Gym Candy (12 page)

"I mean ... do
you
want to be a football star?"

There was a challenge in his voice. "Yes," I said, loud and clear. "I want to be a football star."

His eyes brightened. "That's what I wanted to hear. You supply the willpower and I'll supply the knowledge. Together, we'll get you there."

We fell silent. I stirred my smoothie, sipped, and stirred again. When there were only a couple inches left, I remembered my supplements. I reached down into my duffel, took them out, and used the last inches of the smoothie to wash them down.

"Let me see those," Peter said.

I handed the vials to him. "Are they okay? I drink protein shakes, too."

"The protein shakes for sure are good. There's nothing wrong with this stuff either. Putting good things in your body is never a waste of money. Only..."

"Only what?"

"Nothing. Let's get going."

For the next hour, Peter worked me incredibly hard, just like he'd said he would. Bench presses, military presses, curls, rows, squats. He had me do sets in a way that was completely different from Carlson. I started by doing eight reps at a light weight, and I ended up doing only three reps, but he had me add weight for each new set so that the final three seemed a hundred times harder than the first eight. As I lifted, he took notes on everything I did.

My muscles burned in a way they'd never burned at Shilshole. He saw the pain in my face. "I got to warn you, this is a light workout. Eventually you'll lift to total failure. Then you'll know what pain is."

When the session was over, he walked outside with me. A light rain had begun falling. "That was great," I said, reaching out my hand.

"Got a minute?" he said.

"Sure."

He motioned to an overhang at the side of the building and we walked there. He scratched the back of his neck, frowned. "Look, Mick," he said, "you're going to find out from somebody in the gym, so you might as well find out from me. Those supplements you're taking? They might get you a little bigger, but just a little. If you're after serious gains, there's other stuff that
produces better results much faster, stuff that a lot of guys in the gym use."

"What other stuff?"

"You know what I'm talking about—gym candy. I started with Dianabol when I was your age. Basically they're all testosterone or testosterone derivatives."

I could feel the blood rush to my face. "You're talking about steroids, right? Those things mess you up. Every coach I've ever had has said that."

Peter shrugged."People say that Adam and Eve came from outer space. Just because people say something doesn't make it true." He paused. "You've got testicles, right? Listen to the words. Testicles ... testosterone. You take testosterone and you'll just be doubling up with something that's natural, something your body makes all the time."

I shook my head. "No. Not steroids. I'm not taking steroids."

Peter put up his hands. "Hey, that's fine, Mick. I only wanted you to know what's available. You can get plenty strong just by lifting."

I started to leave, but after a couple of steps, I turned back. "I can come tomorrow?"

"You're a member. You can come whenever you want. I've got other clients, but when I'm not busy with
one of them I'll check in with you. Our next full hour together will be Saturday. By then I'll have a series of workouts set up for you—what I want you to do each and every day of the week."

Those days I was incredibly busy. Shilshole High had gone to an online grading program, and my mom had a password that let her check every assignment with every teacher, so I couldn't let school slide. After school I drove to Popeye's and lifted, with Peter woofing at me if my form was a fraction off. In my free time, I was working jobs around the house to pay for the Jeep and the supplements.

Peter knew his stuff. My personal bests in the bench press, squats, and leg press started going up. And I could tell my body fat was going down; in the mirror I looked more muscular. But I wasn't lifting and eating right to look studly on the beach—it was all for football. Could I get the hard yards in the red zone? That would be the test.

In early May, spring football began. Carlson ran it differently from Downs. "I heard Coach Downs never
started freshmen," he told us. "Well, that's not how it is with me. I play the best players, period. If you're a junior with three letters on your jacket, and you shave twice a day, and some smooth-faced freshman whips your ass in practice, then you're collecting splinters and he's playing. Understood?"

