Kneel

by Candace Buford

  “Thanks, Rus.” Ricky grabbed my shoulder pads and tugged. “I’m trying, man. I swear.”

  “You can do this.” I clapped my hands, grabbing my teammates’ attention as I found my spot on the right side, hoping I’d sounded convincing. I’d played with Marion for years, watched him refine his craft with every coach and every opposing team. He’d be the first to tell you he wasn’t the best quarterback out there—that he really had to work for his spot on the field—but that was horseshit and he knew it. Hell, everyone knew it. Marion was a phenom with a football. Ricky had a long way to go if he wanted to catch up.

  I lowered to a squat, my fingertips brushing the freshly mowed grass. At the whistle I was off like a flash. The throw was high, but I managed to catch it. I took off toward the goal line, hoping this would end Coach Fontenot’s endless practice session.

  Darrell’s long legs chomped at the yard lines as he closed in on me. He managed to grab my jersey at the torso, but I shoved him off, making him tumble onto the green. When I made it to the end zone, I slammed the ball to the ground and bent over my knees.

  “Finally!” Coach jumped up and down. “Was that so hard?”

  A cramp pinched my side as I walked back to the center of the field. I needed water or electrolytes—something to keep my muscles from seizing up. Darrell was catching his breath on the ground, right where he’d fallen. I held my hand out to pull him up, but he brushed it aside.

  “You’ve helped enough.” Darrell scrambled to his feet, losing his balance slightly.

  It was normal to play rough in a practice. In fact, it was our duty to rough each other up. Coach Fontenot said it was better for us to feel the full wave of brute force in daily practices than experience it for the first time on game day. It made us stronger, tougher. But I couldn’t help but wonder if Darrell had taken my push differently. His scowl made me think so.

  Coach blared his whistle. “Line up and give me twenty touch ’n’ turns.”

  My heart sank. Touch ’n’ turns was a hard drill, requiring us to sprint from one end zone to another and then back again, over and over until we could barely breathe. Coach said it was to test and fortify our endurance, but we knew what it was.

  Punishment.

  “I’ve made my thoughts known, but let me reiterate.” Coach Fontenot cupped his mouth, following our progression as we ran the field. “We are here to play football. Nothing else! Now, keep working off Friday’s sorry-ass game!”

  I gripped my side to squelch the cramp, running as fast as I could under the circumstances. I was a sloth masquerading in a uniform, trudging through every yard like it was harder than the one before. My brothers felt the same, no doubt. Their feet dragged as we jogged the field, heads bowed as they huffed through the drudgery.

  Ms. Duval had set up a table at the far end zone with water bottles and plastic cups filled with Gatorade. When Coach had his back turned, I stopped and squirted a sports bottle of water into my mouth, closing my eyes as I guzzled as much as I could between panting. Darrell and a few players stopped to do the same.

  “Y’all can thank Rus for this,” Darrell said in a breathy groan. “Thank him for bringing this on us.”

  I didn’t do him the disservice of contradicting him. This was payback for my kneeling. Payback for Marion getting kicked off the team. Payback for Ricky not being good enough.

  “Thanks, Rus.” Karim jogged breathlessly past me, water dripping onto his jersey.

  “Yeah, thank you, Rus,” Bobby said as he lifted his uniform to wipe his face.

  I’d never felt more like an outsider in my own world as players rounded the water table and thanked me for the pain and shame I’d brought upon them.

  * * *

  It was like that all week. Extra-long practices coupled with extra-long drills. By midweek, my teammates and I were exhausted. If the purpose of those drills was to make us stronger in the face of the opposition, we had been welded into ironclad steel.

  But I was flailing in my academic life. I couldn’t keep up. There were only so many hours in the day, and getting home after seven o’clock didn’t leave enough time for homework and sleep.

  On Thursday, after another grueling practice, I knocked on the Dupre warehouse door, unprepared to dive into my Baldwin project with Gabby.

  “Come in!” she yelled from the other side of the glass.

