Authors: Robert Lipsyte
The pink star glued to the outside of his hall locker didn't register until he opened the locker. Taped to the inside of the door over his class and football schedules was a computer printout of a porn picture, a muscular young guy naked except for a football helmet. He was grinning and cradling himself, just the way Ramp and the linemen had on Raider Pride Night. A cartoon balloon drawn over his head in purple lipstick contained the words “Yo, 80, this make you hard?”
Matt slammed the locker shut and scratched off as much of the pink star as he could. What was left looked like shaving nicks.
It didn't seem like something Mandy would do, he thought. As if I really know her. But Chris said he saw her at the locker yesterday. Matt imagined finding Mandy and jamming the bitch into his locker, banging it shut on her
red-painted claws. He took a long breath and swallowed the rage back, the way Monty had taught him. Then he pushed it into a far corner of his mind.
He could still do that.
He could always do that. Focus. Aim a steady eye on the goal ahead.
It got him through the day, into practice.
Ramp said, “You and Missy Chrissie have a good night together?”
Matt snapped, “Get your head out of your ass and into the game.”
Ramp blinked.
Chris didn't show up at practice, and Matt forgot about him after the first hit. He had a great practice. When a JV cornerback on the scout team tried to force Matt out of bounds after a nice over-the-shoulder catch, he leveled him. The kid hadn't gone for a hard-ass tackle, more like a sheepdog herding a lamb, but Matt turned in on him and rammed a shoulder into his breastbone.
Crunch.
The kid went down groaning, and Matt raced down the sideline to the end zone. That woke up the team. Corndog gave him a fist. On the next play, Ramp decked Hagen, making a hole for Tyrell. Everybody was fired up. Matt felt better. Focus. It's always been the answer. Don't let anybody distract you. He was sorry to hear the whistle.
He slapped Tyrell's pads. “Great practice.”
Tyrell just looked at him and walked away. That wasn't like him. Don't think about it.
At dinner, Dad said, “So did Koslo deliver?”
“What?”
“The Marin deal. Why you went to the stadium.”
Why does he always know more than I do? “Why?”
Dad smirked. “Blowhard said he was going to help the kid with college if he stayed on the team. Know anything about it?”
So that was what Chris couldn't tell me. Koslo must have offered him a scholarship to keep quiet about Raider Pride Night and sworn him to secrecy about it. Not just to stay on the team. Wouldn't Dad love to hear the real story.
Matt shrugged. “Dunno.”
Dad waited until Junie was busy feeding Romo from his plate. He lowered his voice. “Anything to what the kid's mother says?”
“About what?” Sometimes you can feel so smart acting dumb.
“About something happening to him in camp?”
“Like what?”
“I'm asking you.” He was annoyed. “Can't you give me a straight answer?”
“Ask a straight question.”
Junie piped up. “How can a question be straight?”
“Don't feed that dog off your plate,” said Dad.
Junie looked confused.
“Leave him alone,” said Matt.
“Don't you talk to me in that tone,” said Dad.
What are you going to do about it? He tasted the words, salty and crunchy, but didn't let them out of his mouth.
Mom said, “Does the Marin boy date?”
“Nobody âdates,'” said Matt.
“Felice Miller heard a rumor about him getting into trouble at Bergen Central with another boy.”
Lisa's mom, thought Matt. Had Pete told Lisa about camp? They'd been going out since eighth grade. Dating. “Where'd she hear that?”
“Vikki Heinz.”
Who heard it from Freddy. Who heard it from Ramp.
“Man,” said Dad. “Some people have too much time on their hands.” He hated it when people knew things he didn't know. He looked at his watch. “Homework, mister. Michigan and Notre Dame are going to want to see midterm grades. Make sure you don't slack off during the season.”
“Notre Dame?” said Mom. “Don't you have to be Irish Catholic?”
Dad put her down with a snorting laugh. “You can be a Black Hebe if you're Heisman material.” He fired a forefinger at Matt. “Upstairs.”
He was glad to escape.
He never would have opened the e-mail if he hadn't
liked the idea of a recruiting letter slipping past Dad. The e-mail was from
COACHRIGHT
69.
A picture came right up of Chris and Matt screwing.
The heads didn't fit the bodies, which were doing it doggie style. Matt was on top.
He deleted it, then brought it back. The guy on top had a black body. The heads had been crudely pasted on. No webmaster did this. Still, it was more than Mandy could have done. A friend of hers? Someone else altogether?
He felt nauseous but popped a Vic anyway. Then he locked his bedroom door and dialed up Aunt Thumb, the Back Pack's favorite porn site, teen guys and older women. It always aroused him.
Nothing tonight. What's up? Not up. Too tired, stressed? Too gay?
He fell into a restless sleep. Driving Sarah's car with the No. 80 through the maze, the carwash brushes slapping against the windshield, up the stairs, with Romo howling, and right out a third floor window, trying to make the car fly. Fighting the stick shift, a little white bat, but the ground was coming up fast and the hard thump of the bass beat out of the CD player was pounding his skull. Pounding.
