ve been the coach. He was tall and looked to be pretty strong. His biceps bulged as if trying to free themselves from the confining sleeves of his t-shirt, and his calves looked like they could support a thousand pounds.
Max appeared in the distance, jogging past a chainlink metal fence that separated the field from the school parking lot it was adjacent to. His eyes quickly picked out the biggest and oldest person around and decided that would be the best person to approach.
“E-Excuse me?” Max’s voice felt small compared to the man’s previous barking commands.
“Huh?” The coach, whose back had been to Max, turned his head and looked at the newcomer out of the corner of his left eye for a second, before completely turning around to face him. “Yeah? What do you want?” His speaking was quick, as he could be using this precious time to sharpen up his players’ form even more.
“I’m, uh, here for the football workouts, sir…”
“Jackson! No straggling! You better catch your ass up. I don’t care if it makes you puke!” The sudden outburst of bellowing caused Max to flinch; the coach’s eyes had not remained on him for longer than a moment. “What were you saying?” He continued to survey the others.
“I’m here for the workouts, sir,” Max stated in a firmer voice.
“You’re late.” Coach Robinson’s response was almost automatic, though this finally merited some unwavering attention from him. He scrutinized the boy, his skinny appearance an obvious signal that he was a rising freshman. Though he looked vaguely familiar…
“Wait just a second. Those freckles, your terrible timeliness… You ain’t related to Palmer, are you?”
“Justin is my older brother, sir,” came Max’s reply as he rubbed his arm nervously.
Coach Robinson eyed the boy up and down, sizing him up.
“A younger brother of Palmer, eh? What’s your name?”
“Max, sir.”
“Max, huh?” He continued to study the boy, estimating his limits, his weaknesses, and any possible strength he might have. He grumbled something incomprehensible and shrugged. “I’ve seen worse in my days… Plus, any Palmer kid should have some promise in him. But you’ve already committed your first mistake: arriving late. You’ll have to pay for that.”
Max shot the man a look of dread that he had seen more times than he could count. It almost made him smile with delight, but he took pity on the boy, only because he was one of his best player’s kin.
“I’ll cut you a break, though. You can wait until after workouts to knock out your penalty.”
Max would hardly call that a “break,” but he decided he’d take all he could get. At just about that moment, the other trainees were beginning to fall in, one by one, the majority of them groaning from exertion. The coach continued to shout either encouraging comments or degrading criticisms until they had all finished. As they all looked largely out of breath, the coach allowed them a minute to break and drink some water.
“You’re in for the next drill,” Coach told Max from the sideline. “Just… try to keep up, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Coach.”
“Uh, yes. Coach.”
He blew the whistle again, causing every boy to snap to attention.
“That’s enough! Everyone line up on the goal line on the far side of the field!”
Max had been to countless football games in the past. He understood the gist of the game—each team tries to move the ball ten yards in four downs or less, and if they eventually make it to the other team’s side they score six points, followed by a chance to score one or two extra points. But that was the extent of his familiarity with the sport, which is why he made himself binge-read a slew of online articles on how to play the sport and understand the lingo. He wasn’t sure he had everything under lock, but “goal line” was thankfully something he knew.
He jogged over with the others and found a spot somewhere in the middle of the line, sandwiched between two kids he didn’t recognize but appeared to be around his age. The one on his right, about as tall as him but much more athletic and of African descent, looked over at him curiously.
“Hey, wow. Coach didn’t run you into the ground for coming late? You must be somethin’ special.” He was whispering, taking advantage of the small window of time as the coach walked over to where they were lined up.
“He said I have to stay after,” Max explained.
“Dude, this is J.P.’s little brother,” said the boy to the left of Max, a tad shorter and with windblown dirty blond hair. He had leaned forward to look at the other freshman. Max smiled shyly at both of them; he was usually introduced in this way, as Justin’s little brother.
“Oh, shit! Now I see the resemblance. Didn’t know he had a sibling. Nice to meet you, man. I’m Darryl.”
“And I’m Colin,” replied the other one.
“I’m Max. It’s—Oh.”
He was cut off by the coach beginning to speak: “Okay, we’re doing suicides at ten yard intervals until you cover the length of the entire field. Got it?”
