Page 22 of Player
Fuck! Tonight I'm going to jerk off thinking about her again!
The sky is veiled,and clouds are gathering above the practice field, a storm is going break out soon. My meteorological observations are short-lived as I need to focus on the balls I'm throwing.
"Put some snap into it, Player!" Coach Hacket, our offensive coordinator, yells at me. "You won't throw for anytouchdownswith that kind of limp wristed shit!"
I shoot him a dark look before sending the ball down the field to my waiting receiver, who underhands it to my backup who fires it back. He’s got an arm, but no ability to read the field like I can.
"That's more like it!"
The drills follow one after another without giving me a chance to think, and that's just fine with me. Football is my outlet, a place where I conduct ten other men in a symphony of violence in order to conquer our enemies. I don't plan to stop until my lungs give out and all my muscles burn.
"About ten more like that," Hacket instructs, "then you'll move to routs work on accuracy. Your shoulder placement needs work."
The man hasn't let up since I arrived, because with the team's returning starter injured, it's my responsibility to play the season opener. It’s only happened one other time in OMUfootball history, and the results mean nobody talks about that season.
Ever.
Dax, my backup this week and a junior college transfer, jogs down while we get ready for the receivers to line up. Hacket calls out a play, I repeat it, and fire off a pass to Billups, the first receiver, who’s running a fifteen yard wheel route. He catches right in stride and turns upfield, accelerating as he does.
"Nice one," Dax says to me before repeating the play with Leonard, the next receiver.
He seems eager to start a conversation, but I'm not in the mood. I have no desire to listen to whatever he has to say for the simple reason that I already know what he thinks. He's super happy to play here, he can't wait to prove himself on the field, and a whole bunch of nonsense like that. In short, he’s the complete opposite of me.
Without answering him, I pick up a ball and get ready for the next play. The throws follow in succession and all land in the hands of the receivers, even when one slips and I have to adjust mid-throw to Dax's astonished gaze.
I'm well aware that my attitude is cold, but I don't bother with false scruples. I'm not here to make new friends. I plan to keep my social relationships to the bare minimum, just enough for everything to go well on the field, but nothing more. It's only when I play football that I need others. Outside of that, I make sure to handle everything myself.
Oblivious to my state of mind, Dax moves closer to me. "I can't wait for my son to see me on the field."
Surprise distracts me slightly, but I recover and hit the tight end on a crossing route only a little high, another easy catch for him. It's so easy it's almost indecent.
"He's only eight months old," Dax continues, "I know hedoesn't understand what's happening, but I want him to be proud of me, you know?"
I don't answer because, no, I don't know. That someone could have a kid so young, when they're just starting life, is beyond me. As for me, I'll never have children. It's far too big a responsibility that I'm not at all ready to bear. Not to mention that educating another human being doesn't appeal to me at all!
"Your stats are impressive," Dax adds, changing the subject without warning.
I shrug and decide to answer him, "I have nothing to do with it."
From the corner of my eye, I can see my teammate's attention is fixed on me. "You do a little! You're the one who does what it takes to run the-"
I turn to him and cut him off. "You don't understand: I don't do anything special. I show up on the field, I follow the coach’s plays, I execute. That's it."
Dax could get angry at my surly attitude, but I don't see any trace of nervousness on his face. With a flick of his wrist, he wipes away the sweat running down his forehead.
"Bullshit, man. The coaches aren't taking the snap and reading the defense, analyzing if that edge rusher’s going to go in or out, and do you need to adjust. They’re not the ones running the progressions and seeing if that half step you see is real or a fake-out from a ballhawk safety. I know that, and you know it too," he points out.
I shrug without answering this time. I don't feel like I'mdoingthings, I just rely on my instinct. It's my instinct that tells me what to do, when to react, when to fake or make a pass.
What merit do I have in the end? I'm equipped with a body that seems made for playing football. My eyes and brain give me extraordinary spatial coordination, my muscles allow me to make long, powerful, and precise passes. My legs are quick, andI can take a hit without breaking in half. All of that is just genetics. A pure expression of chance. I don't see how I deserve any credit for that.
I push away my thoughts; all that matters to me is giving my all during practice. Not to impress the coaches or the players, but to release the anger that's eating away at me. So for the rest of the session, I run, I throw, and I do it all over again.
Finally, I feel the familiar burn coursing through each of my muscles, and only in that moment do I experience a brief sense of peace.
9
DIXIE
