Chapter 8: Monday, Aug. 20

I slept well enough to kill the alarm on the fourth beep and still drag my ass out of bed. I wouldn’t have minded another hour, but that wasn’t going to happen this week.

I washed up, dressed in workout clothes and stuffed some school clothes in my gym bag, then headed to the kitchen for some sustenance. I was hungry enough to go for a bowl of cereal, a banana and a cup of yogurt. That should hold me until lunch and not be a threat to come back up during practice.

I’d been luckier than some, mainly the ones who’d obviously not kept up with their conditioning over the summer. Ever since the night of the barf barrels, the coaches had pushed us hard enough that at least one guy had left a meal on the field.

The cramping was still an issue, but dropped off noticeably as the week went on. I hadn’t heard of anyone cramping up in class after Wednesday. There were still the occasional episodes during the heat of the afternoon practices, but hardly any in the cool morning sessions.

It wasn’t lost on me that those of us who’d worked out almost daily at the club suffered less than the others. I hoped that boded well for the level of our line play the first few games.

I made sure I had my backpack and filled my water bottle. It was still hot enough that staying hydrated was a priority. With one last look to make sure I had everything, I headed to school.

It was still dark when I pulled into my parking spot. I couldn’t see the paint job Staci and the other ceerleaders had done for me. Maybe I could check it out this evening.

I was running a little late, but caught a break when Coach Tucker informed us we’d practice in shells during the mornings this week. That saved a couple of minutes on getting dressed. We’d be in full gear for the afternoon workouts when we’d do the serious hitting.

This morning’s practice was pretty much the same as Thursday and Friday. We just ran plays against the defense, working a little deeper into the playbook and employing more formations.

I actually caught a couple of passes from the second-string quarterback, Mario Escamilla, against a defense that was under orders to not do much more than stand there. That would change considerably over the course of this week.

Mario was in what I thought was a difficult situation. A senior, he would never be more than the backup. If something happened to Reggie, Mario would finish the game and Scottie Pipkin would be brought up to start the next game. I don’t know if I could have accepted that if I was put in that position, but we knew that would never be the case.

Besides, Javier Samaniego, who was the second-string free safety, was listed as the third quarterback. He’d been last year’s JV quarterback and still took enough snaps on offense to be ready in the unlikely event something happened to Reggie and Mario in a game.

Mario hadn’t even run any plays with the starters yet, while Scottie had taken a few snaps last week. I had to admit, the kid had an arm and was mobile enough to avoid trouble, but Reggie was clearly No. 1. Mario, should he ever have to play in a meaningful situation, would be nothing more than a game manager, handing off to Marcell or Javon and maybe throwing a safe pass to keep defenses honest. The playbook would shrink even further should Javi ever see action.

We wrapped things up with another round of gassers and huddled around Coach Tucker. He seemed pleased with the way we’d come out to start the second week of practice, but let us know things would ratchet up several notches this afternoon and beyond. We’d better have our heads on straight, we were told, or they would surely get knocked off.

The whole point of this week was to get used to contact in preparation for our scrimmage on Saturday. We were taking on a team from out west called the Bulldogs, who were in the same district as our second opponent. We’d be meeting them about halfway at 10 a.m. at an FCS college that had just built a new stadium. The bus would leave at 6:30.

The deal worked out great for Grandpa. The site was less than an hour from the farm. He could go home during the week to check on things and be at the scrimmage in plenty of time to watch me stand on the sidelines.

We shouted “TEAM!” on three and headed in to shower and dress. I had to hurry to get to the main office and find out if I really was being shipped to ISS. The lady who’d helped me with my parking pass told me I was to report to a room in the South Wing. I should take all my books so I could work on whatever assignments I might have from my classes.

The good thing about it was I’d be released at the end of the schoolday, meaning I wouldn’t miss football practice. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to participate in extracurriculars if I was in ISS, but I was going to show up until Coach Tucker told me not to.

As I exited the office to go to my locker, Bill Richards and some other suits came in. Mr. Richards told me to carry on with my instructions, but to keep my ears open. Before I could get out of the area, George Patterson and Dr. Stirling showed up. I didn’t know what was going on, but some serious shit was about to go down.

I grabbed my books and headed off to jail. I don’t know why I was surprised to find Mr. Dunwoody was in charge of ISS as well as detention. He was definitely the guy I’d choose to keep the criminal element in line.

“Well, what do we have here?” he smirked when I entered the room. “Just couldn’t keep your nose clean, couldja?”

I kept my mouth shut and signed in. Mr. Dunwoody pointed me to a seat on a front corner and told me the rules were the same as detention. I made sure my phone was turned off and put away, then pulled out my Economics book and began reading the second chapter.

It’d be up to me to get assignments from my teachers, but I was informed I could check on the morning classes during lunch. Just be sure my butt was back in my seat when the bell rang for fifth period.

