The Outlaw: No Heroes

by Alan Janney

  Natalie North texted me at six in the morning.

  << So all those sirens, all the police, the helicopters that was YOU?!?! Are you okay??

  I replied, Yeah, sorry to wake you.

  One thought during the long night kept reoccurring. Tank’s body had vanished. I searched but found no trace. He couldn’t have survived that fall. And he certainly couldn’t have walked away. Could he? Somewhere deep down in my soul I maintained a miserable suspicion: even though Tank should be dead, he would be there tonight. He was going to murder me legally on the football field.

  My entire torso was camouflaged in hideous purple shades. I wouldn’t be able to change clothes in the locker room; otherwise the whole team would see this. I decided to wear my UnderArmour football garments beneath my school clothes all day. I popped three more Ibuprofen and hefted my backpack. At least I tried to pick up my backpack. I couldn’t lift it; the weight was too great.

  Hidden Spring High was a madhouse. The entire student body had dressed in spirit colors for the game against Patrick Henry. Every student and every teacher I walked past wanted to talk, to wish me luck, to shake my hand, to pound me on the back. Their hopes and expectations piled higher and higher on my shoulders. Hannah greeted me with a fierce hug that would have killed me had I been one fraction more of a wimp. After the embrace I couldn’t catch my breath, and I went to the bathroom and spit a thick gout of blood into the sink.

  Despite tonight’s game, Outlaw fever had gripped our whole school. Everyone was talking about the Outlaw’s showdown last night and Katie Lopez’s improbable rescue. I smiled, listening to the chatter. I saw the helicopter’s camera footage on TV during lunch. From a distance, the Outlaw had been spotted jumping rooftops before ascending the apartment tower. On screen the fighters only existed inside the unsteady cones of dramatic helicopter spotlights, and the suspense mounted each time the figures disappeared into the darkness. Thankfully the helicopters’ midair crash had reduced the audience’s vantage point to miniature glimpses during the minutes I’d been without a mask. My secret identity was safe. I watched with piercing scrutiny when Tank finally went over the ledge but I learned nothing new. He had vanished. The police hadn’t found him either. The news helicopter’s final approach and the subsequent close-up rescue of Katie brought tears to my eyes. I also watched Katie get delivered to the hospital. Television anchors and prognosticators debated the Outlaw’s impossible jumps, the feats of heroism, the bravery, the stupidity, the mysterious identity of both combatants.

  I lost interest after a while and texted Katie.

  Did your mom tell you I called? How are you?? Text me back as soon as you can.

  No response.

  I stumbled through the day like a zombie. During classes I kept excusing myself to go spit out blood, and my urine looked pink and cloudy. If this didn’t clear up, I’d report it to the team physician after the game.

  During a break in my English class, while Hannah was writing me an encouraging note about tonight’s game, I snuck out my phone and re-watched slow-motion replays of the Outlaw’s leaps and the fight with Tank. The camera’s distance from the rooftops made it impossible to judge conclusively but the expanses traveled during those hurdles looked unrealistically long, like superhuman jumps. My memory of last night was garbled and foggy, but didn’t I also reach the top of a building in a single bound from the street? That…isn’t possible. I could not shake the feeling that my body had somehow become alien, a stranger to myself.

  Our football lockers had been meticulously prepared by the equipment managers. All the jerseys looked freshly laundered and hung neatly in rows, and the helmets held their pre-game luster. I came early and sat in the quiet locker room, a pristine shrine for the coming violence. At half-time, this thoroughly clean room would be profaned with dirt, sweat, and blood, our sacrifice to the god of superficial victories. I related to this locker room juxtaposition in ways I couldn’t explain.

  I popped another handful of pain killers when my teammates started arriving, and I dressed. My muscles screamed in pain with each movement, and the ache in my torso was deep and profound; putting on the shoulder pads nearly proved impossible. The mood in the locker room was focused and volatile, controlled chaos waiting to unleash, like a ticking bomb. Our opponent, we knew, was good. This was our first game we’d enter without being favored to win. The next three hours would be a hard fought struggle, full of frustration and pain. My teammates also knew that we’d be facing a blue-chipper, the top prospect in the nation, an absolutely nightmare on the football field. They were nervous about facing him. He’s a super villain, I wanted to tell them, a monster made out of steel, a kid-napping criminal! But I could prove none of it.

