Raiders Night (4 page)

The kids up front cheered as the bus pulled into the old Army base and they stampeded off, yelling. The seniors waited until the aisle was clear before they even stood up. Matt looked out a window. Nothing had changed. Good. Dark, piney woods surrounded a large field with goalposts. There were two tan wooden barracks buildings, each with a latrine and shower room; a mess hall; a half dozen small cabins; and a small redbrick administration building. Supposedly, this had been a secret training camp for Special Forces reserve units back in the 1960s. It was miles from the nearest town.

“Welcome to Afghanistan,” said Tyrell.

Pete and Brody groaned and cursed, but Matt knew they were happy, too. Just us and ball.

Outside, in the hot, airless twilight, he felt the sandy soil crunching under his flip-flops and working its way
into the soft skin between his toes. It was a comforting discomfort, the start of good, familiar pain.

Ramp was standing importantly with his clipboard at the baggage compartments, giving out bunk assignments. Everyone except the seniors would be in double-deckers on the barracks floor. The managers were handing out bags of sandwiches, fruit, cookies, and bottles of water. No hot meal tonight. Early sack-out, up at six
A.M
.

“Captain Rydek. Single in Barracks Two.” Ramp grinned. They'd made it. Ramp would have the single in Barracks One. The singles had once been platoon sergeants' quarters. The other seniors would share doubles, old corporals' quarters. Being captain means a lot more to Ramp than to me, Matt thought. Ramp loved the power. Even thought he deserved it. Probably couldn't wait to start running the nightly games, especially Raider Pride Night.

Chris Marin was waiting for his assignment, his duffel bag on his shoulder, tapping a sandal impatiently. He had a cocky expression on his face, but Matt noticed he looked lost. No friends here. He thought about saying something but decided not to. Can't baby a football player. Got to learn to suck it up. He remembered coming here for the first time freshman year, feeling lost, trapped, even though he had friends. By the end of that first camp, after getting through Raider Pride Night, he had felt at home.

Managers dragged out the seniors' duffel bags. Ramp snapped, “Marin, caddy for Rydek and Heinz.”

Chris did a slow turn. “What?”

“You deaf as well as stupid? Freshmen carry seniors' bags first night.”

“I'm not a freshman.”

Hegan and Boda came over grinning, smelling trouble.

Matt hoisted his bag on his shoulder. “Nobody touches this baby but me.” He shoved Brody. “Let's go.” He waited until Brody picked up his bag, then headed toward the barracks. He didn't look back.

“Texas Hold 'Em tonight, my room,” said Brody. He was bunking with Pete.

The inside of the barracks looked the same, a huge room with two rows of double-decker bunks on a splintery floor. The shower room smelled damp and moldy. There were still no partitions between the toilets. At his first camp, Matt couldn't sit on a toilet while other guys were around. He waited until the middle of the night to go. By the second summer he could take a dump and hold a conversation. He got to like it.

He was glad to have a single, an escape from the endless jabbing chatter. Might even skip the poker game tonight. Brody and Pete were into it—they'd been watching poker on TV all summer and playing online. Ramp and Hagen played, too.

Matt picked at the food, listened to some tunes, dozed
as the twilight darkened. He could hear the younger guys yelling and tumbling around in the big room. Let them get it out, the last night they'll have any extra energy. The coaches will come and shut them down soon enough. He stretched out on the bed. A little early for sleep, but he felt tired, from last night, the booze, the bus ride. Someone tapped on his door, jiggled the knob. Glad I remembered to bolt it. Probably Brody, but wouldn't he have banged on the door? He felt himself slipping away.

A moment later, someone was banging. “Drop your cock, pick up your socks, it's a Raider morning.” Sounded like Coach Kornbauer, the one they called Corndog behind his back.

Outside on the sandy old parade grounds, Matt jogged in place as the team stumbled out for the morning run. At first he stayed in the middle of the pack with Pete, Tyrell, and Brody. Then he remembered that while there was more air at dawn than at twilight here, you still needed to run near the front of the pack to feel it on your face. He led them to the front, where Ramp and the linemen were setting a slow pace.

“Too slow.” Chris moved alongside Matt with a nice, easy stride for a heavyweight. Matt wondered if he had tapped on his door last night.