Just as the tardy bell rang, two other miscreants — both metalheads based on their T-shirts — strolled in and were given the same spiel. One was assigned to the opposite front corner seat with the other in the middle. We were all in easy reach for Mr. Dunwoody to administer justice should the need arise.

I noticed the other two just sat there sullenly as I worked my way through a couple of problems at the end of the chapter I was reading. I could only hope I was doing something close to what Mr. Cochran had planned for class.

When the bell rang ending first period, we were allowed to hit the restroom and get a drink if needed. Since there was a restroom and water fountain directly across the hall, I had a pretty good idea why this particular room had been chosen to house us. I’d been sipping from my water bottle as I worked, so I was ready to hit the facilities.

Upon my return, I swapped the Economics book for Western Civ and began reading about how Charlemagne’s descendants let the Carolingian Empire crumble following his demise. It only took about 75 years for the whole thing to fall apart.

About 15 minutes before second period ended, an office aide knocked on the door with a note for Mr. Dunwoody.

“You’ve been summoned to the office, Robinson,” he said. “It says to take all your stuff.”

I packed up and followed the aide back up front, where I was directed to the office of Mrs. Montero, the assistant principal for the senior class. I noticed the door to Dr. Franks’ office was closed as I went by.

Mrs. Montero didn’t look happy, but I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to earn her wrath. What she had to say surprised the hell out of me.

“You are released from ISS and it will not show up on your permanent record,” she said. “Neither will last week’s detention. You’ve got a few minutes before the bell rings if you want to put your books away. Report to your third-period class and don’t be late.”

Then she hit me with a cold stare.

“This had better be the last time I see you in here,” she said threateningly.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I gathered up my stuff.

I had no fucking clue as to what was going on here, but I wasn’t going to question my good fortune. My precious permanent record had been cleared, I only had two classes to get caught up on and I wouldn’t miss athletic period. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.

The bell ending second period rang before I got all my books back in my locker. I made sure I had what I needed for third, fifth and sixth periods and repacked. My backpack was noticeably lighter.

There was a buzz in the hallway as I headed to Mrs. Albracht’s room for English IV. I clearly heard a girl say “That’s him” as I walked along, but didn’t think anything of it.

Third period went without incident, unless you counted Mrs. Albracht having to sit down in the middle of her lecture as one or both of the babies began kicking.

“The little dudes are pretty restless today,” she gasped as she waited for things to settle down.

The bell rang right on time, starting another mad dash to the fieldhouse. I noticed several players taking the northwest exit and followed along, turning south toward the ballparks once I was outside.

I was still trying to figure the best route from Mrs. Albracht’s room to the fieldhouse. The classroom was close to the main entrance in the North Wing. It was maybe 10 yards farther to the northeast exit. The distance from either corner to the fieldhouse was roughly the same. The key factor would be which way had less traffic to fight through.

I made it to the locker room and was dressed in shorts and UnderArmour top shortly after the tardy bell rang and headed to the weightroom. We’d do upper body on Mondays and lower body on Tuesdays. Wednesdays would be flexibility exercises — not quite yoga, but similar. There would also be film sessions each day, starting with offense and defense going their separate ways, then being further broken down into position groups.

There wouldn’t be any film study this week since we weren’t preparing for an opponent. That allowed us to take a slightly slower pace with our lifting, but Coach Bennett was only too happy to inform us we’d have to go faster in the future to have time for film. To make use of the extra time today, we did an extra round on each station, adding another five pounds to our regular workout weights.

We were finished in plenty of time to shower and dress for lunch. Morgan was waiting for me when I exited the locker room.

“Bethany says hi,” Morgan said as she looped an arm through mine. “She’ll assume girlfriend duties this week, it’s just your schedules are so different she probably won’t see you until after practice in the evenings.”

“Do I still drive you home?” I asked.

“Probably,” she said, “although it does seem a little unfair to the other girls that I get time with you that technically should be theirs. We’ll just have to see how things go.

“Daddy wants to wait until Christmas to get me a car, anyway. He said if we wait, I might get something almost new, like one of last year’s leftovers. He said he could get a better price because dealers will be looking to unload inventory at the end of the year.”

The hubbub in the hallways seemed to have intensified as we made our way to the cafeteria. I had the strange feeling people were looking at me, but didn’t hear anyone say anything.

I went through the burger line again and met up with Morgan at the cashier’s stand. The card readers accepted our student IDs, and we were soon at what seemed to have become our regular table.

I had just enough time to set down my tray and backpack when a squealing Kelli Thornton slammed into me, wrapping me in a tight hug.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she cried out, kissing me on the cheek with each thank you. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you!”

“Did what?” I asked as I cast a worried glance at Morgan, who had a bemused grin on her face.

