“You talked to O.,” I say.
Coach shrugs that off. “I’m talking to you now. Man to man. Can you handle that?”
“Talk,” I say.
“It’s true that you’re big,” Coach says, “and Warner’s big, and I needed someone big. We needed someone big. But big is just the prerequisite. It’s like being tall in basketball. You have to be tall to play. But being tall doesn’t make you an athlete. It doesn’t mean you’re any good at it. You get my point?”
“I think so,” I say.
I glance at the Brookline players. They’re standing together on the opposite sideline. One of them is taller than the others, almost like he’s standing on a box. He’s a lot wider, too.
Coach says, “Maybe I was wrong not to tell you about Everest.” He clears his throat. “What am I saying? I was completely wrong. Maybe that was a mistake. So shoot me. I wanted to win.”
I nod. Coaches. Dads. All the people you want to be perfect end up being human. It kind of sucks.
Coach says, “If you don’t want to play today, I’ll understand. I’ll be disappointed, and I think the guys will be, too, but I couldn’t blame you. Not after everything that’s happened.”
“Um… this is a pretty crappy pep talk, Coach.”
“I already gave my pep talk. You missed it.”
“How was it?”
“Hey, Rodriguez!” Coach shouts. “How was my pep talk today?”
“Outstanding, Coach! One of your best,” Rodriguez says.
“See?” Coach says.
That cracks me up. Coach laughs, too. The team looks at us like we’re crazy.
Coach bites nervously at his lip. “What do you think?”
“I’m playing,” I say. “But if you keep talking, I might change my mind.”
Coach lets out a long breath. “Thank God,” he says. “I thought we were screwed there for a second.”
67. something big, coming towards me fast.
O. and I stand next to each other before the kickoff.
“You decided to play?” he says.
I nod.
“Don’t do me any favors,” he says. “I can dance around Everest. I can quick-release. He won’t get anywhere near me.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’m saying I don’t need you.”
“I’m playing anyway.”
O. kicks some turf with his cleat. “Good for you,” he says.
Four quick downs and we get our first possession. In the huddle, O. calls a standard pass play, but before we can break, Rodriguez puts his hands up to stop everyone.
He places an arm around O.’s shoulder, and the huddle goes quiet.
“Protect our boy,” Rodriguez says.
He’s talking to everyone, but he’s looking right at me.
“Newton!” the guys scream, and we clap and break.
I step up to the line, and Everest settles in front of me. I see him up close for the first time. He’s not so much a mountain as he is a massive, square thing, like one of Mom’s industrial freezers. I catch sight of April over his shoulder. She’s screaming something. A few weeks ago I might have imagined she was screaming to me, but now I don’t think so.
I feel O.’s hand on the small of my back. “Steady,” he says.
He shouts, “Hup, hup, haa-eee!”
I snap the ball.
Badly.
My fingers feel like they belong to someone else. I nearly fumble, but I recover at the last second and make a sloppy transfer to O.
I instantly convert my backward energy to forward. There’s a crash as Everest and I connect for the first time. It’s the hardest hit I’ve ever felt. It’s not even right to call it a hit. It’s more like a car accident.
Before I know what happened, I’m looking up at the sky. The shadow of Everest passes over me as he moves quickly to crush O.
Instinctively I reach up for his ankle, and even though my hand slides right off, the grab slows him down for a half a second—just enough time for O. to scramble out of the way and complete a five-yard pass.
I try to stand up, but my body doesn’t work like it should. The best I can do is to roll over on all fours like a dog and moan for a few seconds.
I feel arms reach under my shoulders to heft me up.
“You okay?” Cheesy says.
“Let go of me,” I say.
He backs off, and I bring myself to a standing position alone. I look at Everest, the sheer size of him. That was only one hit, and we still have a whole game to go.
Jesus Christ.
Everest grunts and gets back into position. I try to look him in the eye, but his face is buried in shadow behind the mask. I glance into the crowd. Mom is up in the stands, her mouth frozen in a frightened “Oh.” I feel scared inside. I really want to take a puff off my inhaler, but I refuse to take it out in front of Everest. I won’t show weakness. I can’t.
The ref hands me the ball, and I get down into a crouch.
It doesn’t feel like a crouch. It feels like I’m bowing down in front of Everest, like he’s the king, and I’m his vassal.
That makes me angry.
“Get your head in the game,” O. says, and pats my back.
That’s the hard part about football. Staying in the moment. Maybe it’s the hard part about life. Things get tough and you want to be somewhere else.
O. calls the play, and I snap the ball perfectly. I grit my teeth and brace for impact. This time I know what to expect from Everest.
But Everest has something else in mind. Somehow he rises up, puts two hands flat on my back, and leapfrogs over me, pushing me down like a pancake.
It’s a brilliant move. No impact at all. Total physics.
He strong-arms O., knocking him to the ground.
First sack.
That’s when I realize who I’m up against. Everest is not just big. He’s a true athlete. He’s got the Physics of Fat, only he’s turned it to his advantage.
I’m overmatched. There’s no doubt in my mind.
A smart guy would quit now. Get out before it turns really bad or really embarrassing. But the thing is, I’m curious.
I look at Everest. I want to see who he is, how he’s managed to pull off the size thing.
He turns away for a second to adjust his equipment. He cracks his neck and stomps his cleats like a bull scraping earth. That’s when I see the back of his shirt. It says: EVERS.
That’s his name. Evers. That’s where “Everest” comes from.
The thought makes me laugh. Everest is just a guy. A high-school student like me. I’m up against a person, not some force of nature.
It’s kind of silly, but it motivates me.
This time when I hike, I spring up fast, pushing up and out like Coach taught me, and I hit Evers full-on, chest to chest, shoulder to shoulder. I hit him and dig in with my cleats. I use my elbows in there, too, just to show him I’m not afraid to get up close and personal.
I push and he pushes back, and for a second I think I might go over backwards again, but I dig in even harder and windmill my arms to shift my center of gravity—
And I hold.
It takes every ounce of strength I have. It seems to last a long time, but I’m sure it’s only a second. The whistle blows, and the play is over. I release and walk back slowly, trying to catch my breath.
I held my ground against Evers.
O. grabs my face mask and pulls it close to his.
“Way to play the game,” he says.
We stand like that for a second, looking into each other’s face masks.
Guys are tapping us on the back, but we don’t move.
“Get a room,” one of the Brookline guys says.
A whistle blows.
O. signals for us to go without a huddle. He does a quick call, and we hit the line fast.