“He…your…bitch?” gasped Ramp.

“What's your problem?” said Chris. “Besides breathing.”

Matt swallowed his laugh. Ramp was a captain, after all. But the meatbag couldn't jog and talk. Ramp cursed and dropped back a few steps.

Matt yelled, “Raider kick,” and picked up the pace, leading the Back Pack past the linemen. Chris stayed with them. Tyrell glided alongside Matt. “Fre-quent Fly-er, let's show these white boys how to do it.”

Side by side, they pulled away from the rest of the team, bringing their knees high, stretching out their stride, feeling their muscles cooking. They didn't need to talk. They finished the laps around the field so far ahead of the team, they had the bathroom to themselves and were first on the chow line.

“We in a hurry for this?” asked Tyrell as the managers dumped dry balls of scrambled eggs, blackened bacon, and burned toast on their trays. There was water, juice, milk, peanut butter and jelly, yogurt, protein powders, and vitamins on the tables.

Brody plopped down beside them. “You run like that again, only the Mafia kid touches the ball this season.”

“Mafia kid?” said Matt.

“Ramp says Chris's old man's in the slammer for a contract hit,” said Brody.

“Tyrell likes that,” said Tyrell. “A gangster blocking for you is double pro-tection.”

Pete and Patel sat down at the table, then Heller and Conklin, the other senior wide receiver and running back.
They all complained about the pace he'd set. It was only the first day. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt spotted Chris with his tray in the middle of the mess hall, looking for an empty seat. Matt was relieved when he sat down with some freshmen.

Coach Mac came by and dropped a hand on Matt's shoulder. “Way to go, Matt. Don't let 'em cruise. Offense meets right after breakfast. Got some new plays you'll like.”

“More quarterback keeps this year, Coach?” said Brody.

“Dream on, Heinzie,” said Coach Mac.

The meeting was in a corner of the field. Matt noticed that Chris sat apart from the junior varsity freshmen and sophomores, closer to the varsity. Coach Kornbauer, the offensive coordinator, had set up a large white plastic board on an easel. Ramp and the center, Villanueva, were holding it steady against a hot wind while Corndog marked Xs and Os. He was some kind of technical guru. Nobody on the team had ever come close to beating him in Madden football.

“Stay in the now,” said Coach Mac. “We're gonna walk through these plays today so we can run them in pads tomorrow. I want to emphasize that we're all on the same page here, winning games. As a team. Coach K?”

Corndog called the play the Triplex Option Series. He tried to make it sound complicated, but it seemed to come
down to the receivers, the tight end, and the running backs all faking until the quarterback released the ball. The fullback would block. The only real difference, Matt thought, was using the tight end as a primary ball carrier. Ramp had usually been used as a blocker. He wanted to run with the ball and catch passes, but he had hard, stiff hands.

“Okay, let's try option one,” said Corndog. “Heinz, Rydek, Williams, Torelli. Chris Marin at tight end, Rampolski at fullback.”

There was a gasp at that. Brody widened his eyes at Matt. Putting the kid ahead of Ramp was pretty radical.

On the snap, Matt went deep, Tyrell clutched an invisible ball to his chest, and Marin ran up the middle with the ball.

“That's the idea,” said Corndog. “It's all about forcing the defense to make some wrong choices.”

“Decent linebacker's gonna read it, stuff the tight end easy,” said Ramp.

“Not if we do it right,” said Corndog.

“Not if I do it,” said Chris.

There were some jeers and whistles at that. Ramp puckered his lips and made a sucking sound.

They walked through a dozen plays before Coach Mac nodded at Corndog and waved over some linemen.

“No hitting, half speed,” said Corndog. “Ramp, go to middle linebacker.”

Brody faked a handoff to Pete before firing a short pass to Chris. Nice soft hands. Ramp roared in. Chris feinted left, then spun away, leaving Ramp standing like a fool, hands out.

Chris kept running, picking up speed down the length of the field. He cut and juked around linemen pounding the sleds, then crossed the goal line with the ball in one hand over his head. He moonwalked a few steps.

Ramp watched him, frozen. The coaches were laughing, but Tyrell was shaking his head at Matt. You don't make Ramp look bad. Captain Potatohead never forgets. Be a long camp for the kid.