“Got rid of Franks!” Kelli exclaimed. “He’s out as principal!”

It took a bit to get the details — and I was rather suspicious as to their accuracy — but it did indeed appear that Dr. Ralph Franks had been removed as principal. Mrs. Montero had been handed the job for the foreseeable future, which I guess explained her mood when she told me I was out of ISS. She’d pretty much had the job dumped in her lap with no guarantee that it would be a permanent move and she wouldn’t be getting the principal’s salary.

Word was that Franks was being reassigned to a position at the administration building, but no one could say just what. His office had already been cleaned out.

It seemed the move had been made to avoid poential lawsuits over some of his actions in his one week on the job.

“I can honestly say I played no part in any of that,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t, either. If they did, they never said a word to me. I’d say Jed’s dad and Staci’s dad had more to do with it. They were both at the main office this morning.”

“You most certainly did,” Kelli said as she squeezed in to share a seat with Morgan. “It was all over the news yesterday. Two TV stations had stories on what he did Saturday at media day and it was on the front page of the paper.”

I hadn’t watched the local news on Saturday or Sunday and hadn’t seen a copy of the Daily News. I’d have to see what I could find when I got home tonight. That is, if I didn’t have too much homework. And lived through shotgun alley.

The rest of the players at our table were as much in the dark as I was, Jed in particular.

“You know my dad doesn’t tell me about that kind of stuff,” he said. “I didn’t even know he was here this morning.”

“I heard Pop say something about meeting with Dr. Stirling this week,” Marshawn said, “but I didn’t know what about. I just knew I’da been in a world of hurt if it’d been about me.”

“How bad?” Michael Chacon, our starting right tackle, asked.

“Worse than Supermodel here’s gonna get in shotgun alley this afternoon,” Marshawn said. The comment drew laughs from the other players, but the linebacker wasn’t smiling.

“What does this mean for Miss Wilkes?” I asked Kelli.

“She’ll be back tomorrow,” the cheerleader said. “She’s already texted me to go through our practice this afternoon just like she was here. Apparently, the lawyers were lining up to represent her. I think she was meeting with one today.”

I was able to consume my burger during all this, but I can’t say I enjoyed it. I still had to chase down any assignments Mr. Cochran and Mrs. Edwards had made during the two periods I’d been locked up this morning. Looking around, I didn’t see either teacher in the lunchroom.

I gathered my stuff and went to dump my tray. It was weird feeling everyone’s eyes on me. I didn’t want to know what all the whispers were about.

I gave Morgan a quick hug and received one more from Kelli, who seemed intent on pressing her body against me a little more than necessary. I expected to get slapped down by one of the teachers for an excessive PDA. Before I could go in search of the teachers I needed to see, Morgan pulled me back and wiped my face with a damp napkin.

“You probably shouldn’t be sporting more lipstick marks right now,” she whispered.

I got out of there before anything else could happen, but I noticed Mrs. Tijerina smirking and shaking her head as I passed by.

I caught a break and found Mr. Cochran in his room. There was no homework, but he did advise me to get with one of the other students in the first-period class to go over notes from this morning. I’d have to hit up Chuck Edwards after practice.

Mrs. Edwards was harder to find. It seemed she spent her lunch break in the teachers lounge and didn’t return to her room until just before the first bell. I’d actually gotten ahead of her with my reading. Her lecture had been over how Charlemagne divided his empire among his sons instead of leaving it all to the eldest. The ramifications extended all the way through the Napoleonic Wars and ensuing conflicts like the Franco-Prussian War, WWI and WWII, all of which were due at least in part to the preceding conflicts and/or their fallout.

Basically, the Germans and French could both hold a grudge.

There was just enough time to make it back to the East Wing for Algebra II, but I didn’t have a chance to refill my water bottle. There was maybe half a liter left, which I doubted would last through the period. I’d just have to tough it out until the end of the class.

The afternoon went pretty well, meaning no one else credited me with Franks’ removal. At least not to my face. There still seemed to be whispers following me in the hallways between classes.

Before sixth period, I made sure I had what I’d need to take home. There were short assignments in Algebra II and Chemistry. I included my Western Civ book to go back over what Mrs. Edwards had covered today, but I’d have to get online for part of the material.

Mrs. Cohen seemed off her game in Creative Writing. I half expected to be credited with or accused of effecting the Franks outcome the way she kept looking in my direction, but never directly at me. I was glad to be out of that class when the bell rang.

Now, it was on to my impending doom. Possibly demise. We’d just have to see how things went.

The mood in the locker room was lively, to say the least. Marshawn wasn’t the only defensive player ready to bring about their own personal apocalypse on ballcarriers. I got taped as soon as I could and went to finish suiting up. It still felt weird trying to move in a coordinated manner with all that gear on.