  I was tired. So tired. I still hadn’t heard from Katie; no one had. I wondered if she’d regained consciousness yet.

  “Gentlemen,” Coach Garrett addressed us before the game. “Lend me your attention. There’s no need for a motivational speech. You all know what’s at stake, the District Championship. The winner of this game goes on to play in the Regional Tournament, and the loser will play a consolation game. What need have we for further motivation?

  “It’s been a long season. I know you’re hurt, I know you’re battered, but I know you’re a true Eagle. You’re a warrior, and I’m proud of you. Our opponent is tough. They are aggressive. I’ve heard from other coaches that they play dirty. We have to play with our brain as well as our heart. You need to be better than that, above that. We’ll be selfless. We’ll be fast. We’ll be strong. We’ll hang tight for our brothers. We’ll do this for our school and for our town. If we execute, if we don’t get intimidated, and we play our best for our family and friends, then we will be victorious.”

  We halted warm-up exercises when the Patrick Henry Dragons bounded onto the field. We usually observed our opponent in secret so as to not give them much credit, but I couldn’t help myself. I stared openly. Was he alive? Was Tank here? My interest must have been infectious because all my teammates turned and watched too. The entire stadium held its collective breath, wanting to get a glimpse of the behemoth, this future NFL pro.

  Out he came from the tunnel, the head of the Dragons dressed in black and electric green. His broad shoulders were visible over his teammates’ helmets, and he strode like a man among boys. The immortal Tank was very much alive.

  Coach Garrett called the star-struck offensive players in for a huddle.

  “He’s big, isn’t he?” Coach Garrett yelled over the tidal wave of insanity rising in the stands. “Unless he gets hurt in college, he’s destined for the NFL. I know it, you know it. And he’s going to make our lives miserable for the next couple hours.”

  “This is the worst pep talk ever,” I said, and the team laughed.

  “But he’s just one player. And he’s not perfect. We can beat him. We can beat them all. We’re going to run tosses away from him and throw quick passes. That will effectively take him out of the game, neutralize him. Offensive line, your whole job is to keep him away from Chase. Chase can outrun him, but not every play. Keep your quarterback upright, keep him clean, keep him safe and we win this game. It’s that simple.”

  We lined up for introductions. The announcer’s voice broadcast our names and positions and we waved to the crowd. The cheers that accompanied my name had grown with each subsequent game, but they’d quickly transform to boos if I didn’t perform up to their lofty standards.

  The ceremony completed and a hauntingly beautiful national anthem was sung by a local children’s choir. The applause following the anthem, however, was short-lived, as though something had caught the stadium’s attention. The crowd hushed itself into an expectant silence. Everyone, even my teammates, stared and gestured across the field. I followed their gaze to the source of the confusion.

  Tank was standing in the middle of the field on the fifty yard line. Waiting. In a few minutes, the officials would call out team captains for the coin toss but Tank was already there early and al
one. If it had been any other player, this unusual conduct would go unnoticed but right now he held tens of thousands of people’s attention.

  He stood there, by himself, staring us down like Goliath challenging the Israelite army. Send out your best warrior to face me! That was the tradition. I scanned the faces of my peers, and saw that none of the Eagles dared answer the call. No one wanted to go out. They would wait in safety for the referees to beckon them. But I couldn’t wait, even though I was not a team captain. He almost beat me to death last night, and here he was again. Yet I recognized that if I didn’t jog out there right now and wait with him for the coin toss then he would already have won. I had to send him (and my teammates) a message; I’m not afraid. This was a moment to answer the bell, a moment for bravery. I didn’t know where I found any, but I jogged onto the field with my helmet. The crowd grew even quieter. He smiled as I approached.

  “Look who it is,” Tank rumbled as I stepped up to him. “It’s the boy wonder. Bring your stun gun to this fight too?”

