This time after the snap, I use my height—or my lack of height—to my advantage. Instead of hitting Evers chest to chest, I hit him lower. I aim my shoulder into the space just beneath his ribs. It’s like putting the back of a chair beneath a doorknob. No matter how hard you try to push it open, it won’t budge.
More physics.
I hit him in that soft place and wedge upwards, and there’s an “Oomph!” as the air is pushed from his lungs.
He’s too good to let it take him down. But it does stop him dead in his tracks.
We don’t convert the first down, but that’s okay. When Evers walks back to the bench, I notice he has one arm pressed against his belly. I hurt him. Just a little.
We gain two more possessions before the half. We score once, and Brookline scores once to counter us. I’m mostly able to hold my ground against Evers. One time he tries a fancy sidestep. He gets by me and sacks O., but O. isn’t hurt.
More importantly, I learn the move, and I don’t let it happen again.
68. i can try.
By the second half, the sun is down and the field lights are on. I notice Eytan sitting in the stands, all the way at the top in the corner. It makes me feel good to see him there. Down below, Mom and Jessica are nervously eating bagels. Below them, Dad is clutching Miriam’s hand. The whole crowd looks agitated. We’re tied 7–7 with Brookline. Anything could happen.
I move up to the line again.
With the lights on, I can see into Evers’s mask. When we lean down towards each other, I look him in the eye.
“Round two,” he says.
His voice startles me. It’s soft, not like you’d expect from such a big guy. I want to say something back, but you know how it is. You always think of the right thing to say an hour later when you’re in the bathroom.
“Hup, haa-eee!” O. screams, and I snap the ball. Evers and I collide, our pads grinding against one another.
Second half.
We hit again and again, warriors on the field. It’s Evers and me, me and Evers. The rest of the world disappears. I don’t hear the shouts anymore. I forget that Dad is watching. I’m not even angry at O.
A question pops into my head.
Who do I want to be?
I want to be someone who hits hard, so I do. I want to be strong, and I am.
The next time I glance up, the game is tied 14–14 with six minutes left to play.
We’re in the middle of a long campaign, twelve downs in a row, when Coach calls for a time out.
Guys are sucking down Gator like it’s going out of style. Green, red, blue. It doesn’t matter anymore. Cheesy even has some private stock of pickle juice he calls his superhero sauce. He offers it to me, but I turn him down. If I’m going to have pickles, I want hamburgers, too.
“How are you holding up?” Coach asks me.
“I’m holding.”
“Your asthma?”
“It’s okay.”
I breathe in and out. I move my limbs one at a time. I’m numb all over, but everything’s functioning. There’s no specific pain, just a full-body ache covering about 87 percent of me.
The whistle blows. Coach pats the side of my helmet.
I run out with the other players and take my place in front of Evers.
“Round three,” I say to him. Not original, but at least I opened my mouth.
We hit each other, separate, and hit.
O. starts up our drive again, doing a hell of a job of moving us inside their forty. That’s when Brookline starts to panic. Their coach calls two time-outs in a row. He’s trying to destroy our rhythm. He starts yanking players off the line and replacing them with subs.
Evers and I wait together on the field. He looks me up and down.
“What’s your name?” he says.
“Andy. What’s yours?”
“Eugene,” he says.
“No way. Your name is really Eugene?”
“Sucks, huh?”
“Not really. Eugene Evers. E. E.—like the poet E. E. Cummings.”
“That’s not bad,” he says. “I never thought of that.”
He reaches out and pats me hard on the arm. I think it’s a pat. It feels more like being hit with a sledgehammer.
“You ever read T. S. Eliot?” Evers says.
“Yeah, but I don’t love him. I’m more of a Dylan Thomas fan.”
“Dylan Thomas died young,” Evers says, and he cracks his knuckles like it’s a threat.
“Be careful or you’re going to join him,” I say. And I crack my knuckles, too.
Evers smiles. “You’re okay, Andy,” he says.
“You’re okay, too,” I say.
The whistle blows, and I fall back into the huddle with the guys.
“What the hell are you doing?” the Neck says. “You were fraternizing out there.”
The guys look at me suspiciously.
“How do you know Everest?” Rodriguez says.
“I don’t,” I say. “We were talking postwar poets.”
O. stares at me. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m setting him up. I play hard all game, then I let him get crushed in the final minutes. It would be a brilliant strategy.
Bison throws me a dirty look. “I don’t know if we can trust you. A guy who disappears before the game.”
“Drop it,” O. says.
“But, O.—” Bison says.
“We’re doing the Trojan Horse,” O. says.
“Bad idea,” Bison says.
“It’s not your call,” O. says.
“Are you sure?” Rodriguez says.
The Trojan Horse. My play, the fake-out. O. is going to hand off to me.
If he hands off to me, I’ll have to run. If I run, I won’t be in front of him anymore.
Evers will.
O. looks at me. “Can you do it?”
“I can try.”
“Then try. Break!” O. shouts, and everyone rolls out of the huddle.
O. makes a big show of whispering in Bison’s ear. It’s what Coach calls Psy-Ops. Psychological Operation. O.’s telegraphing the handoff to Brookline. Telegraphing it in the wrong direction.
I get up to the line, position myself opposite Everest. A running play. My hands are shaking. I can’t do it. I’m going to get killed. I’ll make a fool out of myself.
That’s when I think of the song. “True Colors.”
Everest snorts.
I listen to the song in my head.
I feel O.’s touch, pulling me back to the moment.
“Haa-eee!” he shouts, and I press the ball into his hands.
I hit Everest hard and at an angle, but instead of continuing to drive forward, I use the collision to spin me around backwards towards O. It’s an elegant move. Like dancing.
I feel Everest hesitate for a second, surprised that I’m not up in his face. I twist around and cup my arms.
O. fakes towards Bison, then shifts back and pops the ball hard into my stomach.
I pivot off to the left, trying to hide the ball in the center of my gut. Out of the corner of my eye I see Everest headed directly for O., but it’s not my job to protect him this time. Instead I push off and run as fast as I can towards the goal line. I hear a crash behind me as O. gets splattered. But I don’t look back.
A couple of Brookline players notice me go. I hope they think I’m confused, or maybe I saw a hot dog on the sideline that I couldn’t resist. They can think whatever they like, because I know what I have.
The ball.
By the time they catch on to what’s really happening, I’m past them, running for all I’m worth. Unfortunately, all I’m worth is about fifteen yards. That’s when I get winded and slow down.
The Brookline defensemen easily catch up to me. I don’t get the touchdown. I get massacred.
Whatever.
The important thing is that I make it inside the twenty-yard line before they wrestle me to the ground. That’s field-goal range. And Cheesy is known to kick a hell of a field goal.