fic: the moment before the snap
[The Moment Before The Snap]
Friday Night Lights. Buddy Garrity. PG-13. 2983 words. "Buddy doesn't run anywhere, not in school, not today; he's a Panther and it's football season and they're going to win State." Or: When you're a Jet Panther, you're a Jet Panther all the way. Written for elapses in Yuletide 2008. Not mine. Don't sue. Look, Harry, a grindylow. Thanks to tangleofthorns for super kung fu beta action.
Buddy's daddy likes to tell him about how they sat in Mr. Larson's TV room--"stuck up bastard's the only guy in town with his own television back then, let alone a room just to put it in, and made sure everyone knew it with that party he threw"--and watched as Johnny Unitas handed the ball to Alan Ameche and won the championship. Buddy didn't understand a lick of it, just sat on the floor and tried to hit Little Janey Larson, but that's the moment his daddy likes to say decided Buddy's fate. Buddy doesn't remember any of this, but he sometimes tells people he does.
"Yup," he tells the crowd of people around his locker, "I mighta been a stupid kid, but I knew I was watching history right there. And I was smart enough to want to get in on it. So here I am."
They're going to State. They haven't made it yet, but they're going. Buddy knows this like he knows Jesus loves him; like he knows Linda Beckett's going to put out when he takes her driving after practice tonight. She may be QB's rally girl, but things like that don't matter when he turns on the charm.
"Hey," Ellen says. She looks as cute as ever in Buddy's letter jacket, all pink lips and soft curves, and Buddy knows he's going to marry her one day just like he knows they're going to win State. She passes him the folder with his math notes; he has a test today and Mrs. Johnson looks the other way if the football players keep their "playbooks, Mrs. Johnson, Coach says we need to carry 'em with us everywhere" on their desks. Just makes it easier to pass them, Buddy guesses, if they hand in sheets of paper with the right answers all copied out.
"Thanks," Buddy says. He puts his arm around her shoulders. Pulls her a little closer. She leans into him, just enough to make the guys jealous, and he grins. "We still on after my shift at the Alamo Freeze tomorrow? I got us reservations at that new place, the one with the French name, oh la la or whatever it's called. Nothing but the best for my girl."
Ellen giggles like he'd intended, and says, "Of course we are. Don't think I'll let you get away with skipping out on me again, Buddy Garrity. After last week-"
"Hey, Coach kept us late," Buddy says. He gives her his best wounded look. Lifts the arm that's not around her shoulders, mock-innocence with a folder full of quadratic equations. "You know that wasn't my fault."
"-you owe me, is all." She smiles when she says it, though, so Buddy isn't worried.
"Oh, don't I know it," he says. A couple of the guys laugh, but that's okay. The bell rings, and Ellen lifts her head for a quick kiss before class. "Thanks again for the math stuff, Ell," Buddy says, and she runs off to English or Home Ec or whatever it is she has this period.
Buddy doesn't run anywhere, not in school, not today; he's a Panther and it's football season and they're going to win State. Hell, he's got it all planned out in his head: running in the winning touchdown and making a big goal line stop, whatever he needs to do. He's going to be a Red Raider and win a title before turning pro. When he and Ellen get married, it'll be big and lavish and everyone in town will be jealous.
"You're going to be late, Mr. Garrity," Principal Simpson says. Buddy just waves as he walks past.
*
Buddy and his daddy agree on the basics: they both love football, God, Texas, and the good old U.S. of A. But Buddy's got plans, he's got ambitions, and all his daddy's got is a pile of debt, a dead-end job on the rigs, and, well, Buddy. Ever since Buddy's mama passed on, his daddy's been a shell of himself.
Buddy shivers. It's getting cooler out. He brings the trash out at the end of his shift. Watches as Mr. Larson counts out his till and says, "Remember what I said, Garrity. I've got money on y'all in the Arnett Mead game, so try to blow 'em out early."
"Yes sir," Buddy says, "I'll do my best." He even goes so far to cross his heart, just to make the old geezer happy. Buddy needs every shift he can get, and Mr. Larson's a mean son of a bitch when he wants to be. Never mind that he should be grateful Buddy's working for him; Buddy brings in the team's business, not to mention the girls who want to fuck the football players and guys who wish they were them. Hell, Mr. Larson should be giving him a raise.