Max tensed up. What the hell was a suicide? It certainly didn’t
sound like something he wanted to start off doing. Were they… sprints? Why didn’t he just say sprints then? Were they some special kind of sprint? Max had no idea. He resolved to just follow the lead of Darryl and Colin and everyone else.
Fweeeeeeeet!The entire line of boys surged forward, Max with them. At first he unknowingly sped up ahead of the group because he wasn’t nearly as fatigued as them, so he forced himself to slow down just a bit, until he crossed the ten yard line, where he continued to run forward.
“Huh?”
He spun around and saw everyone started running back to the beginning when arriving at the ten. Grumbling and trying not to attract too much attention to himself, he started back off in that direction, only to see that everyone turned back around at the goal line. Then, they advanced to the twenty yard line and went back to the start. Slowly, Max caught on to the exercise and followed the pattern. By the time he was running to the fifty yard line, he was already beginning to perspire and feel out of breath.
“Faster!” Coach Robinson howled.
Max’s legs were juicing. He could only wonder in horror how this would’ve gone if he had lunged around the track. Stifling a whimper, he kept his head down and pushed through the last five rounds, each much harder than the last. At long last, he crossed the goal line on the opposite side of the field, chest heaving, face glossy from sweat, and thigh muscles slightly shivering. He nearly dropped to the ground to catch his breath. By some miracle, he wasn’t the last one to complete the suicides, but he knew that was only because the others have been exercising before this.
“You good?” asked Darryl, who wiped off a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“I don’t know,” replied Max. He ran his fingers through his now dampened hair.
“We still got a long way to go yet…”
Coach Robinson worked them like prison inmates. Luckily, since they were working out in the morning, the harsh sun didn’t play much of a role in wearing them out any more than necessary. After the suicides, Coach had them do agility ladders, after which they did sprints, then hills, then they did a variety of running drills involving cones, whose purpose Max assumed was more relevant to on-field maneuvers.
He was utterly miserable. The suicides were the only drill where he finished somewhere in the middle. The rest of them, he made embarrassing mistakes or he finished near dead last. Not to mention the soreness that lingered from his hangover the night before. He thought he was about to puke many times throughout. Coach yelled at him occasionally, not really kindling much motivation in him, and when it seemed like all was over, they were instructed to head into the weight room for conditioning. Max had forgotten all about that part of training.
There were multiple cages in the weight room where about 90% of commons lifts could be executed, and a small group was to work at each. Max was paired with Darryl, Colin, and two other freshman who introduced themselves as Jayden and Grant. Much to Max’s surprise, they didn’t ridicule him for being a newbie. Maybe it was because they didn’t want to get asses kicked by Justin, maybe because they were genuinely nice. Max didn’t really care either way, though. While it was nice to make friends, he was there to succeed.
The lifts included bench and shoulder presses, deadlift and power-cleans, and pull ups. It was nice to have more experienced people in his group to explain some of the unfamiliar lifts to him. Also, the lifting wasn’t nearly as exhausting as the running in the sense that it didn’t wind you and didn’t make you want to vomit. Max managed to keep up, but by using lighter weights. With only a quick sweep of the room, Max could easily deduce he was the weakest of the bunch. But Max kept his frustration in check. His weakness was the exact reason for his coming to the workouts in the first place.
Then, after a gut-wrenching couple minutes of planking on and off, Coach Robinson finally dismissed them. Groaning with pain and relief, Max stood up from the grimy weight room floor and snatched up his water bottle, which he had ended up refilling three times over the course of the day, and took a hearty sip from it. When he was done, he closed the top and was about to take a step for the door out, when he felt a strong hand clamp over his shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” boomed Coach’s voice.
A swarm of butterflies took to air in his stomach. He had forgotten about his penalty for being late. Max looked back at the coach and tried not to frown.
“You’d better have been heading back out to the field,” he said.
Max nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Coach.”
He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. It felt like every muscle fiber in his body had been numbed and was completely incapable of exerting itself, which only meant one thing. He would be sore as shit the next morning. But he had to follow through with this…
Max headed out the doors of the weight room and turned down the hall leading to the field.
“Hey. Max, was it?”
Stopping yet again, Max discovered Colin standing a few feet back, holding his own water bottle.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
The boy walked up to him and with what Max could only assume was a smirk. “How you feeling? Bet it sucks ass.”