It was Junie pounding. Morning. He had left the bedroom door locked overnight. Time for school.
In the hallways, he could shut out the sound, but not
the look of laughter, the grinning, the eye rolling, the open mouths. Had they all gotten the e-mail from
COACHRIGHT
69? Did they all know about the picture in his locker? Even teachers were giving him those knowing half smiles, the big stud couldn't get it up for a horny slut. He felt like smashing their faces in. He couldn't wait for practice to start.
Tyrell tried to talk to him as they jogged out onto the field, but Matt brushed him off. Now he wants to talk to me. Forget about it. Enough little plucking fingers in my mind. Got to stay clear.
When he told Dorman he wanted to try a few plays at cornerback, the coach nearly peed in his pants. On the first play, he snatched a pass out of Heller's hands; on the second, he hit Pete so hard he coughed up the ball. Coach Mac ran over, whacking his clipboard, “Way to go! Way to go!”
Another great practice.
He avoided Tyrell, didn't shower after practice, and drove straight to the gym.
The ironheads razzed him about last week's game, but one of them came over to spot when he started lifting alone. As tired as he was, rage fueled him. On sheer will, he pressed three hundred pounds.
“Easy, man,” said the ironhead, looking down at him. “You don't need to crush the football, just kiss it.”
He almost dropped the bar before he realized the
ironhead had said “catch,” not “kiss.”
Am I going nuts?
Tyrell was waiting for him in the parking lot outside the gym, leaning against the Jeep's driver door. No way to avoid him now. But why didn't he come into the gym? Does he think I'm gay?
“Was it you?” said Tyrell.
“Fuck you, too,” he said before his mind registered the words. “Was it me what?”
Tyrell's face was twisted. “I ever sell you weed?”
“What?”
“Listen to me.” He seemed darker. “Did Tyrell Williams ever sell Matt Rydek marijuana?”
“What's going on?”
Tyrell screamed in his face, “Answer the fucking question!”
“No. You've like given me six hits, lifetime. Free. Why?”
Tyrell closed his eyes and leaned back against the Jeep. “Cops pull me out of class. Want to know if I'm dealing. Say the weed they found in that locker came from me. Say they have a witness, top stud on the team, like Captain America, ready to testify he bought weed from me.”
Top stud? The one on top? He had to wrench his mind back to Tyrell. “You thought that was me?”
“Don't know what to think, man.” Tyrell's eyeballs
were red. “Motherfuckers are squeezing me.”
“Why?”
“Why you think? That thing gets out, you're gonna see the perfect shit storm. Everybody's fucked. So they find a way to tell Tyrell he better keep his mouth shut. You mean they haven't gotten to Captain America yet?”
He could visualize himself shutting down, an old trick he usually saved for games, but now he used it just to get through another day. Closing doors, shutting windows, pulling drapes across the glass. Look straight ahead. Narrow the ears, too. Grandpa used to turn off his hearing aid when he didn't want to hear any more of Grandma's babbling about the neighbors, the kids, the other members of the church choir.
If it's not about football, don't see it, don't hear it, don't touch it. Delete it. If it's not about football, it's spam. Smile and keep moving. He looked right through Sarah in the cafeteria. She stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth open.
He ripped through Friday's practice. They were supposed to be tapering off for Saturday's game against Southwood, sure to be a physical game against one of the toughest teams in the conference, but they were psyched,
hitting hard, following Matt's lead. The coaches were afraid someone would get hurt, but they didn't want to turn off the energy. Chris didn't show up for practice again, although he dressed for the game and sat on the bench again. What's his game? Nobody talked to him.
Matt was so wired, he remembered the Southwood game only as a personal highlight reel. He'd never been in the zone so long and so completely. Might as well have been playing himself in a video game. Dad must have been screaming his lungs out. But Matt never heard him. Or anyone else in the crowd.
His seventy-yard touchdown run came on the third play of the game. Hunkies go long. His over-the-head one-handed catch in the end zone came toward the end of the second quarter. By that time they were up 21â3 and he was heading toward the school single-game yardage record. At the start of the second half, he persuaded Coach Mac to let him shift to cornerback on defense. He said he'd seen a way to beat their top wide receiver. He picked the ball out of his hands on the Nearmont forty-two and went all the way behind Ramp's big number 47. Ramp blocked like a tank. For a moment in the end zone, as they hugged, he felt something like love for Ramp, for what they had done together. Then he saw the smirk on the big face and clicked back into his icy focus.
The coaches gave Matt the game ball, and he trotted to the stands to give it to Junie, who hugged it like a baby.
Matt thought he should be feeling something after a game like that, but he was so calm inside, he felt hollow. While he was dressing, the froggy reporter came over.
“Great game, Matt. Were you like inspired today?”
“I had terrific blocking. And Brody put the ball right in my hands.” Something Jerry Rice might have said after a game, he thought.
