turning to stone. Curtis goes on outside. When you pull the shoelace, intending to tighten it, your hands jerk so hard that snaps in two.
By the time you find a new lace, get it into your cleats a head out to the field, warm-ups are almost over. You have time to do a few quick stretches, because Coach telling everybody to form the ring.
“On account of forgetting who he was supposed cover,” he announces. “Hightower gets the weekly Head up His Ass Award.”
Brett Stargill’s standing across from you, feet planted like tree trunks, a faint smile flickering like sunlight overhis face. Your own face feels so stiff it could shatter. You lift your dangling chin strap, snap it into place.
Curtis steps into the center without a word.
“Everybody down,” Coach commands.
“Set.” Across the ring, Stargill hunkers down at same time you do; he’s your mirror image.
Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Jason Cox. Immediately, Cox blasts off his straight into Curtis. But Curtis is crouched and ready and when they meet, he actually drives Cox back a step or two.
For some reason you’re remembering something you haven’t thought about in years; you and Curtis, ten years old, sneaking one of Curtis’s dad’s cigars out to the trees beyond the stock tank. Feeling hard-edged and bold, trading puffs—till you noticed Curtis’s face was kind green, and then you couldn’t deny the fact you were getting pretty sick yourself.
Cox trots back into the circle, into the wrong place. Coach already has his whistle back in his mouth.
Tweeet! He points to Shea, who takes his shot. He and Curtis come together like two rams, and the impact forces Curtis back almost to the other side. Shea’s quicker than Cox at getting back into the circle.
You’re remembering how you and Curtis laid there till the world stopped spinning, then tottered weakly back over to Curtis’s house, side by side, swearing asolemn vow never to touch tobacco again.
Tweeet! Thomas’s turn.
And when you walked inside, Curtis’s mom was looking out the kitchen window saying “Is that smoke out there?” And sure enough a spark had caught in the dried-up late summer grass. The Parkersville Volunteer Fire Department came, which was exciting, and a deputy from the county sheriff, which wasn’t, because you threw up all over his boots and he threatened to arrest you.
Tweeet! Ragsdale.
Curtis is still standing. He’s the one who told you they don’t arrest kids for throwing up. You already knew it but you were still scared, till Curtis said it out loud—that made it true.
Tweeet! Coach’s finger points to you.
You explode.
The next thing you know, Curtis is lying on his back with you on top of him. You don’t look at his face, just get up quickly; Curtis is slower, but Coach is already blowing his whistle again and then suddenly Curtis is down again, this time hit from behind by Brett Stargill. When he gets up he’s a little unsteady, with a clot of turf stuck in his face mask.
Coach calls them on from the front, from the sides, from behind, where Curtis can’t see it coming.
And then it doesn’t matter because Coach is calling them on so fast that Curtis barely has time to get tofeet, much less look around.
When Coach finally gives it an extra-long now-we’re-done blow, Curtis lies there and doesn’t get right away.
“Everybody line up for wind sprints,” Coach hollers.
You’re frozen, staring down at your best friend curled up on the ground like a dead shrimp.
“Reid! You deaf? Line up for wind sprints.”
So you do what you have to do; you shove down whatever it is you’re feeling and walk away; you watch yourself walk away and get in line with everybody else.
When you look back to check, Curtis is wincing as he gets to his feet. He doesn’t mind, he knows it’s just business. But still, it might take awhile to shove this one down—the fact that you let Curtis get up from Bull-in-a-Ring without any
By the time you find a new lace, get it into your cleats a head out to the field, warm-ups are almost over. You have time to do a few quick stretches, because Coach telling everybody to form the ring.
“On account of forgetting who he was supposed cover,” he announces. “Hightower gets the weekly Head up His Ass Award.”
Brett Stargill’s standing across from you, feet planted like tree trunks, a faint smile flickering like sunlight overhis face. Your own face feels so stiff it could shatter. You lift your dangling chin strap, snap it into place.
Curtis steps into the center without a word.
“Everybody down,” Coach commands.
“Set.” Across the ring, Stargill hunkers down at same time you do; he’s your mirror image.
Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Jason Cox. Immediately, Cox blasts off his straight into Curtis. But Curtis is crouched and ready and when they meet, he actually drives Cox back a step or two.
For some reason you’re remembering something you haven’t thought about in years; you and Curtis, ten years old, sneaking one of Curtis’s dad’s cigars out to the trees beyond the stock tank. Feeling hard-edged and bold, trading puffs—till you noticed Curtis’s face was kind green, and then you couldn’t deny the fact you were getting pretty sick yourself.
Cox trots back into the circle, into the wrong place. Coach already has his whistle back in his mouth.
Tweeet! He points to Shea, who takes his shot. He and Curtis come together like two rams, and the impact forces Curtis back almost to the other side. Shea’s quicker than Cox at getting back into the circle.
You’re remembering how you and Curtis laid there till the world stopped spinning, then tottered weakly back over to Curtis’s house, side by side, swearing asolemn vow never to touch tobacco again.
Tweeet! Thomas’s turn.
And when you walked inside, Curtis’s mom was looking out the kitchen window saying “Is that smoke out there?” And sure enough a spark had caught in the dried-up late summer grass. The Parkersville Volunteer Fire Department came, which was exciting, and a deputy from the county sheriff, which wasn’t, because you threw up all over his boots and he threatened to arrest you.
Tweeet! Ragsdale.
Curtis is still standing. He’s the one who told you they don’t arrest kids for throwing up. You already knew it but you were still scared, till Curtis said it out loud—that made it true.
Tweeet! Coach’s finger points to you.
You explode.
The next thing you know, Curtis is lying on his back with you on top of him. You don’t look at his face, just get up quickly; Curtis is slower, but Coach is already blowing his whistle again and then suddenly Curtis is down again, this time hit from behind by Brett Stargill. When he gets up he’s a little unsteady, with a clot of turf stuck in his face mask.
Coach calls them on from the front, from the sides, from behind, where Curtis can’t see it coming.
And then it doesn’t matter because Coach is calling them on so fast that Curtis barely has time to get tofeet, much less look around.
When Coach finally gives it an extra-long now-we’re-done blow, Curtis lies there and doesn’t get right away.
“Everybody line up for wind sprints,” Coach hollers.
You’re frozen, staring down at your best friend curled up on the ground like a dead shrimp.
“Reid! You deaf? Line up for wind sprints.”
So you do what you have to do; you shove down whatever it is you’re feeling and walk away; you watch yourself walk away and get in line with everybody else.
When you look back to check, Curtis is wincing as he gets to his feet. He doesn’t mind, he knows it’s just business. But still, it might take awhile to shove this one down—the fact that you let Curtis get up from Bull-in-a-Ring without any
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