  I entered and walked to the picnic table behind the packing crates. My tired legs wobbled as I scooted onto the bench.

  “You look tired,” Gabby said, scooting her papers aside to make room for me.

  “I am beyond tired.” I struggled to keep my eyes open, to give Gabby the attention she deserved, but it was hard. My body had been moving nonstop since this morning. Now that I was seated, my muscles relaxed, making me hunch over my backpack. I resisted the urge to use it as a pillow.

  Gabby, on the other hand, looked refreshed. Her cheeks were flushed as she smiled at me, her eyes bright behind her tortoiseshell glasses. “You look nice.”

  “Really?” She raised her eyebrows, her mouth open. She looked surprised yet flattered. “It’s officially ugly sweater season.” Gabby squealed with glee as she pushed out of her seat. She pulled her sweater taut so that I could see every detail. It featured a busy Halloween motif with a haunted house, a full moon, and a jack-o’-lantern. Her sleeve had a felt bat sewn onto the shoulder. It popped off the sweater as if to say BOO!

  It was breathtaking in a weirdly cute way.

  “My mom just sent it to me. She lives near this funky thrift shop in South Beach and...wow, right?”

  Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with her. But as soon as I opened my mouth, a yawn slipped out.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head, trying to stave off the exhaustion that kept creeping in, then rifled through my backpack. I brought out the Tupperware container she’d lent me during lunch the other day. “Before I forget, I wanted to give this back to you.”

  “Thanks.” She set it on the bench beside her. “I thought we could combine our written portions for the presentation. I’ve written the introduction and the synopsis of Beale Street. Can I see your portion?”

  I shut my eyes, inwardly cussing at my lack of preparedness.

  “Mine is...rough.” I pulled out my notebook, eyeing Gabby’s printed pages. There were no scratch-outs, no bullet points like my paper. Hers looked like a complete and polished draft. Reluctantly, I handed her my draft as I skimmed through hers. It was solid—definitely better than mine.

  “Rus, this is due in a few weeks.” She exhaled as her gaze darted across my pages. She looked at me over the rim of her glasses, her lips pursing. “If you weren’t ready to meet, you could have just told me.”

  “I did come ready to work. Look, I even brought printouts.” I flipped to the folder in the back of my binder and pulled out a stack of paper. “They’re from the color printer—the one the librarian never lets anyone use.”

  “Now we’re talking.” She pushed my notebook aside and sorted the pages between pictures of Baldwin, images from the movie, and quotes from the book. “I’ve tried begging the librarian to let me use color, but she never budges.”

  “The perks of being a football player.” I smiled, but after a moment, my lips faltered and turned downward. I used to love the game and all the status that came with it. Now it seemed like a burden. Football was kicking my ass right now. “Sometimes I wish I could call in sick, you know? Take a break from it all for just one week.”

  “Can’t you? I mean, you play against Jasper High tomorrow night, and then you play against Belson, Alexandria, and then Cary before your rematch with Westmond during the bye week.”

  “Whoa.” My eyebrows shot up at the sound of her game roster knowledge. She had my attention. “Look who’s keeping track of football.”

  “I’m not.” She straightened in
her seat, tucking her curls behind her ear. “I hear stuff from Clay, that’s all.”

  I shook my head. Gabby couldn’t fool me with that hardened facade. She might not have cared about football, but she cared about me... I was sure of it.

  “Stop looking at me like that.” She squinted at her page, making sure she glided her scissors precisely along the outline of James Baldwin’s face on one of the printouts. She was avoiding eye contact, and that made me want to smile even more.

  Suddenly, I found a second wind.

  “Okay, fine.” She dropped her scissors on the table, a reluctant grin sweeping across her face. “So, maybe I am following the games a little closer this season.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “To be honest...” She searched my face for a moment. “I can see the stress in your eyes. You need a break. A real one. Our project is due in two weeks, and it’s our midterm grade. Do you promise to finish your draft of the presentation by next week?”