"All a man can do," Mr. Larson says. Buddy's pretty sure he thinks he's being profound. "Okay, this looks good. Go home and get a good night's sleep, y'hear?"
"Good night," Buddy says. He doesn't run out the door, but he does walk pretty fast. Linda's sitting on the hood of his car--it may be a rusty old junker, but he takes good care of it and it's all his--smoking a cigarette and looking up at the sky.
"Hey, babe," Buddy says.
"Old man kept you late," she says. "You were supposed to be off twenty minutes ago." She tosses her cigarette to the ground and jumps to her feet. Buddy looks around the lot, checks real quick that no one's looking, and wraps his arms around her waist.
"Bastard wouldn't let me go until he double-checked the till," Buddy says, "Thinks I'm stealing from him. Never mind that I've got plans that don't involve me being on the lam."
Linda laughs. Reaches up and runs her fingers against the grain of Buddy's hair, kind of sexy and soothing at the same time. Pulls his head down for a quick kiss, and another, and one final peck. "C'mon," she says, "I've gotta be home in an hour, so if you're thinking about getting lucky, Buddy Garrity, you'd best be taking me somewhere other than this here parking lot."
"Oh, I'll take you places you've never even dreamed of," he says.
*
Arnett Mead's all that stands between Buddy and State. Between the Panthers and a championship. Coach fires them up before kick-off, tells them, "You go out there and play like I know you can play, and Arnett Mead doesn't stand a chance."
The game doesn't start out all that well: that skinny punk from Arnett Mead returns the kick-off for a touchdown to start things off, and then they score another on a trick play to close out the first quarter. Grady keeps getting sacked--through no fault of Buddy's or, hell, the rest of the line; he's just being too picky about finding open receivers and clinging to the ball as the pocket closes up around him--and they only manage one first down all half.
Coach is yelling, "If you're not going to score anything, at least stop them doing it." Spitting all the while, brown and violent, hitting just about everyone who comes near. "Okay, Garrity, Johnson, you're in for Davis and Brown. Now make some goddamned stops or you do not want to know what I will do to you all."
They make some goddamned stops. The first one is on the goal line, inches from another Arnett Mead touchdown, but soon they're forcing those bastards to go three-and-out pretty regularly; it's just too bad they're doing the exact same thing. At the end of the half, though, Dillon's only down 14-0 as they head into the locker room for a well-deserved ass-kicking.
After Coach berates them and insults their mamas, tells them they'll have to deal with everyone in Dillon if they don't win this thing, and reminds them that they're "a team, and teams win and lose together," he pulls Grady aside for one of his extra special pep talks. Buddy calls everyone else over to the far corner of the locker room.
When everyone's looking at him, even the kids who never leave the bench, he says, "We are going to State. Look, some of us here are seniors, and we are not leaving Dillon without a ring on our fingers. We're sure as hell not losing to Arnett Mead. So let's get out there and kick their asses, right?"
"Right," everyone says. They all reach in and join hands. "Go Panthers!"
*
"We're going to State," Buddy says. It's late, or early; the party stretched past night and deep into morning before the police came in to break it up. His daddy's sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over his cup of coffee and the crossword puzzle.
He grunts. Lifts his mug like he's giving a toast. "Heard about it on the radio," he says. He swallows some coffee and puts the mug down. Stands up and stretches his arms over his head. "Was thinking about frying up some eggs for breakfast. You want any?"
Buddy's still a little bit drunk. He thinks his daddy just smiled at him. "That'd be great, thanks."
"C'mon, kid," his daddy says. "You sit down and take a load off, I'll take care of the food." He pats Buddy on the shoulder, then heads over to the refrigerator. Buddy pours himself a cup of coffee before sitting down. Starts filling in his daddy's crossword--three across is "word"--and planning what he's going to do when they win State.
Party all night long and then party some more seems like a good step one, and, hell, it'll probably even cover steps two through eight. After that, Buddy'll make some appearances at school, maybe say hello to some of those kids who're always hanging out in the library. Make their whole year, their whole high school careers even. Then back to the regular off-season grind: play some basketball and baseball, go to school, pick up some extra shifts at the Alamo Freeze. Graduate. Get ready for college ball.
