Chapter 6: Saturday, Aug. 18

The good thing was I didn’t have to be at the fieldhouse until 8 a.m. and could sleep in after a week of getting up at 5 a.m. for practice. The bad thing was that after a week of getting up at 5 a.m., I was wide awake by 5:15 even without the alarm. I could have made it to the fieldhouse by 5:30 if I didn’t have any breakfast.

As it was, I had plenty of time. I took a quick shower, shaved from the knees down and the neck up, then dressed in shorts, T-shirt and deck shoes and was in the kitchen by 6 o’clock. I was working on my second bowl of cereal when Dad staggered in looking for caffeine.

“What are you doing up so early?” he asked as he got the coffee machine going.

“Just woke up,” I said. “I guess I’m getting used to Coach Tucker’s schedule.”

I grabbed a banana as Dad waited on the coffee machine to produce enough for his first cup.

“I’m going to hit the range with Bill and Frank,” he said, “but I don’t think we’ll play today. Your grandfather pretty much cleaned us out last time. We should be over to the school in time to watch practice.”

“It’ll probably be around 10 before we start,” I said. “Maybe a little after. We’ve got to take pictures first.”

“Yeah, your grandmother went out and bought a fancy digital camera just for today,” he said. “She wouldn’t take my word for it that her phone would do just as good a job.”

Mom came in and greeted us with hugs before pouring her own cup.

“Want me to top that off?” she asked Dad on her way to the counter.

“Please and thank you,” he said, holding out his mug.

“So, what do you boys have planned for after football?” she asked as she took her seat.

“Gary’s got to do the yard,” Dad said. “I’ll let him bring home some help if any of his crew want to make a few bucks.”

Looks like I’d better hit an ATM on my way in. I’d be glad when we finally got a frost to end the growing season. Right now, I’d bet on the football season ending first. I could be doing yardwork until well into the playoffs.

“How about we have lunch first,” Mom proposed. “I know it’ll warm up this afternoon, but it won’t be as hot as it’s been all week.”

“If I can get four or five guys, we can be done in about an hour,” I said. “I just don’t know how many of them have their own chores to do.”

“Sweeten the deal,” Dad said. “Offer to help them with theirs.”

“May as well,” I said. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do tonight.”

“What about Morgan?” Mom asked.

“I thought I was grounded,” I said. “She pretty much invited herself over last night.”

“I think you’ve served your time,” Mom said. “Especially in light of some of the facts I’ve learned about what happened at school. That principal sounds like a jerk. The only reason Staci Patterson got detention was no one could say just which cheerleaders were involved, so he punished all of them.”

“I guess I’ll have to ask Morgan what she wants to do,” I said. “But it’ll have to wait until after I get the yard done.”

“Dinner at the club,” Mom said. “Be there by 7.”

With the rest of my day planned out for me, I still had some time to kill. I went back to my room and grabbed my tablet to keep busy until time to go get Morgan. She shot me a text saying she was ready at 7:15, forcing me to get a move on. Apparently, she had some work in the coaches’ office she wanted to complete before media day got started.

Morgan greeted me at her door dressed in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, but carried the bag with her freshly laundered coaching polos.

“I forgot to ask which one the coaches are going to wear,” she explained as I held the car door open for her.

“Mom said we’re having dinner at the club tonight,” I said once she was safely buckled into her seat. “But Dad has me doing yardwork this afternoon.”

“I know,” she said. “About dinner, anyway. I’ll be ready by 6:45 at the latest. We can go to the apartment after we eat. I’ll even let you watch some of the game.”

The NFL team was playing its second preseason game at home tonight. In years past, I’d have been begging Dad to let me attend it. This year, I’d be lucky to catch all the games on TV. They had one Monday night game and one Thursday night game. I’d have to make sure all my homework was done before Mom would let me watch, and I doubted I’d even get started until after football practice.

At least this one was just a preseason game. The starters weren’t supposed to play but the first quarter.

