You Are Free
Page 19
Chapter Nineteen
You huddle in the flight deck shelter with your cammies on and your boots and your cap tucked into one of the big pockets on your thigh and your MREs in the other, like the thigh pads in your football uniform sweaty, and a blanket rolled up and stuffed into your web gear and the canteens hanging heavy and wet from your chest, and you look across to Mr. Holden and he is got his eyes closed and his lips are moving and then he opens his eyes and says thought I’d get in a little prayer before we go you want one and you say what the hell Mr. Holden say one for me.
And you remember how you would sit in the gym with your uniform on with twenty other guys all sitting there together but no one looking at any one else, and the sun slanting down on to the gym floor, the warm fall sun, with your cleats out in front of you, and one guy always pacing up and down the floor with his cleats making little black marks on the hardwood, and one guy hopping up and up and up, then someone’s dad would stick his head in the door and say time to go fellows and you would all come to your feet and line up two by two at the big double doors, tugging at your helmet and shrugging your shoulders to get the pads set right.
And then the airdale first class sticks his head in the door and says all aboard who’s coming aboard and the two of you stand up in the dark cool shelter with the pipes and the electric running down the conduits and you look at each other and then you go out the hatch with Mr. Holden following you with the airdale checking your names off on his list.
And the two lines would come out of the school to the blacktop path up to the field in the bright cold sun with little puffs of smoke trailing down the helmets in front of you, with the cleats rattling and skating a little on the blacktop, up the hill to the flat field and the crowd and the cheerleaders and your mom and dad sitting up there in the stands.
And you stumble on the ladder up from the catwalk and fall forward and catch yourself and the non-skid burns the palms of your hands and you get your feet under you and really hump your ass up the last two steps and on to the flight deck where the ‘53’s rotors are thunder clapping the air, this big fucking bug squatting down on its tiedown chains and you remember and remember and remember the rotors on the left, those huge blades slicing through the air and remember the rotor’s on the left.
And you would huddle together with the coach you hated and the guys you love all jammed in and packed and put your hand in and feel it touch the arms and hands and the shoulders and you would shout and then break free on to the wonderful football field, the hard grass and the soft dirt and the world shrunk down into your helmet, the wind whistling through the ear holes and the mask in front of your face, and you run out to the forty yard line and take your spot second from the end, and look down the field to another helmet and shadow and shoulder pads and thigh pads, and you feel cool and light and your arms and your legs are just bursting ready to go, and you want to scream yes this is what I want.
You run under the blades shadows overhead and feel the whup and thud and air smashing into your ducked head and you follow the crew chief up the ramp and then to a seat and he shows you how to buckle in while the helo shakes and air electric and wired and so clear and you can see every line on Mr. Holden’s face and count the rivets on the helo wall.
The kicker comes forward and when he passes you start running careful, careful to stay behind him and his foot comes back and then down into the ball and it sails off and you crank it on watching the ball turn over and over and over into the blue sky, and the air clear and clean and into your lungs, and you are motoring so fast and high at speed with your cleats digging the dirt and your long legs stretching out in front of you and your shoulders and your head high and the wind in your ear holes whistling.
And the helo squats down and out the window you can see the airdale lifting his arms like a touchdown and the rotors speed up and the helo shudders long and deep, and then it lifts up and into the air, and the airdale is staggering against the rotorwash, and he is lifting his arms up and up and up
You take ten long steps and see the guy you are going to hit and now you can just for a second see his eyes tight and hard, and you crash with a bam into him and hear the air rush out and you use your arms and your speed to shed his ass and he falls to your left and you push through looking for the man with the ball happening faster than you can think about it he jams up to your right and you take three steps and close your eyes and slam into him and you feel his body soft and his arms hard and he falls and you fall, and you hit the dirt and the grass and the sweet smell of sweat and plastic and dirt, and you lie there for a long second feeling the shock in your shoulders and your legs and your helmet tight around your head in your little space and the game is on and you are on the game.
And the helo stops shaking and you look down at the boat going away smaller and smaller and the blue ocean underneath you and you look ahead at the mountains coming closer.
And you sit and sit in the cold shuddering air and then you are in the end zone, it’s the practice field and its fall and the air snaps in your chest and the leaves are thick on the ground, thick and wet and sticking together as you swing your legs into them and they fly up for just a few seconds and then back into the mass of leaves and dirt and a football slaps into the leaves and skids past the end line past the goal posts and toward the snow fence on the edge of the gorge and you jog over and pick it up, all slick leather and stitches, and you feel the little bumps all over it as you turn it over and over in your hands and then someone slaps your shoulder pads and you wake up in a helo shuddering over the mountains with Mr. Holden staring at you.