Fourteen down is "word."
The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. The sizzling sound, oil splattering onto the stove top, is kind of soothing. Like rain, or the moment right before the snap; still and peaceful, and Buddy stares into his coffee cup like he's one of those hippie fortune tellers from the movies.
He snaps out of it when his daddy puts his plate down next to Buddy's hand. The toast is already buttered. The eggs look rubbery, and the bacon's burnt. Buddy's stomach grumbles like he hasn't eaten anything in a week.
"Thanks," he says.
His daddy just pats his head. Asks, "You want any juice? I think I'm gonna have me some juice."
*
Practice bleeds into even more practice, and Buddy's only about eighty percent sure he's actually attending classes and working his shifts. Ellen brings him cookies. Pages and pages of notes. He's pretty sure he sleeps. The next thing Buddy really knows, they're sitting in the locker room. It's bigger than the one back home, orange and white longhorns splashed on all the walls. The rain on the roof sounds like it's going to swallow them whole. It's Noah and the floods all over again.
"Fuck," Grady says.
"We're better'n them," Buddy says. They're going to win. Buddy knows it even if Grady's "Just you wait and see."
Coach does his standard pre-game talk. Peterson runs into the bathroom to throw up, and it's business as usual. Buddy grabs his helmet. Knocks it against the bench three times and follows the rest of the team out onto the field.
It's Vietnam out there, all noise and lights and insanity. The crowd roars. The rain attacks harder than any linebacker. Buddy blinks, tries to clear his vision. Everything's a blur. He shouts, "Focus!" No one even looks his way.
They win the coin toss. Kick off to start. They pin the Coyotes in their own territory, and Buddy runs out onto the field for a few defensive plays. His uniform weighs a thousand pounds. There's no running in this, not really, just slogging through and praying the other guys are even slower than you.
By the half, Buddy's black and blue and angry. Him and everyone else in the locker room. Coach throws a football at Grady's head--he ducks, barely--and kicks a couple of duffel bags over. Someone's girl's bra ends up in the middle of the room. So does a Trig textbook. Buddy isn't sure which is more embarrassing. Coach just glares at them all and grunts.
"Look at the man next to you," he says, "And decide whether you want to win with him or lose because you forgot that maybe he could help you. Now get your heads out of your asses and win this football game."
Wichita Falls start off the half with a kick so short Buddy almost feels sorry for them. Ellen could've done a better job, and she's never kicked a football a day in her life. They force their way downfield. It's the slowest, ugliest, drive Buddy can remember, but it works. Grady trips over the goal line, and they're up 6-0. The extra point's no good.
After that, it's a battle to keep the Coyotes off the board. Their quarterback keeps passing off to this guy--number thirty-eight, the slippery son of a bitch--who seems to run on top of the mud. Just doesn't seem to bother him none, never mind that everyone else on the field is slipping and sliding and getting stuck between one step and the next. They're doing an okay job of stopping him when it matters, but Buddy wants more. He tells Coach he wants in on the next defensive snap and jogs out onto the field.
The crowd keeps roaring. Half-cheering and half-booing, and Buddy raises his arms over his head.
He wipes his eyes before he gets into formation. The moment before the snap is one of Buddy's favorites--it's a million possibilities, all potential--and he focuses all of his attention on thirty-eight. There's a second of chaos after the hand off, everyone in motion, but then Buddy sees it. He knows where thirty-eight's headed.
He runs harder than he's ever run in his life. Takes a fast turn and knocks thirty-eight to the ground. The football drops. Slithers right out of thirty-eight's hands, just like he knew it would, and Buddy grabs it on the way down.
His knee explodes. He cradles the football to his chest and prays.
*
Buddy's daddy likes to tell the story of the day Buddy discovered football. Not the TV kind, not the magic of Unitas to Ameche or Gifford barreling down the middle trying to bully his way to a first down, but Panthers football. Real football.
Buddy was six, and his daddy said, "Ain't no New Yorkers sullying up this game."
The players were gods: big and strong, powerful, winners. They were everything. Buddy was six, and scrawny, and his daddy told him he'd never grow up to be a man if he didn't eat his steak rare.