  “I swear I’ll have it done.”

  “Okay, then. I trust you. Now for that break.” She swung her legs over her bench and hopped up, then beckoned for me to follow her as she crossed the room. She shoved the warehouse door open and yelled over her shoulder, “You coming?”

  “Wait up,” I said, scurrying to my feet. My sneakers squeaked across the concrete floors as I scrambled after her. When I got outside, Gabby was already walking down the dirt road that bisected her father’s fields. “Where are you going?”

  “Here is as good a place as any.” She panted, her nostrils flaring as she looked out onto the rows of corn. “Scream at the top of your lungs.”

  “What?” I scrunched up my face, shaking my head. “I’m not gonna yell. Your dad might hear me.”

  “Oh, he’s used to it.” She grinned widely. She stepped into one of the rows and sank to the ground, crossing her legs. She patted the space across from her, encouraging me to sit on the dirt. “I used to come out here all the time when my parents got divorced and I had all the feels. I went to the back fields and screamed it all out. My dad even joined me a couple times. And you know what? It helps.”

  “You’re crazy,” I said, my heart rate quickening. Ripping the top off my anger and frustration was against my nature. My folks, the team—they were all telling me to fall back, to keep my mouth shut. But not Gabby. She was encouraging me in a way no one else had. She wanted me to speak up more—to literally scream at the top of my lungs.

  I took a step closer to her and to the edge of the field.

  “You know you wanna try it.” Her eyes narrowed, a challenge. When I didn’t budge, she threw her head back and howled into the setting sun. “GAHHHHHHH!”

  A surge of adrenaline rushed through my veins as I watched her scream into the void. I wanted to feel that release.

  “AHHHHHHHHH!” I emptied my lungs until my voice cracked. I inhaled deeply and cupped my hands over my mouth. “FUUUUUUUUUCK!”

  “That’s the spirit. Feels great, right?” Gabby giggled into both hands.

  We roared into the wind until the sun dipped below the horizon and our voices gave out.

  16

  I shut the front door and rounded the driveway, where Pops and Marion were tinkering with my car. When Marion turned the key in the ignition, the Honda wheezed, coughing and spasming while he pumped the gas. Pops leaned over the open hood, one hand on his hip while he tried to locate the source of the sound.

  I checked the time on my phone. I had thirty minutes to get back to the high school before the game bus departed for Jasper. It was a short half hour drive to their stadium, but Coach liked for us to arrive together, as a team.

  After a week of grueling practices, we were ready to erase our shellacking against Shreveport. We had no choice but to win against Jasper tonight. We had to. Otherwise, our chances of making the playoffs were in jeopardy.

  “That doesn’t sound good.” I leaned over Pops just as Marion revved the engine again. The Honda protested with another whirr.

  Since Mr. Dupre had fixed my battery cables, like the aging senior it was, the Civic had developed more health complaints. It hiccupped and sputtered to a stall, sounding more ominous than ever. Pops brushed his hands on his pants, then held one hand up for Marion to stop.

  “Looks like it’s the alternator.” Pops wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  Marion crawled from behind the steering wheel and gave me a shake of his head. “That’s exactly what we didn’t hope for.” He joined Pops near the hood and gestured for me to take a look. “Probably gonna be three or four hundred dollars to replace.”

  Pops spat on the gravel and rubbed his stubble. “Lemme check one more thing.”

  “I’ve gotta get to the stadium some kinda way.” I studied the smoking hood, feeling nervous. “Can I take your truck?”

  Pops grunted as he dove headfirst into the Civic, his body contorting to follow the wires deep into the bowels of the car. He was still not talking to me. How long was this going to last?

  “Or we can ride together? You know, instead of y’all catching a ride with Karim’s mama later.” My voice thickened, but I coughed it away. “You’re coming tonight, right?”

  Pops grabbed the sides of the hood and pushed himself up, his lips pursed, eyes averted. “We’ve got plenty of work to do over here.” He looked at Marion instead of me, as if searching for corroboration—for an excuse to not attend the game.

