by Tim Green
"You," White continued, turning back to Clay and pointing with his clipboard, "you get the hell off my field. You watch for the rest of practice. And you got ten extra sprints after practice, Mr. First Rounder. That's ten more on top of the. extra ten you got the whole first defense doing. You think I don't remember that you're the only guy on this team who has shown me that he's got a serious attitude problem? I sure as hell haven't forgotten. And I'll tell you something else, boy. You keep this shit up and even the owner himself won't be able to keep me from shipping your sorry ass home in a box. Now get the hell off my field!"
Clay jogged off the field and stood alone on the sideline. The shame of being hit and insulted and demoted made him forget about the ringing in his head. He had lined up as the starting end on the defense since the beginning of camp. Normally rookies were relegated to second or third team, depending on their draft status. But a first- and sometimes a second-round pick was usually given the starting job based on the fact that an owner would not think well of paying out big money to watch a player sitting on the bench.
Clay was still sweating despite his inactivity. The air was hot and humid, and the dry field stirred a dusty haze that stung the players' eyes and filled their nostrils with crud. The rest of the team eyed Clay enviously from the practice field. In the middle of all their running and hitting, their sweat and punishment, Clay's spot seemed like an oasis.
In reality, though, no one would trade places with Clay. No one wanted to piss off a coach. If it was done too many times, it was a sure ticket out of town, and everyone knew that if a player got on White's bad side, he might as well pack it in. Most of them had worked all their lives to play in the NFL, whether it was for the glory or the money, or both. There were eighty of them there in camp, and each one knew that in six weeks almost half of them, no matter how hard they worked, would be gone. Those who were more secure in their positions weren't carefree either, because White decided who played and who sat. The pressure to please him consumed each player.
Clay felt it too, and so he couldn't enjoy the break. In the end, he was worse off. The sprints the team had to run after practice were one hundred yards in length. The players had to sprint the hundred yards in under eighteen seconds, then jog back and do it again. Clay's extra sprints totaled over an extra mile of running. His already sore feet and legs burned with pain, his mind whirled, and his chest felt as if it would collapse. When the rest of the team had completed their running, White made them all stay in the hot morning sun, doubled over and panting, to watch Clay. Only his anger at Vance White, who ridiculed him every step of the way, kept Clay focused enough in the oppressive heat to finish the sprints. He staggered off the field. It wasn't fear of White, or even shame that got him through it. It was pure rage, hatred. He refused to be beaten by White.
The next day, Clay learned that White's abuse wouldn't be limited to after-practice running. When the team broke up by position to work on fundamental skills, White appeared at the D-line's area. Clay and his teammates were working on a tackling drill, where they would take turns as the ball carrier and the tackier.
"Gavin," said White, "let Blackwell run for these boys."
Gavin shrugged and tossed Clay the ball. Clay got out of the tackling line and went over to the running side.
"And I want to see if you pussys can hit," White added in a nasty tone. "I won't have any D-linemen on this team that can't put a ball carrier to the ground."
Sky was next to tackle. Clay, ten yards away, ran at him full speed with the ball. Sky popped him hard, wrapping Clay up in his long arms. He held Clay in the air, driving him backward, and then dropping him to his feet as was custom in the drill.
"Sky, you mother-fucking piece of shit!" White screamed. "You dumb son of a bitch! I said drive him into the fucking ground! Get your ass off my field! You can join Blackwell after practice, you dumb-ass!"
Sky looked wide-eyed at Gavin, "I-I th-th-thought--"
"Off!" shouted White, pointing at the water buckets.
Norris was next in line. He pounded Clay to the ground, not wanting any of what White was giving out.
"Umpphhh!" went Clay.
"Sorry," whispered Norris, then started to help Clay to his feet.
"Don't help him up, Norris!" bellowed White. "If I wanted you to help a ball carrier up, I wouldn't have you tackle him! This isn't a fucking tea party!"
