Gym Candy (2 page)

"Yeah, I understand," I said, a little frightened of him.

"All right then," he said. "Go to sleep."

After he left I lay in the dark, confused not by what he had said but by what he hadn't. For the first time I
understood that deep down inside my dad was unhappy.

I'd always bragged some to the guys at school and on my teams about what a great football player my dad had been. It makes no sense, but after that night I bragged more than ever. Every one of his stories grew in my retelling. If he told me he broke four tackles and scampered thirty-three yards against Stanford, or turned a five-yard swing pass into a twenty-five-yard touchdown against Oregon, then I told my friends that he broke six tackles and raced forty-eight yards against Stanford and broke a sixty-yard touchdown pass against Oregon. You'd think I would have kept my mouth shut.

In seventh grade my teacher, Mr. Pengilly—a little guy with a wispy beard that made him look like a goat—had us write about our favorite activity. Mine was football, of course. I wrote that it was fun and that I liked to score touchdowns and hear people cheer for me. I turned it in, and a week later I got it back with an F at the top. "You need to make the game come alive," he
had written in the margin. "This is dead."

I've never been a great student, but I'm a good student, and that was the first F I'd ever gotten on anything. I was mad, and all through class I glared at him. What did he know about football? Nothing. When the bell rang I headed to the door, but Mr. Pengilly's voice stopped me. "Come here, Mick," he said.

I marched over to his desk.

"You didn't like that grade?"

"No, I didn't."

"You can redo the paper, you know."

"Football is what I like," I said.

"You don't have to change your topic. Just make me feel what you feel when you're playing. What you've written could apply to Ping-Pong or ice dancing. Tell me what's different about football."

"I don't know what's different about it," I muttered.

"Sure you do, Mick. You just need to think more before you write."

On my way out, I threw my paper into the trash and tried to forget about it. But I couldn't. So that night I did what Pengilly told me to do—I thought it through. And I realized that what I'd written was junk. Worse than junk, because most of it was a lie. Football isn't fun; it's hard work. The drills are grueling and the
games are worse. The risk of injury is there on every play, and even if you don't get hurt, when you wake up the morning after a game your whole body feels as if it's been put through a huge washing machine. And running backs—my position—have it worst of all. For a running back, every game is like being in a street fight with the numbers stacked against you. You're trying to take the ball up the field, and all the guys on defense have the same goal—and it's not just to stop you. They want to punish you; they want to make you pay in blood for every inch you gain.

And there it was—the reason I love the game. I love it because it is so hard. I love it because every single play is a challenge of every single part of me—body and mind. Being physically tough isn't enough. Lots of tough guys quit football. You have to be mentally tough to keep going when every muscle in your body is screaming: "Stop!"

But if you don't stop, if you make yourself stay out there, if you take on the challenge—the payoff is unreal. I thought back to my best runs, my greatest moments. On some of them, it was as if I were a hummingbird, darting through tiny holes, breaking into the open, flying down the field for a touchdown. On others, I felt more like a bull, crashing straight ahead, legs churning, fighting for inches. And on the best, I was
the bullet coming out of the barrel of a gun. That's the thrill of football, that's what makes it better than any other game—the speed and the power, the shifting from one to the other, the fighting through the pain, the fighting through the fear, the coming out on the other side, ball above my head, crowd roaring:
Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!

I took out a piece of paper and wrote it all down as fast as I could, afraid I'd forget it. The next day I turned my paper in to Mr. Pengilly, and the day after that he gave it back with an A+ on the top. "I felt it this time," he had written.

Sometimes I think I should have given that paper to my mom, because that was the year she stopped coming to my games. I knew she never really liked them; I knew she was afraid I'd get hurt; I knew she'd felt the same way when my dad had played. Still, she'd always been there.

That changed after the last game of my seventh grade season in Pop Warner. My team was behind 20–16 with less than a minute left. Our defense had stopped the Magnolia team around the fifty-yard line,
and my coach sent me in to return the punt. "We need a big runback," he screamed.

