Hit Count

by Chris Lynch

  I found it impossible not to admire the guy’s approach.

  “Do you need a workout partner?” I blurted just before the weight room door could shut behind him. Lloyd and I had planned to work out together after I made jayvee, but I figured that wasn’t going to happen now.

  He poked his substantial head back around the door.

  “I was right the first time,” he said, “you are lonely.”

  “I am not lonely,” I said, losing that exchange just by answering.

  “Ha,” he said. “Okay, sure. As long as you can keep up. Go home, eat well, and get some extra sleep, and maybe your stamina will improve overnight. We’ll talk about a program tomorrow.”

  He yanked the door closed behind him this time, assuring himself the last word.

  I glared at the door thinking he might make me a better football player just by antagonizing me to greatness.

  ***

  We started extra weight room sessions before school started on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, and extra laps on the track after practice on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I was already at it when he walked in that first Wednesday, standing in front of the mirrored wall watching myself do shoulder presses.

  “Your technique sucks,” he said for “good morning.”

  He timed it well, catching me midpress. I laughed, struggled, and failed to get the weight up. I dropped the bar to the floor.

  “Good morning to you, too, jackass,” I said.

  “Hey, Arlo,” he said. “In all seriousness, though, your balance is kind of iffy. You look like you’re trying to put a boulder up on a high shelf. Didn’t anybody ever show you proper technique?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said, “my brother did. But I guess that was mostly with lighter weights we had at home. And half of that time was spent with me dodging weights that he threw at me. Heavier stuff I’ve mainly worked on the machines at the Y.”

  “Machines are fine, man, but you have to mix in the free weights because the machines are already balanced for you and you’re always going to have to keep your balance work a priority. Take it from a guy with kitten mittens where his feet are supposed to be—”

  “And a planet where his head is supposed to be . . .”

  “Yeah, thanks for that, I almost forgot. But it’s more to do with the fact that I have the upper body of a hog farmer and the lower body of a rock guitarist.”

  “Sounds like a career to me.”

  “What? I’m a science guy. Now be quiet and pay attention.”

  Dinos reached down and picked up the bar I had been using. Moving deliberately, he set his little hooves just slightly wider than shoulder width apart. He breathed in deeply, hoisted the bar to his chin, then up over his head. He began a series of shoulder presses so precise and fluid, it was like there was no stress on his joints at all.

  I watched and watched and watched as he effortlessly pumped the weights up and down behind his head until he appeared to stop because of nothing but boredom. It was easily twice as many reps as I could have done.

  I retreated to the safety of the wonderfully self-­balancing weight machines and flattened myself out on the bench press. I knew I could press as much as him, on the machine. I started right in pumping as he walked over toward me.

  “That’s not bad,” he said. I drew big breath in as I lowered the weight and blew hard out as I pushed it up again.

  “Yeah,” I blew.

  “Still, though,” he said, looking toward the ceiling and leaning with one hand on the weight I was trying to press.

  “Dinos!”

  “Oh, sorry, man,” he said. “I was just thinking about your balance problems again.”

  I lowered the weight, slid out, and sat up. He immediately sat next to me on the bench but facing the other way.

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “Well, I’m starting to think you might have your own special kind of balance problem.” I started banging the great sidewall of his head with my middle finger like a woodpecker at the side of a barn.

  “Ha!” he said, then reached back around, hooked me around the waist, and flipped me backward onto the floor with himself landing on top of me.

  A couple of our running backs, Tyrone and McCallum, came in as we were wrestling.

  “See,” McCallum said, “I told you, it’s always the linebackers.”

  “Jealous!” Dinos yelled at them as I pinned him with a lot of effort that should have been saved for the weights.

  But a guy has to assert himself sometimes.

  ***

  “What you going to school so early for?” Lloyd asked as he opened the refrigerator door and I headed for the back door. It was Friday, the last day of the first week of the new exercise schedule, and my crying muscles were letting me know about it.

  “I think the more obvious question is what on earth are you doing starting the day this early?”

  He straightened up, to give me a look. “Don’t be stupid, stupid. I didn’t just get up. This might be the start of your sad little today, but my awesome yesterday hasn’t ended yet. So there’s my answer, now what’s yours?”

  He turned his interest again to the contents of the refrigerator. As if he had no interest in the answer to his own question.

  “I’m hitting the weight room before classes,” I said. “Some of the guys on the team are putting in extra workout sessions. We’ve got to get better.”

  He grabbed the orange juice out of the refrigerator, snapped the door shut sharply. He took a big swig from the carton, knowing I would not be able to touch the juice after that.

  “Some of the guys on the team, huh? Whatever happened to working out with me? Am I beneath you now that I’m not one of the guys on the team?”

  “Not at all, Lloyd. You know it’s not like that.” Or maybe it was. I couldn’t even visualize a workout with him now, and it pained me that I had to spare his feelings.

  “So how come you don’t ask me to come work out with you?”

  Because you haven’t done a lick of exercise since the day you finished with organized football, for a start.

  I almost sighed.

  “Sure, Lloyd. You want to come? Come on, but you need to be quick.”