“I feel terrible.”
“Yeah, Coach Robinson’s workouts tend to do that to you. But, you know, every day it gets a little bit easier. You’re coming again tomorrow right?”
Max wanted to whine, and Colin must’ve noticed this flicker across his face.
“Hey, don’t chicken out now, dude. Besides, Day 2 is just assessments and measurements. Height, weight, mile time, some lift maxes. You know, the easy stuff.”
“Doesn’t sound easy to me.”
Colin laughed. “You’ll survive if you survived Day 1.”
Max pondered that.
“Huh, I guess you’re right,” he said. “But I gotta head back out to the field because I came late today.”
“Ah, true. Good luck with that.” Colin gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, effecting a small “ow” from Max. “See you tomorrow.” They both turned from each other and Max jogged out to the field and waited. After a few minutes, Coach Robinson arrived sauntering down the path.
“So, you’re here,” he observed.
“You, uh, told me to come here, Coach,” replied Max.
“Well, I was afraid you wouldn’t show.”
Max shrugged his shoulders.
“Listen to me, Palmer.” The coach leaned down a bit to get on face-level with the freshman. Max did as he was told and listened. “I don’t know how to tell you this, ‘cause I don’t want you getting an inflated head, but I’m glad you showed up today.”
“What?”
“Look, you’re obviously not a very sporty kid, but you came, and you at least kept up with all the workouts. Now I don’t know how tryouts will go, but if you keep showing up to these, you’ll have a better chance than you would if you never came at all.”
That brought a small smile to Max’s face. He had never been encouraged by a figure of authority like this before.
Coach straightened back up and crossed his arms.
“Alright, go take a lap. I’m letting you off easy, now, you hear? Don’t want to see you late again.”
“Yes, Coach.” Max headed off to the track and began his lap. The smile never left his lips for a moment. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope for him after all.
For the rest of July, Max continued to go to football workouts every morning, Monday through Friday, and he wasn’t late again. Each of those days, Max told his father he was going for a jog, or getting breakfast, or seeing a friend; he was actually pretty proud of the fact his father never caught on to what he was up to.
The workouts were backbreaking, but like Colin had suggested, it got a little bit easier each day. Sometimes, Max had to stop and catch his breath, sometimes he couldn’t finish and gave up, sometimes he’d trip and fall on the field. He even ended up having to throw up on two occasions from overworking himself. But he noticed improvement. The first time he became aware of this was when he completed the full-field suicides in the middle in the pack, albeit toward the back end of it, but this happened
after he had done all the previous drills with everyone else. He gradually became able to lift more and more weight, increasing his bench max from eighty-five to one hundred pounds. He was even able to finally get a pull up!
Darryl explained he was improving so quick because this was Max’s first time lifting weights and training. But Colin cut in saying that it could be his “Palmer genes” hard at work, too. Max didn’t know which it was, probably both. But even though he was getting stronger, and he could feel it, his body looked more or less the same; his arms still lanky, his legs still skinny, his chest and shoulders still largely undefined. Max supposed, however, that appearance wasn’t as important as actual improvement was.
Toward the beginning of August, with football tryouts only a few weeks away, His brother Justin finally came home from camp. There was no big “welcome back” party or anything; he simply arrived in a cab and that was that. Max’s father, of course, greeted his oldest son warmly and asked him to share all the stories about the sports camp.
“Sure thing, Dad,” he replied. “But I gotta unpack first… Max? You wanna help me?”
Max had been laying on the couch in the living room, waiting for the Advil he had popped earlier to take effect to soothe his screaming calves. He groaned as a reply, not wanting to move.
“Max, help your brother.”
“Yes, sir.” Masking a wince, Max sighed and got up from the couch. He grabbed one of Justin’s duffel bags without a word and headed upstairs to his room, which had been empty for most of the summer. Max dropped the bag on the bed and unzipped it; Justin came in soon after.
“How has your summer been, little bro?” he asked. Justin looked a lot like Max, sharing his freckles, a trait inherited from their mother, and his smile. Justin’s hair was a much lighter shade of brown than Max’s and was styled better, however, and stood a good three inches over him, with a typical football player’s build.