By the end of the first day, Chris was the buzz of camp. He outran everyone except the senior backs, and he lifted with the linemen. His agility through the strings was unusual for someone his size. He was good, Matt thought, but he flaunted it as if he weren't so sure. Never walked when he could strut, never talked when he could shout. He ran drills like they were conference games, which pissed off the veterans who weren't in shape yet.

“Better get mustard for that hot dog,” said Brody.

Ramp laughed a little too loudly. “And some tea bags.”

Only Boda and Hagen snickered.

“That's over,” snapped Tyrell.

“Who elected you?” said Ramp.

“Got to hand it to him,” said Pete. “Puts out a hundred and ten percent.”

“Puts out for you?” said Ramp, making a kissing sound.

“Least he showed up in shape,” said Tyrell, pointing to the roll of flesh overlapping Ramp's shorts.

“You want a piece, little bro?” Ramp grabbed his crotch. “Tea for two.”

“Water break,” said Matt, throwing an arm across Tyrell and steering him away.

“Someday Tyrell is gonna take a piece of that fat cracker,” said Tyrell.

“C'mon, man, we're a team,” said Brody, catching up. “Don't let's fight over some new kid.”

“Not about him,” said Tyrell.

At dinner that night, Chris was the only one who seemed to have any energy. Or was he faking it, making a show? Matt remembered Dad pointing out woozy boxers on TV grinning and dancing to pretend they were still dangerous. Never let them know you're hurting. Matt watched Chris, wondering why the kid fascinated him. He was a prospect, all right, but there was something about him that made Matt uneasy.

Everybody crashed that night. Brody didn't even mention poker. Matt didn't remember falling asleep, and then it was morning, and the coaches were banging cans and ringing cowbells.

The second day, in pads, Hagen managed to drop Chris with a knee-high tackle. The kid went down hard on his shoulder. But he bounced right back up. Shook it off. Grinned. Didn't rub.

On the next play, Brody hit him with a little buttonhook. Chris juked Hagen and Boda out of their shoes, left them looking stupid, and almost made the goal line before Ramp ran him out of bounds. Chris spun away from Ramp's shove and danced on the sideline. Corndog screamed at Chris to cut it out, to show some Raider class, but the other coaches were smothering laughs.

Before lunch, Coach Mac pulled Matt aside. “Tone him down.” Like there was only one him in camp. “I don't want to break his spirit, but he's trying too hard.”

“I'll talk to him.”

Coach Mac looked at Matt sharply, as if he'd heard the reluctance in his voice. “Captain's job. You got a problem?”

“No.”

“I know you can see the big picture.” He put a hand on Matt's shoulder. “This kid can help you put points on the scoreboard. Block for you. Make it hard for defenses to key in on you and Tyrell. He isn't going to take anything away from you.”

Which is why he didn't ask Ramp to talk to him, thought Matt. Kid's going to take Ramp's job on offense.

“We're all on the same page here,” said Matt. “Winning games.”

“What I want to hear.” The coach slapped his butt. Coaches never hear your sarcasm unless they want to.

At lunch, Brody wanted to brag about the buttonhook
but Tyrell interrupted to ask Matt what Coach said.

“Wants me to tell the kid to chill.”

Tyrell moved his hands to a rap beat. “Better tell / the kid to chill / if you don't want / the Ramp to kill.”

Good advice. Ramp shot glares at Chris through the afternoon, daring him to put a move on. Ramp looked like a dog waiting for a hamburger, salivating for the chance to bite. Going to be interesting once we get into one-on-one drills, Matt thought. Better talk to Chris before the Raider Games start.

It was too late. As they staggered into the mess hall for dinner, Ramp clambered up on a table and shook his helmet overhead. “Senior Service tonight. Senior picks a freshman's name, to carry his tray to the table and bus it when he's done.” He dropped the helmet into Hagen's hands and the lineman lumbered over to the senior table.

“How come Ramp's in charge of this?” said Pete.

Matt shrugged. “Not my thing.”

Brody plucked a scrap of torn paper and read “Lee.” A skinny little ninth-grader ran over, grinning.

