Cory, and they all know it,” my mother says with a hand on my cheek.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m so proud of you, Cory,” Dad says. “That was one of the best days of
my
life.”
I don’t let them know what I’m really feeling right now. Why should I, when it will only make them as sad as I am?
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”
Chapter 39
A WEEK LATER, the football team is called together to meet a new coach. I’m not really sure what happened, whether it was school politics or not. The new guy is one of those really strict types with lots of rules such as
You smoke, you’re off the team
and
Anyone late for practice doesn’t play in the next game. No exceptions
.
These are two particularly tough rules for me, since I smoke like a chimney and, with my body problems, I’m always late getting anywhere.
A few days before the biggest game of our season, our practice is moved from the stadium to the weight room. Because I’ve gotten to school late, I don’t know about the change until I get to the field and find it empty.
This makes me incredibly anxious because I know the new coach will be really pissed. My legs start to buckle under me, and the hopping spasms come one after another.
They get so bad that I can’t stand up for very long, and by the time I arrive at the weight room, I am literally crawling to the door. It’s never been this bad, not even close. But at least I’m finally here.
I manage to stumble into the weight room ten or fifteen minutes late, and the coach turns his anger on me in front of the rest of the guys.
“I told you I won’t stand for anyone coming to practice late. That goes for you, too.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I don’t want to hear your lame excuses. You’ll have to learn the hard way.”
The rest of the guys don’t like what’s happening. Anyone can see that I’m covered in sweat, but no one says anything in my defense. They’re too afraid of the coach. The practice session goes on without any further lectures, and I lift weights with everyone else. I figure everything is going to be all right. I hope so.
The next weekend, I’m suited up to play and mentally ready. It’s an important game, and I know I can help the team. Right after the pregame pep talk, the new coach takes me aside.
“You’re benched,” he barks like a military drill instructor. “You were late to practice. I warned you.”
“That’s not fair,” I answer quietly, trying not to show him how angry I am. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“I said no exceptions, no excuses. Next time, maybe you’ll listen.”
I can see from his tough expression that there’s no possibility of a compromise. I’m doing everything I can not to explode. He’s taking away the one thing I have that makes me acceptable to the kids in high school. I can feel blood rushing around my body, heating up. I’m thinking what a
dick
he is. No feelings, no compassion, nothing in his eyes.
“How long do I have to stay out?” I ask.
“I’ll let you know. Don’t ask me about it again.”
This is the worst thing he could have said to me. Not knowing keeps me in a state of high anxiety that I can’t come down from.
He turns away, and it’s over — for him, anyway. The explosion I’ve been holding back has now become unavoidable. I tear my helmet off and smash it on the ground. Then I look up into the stands, where my parents are trying to figure out what’s going on.
“That’s it!” the coach yells back as he walks away. “You’re done for the whole game.”
I sit on the bench in a daze, watching the other team’s offense begin to dominate the game, running right up the center, where I would usually be to stop them. We’re getting killed. Every time a play ends, I wait for Coach to signal me into the game, and each time he doesn’t, I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m embarrassed and humiliated.
With the building tension and anger, my tics are also going wild, and when halftime comes and I
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m so proud of you, Cory,” Dad says. “That was one of the best days of
my
life.”
I don’t let them know what I’m really feeling right now. Why should I, when it will only make them as sad as I am?
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”
Chapter 39
A WEEK LATER, the football team is called together to meet a new coach. I’m not really sure what happened, whether it was school politics or not. The new guy is one of those really strict types with lots of rules such as
You smoke, you’re off the team
and
Anyone late for practice doesn’t play in the next game. No exceptions
.
These are two particularly tough rules for me, since I smoke like a chimney and, with my body problems, I’m always late getting anywhere.
A few days before the biggest game of our season, our practice is moved from the stadium to the weight room. Because I’ve gotten to school late, I don’t know about the change until I get to the field and find it empty.
This makes me incredibly anxious because I know the new coach will be really pissed. My legs start to buckle under me, and the hopping spasms come one after another.
They get so bad that I can’t stand up for very long, and by the time I arrive at the weight room, I am literally crawling to the door. It’s never been this bad, not even close. But at least I’m finally here.
I manage to stumble into the weight room ten or fifteen minutes late, and the coach turns his anger on me in front of the rest of the guys.
“I told you I won’t stand for anyone coming to practice late. That goes for you, too.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I don’t want to hear your lame excuses. You’ll have to learn the hard way.”
The rest of the guys don’t like what’s happening. Anyone can see that I’m covered in sweat, but no one says anything in my defense. They’re too afraid of the coach. The practice session goes on without any further lectures, and I lift weights with everyone else. I figure everything is going to be all right. I hope so.
The next weekend, I’m suited up to play and mentally ready. It’s an important game, and I know I can help the team. Right after the pregame pep talk, the new coach takes me aside.
“You’re benched,” he barks like a military drill instructor. “You were late to practice. I warned you.”
“That’s not fair,” I answer quietly, trying not to show him how angry I am. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“I said no exceptions, no excuses. Next time, maybe you’ll listen.”
I can see from his tough expression that there’s no possibility of a compromise. I’m doing everything I can not to explode. He’s taking away the one thing I have that makes me acceptable to the kids in high school. I can feel blood rushing around my body, heating up. I’m thinking what a
dick
he is. No feelings, no compassion, nothing in his eyes.
“How long do I have to stay out?” I ask.
“I’ll let you know. Don’t ask me about it again.”
This is the worst thing he could have said to me. Not knowing keeps me in a state of high anxiety that I can’t come down from.
He turns away, and it’s over — for him, anyway. The explosion I’ve been holding back has now become unavoidable. I tear my helmet off and smash it on the ground. Then I look up into the stands, where my parents are trying to figure out what’s going on.
“That’s it!” the coach yells back as he walks away. “You’re done for the whole game.”
I sit on the bench in a daze, watching the other team’s offense begin to dominate the game, running right up the center, where I would usually be to stop them. We’re getting killed. Every time a play ends, I wait for Coach to signal me into the game, and each time he doesn’t, I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m embarrassed and humiliated.
With the building tension and anger, my tics are also going wild, and when halftime comes and I
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