The punt was high and short—dangerous to return because a slew of tacklers would be in my face. Any other time I would have played it safe and let the ball bounce, but the coach was right about needing a good runback, and I wanted to win. So I raced up and caught the ball on the dead run. I'd taken one step when one of the guys on the other team leveled me, driving his shoulder right into my gut. My helmet popped off my head and I went down as if I'd been shot. They had to use smelling salts to get me to my feet.

At home I took a long, long shower. My gut was so sore that I had to lean forward to walk. There was absolutely no way I could eat any dinner. So I hobbled into my room, stretched out on my bed, and turned the TV to ESPN. I didn't even know what game was on, because I was in too much pain to pay attention. Instead, I let my eyes wander over all the posters of running backs I have in my room. They go from wall to wall and even cover the ceiling: Jim Brown, Gale Sayers, Eric Dickerson, Emmitt Smith, Barry Sanders—you name him and I've got a poster. I closed my eyes and pictured each of them in action—the pure power of Brown, the grace of Payton, the high knees of Sayers—and then
pictured myself doing the same things, pictured a poster of me up there on the wall next to them. My little daydream ended when I heard a tap on the door. A second later, my mother pushed it open. "Can I come in?" she said.

"Sure," I said.

She sat at the foot of the bed. "How do you feel?"

"I'm okay," I said. "Just sore."

She reached over and ran her hand across my forehead, pushing my hair back. I pulled away from her touch, embarrassed to be treated like a child. She took her hand away and then followed my eyes to the posters. "You're not going to quit, are you?"

"Quit what?"

"Football."

"Why would I quit football?" I asked. Then I understood. "Just because of that tackle? Mom, that was no big deal. I'm okay. I got my bell rung. It's part of the game."

She nodded. "I knew you'd say that. It's exactly what your father would say." She paused. "Mick, I love you and I want to be part of your life, but I can't go to your football games anymore. I just can't. Every time you get tackled, I'm afraid you're going to be paralyzed, or even killed. I want to run out on the field and grab you and pull you off."

"That's crazy," I said. "Nothing like that is going to happen."

"Mick, things like that do happen."

"Well, they aren't going to happen to me." I looked at her and saw that her eyes were filling with tears. "It's okay, Mom," I said quickly. "You don't have to come to my games. I'll tell you about them afterward. Or if you don't want to even hear about them, that's okay, too. Really."

She leaned forward and kissed me on the head. "You can tell me about them," she said. "I just wanted you to know why I won't be there anymore."

After my mom left, I tried to imagine quitting football the way she wanted, but I couldn't. What would I do if I didn't play football? I had nothing else that I cared about. Even more, who would I be if I didn't play football? The game was in my DNA; I needed it as much as I needed air to breathe.

Mr.Knecht had been my Pop Warner coach for years, but in eighth grade his son, Joey Knecht, quit playing. Our new coach was Mr. Rooney, a guy about my dad's
age who'd played college ball at Oregon State. I liked Mr. Knecht okay, but I was excited when I heard we were getting a new coach.

The first day Rooney had us line up on the fifty-yard line. He'd call a name, and that guy would step forward, and he asked a few questions—the typical stuff. Finally it was my turn. "Mick Johnson," he said.

I stepped forward and gave a little wave. "Here," I said.

He looked down at his clipboard and then looked back at me. "You're the old kid, right? The one who should be in high school? The one playing on an exemption?"

It was like being hit in the face. I was totally embarrassed, totally humiliated. Most of the guys on the team didn't know I was older, and the few who did had known for so long it was almost as if they didn't know. Rooney brought it back, and the way he said it made it seem as though I was a cheater.

"I started kindergarten a year late," I said. "My dad thought—"

"Are you Mike Johnson's kid? The guy who played for the Huskies." He said it as if it was something to be ashamed of.

I nodded.

"All right, Johnson. You don't have to give me your life story, though I'm sure it's fascinating. What position do you play?"

"Running back."

He snorted. "Figures."