“Pretty uneventful, I guess,” replied Max. “I got drunk for the first time with Dalton on the Fourth of July.” The two of them hadn’t had a lot of time to hang out since Max started workouts, but they always made an effort to see each other at least once a week.
Justin snickered. “Well, look who’s the new cool kid.”
Max rolled his eyes but chuckled too. “Yeah, whatever. How was camp?”
“Pretty fun. Met some cool guys and recruiters and all that. The workouts were hard as hell, though.”
Max could relate.
“Oh, hey, speaking of which…” Justin spoke up again. Max stopped moving, thankfully with his back to his brother so Justin wouldn’t see the anxiety painted all over his face. “Chris sent me a text… He said you were at the football workouts.” Chris was the one who had been leaving when Max arrived on the first day. Damn it, of course he spilled to Justin.
“Oh…” Max pulled away the flap of the now open duffel bag. “Yup…”
“So, you’re trying out?”
Max shrugged and finally looked back at his brother. “Yeah. Don’t tell Dad though, okay?”
“Why not?”
“I… want it to be a surprise.”
There was a pause.
“Max…”
“Justin, I’m doing this. I’ve already been going to the workouts since July, and I’m getting
better too. I’m going to keep going until tryouts start, and no one is gonna stop me.”
Justin stared at his younger brother intently. It was hard to tell what was going on through either of their heads right then, but Justin finally nodded.
“Okay. I get it.”
“Thank you,” Max said, relieved. “Are you gonna go to workouts now?”
“Nah, I’ll just go to the gym to stay in shape for tryouts. Do you need rides?”
“I’m good. I’ve been walking there. Actually, I’ve started jogging there now. Well, halfway there.”
Justin smiled. His brother was not a little kid anymore, even though he himself wasn’t much older. He had to keep reminding himself of that.
“You’re doing good, Max. Keep working at it.”
The final three weeks of workouts became much harder. Coach Robinson pushed everyone to their personal limits (which, for Max, wasn’t much but it still took its toll on him). Max returned home every day needing to take a nap to replenish his energy. He was eating and drinking a lot more, and got into the habit of going to bed earlier. He felt the healthiest he had ever been.
A few days before tryouts, Max, Justin, and their parents sat around the dinner table, eating a meal of steak and asparagus. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were having a discussion about upgrading the kitchen, while Max was looking down at his plate quietly. He hadn’t touched his food; he was too nervous to eat. For the past few days, he had been thinking of a way to tell his father he was going to football tryouts because he did not want him finding out that very day.
Justin looked over at Max and seemed to understand his silence. He spoke up, somewhat interrupting the conversation between his parents.
“So, tryouts are in a couple days,” he said.
Max looked up from his plate and over at his brother.
“That’s right. The Hammerheads are gonna have another great season,” boasted Mr. Palmer.
“You’re coming to watch right?”
“Of course I’m coming to watch my son kick ass at tryouts!”
“You think… We could bring Max along?”
A moment of silence arose.
“Why’s that? He never comes along.”
“Well, Dad… He was thinking of maybe trying out for the team.”
A longer, even more tense silence arose at the dinner table. Joe Palmer’s eyes turned to his youngest son. Max could only stare back, feeling like defenseless.
“Is this true, Max?”
“…Yes, sir.”
“Is that why you been going on all those jogs lately?”
“Actually, sir, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I’ve been going to football workouts since July.”
Mr. Palmer was quiet but Justin was smiling, trying to convince his father that this was a good thing.
“You survived with Coach Robinson?”
“Barely, sir.”
Mr. Palmer snickered, which slowly morphed into a deep, rumbling laugh.
“Son, I’m not sure if you’re quite Gulf football material!”
Max’s gaze returned to his plate. He should’ve guessed, even when he’s trying out for the team, his father didn’t give a damn. Was this all a waste? Was it all for nothing? Should he even bother trying out now?
“Dad, he’s been training like hell for the past two months…”
“Honey, don’t discourage him,” Mrs. Palmer told him in a soft voice, placing a hand on her husband’s arm.
“Okay, okay,” said Mr. Palmer after he finished his chuckling. “We’ll see how he does.”
Justin sighed, pushing his plate in. “C’mon, Max. Let’s go pass around out back.”