  “Not unless you plan on bullying little girls again,” I answered. “What are we doing out here, Tank?”

  “I know your secret, quarterback. Your secret identity.”

  “Big whoop. I know yours too.”

  “How about I tell the world right now?”

  “Do it,” I dared him. “They’ll wonder how you know. And I’ll show them the mark on your neck. How are you going to explain kidnapping Katie?” I could see the destroyed flesh under his ear, a blackened and twisted scar that looked like melted skin refrozen.

  He laughed, catching me by surprise, and I knew that to all the eyes scrutinizing us it looked like I’d made a joke and that we were enjoying ourselves.

  “You won the first round, Pajamas,” Tank said. “But this fight isn’t over. And tonight, during round two, I’m going to make you wish you were dead.”

  “Bring it on, ugly.”

  “Hi fellas,” the head referee said as he walked up. “You’re here a little early.”

  “Hi Scott,” Tank said and he shook the man’s hand, flashing his big, disarming smile. “Good to see you again. I just wanted to come out early and meet the superhero quarterback. I keep reading about him in the papers.”

  “It’s Chase, right?” the referee asked, and he shook my hand too. “I read about both of you. Are we going to have a clean game tonight?”

  “You haven’t called a foul on me yet this season,” Tank reminded him. Oh great.

  The team captains joined us. We won the coin toss and deferred, which meant our defense would be on the field first.

  The Dragons were not ranked first in the state because of their offense, and it showed. They got the ball and our defense shut them down, quickly forcing them to punt, and we took over.

  Here we go.

  I walked out onto the field, my eyes glued to Tank. He didn’t get far before I saw it; his jogging was lopsided. The signs were almost imperceptible but my suspicions grew the more he ran. Tank Ware was injured! His right foot was heavily taped and he kept pumping it up and down, working it experimentally. I almost laughed in relief. That made us even. Maybe he wouldn’t rip my head off after all.

  Our first time approaching the line was a disaster. My protective linemen eyed Tank warily, and I’m sure they couldn’t believe how big he was up close. “Super Twelve,” I called, scanning the defense. Tank flinched and faked a pre-snap blitz. All five nervous linemen in front of me jumped out of their stances and retreated. Even Cory hopped. The center tripped, toppling us both, and he fell directly into my lap. The Dragons roared with laughter and our fans groaned.

  “Come on!” I yelled, pushing the three hundred pound center off me. “Are you kidding me? That’s pathetic, guys!”

  The penalty cost us five yards. We lined up again and I called, “Hut!” quickly before Tank could further intimidate the Eagles. I tossed the ball to Jesse who ran for five yards before being tackled.

  A full three seconds after the play, one of the Dragons demolished me. He put his helmet into my ribs and drove me into the ground. The world almost turned off. Through the blinding pain I could hear chaos erupting. I rolled around on the ground, trying to realign the broken things inside my body and gasping for breath. Nobody saw me spit out a mouthful of blood because the two teams were fighting. Cory had bodily heaved the Dragon off me and the other players entered into the fray, pushing and shoving. The crowd raged and screamed for blood. Yellow penalty flags littered the field, and the referees’ whistles blew continuously as they pried apart the opponents.

  I stood up on shaky legs. My back felt broken. The Dragon that hit me was being ejected from the game, though from his demeanor it appeared this had been intended. He laughed and clapped and waved at me as he departed. Tank alternated between glancing at me and trying to break up the fight. He made a great show of corralling his players, but his innocent disguise lowered briefly when he shot me a nefarious grin.

  The message was obvious. Tank had sent the Dragon after me. It was an intentional sacrifice to knock me out of the game, a dirty trick. He once told me he had evil henchman, and he just utilized one. But that meant he didn’t want me in the game. Why would that be? Was Tank truly worried his team might lose? If his supreme confidence was genuine then he wouldn’t be concerned. He would want to finish me off himself, rather than ordering a henchman to do it. Tank thought I could beat him, and he desperately wanted to win this football game. We were battling on multiple levels.