In a way, it was a bad joke. I knew the upperclassmen at my position, knew that none of them could challenge me. But there was an eighth-grader, Dave Kane, who was definitely a player. He had good size and he was fast. His long blond hair seemed to stream behind him when he ran. When I told Drew he worried me, Drew waved him off. "Pretty boy like that, he won't like getting hit by some two-hundred-fifty-pound lineman. I bet he switches to wide receiver by Friday."

Mr. Stimes was back as trainer, but Carlson had five new assistants, older black guys just like him. Linebackers worked with one coach; linemen with another; wide receivers with another. Carlson worked directly with me and Drew and the other backs. Under his eye my technique—especially my footwork—improved. We had some full-contact drills, but not many. Mainly it was helmet but no pads, which made me itch for a real scrimmage, and I wasn't the only one. "When are we going to play?" Felipe Perez called out after four
straight days of drills.

"We'll play on our final Friday," Carlson said, "but that's it. I'm not getting anyone hurt for no reason."

When I told Peter about the scrimmage, he told me not to lift that Thursday. "Save your strength." It was good advice, but it was hard to stay home. Before Peter, weight training had always been drudgery; now I was addicted.

At last it was Friday—full-contact four-quarter scrimmage. Carlson put Drew and me on the Black team. When I looked around at the other guys with us, I saw nothing but first-stringers. Across from us, on the Red team, was the first-string defense.

It was exactly the test I wanted.

After the kickoff, Drew and I and the rest of the Black team trotted onto the field. On first down, I took the handoff and worked toward the sideline, stretching the defense, my eyes searching for a place to cut back. I found it, turned upfield, and took three or four strides before somebody hit me. I went down, but not before I'd smacked him back a couple yards. I'd gained seven.

I wanted the ball again, but Carlson had Drew throw over the middle to our tight end, Bo Jones. Drew's pass was right in his hands, but Jones dropped it. On third down Drew threw another pass, this one to DeShawn,
running a post pattern down the middle of the field. DeShawn was open, but Drew's pass was about two yards too long. We had to punt, and the Red team's offense took the field. I trotted off, my mind working. One carry for seven yards—a good start. Only, why hadn't Carlson called my number on second or third down? Why the passes?

The Red offense was going up against the second-string defense, and those guys weren't as good. Dave Kane gained four yards on first down, two on second down, and then thirteen on a third-down draw play that caught the defense by surprise.

Three plays—and Carlson had called Kane's number three times. After a screen pass, Kane bulled his way for twelve yards straight up the middle. Drew had said he was soft, but he wasn't looking that way to me. Two downs later—on a third-and-three play—he took a short pass in the flat and with his speed turned it into a thirty-eight-yard touchdown. As Kane trotted off the field, Carlson was clapping his hands. "Way to run the ball! Way to run the ball!"

For the rest of that scrimmage, a calculator was running in my head, keeping track of both Kane's yards and my own. In the middle of the third quarter, he had me by thirty yards. Then, late in the fourth quarter, he
took a handoff straight up the middle and bounced off the pile, and the next thing anyone knew he was racing down the sideline—sixty-five yards for a touchdown.

"One more series," Carlson shouted as Drew and I and the other first-stringers headed onto the field after the kickoff. "Let's kick some butt," I said in the huddle, "go out in glory." The guys nodded, but the fire was out. They were tired and wanted the scrimmage to end.

Carlson let Drew call all the plays on that drive, and Drew called my number. I gained eight yards on my first carry, a dozen more on the next one. "Keep giving me the ball," I pleaded, even though I was exhausted, and he did. Five yards, seven yards, four yards.

We drove down to the fourteen-yard line. On first down, I took a pitchout and broke for the corner. I made it and cut upfield, and there was the end zone in front of me. All I had to do was churn out those final yards and I'd have matched Kane—outplayed him, really, because I'd faced the first-team defense.

I never saw who hit me. All I know is that he got me from behind and that as he brought me down, he pounded his fist on the ball. It came loose and rolled slowly toward the end zone. I reached for it, but it was just beyond my fingertips. And then some cornerback
scooped it up and started running. I twisted around to see Drew dive for him, but miss, near the twenty. Then I watched, helpless, as he took my fumble the length of the field for a touchdown. When he crossed the goal line, Carlson blew his whistle. "All right, men, that's it."