They went to the game one Friday night. Everyone did. Buddy ran down to the field when the Panthers won--"Panthers win! Panthers win!"--and one of the linebackers saw him and picked him up and carried him around on his shoulders. The quarterback tossed him a football. Buddy threw it back. Just chucked it, no form whatsoever. They played catch for a few minutes.
When Buddy was back on the ground and the Panthers had to head back into their locker room, the quarterback crouched down next to Buddy. Handed him the ball. Solemn, like church, and said, "Can't wait to watch you on this here field."
Buddy still has that ball, tucked away in his closet. All these years, he's taken it out whenever he starts to doubt.
When Buddy wakes up from his knee surgery, the room smells like medicine and flowers. His daddy's snoring in a chair across the room, and his football's on the table next to him. A nurse walks in like she knows he just woke up. His throat's dry. His knee doesn't feel like it's on fire anymore, but he knows the odds that he'll play football again are somewhere between not a chance in hell and when pigs fly.
"Congratulations," the nurse says. She's pretty and only a few years out of high school.
"For what," Buddy tries to say. It doesn't come out right. His throat's too scratchy. She lifts a cup of water to his mouth and lets him take a few sips through a straw before setting it down real careful on the table. His football wobbles. Rolls against a vase. He wants to reach out, hold it in his hands one last time. Wants to throw it right through the window. Chuck it all the way out to Lubbock. Buddy clears his throat, tries again. "For what," he jokes, "Not dying on the table? I still have my leg, right?"
She looks confused for a second. Makes a cute little face, too. "For not," she says. "Oh, no, of course you still have your leg. That was never going to- I meant, congratulations on winning State, Mr. Garrity. You gotta be real excited about that."
"Thanks, Alice," Buddy says. He has to squint a little to read her name tag. "You don't mind if I call you that, do you? I can call you Nurse Alice if you'd prefer. In fact, I'll call you whatever you want." He smiles. He can't help it. He won State.
"Alice is fine," she says. Her eyes are bluer than the Texas sky. "Now let's check your vitals, okay?"
"I tell you what, Alice," he says, "I am real excited about that."
Friday Night Lights. Buddy Garrity. PG-13. 2983 words. "Buddy doesn't run anywhere, not in school, not today; he's a Panther and it's football season and they're going to win State." Or: When you're a Jet Panther, you're a Jet Panther all the way. Written for elapses in Yuletide 2008. Not mine. Don't sue. Look, Harry, a grindylow. Thanks to tangleofthorns for super kung fu beta action.
Buddy's daddy likes to tell him about how they sat in Mr. Larson's TV room--"stuck up bastard's the only guy in town with his own television back then, let alone a room just to put it in, and made sure everyone knew it with that party he threw"--and watched as Johnny Unitas handed the ball to Alan Ameche and won the championship. Buddy didn't understand a lick of it, just sat on the floor and tried to hit Little Janey Larson, but that's the moment his daddy likes to say decided Buddy's fate. Buddy doesn't remember any of this, but he sometimes tells people he does.
"Yup," he tells the crowd of people around his locker, "I mighta been a stupid kid, but I knew I was watching history right there. And I was smart enough to want to get in on it. So here I am."
They're going to State. They haven't made it yet, but they're going. Buddy knows this like he knows Jesus loves him; like he knows Linda Beckett's going to put out when he takes her driving after practice tonight. She may be QB's rally girl, but things like that don't matter when he turns on the charm.
"Hey," Ellen says. She looks as cute as ever in Buddy's letter jacket, all pink lips and soft curves, and Buddy knows he's going to marry her one day just like he knows they're going to win State. She passes him the folder with his math notes; he has a test today and Mrs. Johnson looks the other way if the football players keep their "playbooks, Mrs. Johnson, Coach says we need to carry 'em with us everywhere" on their desks. Just makes it easier to pass them, Buddy guesses, if they hand in sheets of paper with the right answers all copied out.
"Thanks," Buddy says. He puts his arm around her shoulders. Pulls her a little closer. She leans into him, just enough to make the guys jealous, and he grins. "We still on after my shift at the Alamo Freeze tomorrow? I got us reservations at that new place, the one with the French name, oh la la or whatever it's called. Nothing but the best for my girl."