  “Personal foul. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Roughing the passer. Fifteen yard penalty.”

  Finally the officials swept the field clear of offending players and we could play football again. The scuffle had stained our jerseys with grass and blood. On the next play, Tank crashed through the line like a wrecking ball. I had to throw way too early and when I did the pain hit me hard. During my pivot my muscles pulled and stretched in ways that I’d never experienced before. The agony caused me to grossly under throw, and the ball skipped to Adam Mendoza. On third down I dumped the ball to Jesse. Tank hit Jesse so hard I feared he might be dead. We were forced to punt and I walked off the field, grateful to be alive.

  Back and forth, the defenses held their ground and we kept punting. Over and over again, we ran the ball away from Tank, who would invariably bolt through the disintegrating crowd and tackle Jesse from behind. I had averaged three or four seconds before passing the ball during all the previous games. Now with Tank howling towards me like a fire breathing dragon I had to throw in less than two. He hadn’t hit me yet, but we hadn’t scored yet either. Another stalemate.

  With fifteen seconds left in the half, Jesse inexplicably burst through the line and used all his pent up energy to torch the linebackers, leaving them far behind. The frustrated crowd rioted in joyous relief. Tank couldn’t catch him with his busted ankle, but the Dragon safety knocked Jesse out of bounds ten yards from the end zone. We kicked a field goal as time expired.

  “After the first half, the score is Dragons zero, and your Eagles three!”

  Coach Garrett fired us up in the locker room, shouting encouragement and praise. He drew manically on the white board. I’d never seen him so excited. We were smashed and bruised, but hope and the smell of victory inspired us. Two more quarters. I could stay standing for two more quarters.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” he thundered.

  Tank finally got his chance during the first play of the second half. He was on me in the blink of an eye, snarling and grasping. I threw the ball but he slung me to the ground immediately. I couldn’t get my breath. I gasped and pulled in oxygen but nothing happened. My lungs refused to inflate. Getting the wind knocked out is a terrifying feeling.

  Coach Garrett beckoned me off the field and sent in Andy Babington while I recovered. I waved away the physician, and my breath leaked in slowly. I would live.

  “You okay?” Garrett asked, drawing the headset away from his ear.

  “Sure,” I wheezed. “Never be
tter.”

  Andy ran one play and Tank dislocated his shoulder. Two plays, two quarterback injuries. Andy came off the field holding his throwing shoulder, aided by Dr. Wilburn.

  “Just keep Tank off me,” I told Garrett and went back out.

  We punted, but so did the Dragons minutes later. This time when Tank came through, I was ready. I faked and took off, Tank’s momentum carrying him out of the play. I sprinted through the Dragons, hurting with each footfall, and gained thirty-eight yards. The ball was within scoring distance. The cheerleaders screamed for us, and Hannah’s voice sang louder than the rest. Tank came limping down the field.

  Our jubilation was short lived, though. Jesse took a short pass straight into the teeth of the Dragon’s defense and he dropped the ball.

  “Fumble!”

  A Dragon scooped up the loose football and darted the other direction. He flew quickly out of our reach and into the far end zone. It happened so fast!

  “Touchdown Dragons!”

  Jesse and I stood dejectedly on the sidelines while the extra point was kicked and our special teams unit fielded the kick-off. If I sat down I wasn’t sure I’d get back up. Exhaustion and injuries were taking their toll on me, and I didn’t have much steam left. Jesse’s anger with himself was so great that tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Dragons seven, Eagles three.”

  The stadium rang with stunned silence after the announcement.

  Despite our physical maladies, the game turned into a chess game between Tank and I. The rest of the players knew the outcome depended on who won our personal battle. Even with his hurt ankle he could hunt down any Eagle with the ball. Even with my broken chest I could outrun and out throw any Dragon but him. We each were our respective team’s only hope.

  The game slowed to a snail’s pace around me, but I couldn’t act quickly enough to take advantage of the extra time. I was moving faster than any other kid on the field, but my body’s brokenness prevented me from completely taking over the game. I felt like Superman, wearing kryptonite around my neck.