Hit Count

by Chris Lynch

  “Yup.” He sounded completely sincere.

  “Wow,” I said. “This is kind of amazing. I never considered you’d do anything like this. I mean, you’ll make a great weapon, that’s for sure.”

  “Kinda what I was thinking. I figure, I was trained all those years to be the most devastating free safety imaginable, and then they took that away from me. So I was thinking about how I could build on what I was already building on with football.”

  “The military, of course.”

  “Exactly. Take everything I learned from the game—field position and possession, following orders, defending my zone, being lethal—and add a gun to that?”

  “It’s a wonder the army didn’t think of it first and send a car for you.”

  “This is no joke, Arlo,” he said in his familiar not-­joking tone.

  I lowered the medicine ball to the floor by my feet and offered him my right hand to shake.

  “I know it isn’t, brother, I can see it all over you and I’m impressed. You didn’t opt for any easy path.”

  He shook my hand proudly, with a tight grip that was not show-­offy but just strong. The idea alone seemed to have done something for him already. I was relieved that he was getting himself together—and yes that he was getting himself out of here. But my admiration for the guts this took was genuine, too.

  “No,” he said. “I wanted it to be tough.”

  “Ma’s not going to like your chosen path,” I said, releasing our handshake and wagging a finger at him.

  He leaned forward and poked me in the chest, “She’ll like it better than your path,” he said, then looked at his finger as if he’d hurt it on my pecs.

  “Still . . . ,” I said.

  “Ah, she’ll like it fine eventually. When she sees what it does for me. Anyway, Dad’s gonna like it enough for everybody.”

  “Ha.” We both laughed and pointed at each other. He was right about that one.

  “So you know what all’s involved in the enlistment process, yeah?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “They are going to test you, right? Like, a written exam, and fitness tests . . .” I couldn’t step around this. “And a medical? Including drug and alcohol testing?”

  The last thing I expected here was a smile, but smiling seemed to be a hobby of his all of a sudden. “Two and a half weeks, my man,” he crowed. “Not a drink, not a toke, not a nothing.”

  I looked at him sideways to see if he was pulling my leg, and could instantly tell that was not the case. The pride was radiating off him like he had swallowed a bar of uranium with his breakfast. It had been months since I saw him cleaned up for even a couple of days in a row, and a lot longer since he displayed anything like pride—or had any reason to, frankly.

  For almost a year, since Lloyd left the team, we’d been in such a weird place. I felt more like I was the big brother and he was the junior member of the firm. But when he saw this project through, when he was a real soldier and all that, then it would go back the right way. Or at least, he’d be gone. That was something to look forward to, even if I was a jerk to think like that.

  I didn’t like this feeling at all, so after a moment I said, “Seriously, man, let’s do this stuff together.”

  He considered, nodded.

  After that the Brothers Brodie were hardly ever apart. Upper body weight machine group, lower body group, free weights, middle distance track running. Lunch, protein shakes, nap. Back up, running—easy pace—to the afternoon sessions at the school.

  “Don’t you think it’s getting time to tell them?” I said a week into training as he jolted me with one after another heavy hook to the bag.

  It was my idea to hold off a little bit on letting our parents know his army plan. I thought it would be good if they could see how he was changing already, working, getting his body fit and his head on straight.

  It also couldn’t hurt for them to notice the two of us spending all this time together after so long.

  “Probably is,” he said. Bang. Bang-­bang. “She’ll be all excited one day when she gets to go to the White House to meet the president when I get my Medal of Honor.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’ll be sweet but not such a big deal, since they’ll already know each other from when I won the Super Bowl.”

  “Ha! We’ll see who gets there first.”

  “My turn,” I said, and we switched.

  Bang-­bang. Bang-­bang-­bang-­bang-­bang.

  Boy, did I love tattooing the heavy bag. I had almost forgotten what a rush it gave me, especially now that I got the extra juice from seeing my big brother getting rocked as he tried to hang in against the weight of my big punches. That never happened when we used to do this.

  “Kind of like old times,” he said as I slammed him one way and then back the other.

  “Yeah,” I said, “except that you’re not kicking my ass three times an hour.”

  “Do you miss it?” he said. “’Cause I have a lot to do, but I could schedule a session just for you if you like.”

  It was that moment I really loaded up, the bomb, the heavy straight right hand that was going to loosen his molars, and as I reared back, I spied him there on the other side. He knew, too. He was bracing, clutching hard and leaning into the coming shot.

  And grinning madly.

  Yeah. Yeah, this was a lot of fun.

  “Hey, why are we walking, anyway? We should run,” Lloyd said when we finished the workout. We were tired and sweaty—it was about a hundred degrees out—but it was an invitation that could not be refused.

  So I started running.

  He started running.

  I got a good jump, then he shocked me by pulling even. I brought it up a gear, and when his breathing and footsteps did not fade into the distance behind me, I realized I had a race on my hands.

  The sun was already blistering. I was mopping my face every ten strides, and I knew I was running too fast a pace, but with my brother challenging me there was no way I could let up even if I wanted to. I pushed harder still when I heard him actually draw closer, and there was no way, no way I could let this happen even though there was obviously no way, no way he could let this happen.