With a small grumble, Max stood up and they headed out to the porch and down to the yard where a football rested in the grass. Meanwhile, Mrs. Palmer stood up to gather the dishes.
“Max hardly ate anything tonight,” she observed, noticing his nearly full plate. “He must be pretty nervous.”
“He better be. I’d be nervous if I were him too,” replied Mr. Palmer.
“Do you think he’ll do well?”
“Christine, Max is… He isn’t a boy who plays sports.”
“It sounds like he’s really been trying, though.” She cleared her throat. “I wonder what would get him to want to try out for the team.”
“Hell if I know,” he scoffed. “Sixth grade, he told me, ‘Daddy, I don’t wanna play sports anymore.’ That’s what he said. Now he’s doing this? Kid’s gonna get himself killed out there!”
“Okay, so there’s good news and there’s bad news,” Justin was telling Max as he caught the incoming pass in the backyard. “The good news is, pretty much everyone makes the team. Now I’m not saying you’ll make
varsity but you’ll definitely be on some team.” He grunted as he threw the ball back to Max, a perfect spiral.
Max scrambled but managed to catch the ball before it hit his face.
“The bad news is that after the first week of practice,” Justin continued, “come the cuts. They’ll post a list of names, and if you’re on it, then…”
“Then you’re done.” Max finished, throwing the ball back.
Justin caught it effortlessly. “Exactly. But hey, if you get cut, so what? You can try out again next year, or do another sport.”
“Well, I don’t wanna get cut.”
“Nobody does, but shit happens.”
Max nodded grimly. Shit did indeed happen, but he hoped it wouldn’t just this once.
Saturday morning, the day of the fall sports tryouts. The kitchen of the Palmer household was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of sausage, eggs, and toast. It was Mrs. Palmer’s special “tryout breakfast” she cooked every year, except today she was cooking for two. Max and Justin sat the at table, scarfing down their food ravenously.
“Look at my two hungry little football stars,” Mrs. Palmer giggled as she scrubbed a pan clean. “When do y’all head out?”
“A few minutes,” answered Justin. He downed his class of orange juice in one go. “You ready, Max?”
Max took a couple hearty sips from his juice as well before giving a small nod toward Justin as he wiped his mouth.
“I think so.” They both stood up.
“Good luck, you too!” Mrs. Palmer called to them as they grabbed their belongings and headed out the door. Mr. Palmer was waiting outside for them, and they piled into his truck, Justin taking shotgun and Max, the backseat. It was a short but uncomfortably quiet ride over Gulf High School, not even charismatic Justin spoke up. Max wondered if he was feeling nervous, but he sincerely doubted it. He was too good.
When they arrived in the decently crowded parking lot, Max and Justin jumped out and grabbed their bags before they jogged off together to the field where students were already beginning to gather. A few of the older kids whooped and greeted Justin upon their arrival. In the meantime, Mr. Palmer found a seat in the bleachers with a few other parents.
Justin gathered with his friends, and Max found Darryl, Colin, Jayden, and Grant. They all talked casually before the varsity and junior-varsity coaches came onto the field and made them all line up. Coach Robinson was head varsity coach; Max doubted he’d be impressing him today. The JV head coach, new this year, was his best bet. He was introduced as Coach Blaine.
They were first separated into groups based on which position they would play. Max wasn’t sure which he was best suited for, but the JV coach seemed to know just fine.
“Huh. Not very big. You quick on your feet?”
“I-I guess.”
“Let’s see how you do as a punt returner, then… What’s that?” he turned as Coach Robinson whispered something into his ear. He squinted for a moment and shook his head, but Coach Robinson appeared to insist on whatever it is he had said.
“Actually, kid, we’re gonna put you with the defensive backs, see how you do there. Who’s next?”
Max looked at Coach Robinson, but he had already moved down the line. He wondered why he had convinced Coach Blaine to change his position, but he supposed he wasn’t going to argue it. None of his four acquaintances were classified as defensive backs, so Max was by himself with a group of a few other freshman and a decent amount of upperclassmen.
Coach Blaine walked over to them, his hands on his hips. He was younger, with combed black hair a little facial hair, and he sounded like he was from the North. After asking for everyone’s names, he turned and looked intently at Max. A scowl formed on his lips.
