a gridironing by William Baska (17, Missouri)

          It was the inaugural practice of the season. It was always a slaughter, and this year particularly so. The line of scrimmage served as a drastic border. A demarcation of small and big, children and men, fear and excitement. The offense got into stance, and by natural instinct, almost all of them inched backward, thickening the line of scrimmage. They abandoned their athletic stance into an awkward cower, preparing themselves to meet a dazing blast of indomitable force. The coach noticed, and after a quick laugh to himself, yelled “Don’ be scared boys! It only hurts more when yer crouchin’ like a damn pansy! You hear me?! Sweet Jesus you boys better shape up or leave! It ain’ gonna sting if ya leave now!” All the while Pete stood anxious yet confident on the outside, preparing himself for the route he had engraved into his brain. He took every word the coach said to heart, and mustered up all the courage he had in him.

He saw the other kids on the sideline worrying. Most were truly terrified. They paced in short strides and looked hopelessly to the sky, almost as if to ask for help. The first play had not yet commenced and already two of the boys on the sideline, both 5th graders who had not reached the height of five feet, were walking away. They retreated slowly and quietly, their heads hanging low from that shameful concoction of embarrassment and relief. It was quiet for a second, and then the coach sliced into the tense air with a threatening cackle. “Let’s go now! I near seen it all! It’s one thing to be a girl about this game but it’s a whole ‘nother fuckin’ issue when ya don’ understand the basic concepts of football! God almighty, snap the damn football!” The little quarterback was visibly shaking now, but without wasting time, he raised his timid voice as much as he could, and let out a quick and exasperated “Hike!”. The rush came in an instant. Pete put his head down and proceeded to sprint his route. He hadn’t remembered trying so hard in all his life. He knew he could prove himself. The time was difficult to keep in such an exciting moment, but he knew it hadn’t been long when he heard the medley of collisions. As soon as that sound of pounding helmets and stifled whimpers permeated the late summer air, he knew it was time to look up. His head rose and his route jetted to the right, and without any waste of time, he was greeted with the sight of that elongated brown projectile, wobbling high in the sky, just as the quarterback had been in the pocket. It was just a little bit short. With every last ounce of concentration he had, he tracked the ball down, letting it thump heavily into his lower chest, feeling the light, satisfying pain radiate through his core. He quickly spun the corner, managing to avoid the massive defender that trailed just behind him. He saw a hole in the downfield and darted, and some thoughts managed to creep back into his conscience. Oh wow. How great this will be. Finish the play. MOVE. He imagined the playing time he would get, and the talk there would be surrounding the little, speedy Maras boy. That kid’s got it. Real athlete. Real ethic. The type we need. All the while, he moved to the hole, lacking the same concentration he possessed when catching the ball. He hadn’t noticed, but his speed had wavered just barely, and right as he thought he had broken free for glory, he felt an explosion rooted deep in his abdomen. This time, he found he couldn’t think and the bluebird skies and vomit grass turned to a clean white slate. 
          For more than just a moment all he perceived was white. The noise Pete was seemingly surrounded by was shrill and blaring, and the first thought he remembered having was that the sound was just as white as the sight. He was sure of this. He attempted to keep his mind on these types of trivial observations, a habit he had developed when a situation was poor. He knew this wouldn’t be achievable though, at least for long. Very quickly his thinking became feeling, and the feeling was that of great discomfort. His lower right side seemed to awake, realizing it’s feeble state, slowly oscillating, pulpy and forlorn. His sight returned to the sky, in all its blue glory, with the fleeting white illusion fading into the gleaming rays of the August sun. Next came his hearing, restrained at first, accepting the distant irate howls of the coach and the jumble of chaotic joy and concern coming from his “teammates”. Without fully imbibing the situation he was in, he made a pitiful attempt to stand up. When he did so, he groaned a little, fell to the same position like deadweight, and the white sound came back, only partially this time. Severe pain was inevitable now, evident and pure. It spread like waves from his side, caressing him downard to his legs with a dull tightness, and vibrating upward to a drum-like rhythm in his scalp. The rhythm was disrupted by a clear and sinister chuckle just to the right of him. He shifted his stiff neck to see a large boy standing over him. He was speaking to him, and though the words were still muffled, the distant inflection of his voice told him it was nothing he wanted to hear. Then the words became more clear 
          “Do you hear me?” He was panting and laughing between phrases. “Are you alright? I just destroyed you! This isn’t your game is it? You just made me look like a star!” His black eyes beamed down at him in glee. “You better quit now, or else you’re gonna be my toy. Well, I guess that’s assuming you even make it. Hey, what’s your name anyway?” 