Matt remembered doing this his first year, scared but proud to be part of the team. Wasn't so bad. In fact, the senior whose tray he carried got him started working out at Monty's gym. By the time Matt was a sophomore, he was on the juice.

Matt picked Brett Rogers, the kid brother of a running back who had graduated. Nearmont always seemed
to have terrific black running backs. Brett hustled up as if he had been waiting all his life for this moment. “Hey, Matt.”

“How's DuShayne doing at Marshall?”

“Great. Might start. You want chicken or lasagna?”

“Marin,” said Ramp, before Matt could answer. The second time he called the name, the mess hall quieted. “Let's go.”

Chris threw a lazy look over his shoulder at Ramp but he didn't move. “You know I'm a sophomore.”

“It's your first year at camp. Grab a tray.”

Chris didn't move. Nobody moved. Matt thought, I'm the one who should be moving. I'm a captain. The coach told me to talk to the kid. Have to do something. Right now. What?

“Move your ass.” Ramp's voice boomed when he let it loose.

Matt knew what to do. He was inside the zone, that calm, hushed place where time stood still, where everything was clear. It was the same feeling he sometimes had in a game when the vibes were coming off Brody and he sensed without looking that the ball was heading right into his hands. He saw everything in the mess hall sharply; the team frozen, the coaches watching warily from their corner table.

He strolled across the mess hall. “Take a walk with me, Marin.”

He turned his back on Chris and continued his stroll out of the mess hall. He wasn't absolutely sure Chris would follow him out until he heard footsteps behind him crunching over the sandy soil.

It was still hot and bright. He walked to the edge of the field before he turned. Chris was right behind him, grinning. “Ramp owes you one. I woulda smeared the queer.”

“Don't be so sure.” Matt kept his voice flat, low. “Coach wanted me to talk to you.”

“What about?” Chris's shoulders came up, tense.

“You expect to make this team?”

“You kidding, I—”

“You make your own teammates look bad, they'll make sure you don't.”

“How they gonna stop me?”

“Figure it out. You need people to watch your back in this game, not step on your ankle in a pileup.”

Chris blinked. After a while, he said, “I'm nobody's bitch.”

Matt relaxed. Got him. “Listen to your captains and your coaches. Lose that show-off shit. Pay your dues like we all did.” He waited until Chris nodded, then punched his arm. “You're a football player, Chris. Let 'em bring it. You can take it.”

He turned sharply and headed back to the mess hall. After a moment, he heard Chris's crunching footsteps
hurrying to catch up. They walked into the mess hall together. It looked like no one had moved. Ramp was waiting, smirking. Like I went out and fetched his bitch. Fuck that. I'm no bitch, either.

Brett Rogers was standing where Matt had left him, on the chow line with an empty tray.

“Brett,” snapped Matt. “Serve Ramp. Marin. Grab a tray. You serve me.”

Chris had no trouble with that. “Chicken or lasagna, Cap'n Matt?” With a cocky flourish he threw a paper towel over his arm like a fancy waiter and carried the tray on upraised fingertips to the table. Matt noticed that the coaches and most of the players were laughing, but Ramp was staring in silence. Finally Ramp shook his head and gave Brett his order.

“Way to go,” said Tyrell when he came back to the table. Pete gave him a thumbs-up.

He knew he should be feeling good, but his head hurt. Not his thing. He ate quickly and went back to his room for a Vicodin before the video session. He dug out his cell. A dozen messages, all from Mandy. Shit. He was deciding whether or not to call back when the cell vibrated. Her ID came up on the screen. Might as well get it over with. “Eighty.”

“What's going on?”

He was confused. Why would she care about Ramp and Chris, even know about them? “The usual, two-a-days—”

“Don't. How could you—” She sounded like she'd been crying.

“What?”

“—embarrass me like that—”

“Like what?” Somebody was rapping on his door.

“—with a cheap slut—”

“What are you talking—” In mid sentence, he got it.

“Movie night. C'mon.” Brody had his head in the room.

“Gotta go.”

“You asshole.” She hardly ever used that kind of language. “Don't you dare—”

“Later.” He snapped the cell shut and buried it in his duffel.

“Mandy?” said Brody.

“Found out about what's-her-face.”