***

Practice was like every other first practice. We did a lot of simple drills, ran a bunch, and stretched a bunch. Only for me it was different. Mr. Knecht had always praised everything I did. I'd always be the one who demonstrated how something was supposed to be done. For Rooney nothing I did was good enough. He wouldn't even call me by my name. I was "Red" to him. "Pick it up, Red," he'd say, or "Pay attention, Red." I hated being called Red, and the more he did it the more I hated him.

After practice my dad asked about the new coach. When I complained about him, my dad closed his eyes and scratched the top of his head. "Rooney ... Rooney ... Rooney. I think I remember him. It seems to me there was some play where I ran over him and into the end zone. It ended up on
SportsCenter.
" My dad laughed. "That's why the guy doesn't like you. He's still feeling the pain. Just ignore him."

But I couldn't ignore him, because he kept calling me Red, and every time he did, I could taste the anger. Always, in every camp and on every team, I'd been the hard worker, the guy who did everything by the book. But I wasn't that way with Rooney. He was disrespecting me, so that's what he got back. If he told us to get in a perfectly straight line for some drill, I made sure I had one foot sticking out six inches. If he told us to listen up, I always turned my shoulders to the side and looked off across the field; if he told us our break was over, I always took one more slug from my water bottle. Rooney would see, and glower, but what could he do? I was his best running back. You can't bench your best running back for a little twitch of the mouth.

There were two new kids on the team. One of them, Gerard Sampson, quit after the first day. The other was Drew Carney, a funny-looking kid with big ears. Drew played quarterback, had great size and strength, and had a gun for an arm. The guy was a player, and from day one Rooney loved him.

Whenever Rooney blew his whistle, Drew was always the first one in line. In every drill, Drew gave one hundred and ten percent. All through those early practice sessions Rooney would single Drew out and tell the rest of us that we should try to be like him.

One Friday, after I'd loafed during a blocking drill, Rooney pointed a stubby finger at me: "You there, Red. I want you to pull the towel against Drew. The rest of you guys—form a circle and watch. I want you to see this."

Pulling the towel was Rooney's favorite drill. It was basically tug of war, only it was one-on-one instead of in teams. But the
watching
part was different. Always before, we'd each had our own partner and we'd been all tugging and sweating simultaneously. Only you and your partner would know who won.

Rooney had us face off at the fifty-yard line. The object was simple: pull the other guy completely over the line. I took hold of one end of the towel; Drew grabbed the other. I looked toward Rooney, but before I was ready, he blew his whistle. A split second later I was lying face-down in the dirt on Drew's side of the fifty. The guys circled around laughed. Rooney glared down.

"That wasn't fair," I said. "I wasn't ready."

"You're never ready," Rooney barked. "Go ahead. Pick up the towel. Try again."

I took my end of the towel and grabbed it as tightly as I could. I didn't look to Rooney this time; I kept my eyes on Drew. The whistle blew. I dug my heels into the ground and pulled. My arms started aching; my legs started cramping. I tried to turn just a bit, but in that
split second something happened, because for the second time I was lying face first in front of Drew, and for the second time everyone was laughing.

"You want to go a third time?" Rooney said.

I shook my head.

"I didn't think you would. You're Mike Johnson's son through and through. You're going to end up just like your father. The talent of an all-star, the attitude of a punk. I've seen that smirk on your face for too long. I've seen it and I'm sick of it. I'm not having bad actors poisoning my team. So you think it over, Mr. All-Star Mick Johnson. You want to play for me, then you practice the way I want you to practice. If not, don't come back. Now go sit in the bleachers until the end of practice."

I went to the bleachers and sat, my hands clenched in fists, a lump in my throat. I wanted to hit Rooney for what he'd said and for what he'd done. It wasn't my fault he was a lousy linebacker; it wasn't my fault my dad had humiliated him on the field. Why was he taking it out on me?

Finally the whistle blew, ending practice. As I headed to the parking lot, my dad pulled in. I threw my duffel into the back of his Jeep Wrangler and climbed in. "Bad day?" he said.

"I'm quitting," I said. "I hate Rooney."

He pulled out of the lot. "What happened?"