  “What, now? I don’t want to come now. But I just might one of these times.”

  “Sure,” I said, backing out the door. “Excellent. Anytime. See you later. Use a glass.”

  “Use my—” he snapped back, but I slammed the door and cut off the undoubtedly clever ending.

  ***

  As Dinos predicted, you could tell after the first few days that the novelty of consistent effort had already worn off for some guys. But our extra-­credit workouts had the surprise benefit of leaving me feeling like I had more energy when Saturday game time rolled around.

  “You know,” I said to Dinos as we did our stretching along the sidelines before kickoff, “I was afraid I was leaving too much in the gym and not saving enough for the game. But I feel like I could play two games today.”

  “Easy there, big fella,” he said, laughing, as we went through the ritual of slamming each other’s shoulder pads. Bam. “Sometimes you can waste your energy just by being too excited.” Bam-­bam.

  “I know that,” I said even though it was something I’d never really considered before. Bam-­bam. “You don’t have to tell me every damn thing, Dinos. You are only one year ahead of me.” Bam-­bam-­bam. “And, if I might point out, you are still on the same junior varsity team that I am.”

  BAM! Dinos the Elder came down on my pads with a two-­handed hammer that was powerful enough to buckle my knees. Which made us even.

  “First, kid,” he said as the whistle blew for teams to hit the field, “you will notice that only one of us is starting.”

  “Okay, gramps, you win,” I said. “Get on out there.”

  “And second,” he said over his shoulder as he started his way onto the field, “if I had fifty percent of your natural talent, I’d be on varsity this year. And starting.” />
  Varsity, sophomore, starter. Yeah, right.

  What if, though. Didn’t hurt to have goals, did it?

  We lost the toss, and kicked off. Big D was on special teams for the kickoff. He did little more than trot downfield after the kick, but he didn’t do anything to hurt our cause, either.

  And then he was there to line up with our first-­string defense.

  The opposition, the vocational-­technical high school, was a well-­known and reliable operation. Much like the focus of the school’s educational specialty, the football team followed a practical, sound, feet-­on-­the-­ground approach. They ran on almost every play. This was excellent news for my friend Dinos, who was a run specialist. You could say run defense was Dinos’s vocational-­technical specialty. So the V-­T and the Big D were made for each other on this fine fall football afternoon.

  Dinos meant what he said when he talked about seizing the opportunity to outwork everybody else. The first three plays V-­T ran from scrimmage were all runs to his side of the field, as if they didn’t respect him even against the run. He read the first one as if he had a copy of their playbook. The quarterback rolled right, faked a pass that nobody believed, then pitched wide to his halfback, who took the ball right up the sideline. The kid was fast, and ate up ground quicker than the first defenders figured. He left them lunging at his shadow until Dinos came rumbling over and caught him after a five-­yard gain, right in front of where I stood.

  Ca-­raaack!

  Dinos had driven the guy two feet up off the ground and then six feet hard right down into it.

  I was close enough to smell the sparks off that collision, and feel the thud in the ground beneath my feet. Best—Bam!—start to the game you could ask for.

  Second play the quarterback faked the pitch and bootlegged it himself. I definitely heard the roar come from Dinos as he sniffed the play out way early and had such a clear run at the overmatched QB that they were both screaming at the time of impact and a two-­yard loss.

  Third down and three to go for a first down. Nobody could have been figuring they would come at our left side again, which must have been their clever ploy because come they did, without a fake this time. The halfback slipped through a neat seam between their guard and tackle and was bulleting for the sideline and the first down marker when Dino launched himself at that sideline marker, lifting right off his little feet like a big meaty torpedo.

  It looked like the back was having that first down as he reached ahead with the ball, and just about made it. Until the crunch, the almighty crack-­bang-­crunch of all of Dinos’s and his equipment, landed with all its force on that boy’s shoulder and arm and back and pounded him into just one more layer of the turf itself, and the ball popped out of his possession and wobbled away as if it had no intention of coming back.

  The modest smattering of spectators made a stadium full of noise, and as I looked down at a smiling Dinos right there at my feet it felt like a great day was unavoidable.

  “That was all for your benefit, rook,” he said, remaining coolly on his back. “Learn from the master.”

  I helped the master to his feet. “Pace yourself there, Master. Could be a long afternoon.”

  Dino snorted. “I made three consecutive tackles. First three plays of the game. Did you see that? Did you see? At this rate I could make every single tackle the entire game.” He had so much adrenaline pumping now, it was coming off him like a mist, and I was breathing it.

  He slapped the side of my helmet. “Stamina,” he said, “is the key to all things.”

  ***

  Dinos did not, actually, make every play single-­handedly. Not that he didn’t try to, but each tackle seemed harder to get as the game wore on. We got a touchdown, then missed the extra point, and a lot of points after.

  “What’s going on?” I said to a panting, slouching Dinos as the first quarter ended 6 – 0.

  “He’s testing us,” Dinos said, bent way over with his hands on his knees. He was hard to hear, so I bent down alongside him.

  “Who’s testing us?” I said.