  After around seven minutes of running flat-­out, I reached the front of the school. I was so intent on my goal—and huffing like a steam train—that I had no idea at what point I lost contact with the sound of my brother. But I was seriously happy when I reached the broad granite front steps and I could sit down and pretend to be cool and unfussed when he eventually arrived. I draped my head in my towel, already soaked with my sweat. I was looking forward to being able to greet him hobbling down Baker Street, checking my watch and shaking my head sadly.

  I stayed like that, dodging the crazy hot August sun and catching my breath for a few minutes. He was still not approaching.

  I got up and walked Baker Street, to Centre, turned left toward home, past the shops, and Tony’s Pizza, into the small green park ringed with benches.

  He was facedown in the grass, mostly underneath a bench. I walked over, climbed onto the bench, and peered over the backrest down to where I could see his left cheek, and his left eye sort of rolled to see me.

  “Seems to be some vomit there,” I said coolly.

  “Where?” he said. Nothing moved, not even his lips.

  “Right there,” I said, pointing to be helpful. “Just about that spot where your mouth ends and the park lawn begins.”

  His eye rolled away from me and toward where I was pointing. Then it came back.

  “I don’t think that was me,” he said. “Pretty sure that was already here when I pulled in.”

  I was laughing as I hopped over the back of the bench, and him. I helped him sit up, then mopped some of the barf off his chin with my towel.

  “I can do that,” he said, testy, snatching the towel from me.

  I wasn’t entirely sure that he could. He still looked wobbly as he sat there, dabbing at his face as if he was jus
t guessing where stuff might be. But in a few minutes he looked like he was pulling it together. I gave him my hand, and pulled him to his feet.

  “All right?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  We walked between two benches, back to the Centre Street pavement, where we took a left, toward home again. “We can try this again tomorrow,” I said. “Or possibly even later today if you’re feeling better.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said.

  I took pity on him. “We shouldn’t have been sprinting that distance, in that sun.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who set the pace. You throw down, boy, I’m throwing in.”

  “And up,” I said, making a quick dash out of his reach. “Pace yourself now, Lloyd. You’re not a kid anymore.”

  He walked right up like he was going to push me. He grabbed two tight fistfuls of my sweaty T-­shirt. I was a couple of inches taller than him, and much bigger, harder now, and he looked small, a little desperate, a little worried as he said, “I gotta do this, and do it right. Y’know?”

  I knew. I nodded. We turned around and headed back to the gym.

  It was remarkable to think that Lloyd and I were plotting together like this, but that was exactly what we were doing. And it was worth the scheming because it was plain to me what good this was doing Lloyd, would do for him, would do for our family.

  But it was just as plain that this would be another blow for Ma, every possible danger of military life suddenly flooding her already overloaded head with misery for however long. We could lessen that blow. We could at least try.

  “Remember, don’t make a big deal of the physical side of it, right?” I said as I lay on the weight bench lining up one last set of presses. He was spotting for me, looking down from straight above. We had really turned up the intensity, and I was feeling it, ready to be finishing with the weights. “Talk about the trade and training opportunities that could lead to a nice career down the line, the structure and discipline and worldly experience . . .”

  “I’m not a dope, Arlo. I know what she doesn’t want to hear.”

  “Okay,” I said, and lifted the weight off the rack. I held it for three seconds, breathing, breathing, then lowered the weight to my chest. “Grrr,” I said, bouncing the bar off my chest and then blowing out, blowing the weight back up. A one-­second pause, breathing in as the weight came down, then blowing, bellowing the weight back up again.

  I could see my arms shaking with the strain as I pressed that bar up again, then again, up to six reps, seven, then I was tiring quickly, slowing.

  Just made the ninth rep, when Lloyd yelled, “All right, boy! Done it!” clearly expecting me to do the smart thing and hang the bar on the rack.

  But I had ten reps as a goal in my head.

  “Whoa!” he said as I brought the bar down again, and then, “Come on, come on, push it, push it, lift!” as I very, very slowly pressed the weight upward, blowing, shaking, stalling. The bar simply stopped going anywhere as I put every ounce of everything into moving it upward and it put exactly the same amount into pushing downward.

  My brother barked and roared me on to do it, until the instant when the weight began descending on me, when he reached out and grabbed the middle of the bar with both hands, and together we guided the heavy beast back into its cradle.

  I stayed motionless and relieved, on that bench.

  “Time to punch out,” I said.

  “Since you mention it,” he said, “can you just hold the bag for me once more? Then we can quit.”

  “Grrr,” I said, and hauled myself up for a bit more.

  He looked a little edgy, a little twitchy. Only when he was in the middle of punching or lifting did he look at all settled. It was Saturday, the afternoon of the night of our return to the Indian restaurant for Lloyd Conference II, so maybe he was getting a kind of stage fright as it approached.

  He started hitting the bag with more intensity than I thought I had in me at this stage. But as I hung on, absorbed his impressively stiff shots, he looked all right. Then, about two and a half minutes in, he tired visibly, as any fighter would at that time, at that pace. He slowed, punched lighter, then lighter, then spoke through his panting.