We arrived at the fieldhouse a little after 7:30, giving Morgan a chance to do whatever work she had and me ample time to struggle into the home uniform of blue jerseys and pants. I waited until my ankles were taped to mess with the shoulder pads and jersey, getting Ronnell to help me pull the jersey on over the pads. I then performed the same service for a couple of the other receivers.

The guys milled around making sure everything looked just right, some going outside for a bit, until Coach Tucker came through blasting his whistle. That was the signal to hit the field.

The size of the crowd stretched along the east sideline stunned me. There must have been 500 people out there. To watch us get our picture taken. It was worse than the first morning of practice.

I was surprised to see not only all my female relatives in attendance — Grandma was already clicking away with her new camera — but the entire Gang of Eight.

Morgan, of course, was decked out in coaching togs and Staci was there with the rest of the cheerleaders. Kacie and Bethany were huddled with them as we waited to get organized. Keri Pipkin was there with Jed, while Erin Bennett was officially there with her dad, though she was staying close to Keri. Callie Dawson was there with Hunter Reynolds.

What surprised me was Erin Aguilar’s presence. I hadn’t seen her since school started.

“Hola, amigo,” she said as she greeted me with a smooch.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Not that you don’t have a right to be. It’s good to see you.”

“Everyone else was going to be here,” she said, indicating the rest of the gang. “I thought I’d tag along and see what’s happening.”

Any chance of continuing the conversation was dashed when Coach Tucker let out another blast of his whistle, getting all the players’ attention.

We were ordered to line up by jersey number, putting me one from the end. Only Oscar Hurtado, wearing No. 99, was behind me. The studio photographer then came along and started arranging us by height. That moved me considerably closer to the front of the line.

A couple of little six-row bleachers had been arranged on the sideline in a way that they were facing the sun. We were divided up into five groups of 17 or 18 and assigned a row. I was where the break between the first and second rows came and was told to be ready to move back and forth depending on the photographer’s whim.

The cheerleaders were seated on the ground in front of the front row with all their pompons and megaphones artfully arranged, then the groups of players filed into the bleachers, biggest first so they could climb up to their row. The coaches — all 18 of them if you counted Morgan — were assigned the top row, forcing all the players to scoot down enough to give them space to get there. The student trainers and managers were placed on the sides. By the time we were all situated, there was something like 140 people in the shot.

Then the photographer, who was about six feet up on a ladder, started moving bodies around.

Morgan, obviously, was shifted to the front near some student trainers, starting a domino effect with me forced to move back with the person I displaced moving to the third row and so on.

Once we were all in place, a kid from the yearbook staff came along and started writing down jersey numbers so they could ID everyone. It took him a little time because he had to write out the names of all the student assistants and coaching staff.

We then had to scoot over a little so no one was sitting directly behind someone in the row in front of us. Each person not on the front row should be looking over the shoulder pads of the people in front.

When everything was to the photographer’s satisfaction, his assistant took a reading with a light meter and we were just about ready.

Until a cloud drifted over and changed the lighting.

Another reading was taken, the photographer adjusted his camera settings and climbed up to the top of the ladder. He took a few test shots, then the cloud drifted off, leaving us in bright sunshine.

I wished the cloud had stayed in place a little longer as I squinted into the sunlight.

“OK,” the photographer called out after another reading and round of adjusting settings. “I’ll count to three, then I want everyone to sit up straight, shoulders square and eyes open. I know it’ll be unpleasant staring into the sun, but it’ll just be for a second. I promise no one will be permanently blinded.”

We got ourselves adjusted to where we were all sitting properly. I kept my head down and waited for the count of three.

The first attempt, of course, was a washout.

“Everybody look tough,” Chuck Edwards called out from the fifth row, “even you, Robinson.”

That set off at least half the team and a few cheerleaders. Even the photographer was smiling as he got us reset. We went through the procedure of lifting our heads, opening our eyes and trying to look tough about half a dozen times. The photographer ripped off several shots each time until someone would dip their head to avoid the sunlight.

He finally seemed satisfied, but that wasn’t the end of the ordeal. Once I regained my vision, it was time for the mothers, grandmothers, girlfriends and what have you in the crowd to get their turn. There must have been twice as many people taking pictures as there were of us posing. Once the kids from the student newspaper and yearbook had their turns, we were allowed to get out of the bleachers.