          Pete stared at him with slanted eyes. His lip curled a bit in both anger and pain. He tasted warm salt against his tongue as sweat trickled slowly down his nose. He regulated his breathing, noticing that with every heavy inhale came a sharp pain to his chest. He did not say anything, nor attempt to. The boy who had hit him turned around and said something to somebody Pete could not understand. He closed his eyes and focused on adapting to his futile state. It became clear quickly that this was in vain, as the approaching sound of the coach's scowls seemed to pry his eyes back open.           
          “What the hell are you doing boy?” He yelled. “You gon’ keep buying pity for yourself like this then consider yourself cut! I don’ care how bad it hurt! Newsflash boy, yer not the only runt to get laid out! This is football!” 
          His eyes were wide open now, and he attempted to say “Yes sir.”, but what came out was nothing more than a feeble whisper, one that didn’t travel to the ears of anyone standing up, not even the shortest of the youngins. 
          Whether it be by the curative properties of time or the friendly reminders of the coach, a sobering flood rushed into his brain. Where is the football, oh no, where is my HELMET? Am I this weak? Who hit me? What a shame. 
          He saw the coach shake his head and curse under his breath. Or maybe it was not under his breath. He had stopped trusting his perception. At that moment, he had never felt so ashamed. He knew he must rise, and in great pain, he did so. His legs rattled involuntarily and his stomach ached in colossal horror, brewing in volcanic fashion, preparing to spew terrors on the ground unbeknownst. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes, and had not noticed everyone staring at him. His teammates, not laughing anymore, gathered amorphously in a seemingly random spot on the warm field. The coach stood quiet on the sideline, his head unwillingly bowing at a sinister gradient. His eyes grasped madly on Maras, the ultimate impertinent, shame of the game. Pete walked slowly, refusing to open his eyes, knowing he already had enough drawn to him. He made it to the sideline, well, past the sideline, and slowly pried his optics open. His Scleras were red and terrible, just as mad as the eyes that stared at him downfield. After about 10 seconds of allowing the inebriating summer sun soak into the front of his brain, he felt a lever deep in his intestines switch hard and he lunged forward from his waist up, permitting all of that churning human ash to spew onto the already throw up colored ground. His legs were trembling even harder now. He closed his eyes again, allowing that hot stew of shame slope freely down his throat, continuing for what seemed like an unnecessary period of time. Eventually, he released himself into a crawling position, placing his hands carefully so that they would not be soiled, and let ignoble rest sweep over him. No one approached Pete. He had become the outcast. The destroyed son of courage everyone knew was an inevitable archetype on the first day. The catch he made was now heartily kept in a state of perpetual irreleveance. 
          A few moments passed, and he had not noticed the air tense up again when the quiet mutters of youthful fear and adolescent complacency became reastablished. The next play was now the priority, with everyone’s mind retracting the image of Pete’s mangled body writhing dully in the grass, whether it be for fueling fear or excitement. Pete opened his eyes again and stared forward at the city streets, seemingly taunting him in all their grand mediocrity. The houses seemed so far away behind the rusting chain link fence that confined him. It stood in proud dilapidation, snaking in a state of horrible disarrangement, all complimented by the unbothered arbitrary streaks of bronze and silver. Acting carefully as to not look to the side, or worse, behind him, he walked, almost sideways, off to the exit in the southern corner of the field. He was moving quite quickly, but becoming more aware of the pains that persisted in his head and core, he slowed his now barely trembling legs. He made it to the exit, and as he stepped foot onto the firm and cracked surface of the pavement, he felt a great and familiar relief. He began to walk home. In the distance he heard all the whines and menacing laughs. His stomach churned again.