“It was like you had to prove something. You were playing out of your skull.” The kid looked very serious. No dummy. Better be careful around him.
“I was in the zone.”
The reporter brought his face close up under Matt's. “You know, like sometimes athletes play better when they're blocking out their personal lives.”
What's he know? “What's the question?”
“Is what happened at camp still on everybody's mind?”
One of the managers came over. “Coach doesn't want you in here, Barry. You don't have athletic department credentials.”
“We could do this by e-mail, Matt.” As the manager started to push him out of the locker room, he handed Matt his card. “The
Nearmont Eye
is independent. Our motto is âUncensored news you can trust.'”
This time, Matt put the card in his pocket. Tricky sonuvabitch. Check out the
Nearmont Eye
sometime.
He popped Vics and slugged down beers that night as
he made the rounds of the parties. Pete volunteered to drive so he could celebrate. A junior girl he had danced with at the second party showed up at the fourth. They went upstairs. She was as drunk as he was. It was quick. No problem. I'm okay.
He slept into late Sunday afternoon. Dad woke him for dinner. When he said he wasn't hungry, Dad said, “A Rutgers coach is coming by for dessert and coffee.”
“I don't want to go there.” Way too close. You'd be on my case twenty-four/seven.
“Don't want you to. Might be leverage to sweeten a Big Ten deal.”
When Junie took his dinner downstairs to the rec room to watch a CyberPup movie, Dad said, “What's with Tyrell?”
“What do you mean?” Tyrell had a good game, Matt remembered dimly, but hadn't showed up at any of the parties, which was not like him.
“Is he bringing dope from the city?”
“Who says that?”
“Cops talked to him. If he's busted, that's not good for us.”
“Larry!” Mom shook her head. “What about good for him?”
“You need a strong runner to keep the secondary guessing so they can't key in on Matt,” said Dad. “Too bad the Marin kid punked.”
“The gay boy?” said Mom.
“He's not gay, not a punk,” Matt blurted.
“He's running some kind of number,” said Dad. “Claims he's sick.”
“He got hurt.”
Mom and Dad exchanged glances. What did they know? Mom said, “Vikki heard that his mother's angry at the world and wants Nearmont to pay for her pain.”
“It's called blackmail,” said Dad.
“What if he did get hurt?” said Matt.
“Suck it upâhe's supposed to be a football player,” said Dad. He looked at his wristwatch. “Rutgers coach here any minute. Jody, better if Junie stays downstairs.”
“Why?” said Matt.
Dad's mask slipped on. “This is for you, Matt. Someday you'll understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Recruiter sees Junie, might wonder about you.”
“I'm not ashamed of him,” said Matt.
“People don't think that way anymore, Larry,” said Mom.
“Football coaches do. Let's get Matt into college, please?”
They ate silently until the doorbell rang.
The Rutgers assistant was a big, friendly young guy who asked for a second helping of Mom's pie and Dad's opinion on the Jets' secondary. He had them in his
pocket by the time he turned his attention to Matt. “That was some game yesterday, Matt. So let me ask ya, the pass-play or the interception: which lit up your tree?”
Been there, pal. “Winning the game.”
He hooted and slapped the table. “Why did I know you'd say that? Some boy you got there, Mr. Rydek. Rutgers is the perfect fit. We got the big three: geographics, academics, athletics.”
Matt tuned out as the coach told them that Rutgers was near enough for friends and family to come out and root. A great university dedicated to a quality education. And the new head coach had been the receivers coach for the Dallas Cowboys, was into a passing game built around a classic quarterback throwing to big, fast wide receivers. The perfect place to showcase Matt if he decided to try for the NFL beforeâwink to Momâlaw school or medical school.
He was winding down when he suddenly turned to Dad and said, “Heard good things about Rydek Catering.”
“We've been lucky.” Dad playing humble hero.
“You know, the athletic department gets a lot of alumni and corporate requests for catering referrals, especially now we've got the luxury boxes. That something you might be interested in?”
“Might be.” Dad was trying not to sound eager.
“Give me a bunch of your business cards.”
The coach was at the door shaking hands when Junie
and Romo clomped upstairs from the rec room. “Hi,” said Junie.
“Hi. What's your name?”
“Lawrence Michael Rydek Jr., but you can call me Junie. And this is Romo. She was named for Bill Romanowski, Dad's favorite player.”
Dad shot Mom a shut-him-up look, but the coach was laughing and clapping his hands. “That Romo looks like a smart, tough dog to me. Junie, soon's I get back to school, I'm gonna send you a Scarlet Knights T-shirt and cap, and a Rutgers dog collar for Romo. But you have to make me a promise.”
“Sure.” Junie was bouncing on his heels.
“When you come to Matt's games at Rutgers next year, you'll wear the cap.”
“Awwww-right.”
The coach waved and made his big exit. Division One performance, thought Matt.
“He's very nice.” Mom laughed.
“Slick,” said Dad. “I'd like to see a catering contract in writing.”