Before we could, Mom stepped up and got our attention.

“I need to know how many of y’all are planning to work as cabana attendants at Prairie Star this afternoon,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.

More than a dozen guys raised their hands, all of them veterans of the summer at the club.

“Now how many of y’all will be available to do some yardwork,” she said. “I know some of you have helped Gary before. Same rate as last time and if we can get enough of you together, you can all pitch in on each other’s chores this afternoon.”

We wound up with another dozen or so volunteers. Coach Bennett said he would come supervise. He still hadn’t forgiven me for the last time he’d been volunteered to help, the day I’d deflowered his daughter. It would take some arranging after practice, but it looked like we could break up into two or three groups and get everything covered in just a few hours.

Coach Tucker regained control of the situation before my mother could come up with any more schemes and had us get back in line by jersey number. The studio photographer was setting up for the shots that would be used for the yard signs that would be displayed at each player’s home and the spirit buttons that parents could buy, then we’d be handed off to the newspaper photographer.

Coach Bennett pulled all the offensive linemen and a few defensive linemen who weren’t wearing single-digit numbers out of line to move the little bleachers away from the field. The maintenance department would be in charge of returning them to their normal location, which I believe was either the baseball or softball field.

The studio photographer got a group portrait of the cheerleaders first, then posed them individually with their pompons and megaphones. For the players, there was a shiny helmet with the logo decals freshly applied and a footbal. We were to kneel behind the helmet and cradle the ball in the crook of an arm. I had plenty of time to see what the other guys were doing, so had no problems when it came to my turn.

The newspaper photographer just lined guys up against the wall. He provided a half dozen tablet-sized dry-erase boards and markers with which we were to print our names, positions and jersey numbers. The guys getting their pictures taken when I got in line were holding the boards about belt high. Mug shots that actually ran in the paper would be cropped down to just the head and shoulders.

“Hey, you’re the kid from the father-son hole-in-one, aren’t ya,” the photographer said when I took my place. “How’s that convertible doing?”

“Sitting out there in the parking lot,” I said.

“I understand you’re the one responsible for the team hairstyle,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you when we get all this other stuff done.”

I had no idea why he’d want to talk to me about shaving my head, but didn’t worry about it.

All the guys hung around as the coaches got in line for their mugs. Jed explained that they were waiting to see what name Coach Tucker wrote down this year. In past years, Jed said, Coach had labeled himself as John Heisman, Vince Lombardi and Bum Phillips. One of the other guys said he’d also used Tom Landry and Jimmy Johnson. This year, we were being coached by Nick Saban. As long as we won like the Crimson Tide had the last few years, I was all for it.

After that, there was a round of pictures of team captains — Jed, Marshawn, Reggie Terrell, the quarterback, and Danny Mathis, the starting free safety — position groups and the coaching staff, including Morgan, who was absolutely dwarfed by Coach Bennett. I think his thighs alone were bigger than she was.

Then we got to do all the special photos for the parents. I posed with Morgan, Staci, Jed, the entire cabana crew and the Gang of Eight. Then there were the family photos. I posed with Mom, Dad and Kacie, then my grandparents, aunts and cousins. Jed’s mother volunteered to take a shot of the entire clan before Coach Tucker decided it was time to start practice. We all headed back inside to get our helmets and reported to the north end zone, where we were informed we would go through our pregame warmup routine before running some plays against the defense.

I wasn’t totally clueless about the warmup routine, just mostly. The other receivers gave me a quick tutorial before we lined up across the end zone in eight rows of 10. The captains and two others took up position on the goal line. When Coach Tucker blipped his whistle, they went high-stepping out onto the field, drawing a big cheer from the crowd. When they reached the 5-yard line, another blip sent the second row prancing out.

“Get those knees up!” more than one coach shouted.

“Look proud!” was also heard as players moved into position.