  “Mr. K. He’s throwing the starters into the fire. To see. Who took last week’s message seriously.”

  I looked around me and noticed there were more players hunched over like Dinos than there were straight-­up ones.

  I couldn’t believe Coach would be willing to lose the game to prove his point, but there was no time to debate it because we punted and Dinos was humping his way back onto the field.

  It was painful to watch, but Dinos was running down noticeably in the second quarter. He did not have unlimited stamina after all. He was gritty and smart and well conditioned, but he was flailing at plays now, arriving a little too late, or a lot, or getting faked entirely and winding up on the wrong side of the field. The defensive unit looked like a panting herd of buffalo.

  When the whistle blew for halftime, the team gathered around Coach, who spoke loudly but with none of the wildness he showed at last week’s loss. None of the frustration that a 20 – 6 deficit would seem to warrant.

  “You, and you, and you, and you, you’re off,” he said, in one stroke removing two of our starting linebackers and two down linemen. “You, you’re moving to left defensive end.” That was Dinos. “You and you and you,” he said, “you’re in.“ I was the last “you.”

  I was determined to take advantage of this, but I would not burn myself out by being overeager. I would be aggressive, but I would be smart.

  Do your job.

  Be where you are supposed to be.

  Follow the play, follow through, and finish.

  “Finish your tackles, Brodie!” Coach screamed at me two minutes later when I had the ballcarrier all lined up and then grazed him with a weak attempt at an arm tackle. He bounced off me, scooted away, and gave me a long look at his backside as he glided into the end zone.

  “That was awful!” Coach screamed at me on the sidelines as the opposing kicker nailed the point after. “Brodie, Brodie, that should never happen to you. Look at you,” he said, knocking on my chest like it was a door. “Look at you,” he said again, jamming his hands up under my arms and squeezing my lats. “What in the hell does somebody like you want to go arm tackling for? Never again, Brodie!”

  “Never again, Coach!”

  “Never!”

  “Never!”

  Never, goddammit. Never.

  As our offense made some progress in trying to regain points I had given away, I stood next to Dinos, still reverberating from the coach’s one real outburst of the day.

  “I think he likes you, Arlo,” he said.

  “You might be joking,” I said, “but I think he does.”

  “The little muscle-­squeeze thing? Was that what did it?”

  “No. The fact that he said my name more times just there than all the other times put together.”

  “You could be right,” Dinos said. “There may be times to come when you wish he hadn’t learned your name, however . . .”

  That thought would not trouble me. All I wanted was to be on the field. I didn’t care that the more I was on the field, the more that meant the game was out of hand. I didn’t care about our offense. The game was already out of hand, and that didn’t matter.

  All I wanted to do was finish the tackles.

  When I was younger and Lloyd couldn’t get a neighborhood game going, he would come home and ask if I wanted to play tackle.

  “Yeah!” I would say every time, too pumped with excitement at the invitation to remember, or care, that I got slaughtered every time.

  Not here. Finish the tackles. Show Coach what I could do.

  This was now a simplified thing, a game of tackle, not football.

  Coach signaled for me to blitz on a second-­down play in the third quarter, and I thought I might squirt myself with joy. I almost gave the plan away as I hopped in place before the snap. But as soon as we were in motion, there was only one way this was ever going to end. There were maybe two players on t
he field as far as I could tell, and I don’t know if anybody even tried to block me, but it didn’t matter because I was in their backfield so quick I might as well have lined up there in the first place. My heartbeat erupted like popping corn when I saw that quarterback go into full panic mode, looking over his shoulder and scrambling away from me as if his life depended on it. I had seen enough tiger-­zebra encounters on TV to think that maybe it did.

  It was something close to mercy when I did finish the guy off. Except that I was merciless. I hit him so hard, the clash of helmets and pads sounded like gunshot across the field. I crushed him with the hit, held on to him, and crushed him again when I slammed him into the ground.

  I got up from that tackle howling at the sky, and I assumed everybody else was, too, because the noise in my head was deafening.

  And it was so good, Coach called the same play again. And again, I torpedoed straight through and slaughtered the quarterback.

  I had arrived. This was what I had been looking forward to, forever, and there would be no stopping me now. I sprinted back to every huddle, every formation, because I couldn’t wait for more. I was a monster.

  I heard Dinos laugh at the beginning of the fourth quarter when, on one play, I knocked him down, ran right over him, after I’d sniffed out a double reverse and slammed the poor stunned receiver so brutally backward I’m sure he saw his life pass before his eyes in reverse. He fumbled the ball, too, and though I was the closest guy to it I made no real effort to get possession because I didn’t want to hand the field back to our pathetic offense.

  “That was not team football,” Dinos said as he pulled me by the arm back to the huddle.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No, you’re not.” He laughed.

  “No, I’m not.” I laughed.

  We gave up no points in the fourth quarter and we scored seven, which left us, as the whistle sounded to end the game, comfortably on the losing end. But you could say it was a quality loss. We were the better team on that field at the end. We were a superior team to the one we had been an hour earlier. And I realized I actually could play another game, immediately. And better.