Doogie was next. He hit Clay under the chin and drove him into the ground. Doogie got up quickly, leaving Clay in a heap.
"You'll be here in September, Doogie," White said. "I like the way you hit."
The drill went on like that every day, with White motivating Clay's teammates to punish him in order to preserve their own jobs.
White also ran Clay extra every day. The tackling drill and running alone were unbearable, but after the first three days White added a "double team" drill after the running.
Clay had almost reached the cool locker room when he heard White shout, "Blackwell! Get your ass back out here, you're not through. You need some work on the double team."
Clay turned to see Pike and Sick waiting beside White. They looked rested, and fresh as daisies compared to Clay. They were leering.
"You just line your ass up right here," White said, pointing at the ground directly across from the two huge offensive linemen. Clay looked up to see two sets of mean eyes. Sweat dripped off their bulging arms and legs. One of them reeked horribly of body odor. Clay thought he would gag.
Clay got down in his stance and almost fell on his face. He was still exhausted from the extra running. Before he was even ready, White called, "Hut," and the two loads fired out at him, knocking him back five yards before he landed on his back. Pike and Sick landed with their full six hundred pounds on top of him.
"That's bullshit!" White screamed at Clay. "This is the NFL, boy! You can't let two offensive guards blow your ass off the ball like you aren't even there! Now get your ass up and do it again . . ."
Next time Clay jumped the count, grabbed hold of Pike, and pulled him to the ground. Sick got there a split second late, and the three of them lay in a pile-up on the line of scrimmage. Clay had trouble getting up-
White spat. "Not bad," he said blandly. "You two gonna let this rookie pile you up on the line like that? I thought you two were tough."
"Fuck," said Pike.
"Cunt," said Sick.
The two ogres whispered between themselves and lined up.
"Hut! Hut!"
Clay went for Pike's chest again. He was too slow, but that didn't matter. Pike had launched his full bulk at Clay's knees. The impact twisted Clay's joints and left him in an awkward position. Sick hit him high before he could recover. The back of Clay's head hit the ground first with a thud, bouncing off the turf. He winced from the shock to his head and from the anticipated snap of a knee.
Exhausted as he was, a rush of adrenaline allowed Clay to jump to his feet and kick Pike in the head. Sick was up and on him, and Clay could only land one punch to Sick's belly before he was taken to the ground.
What happened next was a blur in Clay's mind. He was outnumbered. Pike and Sick punched and kicked him repeatedly, cursing as they did it. Through it all Clay could hear the maniacal laughter of Vance White. He had nothing left. He lay there and took what they gave him. Sooner or later he knew they would tire of beating him.
White finally turned and walked away. Pike and Sick followed when they realized White had gone.
". . . ever kick me . . . teach that fuckin' rookie . . ." Clay heard them mumbling.
Clay lay still until he caught his breath. He smelled the hot turf. It reminded him of cutting the summer lawn when he was a kid. He rolled over, got up, and marched into the locker room.
"Fuck them," he said. No one could hear him.
One night during the defensive line meeting, Clay sat watching the practice film.
"Clay," Gavin Collins said, "you gotta get wider on this play, youVe got contain. You're the last player
that can make this play. If the back gets outside you on this, like he does here, it's a touchdown. We can't have you doing this. I know it's not a physical thing, I can see you've got the tackle beat, but you have to concentrate. You have to know that when we run a Bronco, you're the contain."
Collins corrected Clay in the same patient tone he used with all his players. He wasn't being an asshole; he was just explaining the job and how to do it. Clay felt that Gavin respected him despite White's campaign. It was nothing spoken, Clay just had a sense that Collins wanted no part of White's program of intimidation and humiliation.
And now, as he watched the film, Clay had to face the fact that he had fucked up for the one guy who was on his side. He started to get anxious.
Collins backed the film up so they could all see the mistake again. Clay tensed his muscles, urging his image on the film to stay outside and make the tackle. He urged and urged, and then he shot up out of his seat.
"Augggggh! Ooooow!" he almost screamed.