It took nine blips before everyone was in place, each row stopping on the stripe five yards behind the next. By the time it got to the last row, which I was in, the 5-yard line was the only one available. I don’t think I made too much a fool out of myself high-stepping that far. Jed and the rest of the first row were standing on the 45 facing the rest of the team.

We then proceeded to go through calisthenics just like in practice, but with more shouting from the coaches. I think they were trying to impress the parents.

After going through all that, we finally lined up to run plays. The defensive front seven were all holding blocking pads. We were still in noncontact mode until Monday and defenders were just allowed to bump the offensive players. Some of the bumps appeared rather more forceful than absolutely necessary. Marshawn wasn’t the only guy out there ready for the hitting to start.

I rotated in with the backups and never touched a ball during our brief stint. Almost all my action came in the special teams segment, where I again fielded punts and held for place kicks.

Jeremy Porter again warmed me up on the side. That caught Grandpa’s notice.

“That boy can put some zip on the ball,” he said as I pulled in another one before it could do me any harm.

“Wanna catch a few?” I asked as I lobbed the ball back.

“No, my pass-catching days ended Dec. 16, 1967,” Grandpa said.

That was the day the Buchanan County High School Bandits rallied from two touchdowns behind in the fourth quarter to tie the state final and lay claim to a state co-championship in the days before overtime. I’d heard Grandpa’s stories of that season and game just about every time we’d watched a game on TV together. He’d played flanker and safety and was the leading receiver on a team that might throw 10 passes a game if the coach was desperate. They finished the year 13-0-1, the only undefeated season in Buchanan’s history.

The kicking portion of the display was notable only for Jeremy and Fabrice both making field goals from 40 yards. Coach Tucker didn’t want to show their true range, which was more like 50 yards, maybe more for Jeremy. You never knew when spies ... er, scouts ... from other programs might be in attendance.

That wrapped up the official part of the proceedings and allowed mothers and grandmothers another chance to get more photos of their players, family members and friends grouped together. I managed to escape to go shower and change, but my participation wasn’t over yet.

Staci was waiting for me when I exited the locker room and took me over to the Spirit Wagon, a modified trailer kind of like a food truck from which the booster club sold all kinds of goodies in school colors. It was basically a mobile version of the cheerleaders’ spirit shop in the cafeteria.

Someone had set up a little camp table and chair next to it. On the table were a stack of my Malibu posters. It appeared it was time for me to fulfill my promise to sign some to help with Sherry Parker’s medical expenses.

Miss Wilkes, the cheerleader sponsor, was there organizing things with Arlene Jenson supervising. The redheaded goddess was positively glowing. It looked like her pregnancy, of which I was not the cause, was progressing without problems. Of course, it had only been two weeks since she’d been implanted with an ovum fertilized by sperm from her soon-to-be ex-husband.

“Thanks for coming,” I said as I greeted my manager/sexual mentor with a hug. “How’s everything going?”

“So far, so good,” she said. “My obstetrician is still advising me to take things easy for a few more weeks. She doesn’t want me stressing myself before we start traveling.”

Arlene had business obligations scattered across the country that would require her presence this fall. In order to avoid flying, she and Jan Metzger were leasing a tour bus RV and hiring drivers to help them keep the appointments. The first trip was scheduled for the second week of September.

“Are you coming over tonight?” she asked quietly while making sure I had the proper pens for signing the posters.

“Ask Morgan,” I said. “We’re supposed to have dinner at the club this evening. I don’t even know what time her curfew is.”

“Make sure she drains you good,” Arlene smirked. “I don’t need the temptation if you were to become aroused in the middle of the night.”

With that lingering in my mind, I was pushed toward the table. A line was already forming with the cheerleaders and Gang of Eight members. I personalized a poster for each girl — all 23 of them, including my sister. They were followed by my cousins, Kinsey and Kirsten.

“I thought you two already had posters,” I said as they stepped forward.

“Grandma bought us those,” Kirsten said. “Now it’s Grandpa’s turn and I wanted to get the one of just you.”

“She’s already covered up the face of that blonde girl in your other posters,” Kinsey snarked, earning a glare from her little sister.