I emerged from the locker room to find an even bigger crowd than we’d had Saturday for media day. We must have had every team dad and then some in attendance. I noticed Dad and Grandpa huddled with Mr. Richards, Mr. Patterson and Dr. Ensberry. I sincerely hoped they were discussing their next golf outing, but I somehow doubted it. The bloodlust was almost palpable.

Coach Tucker blew on his whistle to get things started. We went through calisthenics and position drills just like normal. I felt like some kind of waddling bird, like a duck or maybe a penguin, as I tried to run pass patterns in this infernal getup. The 95-degree heat didn’t help matters.

Once Coach Tucker felt we were sufficiently warmed up, he blew another blast on his whistle and ordered us to line up, offense on the north 40-yard line and defense on the south 40. In between, assistant coaches laid out the tackling dummies to define the alley. Ready or not, it was time to start hitting.

I don’t know if it was best for me or not, but the receivers were put at the back of the line behind the running backs and tight ends. Quarterbacks and kickers were understandably excused from the exercise.

Coach Bennett arranged the offensive linemen in the order he wanted them to go while defensive coaches did the same with the defensive linemen and linebackers. The defensive backs would go against receivers the first time through, but then it was open to challenges. There was no way to refuse a challenge, and I had a pretty good idea who I’d face at that time.

Unsurprisingly, Marshawn was first in line among linebackers. Jed would block Oscar Hurtado while Javon Marcus ran the ball. The linemen squared off from opposite sides of the 50 with their respective partners a few yards back. With everything in order, Coach Tucker blipped his whistle and we were under way.

I’ve heard and read about hearing the pads pop for as long as I could understand what football was about. The sounds made by the first group were more like cracks of thunder. Jed and Oscar seemed to fight to a draw, but I thought my friend did well in combating the nose guard’s lower center of gravity. Javon, who weighed about 225 and was definitely the guy you wanted as the sledge hammer on short-yardage plays, was marginally successful against Marshawn, managing to fall forward after contact was made.

There were shouts of “Whoo” “Attaboy,” “Get after it” and “Yeah, baby” from the coaches, other players and spectators as we worked our way through. I found myself matched up against a backup cornerback named Tyson Michaels as a sophomore named Wes Gibson, Jed’s backup at center, blocked against a backup defensive lineman named Andre Carter. Neither of the linemen had been part of the cabana crew, making them an oddity in their position groups.

I don’t know if Tyson could hit hard or not. I never got that far as Andre easily shed the block and got to me first. It wasn’t like I got my clock cleaned, but it’s difficult to keep your legs moving when some tackler has both of them wrapped up. At least I held onto the ball, which was more than a few guys, including starters, had done.

We made it through everybody, then the challenges commenced. I was surprised at the number of backs who wanted a crack at Marshawn. Marcell Powers, who despite his name was more of a speed back than Javon, was the first to challenge the linebacker. Marcell acquitted himself well, not losing any ground upon contact. But he didn’t gain any, either.

Tyson challenged me when we got that far, saying he hadn’t had a chance to show what he could do the first time. With different linemen matching up, I was able to get past what would have been the line of scrimmage before getting upended. Again, it wasn’t an overpowering blow, just sure tackling. And I still held onto the ball.

Marshawn couldn’t stand it anymore and immediately called me out. I got the feeling he’d usurped more than one player’s turn in doing so.

I was the only backup in the group as Jed blocked against Willie Joseph, the 290-pound defensive tackle. I wrapped the ball securely in both arms and waited for the whistle. Jed got Willie to take a step to the left, so I went right and collided with a freight train.

Remember in the old “Peanuts” comic strip when Charlie Brown would get undressed by a line drive back up the middle? I felt like that’s what happened to me, except I still seemed to have my uniform on. I think this is what Grandpa meant when he talked about getting knocked ass over teakettle.

Marshawn jumped up with a triumphant shout and was immediately in my face.

“How ya like that, Mr. Supermodel-with-the-poster?” he crowed from maybe six inches away.

To this day, I don’t know what possessed me to respond the way I did. It felt like my spleen, liver and several other internal organs had been relocated from their original positions within my body. I had to pry the ball loose from between two ribs, or at least it seemed like it.

Lying flat on my back, I managed to draw in a breath.

“That all ya got?” I wheezed.

You’d have thought Dr. Taylor had actually said “motherfucker” during his sermon the way everyone reacted. There were shocked gasps, a couple of “ooooh, he done it nows” and at least one “oh shit” from the onlookers.

Marshawn’s eyes bulged in disbelief, his nostrils flared and his upper lip twitched.

“Get your ass up,” he growled, suddenly losing any ethnic inflection in his diction. “We’re going again.”

I staggered to my feet as Marshawn continued to fume.

“It is on, now, boy,” he declared, pointing at me. “My sister ain’t gonna have a chance to behave inappropriately. She missed her opportunity.”