Ellen giggles like he'd intended, and says, "Of course we are. Don't think I'll let you get away with skipping out on me again, Buddy Garrity. After last week-"
"Hey, Coach kept us late," Buddy says. He gives her his best wounded look. Lifts the arm that's not around her shoulders, mock-innocence with a folder full of quadratic equations. "You know that wasn't my fault."
"-you owe me, is all." She smiles when she says it, though, so Buddy isn't worried.
"Oh, don't I know it," he says. A couple of the guys laugh, but that's okay. The bell rings, and Ellen lifts her head for a quick kiss before class. "Thanks again for the math stuff, Ell," Buddy says, and she runs off to English or Home Ec or whatever it is she has this period.
Buddy doesn't run anywhere, not in school, not today; he's a Panther and it's football season and they're going to win State. Hell, he's got it all planned out in his head: running in the winning touchdown and making a big goal line stop, whatever he needs to do. He's going to be a Red Raider and win a title before turning pro. When he and Ellen get married, it'll be big and lavish and everyone in town will be jealous.
"You're going to be late, Mr. Garrity," Principal Simpson says. Buddy just waves as he walks past.
*
Buddy and his daddy agree on the basics: they both love football, God, Texas, and the good old U.S. of A. But Buddy's got plans, he's got ambitions, and all his daddy's got is a pile of debt, a dead-end job on the rigs, and, well, Buddy. Ever since Buddy's mama passed on, his daddy's been a shell of himself.
Buddy shivers. It's getting cooler out. He brings the trash out at the end of his shift. Watches as Mr. Larson counts out his till and says, "Remember what I said, Garrity. I've got money on y'all in the Arnett Mead game, so try to blow 'em out early."
"Yes sir," Buddy says, "I'll do my best." He even goes so far to cross his heart, just to make the old geezer happy. Buddy needs every shift he can get, and Mr. Larson's a mean son of a bitch when he wants to be. Never mind that he should be grateful Buddy's working for him; Buddy brings in the team's business, not to mention the girls who want to fuck the football players and guys who wish they were them. Hell, Mr. Larson should be giving him a raise.
"All a man can do," Mr. Larson says. Buddy's pretty sure he thinks he's being profound. "Okay, this looks good. Go home and get a good night's sleep, y'hear?"
"Good night," Buddy says. He doesn't run out the door, but he does walk pretty fast. Linda's sitting on the hood of his car--it may be a rusty old junker, but he takes good care of it and it's all his--smoking a cigarette and looking up at the sky.
"Hey, babe," Buddy says.
"Old man kept you late," she says. "You were supposed to be off twenty minutes ago." She tosses her cigarette to the ground and jumps to her feet. Buddy looks around the lot, checks real quick that no one's looking, and wraps his arms around her waist.
"Bastard wouldn't let me go until he double-checked the till," Buddy says, "Thinks I'm stealing from him. Never mind that I've got plans that don't involve me being on the lam."
Linda laughs. Reaches up and runs her fingers against the grain of Buddy's hair, kind of sexy and soothing at the same time. Pulls his head down for a quick kiss, and another, and one final peck. "C'mon," she says, "I've gotta be home in an hour, so if you're thinking about getting lucky, Buddy Garrity, you'd best be taking me somewhere other than this here parking lot."
"Oh, I'll take you places you've never even dreamed of," he says.
*
Arnett Mead's all that stands between Buddy and State. Between the Panthers and a championship. Coach fires them up before kick-off, tells them, "You go out there and play like I know you can play, and Arnett Mead doesn't stand a chance."
The game doesn't start out all that well: that skinny punk from Arnett Mead returns the kick-off for a touchdown to start things off, and then they score another on a trick play to close out the first quarter. Grady keeps getting sacked--through no fault of Buddy's or, hell, the rest of the line; he's just being too picky about finding open receivers and clinging to the ball as the pocket closes up around him--and they only manage one first down all half.
Coach is yelling, "If you're not going to score anything, at least stop them doing it." Spitting all the while, brown and violent, hitting just about everyone who comes near. "Okay, Garrity, Johnson, you're in for Davis and Brown. Now make some goddamned stops or you do not want to know what I will do to you all."