  “I’m thinking I might go out for a while,” he said in an odd, tentative voice.

  “What?” I said.

  “Just for an hour maybe. Go hang out with some friends, relax. Worked hard all week, right? Just for a chill. Be back in time for the big dinner. Or meet you guys there. That would probably be even—”

  “What?” I said again, this time straightening up to make it plain that I wasn’t holding anymore.

  “Don’t get so worked up. I think I could have one beer at this point. Don’t you think that would be all right? I earned that, I think. Don’t you think?”

  “Hold the bag,” I barked, seizing that big brother role I wanted no part of.

  As he clung to the other side of the bag, I hammered it, peppering punches with new energy.

  “And maybe a quick smoke, too, Lloyd?” Bang. Bang-­bang.

  “What could it hurt?” he said.

  This was a good question to answer nonverbally.

  Bang-­bang! Left-­right. Bang-­bang! Left-­right.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said after a pause. “I’ve been really good. Clean all this time, sober, and good. I should be able to, just to relax a little.”

  “After all this?” I said. Bang. “After doing everything right?” Bang. “And after working so hard for something worthwhile for a change?”

  Bang-­bang-­bang!

  My right wrist hurt with the jolt of that last big punch, but I continued anyway, popping away at the bag with both hands while waiting for my holder on the other side to say something back to me.

  It took about a dozen more punches for me to conclude that he was not talking anymore, so as I threw one more sweeping left, I peeked around at him from the right.

  He was clinging to the bag just to stay up. I lunged forward and grabbed hold of him, bumping the bag aside to catch him under the arms. I balanced him there and looked closely at him. “Are you okay? Man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do anything like . . . Look at me, will you?”

  He was standing, holding himself up maybe three-­quarters of the way by himself with me making up the difference. Then he looked up and I saw his eyes unfocused and kind of twitchy, darting side to side.

  “Hey,” I said, locking onto his eyes. “What’s wrong? You all right? You with me, Lloyd? Talk, man,” I sounded dumb, useless and childish.

  He blinked, and blinked, and blinked, and his eyes pulled into focus within several more seconds. “It’s nothing, man,” he said, putting his hands up on my shoulders. He held them there briefly, shook his head a little, then nodded at me. “Thanks, kid,” he said, slapping my shoulders. “That was my own fault. I shouldn’t have been leaning in so hard with the side of my head up against that part of the bag. I know better. Just got my bell rung a little bit, is all. I’m good.”

  I stood there, looking at his eyes, listening to his voice, holding firmly under his arms.

  “I said, I’m good, Arlo. Let go now.”

  “You sure you’re all right?” I said, though I did let him go.

  “Come on,” he said, “we’re outta here.”

  I walked slightly behind as we headed up Baker Street, so I could check out his movements. His balance did not look outstanding, but as the cobwebs cleared he’d get it back fine, I figured. I caught up to him just after the Centre Street turn.

  “You were right, though,” he said without seeming to notice how close up beside him I was walking, almost touching. “I don’t need any of that. That was just stupid talk. I shouldn’t need it, is the main thing. Not after all this.”

  “Not after all this,” I said, hanging right there on his shoulder.

  ***

  After I finished showering and started getting dressed for dinner, I began to come down out of the lighter air that I alway
s felt I was breathing during intense exercise. That air made it possible for me to get outside of anything else that was going on in my life and just be pure physical drive.

  I found myself wedged between tonight’s complicated family navigation and tomorrow’s more straightforward delights, when Sandy was coming back. Even though she was certain to growl and scowl at me for being a fanatic, I couldn’t wait. I’d have to explain that I hadn’t been able to taper off because I’d been helping Lloyd, and the truth was I was aching to show off for her. To get her to feel this muscle and now feel this one, and go ahead, punch me here as hard as you can. As silly as it all sounded, I was dying to pick her up and hold her in the air until she shouted at me to put her down. Which I would do immediately.

  That was what all the work was for, at the end of the day. Knocking guys down, and picking Sandy up.

  I looked at Lloyd as we pulled into the restaurant parking lot. He looked back at me, his eyes clear, his demeanor just serious enough. I slapped his knee as Dad put the car in park, and the two of us rolled out our respective doors like a couple of commandos.

  Twenty minutes later, after we had each spoken more words to the waitress than we had to each other, our orders were in and Dad thought it was time.

  “Well?” he said, folding his hands and resting them on the edge of the table. Ma leaned a little bit forward and a little bit sideways to bump up against Dad. They both looked like they were bracing for their first skydive.

  “I’m joining the army,” Lloyd said.

  So, then. The big it was right there fat in the middle of the table between us.

  A beat, then Dad reached across the table and shook my brother’s hand.

  Lloyd took it eagerly, and I could just about feel the looks of all the other diners as he let out a psssht of a release of steam pressure.

  “I think that is a sound and brave decision, son,” Dad said. “I think it shows maturity, and serious thought. And for what it’s worth, I believe you are going to make a fine soldier.”

  “Thanks,” Lloyd said in a breathy whisper that spoke for the table generally. So far, the program was going even better than we could have hoped. “That means a lot, Dad.”