“Always a mistake,” said Brody, “to answer the phone here. You lose your edge.”

“Don't worry about it.” Matt led the way out of the barracks to the brick administration building. Have to deal with her when we get back from camp, he thought, but I don't even have to think about her now.

For a half hour the team watched a cassette of last season's worst blunders: dropped balls, busted plays, missed assignments. The AV guy had mixed in a sitcom laugh track and some movie comedy music. Some of it was pretty funny, especially the dumb expression on Hagen's
face after blowing a block, watching the play stampede past him.

Brody shouted out, “Wait for me, Mr. Frodo.”

Nobody was spared—Brody's interceptions, Tyrell's fumbles, a missed tackle by Ramp, and Matt, at safety, being dragged five yards by a ball carrier. It was a third-night ritual. Let off some steam. As usual, though, most of the worst mistakes were made by guys who had graduated.

When the lights came on, Coach Mac had a fire burning in a metal wastebasket. The other coaches stood in a semicircle behind him. Coach Mac held the cassette over the flames.

“Gentlemen, this is the past. To get to the future, we need to get past the past. We learn from it and rise from its ashes.” He dropped the cassette into the wastebasket and stepped back as flames whooshed up. Matt knew the cassette had been doused in lighter fluid. The freshmen gasped.

Ramp jumped up. “Raiders Rule!”

They all stood up chanting, “Raiders Rule, Raiders Rule,” until the flames died down and Coach Mac dismissed them.

Matt slipped out of the building a few steps ahead of the rest of the team and hurried back to the barracks. Someone called out to him, maybe Chris, but he needed to get away from them all, stretch out, take another Vic,
maybe a pull on the flask. Too much was going on in his head. He was here for football, not jerk-off games. He just wanted to catch the ball and then let it carry him out of town. Why did he have to get involved with complications? Couldn't people leave him alone?

It's not always about you, Matt.

The sports psychologist had said that. The start of his junior year, when he dropped a few passes, Dad took him into the city to see a shrink who worked with the Giants. Dad had read about a visualization technique where you could raise the percentage of successful catches by imagining them. But Dad never got a chance to tell the shrink what he wanted. He had to sit outside in the waiting room, steaming, while Matt had his session. Matt had sort of liked the guy. He had a soft voice and wore glasses, but from the size of his neck you could see he had lifted, been a jock. He understood.

He had patients, the shrink said, no names but you would recognize them, who suddenly couldn't execute. They missed blocks they always made, dropped passes they always caught. Usually it was a signal from deep inside, something's wrong, get me out of here. You need to find out what's going on.

Matt listened to him, but what could he say? There was so much he didn't want to talk about all jumbled in his head. Hating Dad for being on his back to give up baseball and concentrate on football and feeling guilty because
he knew Dad loved him in his own way, especially because of Junie. Remembering how he used to wish Junie would die so he would get some attention and then feeling guilty for that and trying to make it up to Junie. Pushing himself harder in the gym helped blot out those thoughts, and then when that wasn't enough, the booze and the Vics helped. He certainly didn't want to talk about the steroids. Monty was still tinkering with the dosage, and there were days when Matt went from sad to mad in ten seconds. Monty had warned him about 'roid rage, and he'd managed to keep it under control, especially when driving. Came close to decking a coach once, and very close to slapping Terri. He and Terri were the class couple then. She was always trying to get into his head, talk about feelings, about their relationship. It felt like she was trying to strip off his skin. He even lost interest in fooling around with her. Never any problems with Mandy. No touchy-feely questions. Either she understood, or she didn't care. Either way was fine. They were sex machines.

But he couldn't get any of it out, shifted in his chair, mumbled about losing concentration in games. After a while, the psychologist had sighed and said that they could do this slowly. Meanwhile, think about this: You get so much attention, you're under so much pressure from your family, coaches, teammates, people in the community, college recruiters, you start to think you are responsible for everything. The sun's up, you're welcome, folks.
It's raining, sorry about that. Give yourself a break, Matt. It's not always about you. Especially the bad stuff. You need to take some real deep breaths when you feel the world closing in on you. Matt wanted to ask him how he knew about that, but the shrink said, “That's all we have time for today.”