I would have liked to visit with my cousins a little longer, but the line was backing up. All the JV and freshman cheerleaders purchased posters to how their support for their missing teammate.

I continued signing posters for those in line, scrawling my name on a few others during lulls in business for the spirit shop to sell. It was during one of those lulls that Marshawn and Ny’Quesha Taylor came up with a pair of well-dressed adults. The gentleman bore a striking resemblance to Samuel L. Jackson, complete with shaved head. His clerical collar caused me to do a doubletake.

“Pop, this is Gary Robinson,” Marshawn said as his sister smiled and waved from behind him. “He’s the reason I shaved off the ‘Fro.”

I stood to shake hands with my teammate’s father.

“Gary Robinson,” I said. “How do you do, sir?”

“Luther Taylor,” he said. “And very well, thank you. I’ve heard a lot about you from my children here.”

“Something good, I hope,” I said, relesaing my grip.

“Mostly,” he said with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I want to invite you to tomorrow’s service. We try to get the whole team to attend together as a group at least once a season. I wanted to get my bid in before the other denominations.”

It turned out the Rev. Dr. Luther Ezekiel Taylor was head pastor of the African Methodist Episcopal congregation that served most of the black communities in our suburb and the surrounding ones. Most of the black students from our school attended there.

“What time do you start?” I asked.

Marshawn told me 10:30 a.m., but players should start showing up by 10 so they could get a count on how many seats they should reserve.

We carried on our conversation as I signed a few more posters and I was introduced to Mrs. Taylor.

“Reba, please,” she said with a brilliant smile. “You’ll make me feel like an old woman.”

And my parents and grandparents would thump my head — severely and repeatedly — if they thought I wasn’t showing proper respect.

It was while we were chatting that Ralph Franks strode up and tried to turn my whole day to shit.

“What is going on here?” the principal demanded as I signed another poster while continuing my conversation with the Taylors.

“Dr. Taylor is inviting the team to tomorrow’s service at the AME Church,” I said, finishing up one poster and reaching for another.

“Not that, this,” Dr. Franks said, gesturing at the table and stack of posters.

“I’m signing posters for the spirit shop,” I said. “The cheerleaders are going to sell them.”

“I didn’t approve this,” he said. “You can’t just start your own money-making enterprise on campus. I’m shutting you down right now.”

We were starting to gain attention as several adults — including Coach Tucker, Grandpa, Dad, Bill Richards and George Patterson — began moving closer.

“It’s not a money-making enterprise,” I said, “at least not for me. I told the cheerleaders I’d sign some they could sell to help with Sherry Parker’s medical expenses.”

Debbie Wilkes, the cheerleader sponsor, stepped in at that moment.

“I approved it,” she said with Arlene right behind her. “Gary made a very gracious offer for a very worthy cause. We’ve already brought in enough to pay for the posters. Everything from here on out goes to Sherry.”

Franks grabbed one of the unsigned posters off the stack and immediately turned red.

“You brought this filth into my school and and expect to make money off it?” he hissed.

“What’s filthy about it?” Arlene asked.

“Who’re you?” Franks snapped.

“Think of me as Gary’s manager,” she said. “Again, what’s filthy?”

“You can see his todger,” the principal roared, catching the attention of every female within earshot.

“It’s actually quite tasteful,” Arlene said coolly as Franks grew even redder. “This school’s boys swim team wears less than that in competition. Are you going to to shut it down, too?”

Franks crumpled the poster he was holding and went ballistic.

“You,” he shouted at Arlene, “are barred from this campus. If I ever see you on school district property again, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing!”

Then he rounded on Miss Wilkes, who was gathering up the rest of the posters in an effort to prevent further destruction of the merchandise.

“You,” he shouted at the cheerleader sponsor, “are terminated for cause effective immediately. Get your stuff and get out!”

Then he turned his attention to me.

“And you,” he screamed, “can consider yourself in ISS for the rest of your life! I WILL NOT HAVE SMUT PEDDLERS OPERATING IN MY SCHOOL!!!”

By now, he was practically foaming at the mouth. Veins bulged in his neck and forehead. I thought he might stroke out at any moment.