They make some goddamned stops. The first one is on the goal line, inches from another Arnett Mead touchdown, but soon they're forcing those bastards to go three-and-out pretty regularly; it's just too bad they're doing the exact same thing. At the end of the half, though, Dillon's only down 14-0 as they head into the locker room for a well-deserved ass-kicking.
After Coach berates them and insults their mamas, tells them they'll have to deal with everyone in Dillon if they don't win this thing, and reminds them that they're "a team, and teams win and lose together," he pulls Grady aside for one of his extra special pep talks. Buddy calls everyone else over to the far corner of the locker room.
When everyone's looking at him, even the kids who never leave the bench, he says, "We are going to State. Look, some of us here are seniors, and we are not leaving Dillon without a ring on our fingers. We're sure as hell not losing to Arnett Mead. So let's get out there and kick their asses, right?"
"Right," everyone says. They all reach in and join hands. "Go Panthers!"
*
"We're going to State," Buddy says. It's late, or early; the party stretched past night and deep into morning before the police came in to break it up. His daddy's sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over his cup of coffee and the crossword puzzle.
He grunts. Lifts his mug like he's giving a toast. "Heard about it on the radio," he says. He swallows some coffee and puts the mug down. Stands up and stretches his arms over his head. "Was thinking about frying up some eggs for breakfast. You want any?"
Buddy's still a little bit drunk. He thinks his daddy just smiled at him. "That'd be great, thanks."
"C'mon, kid," his daddy says. "You sit down and take a load off, I'll take care of the food." He pats Buddy on the shoulder, then heads over to the refrigerator. Buddy pours himself a cup of coffee before sitting down. Starts filling in his daddy's crossword--three across is "word"--and planning what he's going to do when they win State.
Party all night long and then party some more seems like a good step one, and, hell, it'll probably even cover steps two through eight. After that, Buddy'll make some appearances at school, maybe say hello to some of those kids who're always hanging out in the library. Make their whole year, their whole high school careers even. Then back to the regular off-season grind: play some basketball and baseball, go to school, pick up some extra shifts at the Alamo Freeze. Graduate. Get ready for college ball.
Fourteen down is "word."
The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. The sizzling sound, oil splattering onto the stove top, is kind of soothing. Like rain, or the moment right before the snap; still and peaceful, and Buddy stares into his coffee cup like he's one of those hippie fortune tellers from the movies.
He snaps out of it when his daddy puts his plate down next to Buddy's hand. The toast is already buttered. The eggs look rubbery, and the bacon's burnt. Buddy's stomach grumbles like he hasn't eaten anything in a week.
"Thanks," he says.
His daddy just pats his head. Asks, "You want any juice? I think I'm gonna have me some juice."
*
Practice bleeds into even more practice, and Buddy's only about eighty percent sure he's actually attending classes and working his shifts. Ellen brings him cookies. Pages and pages of notes. He's pretty sure he sleeps. The next thing Buddy really knows, they're sitting in the locker room. It's bigger than the one back home, orange and white longhorns splashed on all the walls. The rain on the roof sounds like it's going to swallow them whole. It's Noah and the floods all over again.
"Fuck," Grady says.
"We're better'n them," Buddy says. They're going to win. Buddy knows it even if Grady's "Just you wait and see."
Coach does his standard pre-game talk. Peterson runs into the bathroom to throw up, and it's business as usual. Buddy grabs his helmet. Knocks it against the bench three times and follows the rest of the team out onto the field.
It's Vietnam out there, all noise and lights and insanity. The crowd roars. The rain attacks harder than any linebacker. Buddy blinks, tries to clear his vision. Everything's a blur. He shouts, "Focus!" No one even looks his way.
They win the coin toss. Kick off to start. They pin the Coyotes in their own territory, and Buddy runs out onto the field for a few defensive plays. His uniform weighs a thousand pounds. There's no running in this, not really, just slogging through and praying the other guys are even slower than you.
By the half, Buddy's black and blue and angry. Him and everyone else in the locker room. Coach throws a football at Grady's head--he ducks, barely--and kicks a couple of duffel bags over. Someone's girl's bra ends up in the middle of the room. So does a Trig textbook. Buddy isn't sure which is more embarrassing. Coach just glares at them all and grunts.
