"Nice try," Tommy Earl said as I walked past him. He didn't try to keep the arrogant look off his face.
We ran more one-on-ones, then scrimmaged from the 'I' formation. I went out, cut across two defenders' zone, and Hassendorn planted that pill just right. I stepped and came up on the side of my right foot, the hip responding like it should, my legs pumping. Antoine Palupo, the 310-pound, 6'5", mobile-as-hell linebacker they'd drafted from Penn State filled the slot I was trying to make it through. I went over on my side, holding onto that ball like it was my first paycheck.
"Not bad, old man." He pushed himself off me, giving me a hand up.
Cannon blew his whistle. "How's the hip, Zelmont?" Him and Blake came onto the field.
"Ain't nothing." I tossed the ball to Palupo.
"You seemed to be favoring it this afternoon." Cannon stood close to me. He was a robust dude with heavy arms that swung back and forth while he walked. He had black glasses, flat feet, and a brown-gray beard he was forever scratching at.
I told you, it feels fine." I lied.
"Yeah?" He did that thing he does, looking at me over the top of his glasses, which he pushed down from his nose.
"Everything's cool, baby"
He looked at Blake, who was looking at me. "You been going to support groups or something like that?" Blake worked something around inside his mouth.
"You want me to pee in a bottle after practice?"
"What if I said yes?" Blake was gonna be on my jock.
"Show me the way." I hoped the big vein in my neck wasn't pulsing.
"Get ready to run the R-9 play I went over with you." Blake walked over to talk with Earl.
"I guess I don't need to tell you those days of chasing pussy and partying till all hours are supposed to remain ancient history, Zelmont." Cannon was making notes on his clipboard as he spoke, and didn't look up.
"I'm cleaner than a skeeter's peter, coach."
"Get ready to run the play." He still hadn't looked up.
They put Earl at safety and me at tailback. I came up, then shot through the gap Gilman and Travers opened. I made the block for Earl and he got seven yards. The next down we reversed the positions and I veered right off Earl's block but didn't get two steps when cornerman Langdon slowed me up, then Malcolm Washington got me around the waist and took me down. I landed right on the hip. But I couldn't show it, I just couldn't show the pain, goddammit.
I jumped up, playing the hit off. I trotted over to the sideline. Grainger was redoing the tape around his calf.
"You don't look like you lost too much, Zelmont." He finished wrapping the tape, checking out his work.
"You got something in front of you, youngster." I lifted my helmet up and chugged down some Gatorade. "I got to be on it 'cause I ain't got nothin' but the past creepin' up."
He picked up his helmet, holding it gladiator style against his leg and wrist. "This ain't nothing but a game, Zelmont."
I drank some more Gatorade. He put on his helmet and went in to run his series. I didn't want to face it, but he looked all right. Grainger didn't have what you call steady speed, but he made up for it in his ability to drive on tacklers like Barry Sanders used to do.
Cannon signaled me to get ready. I snapped my helmet back into place, snuggling the mouth guard between my teeth. I chewed on the plastic, the old feelings swooping over me. In the stands I pretended there were thousands who'd skipped mowing the lawn or doing the wash, fixing that fence for Aunt Sarah, or changing the oil in the station wagon. It was live time, and I couldn't let the fans down.
I went in and did a simple pattern toward the flat, then broke right. Trevor Grier, the cornerback, stayed with me. The ball went over both our heads. He gave me a shove and I went down.
''Punk.'' I got back up, walking away from him.
"Your mama."
"At least my mama washes under her arms. Yours got a garden growin' there." He was a born-again Christian who once, before he saw the light, got caught giving it to a 19-year-old beauty contestant in the men's bathroom of the Dallas airport. Damn hypocrite.
The second play was a run for Blake to see how their $10 million running back out of Texas A &M, Orlando Matthews, was doing. He got six yards before coughing up the ball. But he recovered, then looked nervously over at the sidelines. Blake had his arms folded, making his jaw work like he was tasting rotten meat.
On third and three, I beat Grier on a stutter step, turned my upper body, and easily caught the throw from Dillworth, the second-string QB. By then Grier had turned, and him and free safety Leroy Collierthe only white boy I knew named Leroy were coming for me. I faked left, but Grier was too quick. He got me, and tried to spin me around to throw me to the ground. I put my shoulder pads into his chest as Collier's arms locked around my legs. I went down on top of Grier, trying my best to make it as painful as possible for him.
"Back off." He slapped the side of my helmet.
Collier rolled off my legs. I laughed and gave Grier a jab with my elbow, close and tight. "That's what you get for being a pussy." I got up and trotted back to the huddle. I was on my J and everybody knew it. We had first down, and Blake and Cannon decided to keep the ball on the ground. On third and nine, Sistrunk, the second-string center, hiked. I pivoted left and went into motion, but before I could get fifteen yards, Grier came charging and upended me.
"Motherfuckah," I hollered. Cannon was blowing his whistle as I hit the turf. I jumped up, throwing off my helmet. Grier stood there like he was bad. I leaped on him and we started trading blows. Hands were on both of us, people yelling at us to stop.
As Grier was being pulled back I got a punch in under his chin strap. His head jerked back like he'd gotten whiplashed. Then Cannon got in my face.
"This isn't how I run my team, Raines."
"Tell him, he made the illegal tackle."
"Don't tell me how to deal with my men, Raines. You haven't earned your spot yet." His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he was snorting air through his nose. "Go sit down."
"Hey, look"
"Go sit down." He pointed towards the bench. I was gonna argue, but I was in a weak position.
Blake was talking to Grier, who was glaring at me like I tripped his grandma going to the store. Walking over to the bench, I could see Stadanko had come out onto the field. He was talking to somebody with his back to me. I knew that funny hat. Fahrar.
I got close to them to show him he couldn't get to me and mess with my flow. Be like Clinton and deny everything. The cop shook hands with Stadanko and started to walk off, pretending like I wasn't there. I was about to call him but thought better of it. I sat down, stretching out my right leg. It seemed to be okay as long as I was moving, but once I rested, I didn't trust it not to lock up.
When scrimmage ended we ran some laps and hit the weight room. Cannon called me into his office.
"You've got some convincing to do with me, Raines." He sat behind one of those executive desks, the playbook open on it.
"I looked good, didn't I?"
"Attitude is a big part of how I see a team coming together."
In the old days I'd have made a crack, then walked out and found some honey to curl up with for a few hours while the front office argued about how much they had to pay me and how I was worth the hassle. Then some college boy would mention how much gate I brought in, how I delivered on clutch plays, and they'd shake their heads and get on with how'd they have to put up with me 'cause I put butts in the seats. But those days were behind me.