“I hear you’re the son the Joe Palmer. I expect a lot out of you.”
Max swallowed hard. “Yes, Coach,” was all that escaped from his trembling lips.
Coach Blaine blew his whistle and explained their first drill: tackling. Max had been expecting speed assessments or something, but Coach knew best, he supposed. As he began his explanation, Max’s racing thoughts began to drown out his speech… This was it. This was his chance to prove himself, to show everyone, to show his father, that he wasn’t worthless as an athlete, that he could do anything he put his mind to. He’d put everything he acquired in the past two months of grueling training to work. He pictured success in his head over and over again.
Inhale, exhale. He was ready. He’d make his father proud.
The tackling drill was simple in essence. One person ran, the other had to stop the runner by any means. Then they switched. Max didn’t really know how to tackle someone, but how hard could it be to knock a guy to the ground? Plus they weren’t wearing any pads or gear, so increased weight shouldn’t be a problem.
The first pair got ready, two freshmen. The runner lined up halfway down the field and was to keep inside a decently wide lane bounded by cones. The tackler stood in the middle. The whistle blared, and the runner dashed forward. Max watched with his heart going a mile a minute, already perspiring from the anticipation. He was excited, much too excited to notice there was an odd number of freshmen.
Two more pairs of kids his age went, and Max noticed it’d be his turn next since he was the last first-year left. But, who would be his partner?
Once the last pair finished, Coach Blaine called Max and Reid to line up. Reid was an upperclassman Max recognized from workouts, and what was unnerving about all this was that he was pretty big. Max’s heart jumped into his throat.
“Don’t go easy on him now,” Coach Blaine told Reid, who nodded.
Max was to tackle first. Trying to control his trembling, he lined up in the middle of the lane and waited for the whistle to signal Reid to run. He crouched slightly when Reid began to charge toward him, and he quickly analyzed the situation in his head. It would be a fool’s move to try to take him down head-on. He saw Reid was heading off toward his left, and Max stepped accordingly. He had to get him from the side or knock him over another way… Reid was getting close, only a few yards away now. Max took a step forward, and as he had somewhat anticipated, Reid juked to the right in an amazing showcase of agility. But Max saw it coming. He sidestepped to the right and charged straight toward Reid from the side. As he reached for runner’s shoulders, trying to grab and pull him to the ground, Reid changed his direction in a way that sent the brunt of his right shoulder straight into Max.
Justin had stopped what he was doing to look over and see how Max was doing with his drills, and saw what was about to happen.
“Max, look out!” But it was too late.
For the brief moment that Max was airborne, time seemed to slow down immensely.
He relived every moment of his relentless training, of his willing himself to continue, to go on, to keep fighting, all the encouragement he received from everyone.
He relived the countless hours of running, lifting, of crying and frustration, of self-doubt.
Tears stung at his eyes, even before the shooting pain rocketed up through his left leg as he landed awkwardly on his ankle and rolled over multiple times on the turf. The little pellets of shredded tire stuck to his face and clothes, and his cries of anger and hurt filled the field. Everyone ran over to his writhing body, Justin the first to get there.
“God damn it! God damn it!” Max was screaming.
His vision was cloudy, his hearing was hazy.
“Max! Max, are you alright? Max!” he heard Justin yell.
“Holy shit, look at his ankle!” someone gasped.
Justin begged Max to calm down, and reached underneath one of his armpits, Darryl grabbed him by the other, and together they hoisted him up, letting Max’s weight rest on his good leg. Max’s screaming had stopped by then, but his was face red and tears streamed down his face.
“He’d be out for the whole season even if he did make the cut,” someone whispered behind him.
“Everyone, out of the way! Give him some space!” Justin commanded the other players, causing them to disperse a bit.
“Dad…” Max whimpered, his eyes glued to the ground. Justin frowned, cleared his throat, and kept quiet, readjusting his grip on his brother.
Max forced himself to lift up his head. Through the haziness of his vision, he picked out the spot where his father said he’d be sitting, but the spot was empty.
“Someone call an ambulance!” barked Coach Robinson.
Terminal's Note: This entry was submitted by
@Blitz, who requested that I only name them at the bottom.
1x Laugh
4x Thank
