early.”
Then all the honkies who had caused me pain and suffering for all those years started shouting, “Hey, Rein Stone! What’s up, Rein Stone? How’s it going, Rein Stone? Heard you dunked, Rein Stone.”
They used that “funny” name Rein Stone in a brand new way. It was like I heard it wrong all those years. They weren’t making fun of me. It was a good name. Rein Stone was like another word for pal or dude.
During practice, when somebody picked up a hard grounder or hit the ball hard, they looked up at me to see if I noticed, and I’d clap.
At one point, while the team was doing base-running drills, Coach Jones—a big fat ass gut buster with a country singer goatee who had once apparently pitched for the Chicago Cubs (not in the major leagues)—came over and said, “Can’t take you this year, Felton. Roster’s set. You practice a bit, and we’d sure be happy to see you out here next year.”
I said, “Okay, Coach.” Because I’d heard jocks do it all the time, I figured that it’s cool to coaches if you call them Coach, even if they’re not your coach, instead of calling them Mr. Jones or whatever. It must make them stand out from what they are at school otherwise, like driver’s ed instructors, lunch room monitors, keyboard teachers, etc. Coach.
Coach Jones wasn’t a regular teacher. He was the driver’s ed person at the county tech school.
“Hey Coach,” I asked, “How do I get my driver’s permit?”
“Stop by practice tomorrow, and I’ll bring you the paperwork,” he said. “Think about baseball next year?”
“Definitely, Coach,” I told him.
***
At one point, I believed nobody had noticed that I’m stupid fast. This was not the case at all.
Between baseball practice and pass routes, honkies galore came up to me and said stuff about my D-I prospects. “Wisconsin contact you yet? You on Rivals.com? Have you got your 40 time yet?” I answered no, not yet, to every question but only really understood the first one. The idea that the University of Wisconsin football team might contact me made me sweat a little, made my heart beat funny.
Uh, I didn’t know how to play football. Didn’t anyone realize that?
As far as Rivals.com and 40 times, I had no clue what the honkies were talking about.
***
I didn’t disappoint the honky class during routes though.
At first, I was a little unsteady and totally uncomfortable, and I could feel my face getting hot because it was embarrassing in a squirrel nut way. Cody would show me a route in the playbook and would tell me where to run, and I’d run it as fast as I could, and the pass would end up ten feet behind me and I’d try to twist around and get it, which would almost knock me down. “Slow down,” Cody said. “You can go all jackrabbit after you catch it. The only time you should take off like that from the line is if we’re going downfield.”
“Okay,” I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. (Face was frying hot from feeling stupid—honkies were whispering.)
So I breathed and slowed down. And that was it. It was there.
I sort of jogged the routes. And then somehow, it felt like there was nothing more natural in the world than running and receiving a football. Right away, when I moved more slowly, Cody threw it right to me, and I found out I can catch really well. I have really huge gorilla hands. (In the past, when I was shorter, I actually walked with my hands all balled up so nobody would think to call me gorilla.) Andrew has huge hands too, which is one of the reasons he’s so good at piano. Gorilla hands are perfect for catching a football, by the way. Catching a football felt like falling asleep when you’re super tired or taking a pee after you’ve just put down like ten gallons of water. So easy and so good. Catching a football felt like a huge relief.
Even though I was jogging, nobody could even come close to keeping up with me. Toward the end, Karpinski tried to cover me. I’d always hated
Then all the honkies who had caused me pain and suffering for all those years started shouting, “Hey, Rein Stone! What’s up, Rein Stone? How’s it going, Rein Stone? Heard you dunked, Rein Stone.”
They used that “funny” name Rein Stone in a brand new way. It was like I heard it wrong all those years. They weren’t making fun of me. It was a good name. Rein Stone was like another word for pal or dude.
During practice, when somebody picked up a hard grounder or hit the ball hard, they looked up at me to see if I noticed, and I’d clap.
At one point, while the team was doing base-running drills, Coach Jones—a big fat ass gut buster with a country singer goatee who had once apparently pitched for the Chicago Cubs (not in the major leagues)—came over and said, “Can’t take you this year, Felton. Roster’s set. You practice a bit, and we’d sure be happy to see you out here next year.”
I said, “Okay, Coach.” Because I’d heard jocks do it all the time, I figured that it’s cool to coaches if you call them Coach, even if they’re not your coach, instead of calling them Mr. Jones or whatever. It must make them stand out from what they are at school otherwise, like driver’s ed instructors, lunch room monitors, keyboard teachers, etc. Coach.
Coach Jones wasn’t a regular teacher. He was the driver’s ed person at the county tech school.
“Hey Coach,” I asked, “How do I get my driver’s permit?”
“Stop by practice tomorrow, and I’ll bring you the paperwork,” he said. “Think about baseball next year?”
“Definitely, Coach,” I told him.
***
At one point, I believed nobody had noticed that I’m stupid fast. This was not the case at all.
Between baseball practice and pass routes, honkies galore came up to me and said stuff about my D-I prospects. “Wisconsin contact you yet? You on Rivals.com? Have you got your 40 time yet?” I answered no, not yet, to every question but only really understood the first one. The idea that the University of Wisconsin football team might contact me made me sweat a little, made my heart beat funny.
Uh, I didn’t know how to play football. Didn’t anyone realize that?
As far as Rivals.com and 40 times, I had no clue what the honkies were talking about.
***
I didn’t disappoint the honky class during routes though.
At first, I was a little unsteady and totally uncomfortable, and I could feel my face getting hot because it was embarrassing in a squirrel nut way. Cody would show me a route in the playbook and would tell me where to run, and I’d run it as fast as I could, and the pass would end up ten feet behind me and I’d try to twist around and get it, which would almost knock me down. “Slow down,” Cody said. “You can go all jackrabbit after you catch it. The only time you should take off like that from the line is if we’re going downfield.”
“Okay,” I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. (Face was frying hot from feeling stupid—honkies were whispering.)
So I breathed and slowed down. And that was it. It was there.
I sort of jogged the routes. And then somehow, it felt like there was nothing more natural in the world than running and receiving a football. Right away, when I moved more slowly, Cody threw it right to me, and I found out I can catch really well. I have really huge gorilla hands. (In the past, when I was shorter, I actually walked with my hands all balled up so nobody would think to call me gorilla.) Andrew has huge hands too, which is one of the reasons he’s so good at piano. Gorilla hands are perfect for catching a football, by the way. Catching a football felt like falling asleep when you’re super tired or taking a pee after you’ve just put down like ten gallons of water. So easy and so good. Catching a football felt like a huge relief.
Even though I was jogging, nobody could even come close to keeping up with me. Toward the end, Karpinski tried to cover me. I’d always hated
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