Every muscle in his body tightened at one time. He tried to stand but couldn't. He fell over onto the floor, writhing in pain, the agony of the cramps making him light-headed.
"He's cramping up," he heard someone say.
The rest of the defensive line tried to hold him down, to subdue him and massage his cramping limbs.
"Sky!" Clay heard Collins yell. "Get a trainer! Go get a trainer!"
It was only ten minutes before Sparks the trainer came rushing into the meeting room with an IV. To Clay, those few minutes seemed like forever. He lay on the floor and moaned with pain more intense than any he had ever experienced. His teammates and coach stood about helplessly. Once Sparks had the needle in Clay's arm and the IV started flowing, he instructed the players on how to rub Clay's limbs to help ease the cramps. Sparks sent one of the players to the training room for some more IVs. After four quart bags of IV fluid Sparks removed the needle and helped Clay slowly off the floor. The rest of the defensive linemen had gone to the dorm. Only Collins remained.
"What the hell happened, Sparky?" Collins asked, relieved to see Clay up and on his feet, even if he was unsteady.
"Dehydrated," Sparks said. "Been working out in that sun, not gettin' enough fluid in his system between practices. Get dehydrated like that and the whole body goes. Cramps up tighter than a drum. Painful sumbitch, huh?"
Clay nodded.
"Well," Sparks said, patting him on the back and then packing up his black bag, "you best get some rest. I'll bring by a couple of six-packs of Gatorade to your room, and you make sure you're drinking it all night."
When Sparks had gone, Clay turned wearily to Gavin Collins. "Sorry about this, Coach."
"Hey, there's nothing for you to be sorry for, Clay," Collins said with a smile. "You can't help what happened. But next time you guys want to get out of a meeting early, just ask me instead of scaring me half to death."
Clay chuckled softly, shaking his head. The joke broke the ice.
"Clay," Collins said seriously, "I've been meaning to talk to you anyway. I know that Coach White is being unusually hard on you, and I know why."
Clay's eyes quickly focused on his coach's face.
"The thing is," Collins continued, "I really can't do anything about it except to tell you that you're a fine football player, and I know that you can come through all this. I can't say anything against Coach White-- he's my boss, and that would be unprofessional. But I can tell you between you and me that I respect what you're doing. I really can't say any more to you. I'm going to treat you like the rest of my players. I'll ride you extra hard on the field because that's the orders from above, but I want you to know that I am behind you. I'd like to see you do well, and I think that once you get through this camp, you will."
Clay waited to see if Collins would say more. "Thanks, Gavin," Clay said after a few silent moments.
Clay left the meeting room and made his way slowly through the dark, towering trees between the old college buildings and back to the dorm. He smiled at the thought of Collins's vote of confidence. Then it was gone. Gavin, after all, was one coach. The rest were going right along with White. Even his teammates were disdainful. After all, he was a first-round draft pick who wasn't even in the starting line-up.
"Face it," Doogie had said to him one day after practice, "You're get- tin' big money, so if you don't perform, it makes 'em all look like shit."
Ralph Scott, a three-hundred-pound former All-Pro who was in the waning days of his illustrious career, heard Doogie's comment, and he leaned toward Clay.
"Listen," he said, "don't listen to that shit. I made a million dollars in Houston one year, and I had a hell of a year . . . but it didn't matter. No way could I have done enough to make people think I deserved that money. There's nothing you can do either, so don't mind that asshole a bit."
But the worse things got on the field, the more Clay heard cracks about how much money he was making.
Clay wondered how White could be doing this to him. His head was pounding as he staggered across the grass to his dorm. He couldn't stop asking himself why. So he wouldn't take White's drug, big fuckin' deal! He could play. He would be the best D-lineman they had if White would cut his shit. Gavin knew it. Clay knew it. Even White must know it.
Clay shook his head.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, where his room was. It was only 10:15, and there was no one using the phone. Clay dialed Katie. She picked up on the first ring.