  “What about you?” I asked, afraid to look Marion in the eye. But I held my chin up, even though I wanted to bury my head in my hands. “You coming?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head and looked at his phone, scrolling through his social media feed, seeming more interested in other people’s lives than ours.

  I slumped. Marion was a part of the team. Even though he wasn’t suiting up with the rest of us, he should be there. Maybe part of my question was also selfish. His presence would bring unity to the team—something I’d been unable to accomplish this past week. Marion would be able to squelch some of the discord Darrell had sown.

  There were two team captains for a reason. Flying solo during this shitstorm was beyond my abilities. But my co-captain had made up his mind, and I felt the chill of isolation like I never had before. I tightened my hold on my duffel bag and stormed off in the direction of Pops’s truck. I didn’t have keys, didn’t have faith. But I couldn’t look at them anymore.

  “Rus, wait up.” Marion called after me.

  “For what? You to give up? Nah, I’m straight.” I blinked toward the sky, breathing in as much fresh air as I could. It stilled my nerves, if only for a second. “The league said you couldn’t suit up. Not that you couldn’t come to the stadium and support your team.”

  “I can’t sit on the sidelines.” He put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “You know how hard that is.”

  I knew all too well. And even though Coach said he’d play me tonight, there was no guarantee that would happen. If yesterday’s drills were any indication of his mindset, Coach was still angry at me for kneeling.

  I needed Marion’s help. Couldn’t he see that? Or was he too busy gearing up for a life without football, one where he would put on a different kind of uniform and do manual labor under Pops’s tutelage? Plumbing was a decent profession, one that put food on the table and a roof over our heads. But Marion had so much talent as a quarterback. How could I drill that into him?

  “You said you would fight,” I said, remembering the night Marion came home from jail, bloody and battered. I hadn’t conjured that moment since it happened. I knew it was painful for Marion to look back on that day—the night everything turned upside down for him. For all of us. But I didn’t know how else to get through to him.

  “I know what I said.”

  “So then, fight. Show up tonight. The team needs you.” Marion and I were the glue that held the brotherhood t
ogether. Without him, the team was splitting apart. There was no cohesion.

  Marion nodded as he continued to scroll through his phone.

  I waved my hand in front of his screen. “Hello? Are you listening?” I frowned. This was important.

  “Holy shit.” Marion held his screen closer to his face. “Look what Aysha just DM’d me.”

  “Aysha?” I raised my eyebrows, startled. “You two talk?”

  “It’s not like that.” Marion bit his lip, looking uncomfortable. He’d always admired Aysha, but he’d never chat her up without telling me.

  Would he?

  “Before you pop off, take a look at this.” He shoved his phone into my hands. “One of her friends posted a Latergram of the Westmond game. This video is different. Look.”

  The shaky video was of someone filming their friends, then excitedly panning the field...to capture the beginning of Marion’s argument with Brad. You could see Brad slap Marion’s hand away, see him push us to the ground. I’d yet to see a camera shot of the beginning of the fight when my face hit the ground, busting my lip. But from this angle, you could clearly see me chomp the turf—the moment Brad drew first blood. Marion pushed him next. And that’s when Brad grabbed his helmet to steady him enough so that when his knee snapped up, it hit him squarely in the gut. I covered my mouth with my hand.

  Holy shit! He’s saved!

  “They’ll have to drop the charges now!” I bounced on the balls of my feet, ecstatic.

  “I can’t believe this! I’m sending it to my lawyer.” Marion’s fingers flew across his screen as his fingers typed rapidly. When he looked up, he had a twinkle in his eyes. “I might just be able to play the tail end of the season.”

  “That’s great, Marion! We need you. Seriously, we’re not going to make it to the playoffs with Ricky.” As much as I liked our second-string replacement, he did not bring out the best in me. “You have to come to the game tonight. We can share the good news with the team.”