I just sat there stunned. I had no idea why this man was so upset by the image of me standing on a beach in a swimsuit. It was quiet enough I could hear a camera shutter clicking. Apparently, Dr. Franks heard it, too.

He turned around to find the guy from the newspaper snapping away.

“You, stop that,” the principal commanded. “Give me that camera!”

“Not on your life,” the journalist replied as he took a few more shots. “I’m a representative of an accredited media organization on assignment to this location with the express permission of the school district. I am now covering a breaking news story.”

“I’LL HAVE YOU ARRESTED!” Franks screamed.

“Go ahead and try,” the newspaper guy replied. “There’s this little thing called the First Amendment. Your cops will have to get past my lawyers.”

“We have school district police on campus,” Franks snarled. “I’ll have them here in five minutes.”

“Sounds great,” the newspaper guy said. “One of my lawyers is already here and he’s calling in reinforcements right now.”

I noticed Bill Richards was on his phone. And George Patterson was on his. This shit was getting out of hand.

Adding to the insanity was that while Franks was going after the newspaper guy, two fellows wearing polos with the logos of competing TV stations were busy getting video footage.

I looked for my parents, figuring I’d better get my grounding over with. I’d be lucky to see the light of day after getting ISS.

Dad surprised me.

“Get your stuff and meet us at the Jason’s Deli,” he said. “Bring Morgan if you can find her.”

It took a little looking, but I eventually found the entire Gang of Eight huddled with all the cheerleaders on the edge of the crowd. The cheerleaders were in shock following the dismissal of their coach.

“I’m supposed to take you to Jason’s for lunch,” I told Morgan. “I think my dad wants us out of here before things get even more out of control.”

My sister seemed to take that as a blanket invitation.

“Does anybody need a ride?” she asked the rest of the girls.

The cheerleaders decided to walk as a group since it was only a couple of blocks. The rest of the Gang of Eight made their arrangements. Erin B. said she’d be there after checking with her dad. Keri said she’d ride with Jed. Callie would ride with Hunter. That left Kacie, Bethany and Erin A.

Franks was still threatening to have people arrested as Morgan and I reached the Beemer. She waited until we were on our way out of the parking lot before asking questions.

“What set him off?” she asked.

“Me, apparently,” I said. “Or my poster, to be precise. He seems to think it’s somewhat pornographic.”

“I think he’s jealous or intimidated, maybe both,” she snarked. “Why do you think every straight girl in school is buying that poster? You’re the closest thing to a celebrity teen heartthrob this town has, boyo. Kacie’s right, they need to sit on buckets when you’re around.”

“It’s not like that,” I said as I turned toward the restaurant.

“Are you kidding me?” she demanded. “The four of us have spent the week shielding you just like Arlene did at the club all summer. I’m surprised you haven’t been at least propositioned in the hallways, if not just outright attacked. Women are warm for your form. The poster is igniting a lot of fantasies.”

I didn’t see it. There were dozens of guys at our school who were higher up the food chain or social ladder or whatever people wanted to call it. I wasn’t even a real jock.

We pulled into the parking lot of the shopping strip that included Jason’s, went inside and ordered. We picked out a small table just as what seemed like the entire media day crowd — players, coaches, support staff and spectators — descended on the place. I noticed Grandpa pull the manager aside. The guy’s face lit up and I swear I saw dollar signs where his eyes were supposed to be.

The entire media day crowd wasn’t in attendance — the place only seated about 400 — but I don’t think there was a person in the place who hadn’t come over from the high school. People were quickly pulling tables together and the booths filled up as the production line went into overdrive. The situation was eased somewhat by one person ordering for five or six at a time, cutting the line down by about 80 percent or so. One of the restaurant workers was walking around with sleeves of drink cups, distributing them to the folks not in line.

Morgan and I were almost finished with our meals when most of my relatives pulled several tables up to ours. Morgan excused herself to join the rest of the gang and cheerleaders. I saw Kinsey and Kirsten with them, as was Stephanie, the little freshman student trainer, and some other girls I didn’t know. The adults of the Robinson clan seated themselves around me.