"Clay?" she said, her voice echoing on the long-distance line.
"How'd you know it was me, honey?" he asked.
"Just guessed. I had a feeling you might call. What's wrong, Clay? You don't sound good."
He told her what had happened.
"Oh, my God, Clay," she said, clearly upset. "I hope you're going to take it easy for a few days."
"Ha!" Clay laughed. "That's a good one. I'll be out there tomorrow morning sweating my ass off with everyone else. I'll be lucky if White doesn't make me run extra just because I cramped up tonight."
"You're not really serious, Clay. It's barbaric. They never would have had you practice the day after something like that at school."
"Well, this isn't college anymore, Katie. There's no such thing as taking it easy here."
"Maybe you should talk to them, Clay, tell them. You're a first-round pick. I thought that meant that they wanted to make sure you were ready to help the team right from the start of the season."
Clay rested his forehead against the cold, shiny metal of the pay phone. Tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted to tell here she was absolutely right, but that logic meant nothing to the Birmingham Ruffians.
"It's so fucked up down here," he thought, "no one would even believe it. If the son of a bitch would just give me a fucking chance!"
He didn't want Katie to know how upset he was, so he took a deep breath and steered the conversation away. "I just want this to be over," he said, "and be back together with you. The season isn't even started, and all I can think of is getting home."
"I'm sure you'll feel better when you get out of training camp."
"Holy shit," he thought, "you don't get it, Kate, you just don't get it."
"Yeah," he said, "I'm sure things will get better."
They talked for a few more minutes, then Clay hung up the phone and rested his head against his arm on the wall. "The bad thing is," he said to himself, "I can not only see things not getting better, I can see them getting worse."
He limped awkwardly to his room. The rest of the players, now done with their meetings, were beginning to filter into the dorm. Clay flopped down on his bunk, not bothering to turn on the light. As he lay in the darkness, he felt completely exhausted. His limbs were heavy and his various cuts and bruises throbbed incessantly. Even before Max got back from his meeting or Sparky stopped by with his Gatorade, the shuffle of feet and the muffled voices from beyond his door lulled Clay into a deep sleep. Sleep was his only reprieve from the panic that was beginni
ng to grip him and the feeling that for the first time his world was collapsing around him and he was powerless to stop it.
"Jesus, there's some hittin' goin' on out there, Gavin," Stepinowski murmured to Collins.
"What do you expect, Step?" Collins replied. "This is a full scrimmage and these guys are--what should we say--highly motivated?"
Step glanced over at White, then snorted, "Gavin, I like you, and you know it, but you gotta watch your sarcasm."
Collins just smiled and signaled the play in to Max.
Max called the play with authority; even Clay could hear him from the sideline, "Okee Double Slant Cover Three . . . Ready . . ."
"Break!" The shout went up from the Entire defense in unison. They knew by now that if it wasn't loud and crisp Max would make them re- huddle and do it again, and no one questioned Max. He was their leader.
Clay watched McGuire line up next to Doogie, checking to see if McGuire would align outside the tackle and then shift inside at the last second, the way Clay knew it was supposed to be done.
McGuire did it right.
"Shit," Clay said to himself.
The ball was snapped and the offense surged as one to the open side of the field. Only the off-side guard, Pike, pulled from his stance and went the other way. The back too, after a jab step to the strong side, turned and countered back. It was a counter O play. Doogie saw it, McGuire saw it, even Sky saw it. But they all saw it too late, they had committed to the strong side.
Max wasn't fooled. With amazing speed he charged straight toward the line of scrimmage. Just before Pike turned the corner to lead-block up the field, Max threw his entire body, head first, directly at the ear hole of Pike's helmet.
"Crack!"
The sound exploded. Pike went backward, slamming into Davis Green and popping the ball from his hands. Norris jumped on the ball, a defensive turnover.
"Owwwwwwwwww!" went Max's war cry at the top of his lungs. He was standing over the immense motionless body of Pike with both fists raised.