I dragged myself into the locker room and listened to Carlson tell us how we'd done okay but that we had to do better. "We can't practice as a team until August," he said. "I wish we could, but the rules are the rules. Until then, you guys keep in shape. Work out with one another. The field is yours in the morning, every morning, all summer long. And that weight room will be open every day for the rest of the school year, and Monday through Friday in the summer, too. That's it. Dismissed."

I started for the door, but before I reached it, Carlson called me back. "Mick, you ever play another position?"

"Not really," I said. "I've always been a running back. Why?"

"Just wondering."

I walked out, numb. It was part exhaustion, part failure, and part shame. Being beaten out by Drager had been terrible, but at least he was older than I was. But Kane? Kane was two years younger. And another position? I didn't know any other position. You've got
to have passion to live through the pain of playing football. My dreams were a running back's dreams—cutting back, finding the hole, breaking into the open, running free.

I drove home and showered. My mom came in from work and fixed dinner. Afterward, I climbed upstairs to my room and sat on my bed, the lights off. I heard the phone ring, and then I heard my mom knock on my door. "Mick, it's your father. He's on commercial break."

I took the phone from her. "So? How'd the scrimmage go?" he asked.

"Fine. It went fine."

"Are you first team?"

"I don't know for sure."

"Come on, Mick. Are you first team?"

I paused. "I think I am."

His excitement came through the phone. "That's great. I'll warn Lion that I'll be taking off Friday nights next fall."

Saturday morning, I was at Popeye's at nine sharp. "How'd the scrimmage go?" Peter asked as soon as he saw me.

"Could we talk?"

"Sure," he said. "Come into the back."

I followed him to the meeting room behind the main counter. The table had a bowl of bananas in the center. "Not so good?" he asked as he sat, taking a banana out of the bowl.

I sat across from him. "Tell me about that stuff again."

"What stuff?"

"You know."

"The Dianabol? What do you want to know?"

"You're sure it's safe?"

"I took it for a year. I do different things now, but I never had any problems."

"And I'd notice a difference?"

"Yeah, definitely. You'll be able to lift more, and you'll
be able to lift longer. People know steroids make you stronger. But stamina—that's where they help, bigtime."

"Could I take them for a while, say until school starts, and then stop?"

He nodded."Guys go off and on steroids all the time."

"Are you sure?" I said. "I don't want to get addicted to anything."

"Mick, it's like this. Once guys get going on the candy, they like the results. They keep taking steroids because they don't want to stop, not because they can't stop. But if someday you decide to quit, I promise you that you're not going to roll around on the ground crying and screaming like some wild-eyed heroin user desperate for a fix."

I took a deep breath and exhaled. "How much would it cost?"

"About the same as what you're spending on the stuff you're taking now."

"No more?"

"Maybe ten, twenty bucks a month more."

"Should I keep taking the stuff I'm taking now?"

"The protein shakes are good, but dump the pills."

"How soon could I start?"

"I've got product in my locker right now. You could
start today."

"Today?" I said. "You mean right now?"

"Why not?"

I took out my wallet and opened it up. "I've only got twenty dollars with me."

"That's okay. Twenty will get you going." He paused. "Do you want to do this, or not?"

I swallowed. "I want to do it," I said, and then I slid him the twenty dollars.

"Wait here," he said, and he left the room.

When he came back, he sat down next to me, opened a plastic vial, and shook out four white tablets that were about three times as thick as aspirin. "Guys just call it D-bol."

I looked at them, but I didn't pick them up. "So I take these and I get bigger?"

He shook his head. "Not that easy. You have to work out even more than before. But it's better, because the results are bang, right there."

"So do I just take them right now?"

"Slow down a second. There are things you need to know. You have to be careful about dosage and about how long you're on it—otherwise D-bol will do some gross things to you."

"Gross like what?"