"Look at the man next to you," he says, "And decide whether you want to win with him or lose because you forgot that maybe he could help you. Now get your heads out of your asses and win this football game."
Wichita Falls start off the half with a kick so short Buddy almost feels sorry for them. Ellen could've done a better job, and she's never kicked a football a day in her life. They force their way downfield. It's the slowest, ugliest, drive Buddy can remember, but it works. Grady trips over the goal line, and they're up 6-0. The extra point's no good.
After that, it's a battle to keep the Coyotes off the board. Their quarterback keeps passing off to this guy--number thirty-eight, the slippery son of a bitch--who seems to run on top of the mud. Just doesn't seem to bother him none, never mind that everyone else on the field is slipping and sliding and getting stuck between one step and the next. They're doing an okay job of stopping him when it matters, but Buddy wants more. He tells Coach he wants in on the next defensive snap and jogs out onto the field.
The crowd keeps roaring. Half-cheering and half-booing, and Buddy raises his arms over his head.
He wipes his eyes before he gets into formation. The moment before the snap is one of Buddy's favorites--it's a million possibilities, all potential--and he focuses all of his attention on thirty-eight. There's a second of chaos after the hand off, everyone in motion, but then Buddy sees it. He knows where thirty-eight's headed.
He runs harder than he's ever run in his life. Takes a fast turn and knocks thirty-eight to the ground. The football drops. Slithers right out of thirty-eight's hands, just like he knew it would, and Buddy grabs it on the way down.
His knee explodes. He cradles the football to his chest and prays.
*
Buddy's daddy likes to tell the story of the day Buddy discovered football. Not the TV kind, not the magic of Unitas to Ameche or Gifford barreling down the middle trying to bully his way to a first down, but Panthers football. Real football.
Buddy was six, and his daddy said, "Ain't no New Yorkers sullying up this game."
The players were gods: big and strong, powerful, winners. They were everything. Buddy was six, and scrawny, and his daddy told him he'd never grow up to be a man if he didn't eat his steak rare.
They went to the game one Friday night. Everyone did. Buddy ran down to the field when the Panthers won--"Panthers win! Panthers win!"--and one of the linebackers saw him and picked him up and carried him around on his shoulders. The quarterback tossed him a football. Buddy threw it back. Just chucked it, no form whatsoever. They played catch for a few minutes.
When Buddy was back on the ground and the Panthers had to head back into their locker room, the quarterback crouched down next to Buddy. Handed him the ball. Solemn, like church, and said, "Can't wait to watch you on this here field."
Buddy still has that ball, tucked away in his closet. All these years, he's taken it out whenever he starts to doubt.
When Buddy wakes up from his knee surgery, the room smells like medicine and flowers. His daddy's snoring in a chair across the room, and his football's on the table next to him. A nurse walks in like she knows he just woke up. His throat's dry. His knee doesn't feel like it's on fire anymore, but he knows the odds that he'll play football again are somewhere between not a chance in hell and when pigs fly.
"Congratulations," the nurse says. She's pretty and only a few years out of high school.
"For what," Buddy tries to say. It doesn't come out right. His throat's too scratchy. She lifts a cup of water to his mouth and lets him take a few sips through a straw before setting it down real careful on the table. His football wobbles. Rolls against a vase. He wants to reach out, hold it in his hands one last time. Wants to throw it right through the window. Chuck it all the way out to Lubbock. Buddy clears his throat, tries again. "For what," he jokes, "Not dying on the table? I still have my leg, right?"
She looks confused for a second. Makes a cute little face, too. "For not," she says. "Oh, no, of course you still have your leg. That was never going to- I meant, congratulations on winning State, Mr. Garrity. You gotta be real excited about that."
"Thanks, Alice," Buddy says. He has to squint a little to read her name tag. "You don't mind if I call you that, do you? I can call you Nurse Alice if you'd prefer. In fact, I'll call you whatever you want." He smiles. He can't help it. He won State.
"Alice is fine," she says. Her eyes are bluer than the Texas sky. "Now let's check your vitals, okay?"
"I tell you what, Alice," he says, "I am real excited about that."