Chapter 2

My sophomore year was unbelievable. Our new coach put in a modified version of the West Coast offense, predicated on short quick routes. The quarterback plays an integral part, having to go through his options quickly and release the ball in less than four seconds. The complexity of the schemes made many small colleges think twice about using it. It was practically unheard of for a tiny high school team to employ it.

I had a college coach tell me the videotape he saw of my performance reminded him of the old Houston Gamblers USFL run-and-shoot style. It took me a whole day of research to figure out just what he was talking about.

Not content to confuse the heck out of half the team, the new coach put in a package of stunts and blitzes designed to disguise our defense.

Ground-oriented teams never knew which defender was plugging which hole making straight drive blocking almost impossible. Pass-oriented teams never knew which defender was blitzing and from where making the quarterback decide almost instantly where he was throwing the ball. Let's be honest, most high school quarterbacks couldn't tell you what defense the other team was using, let alone why.

High school quarterbacks rarely if ever get past the second read, if there even is a second progression. Take the snap, look at your receiver; throw the ball; that's the formula for most prep QBs.

I skipped every camp but one that summer to work on the playbook which had grown from 12 standards to almost 60. I knew if I could get the playbook down, the rest of the stuff would be cake. I mean, I'm 15 and I could throw the ball through a wall or throw an egg so it wouldn't break.

Midway through summer camp, coach put in a whole new set of plays, this time from the shotgun formation. It gave me two extra seconds to make my reads — assuming the center managed to get the ball anywhere near me on the snap (not always a given).

Our first game of the year was against a team we hadn't defeated in 12 years — a team that routinely beat us by 30 points.

Not this year. Coach put in a trick play on the opening kickoff and we lead 8-0 less than 20 seconds into the game (we had no place-kicker so we always went for two). On the opponent's first play from scrimmage, a well-disguised blitz led to an interception and it was 16-0 and I hadn't taken a snap yet.

It was that way all game long. As our defense left the opponent dazed, our offense left them amazed.

We came out, already ahead 16-0, in a four-receiver, no running back, shotgun formation. The defense was too confused to even manage a timeout and we led 22-0 seconds later as a quick five-yard slant went for 70 yards and a score. We'd post three more scores and were up by 42 points at halftime. We continued to pile up yards in the third quarter before coach called off the dogs in the fourth. By the time the dust settled, we'd handed last season's state runners-up a 52-point loss to open their season.

The next three opponents got much the same treatment, but coach saved the best for our homecoming game. He called me into his office Monday and tore every running play out of my playbook. In practice that night, he told the running backs if they wanted to play that week, they'd better learn to catch passes.

On homecoming night, I threw 60 passes for almost 500 yards and 8 TDs. We didn't attempt a running play until the last play of the first half when I took a knee. I exited early in the fourth quarter to the first standing ovation I'd ever received. My arm was still sore Monday, but you couldn't have wiped the smile off my face with a sand blaster.

When I got to practice that day, coach asked me for my playbook and handed me a new one. The new one had 12 or 15 pass plays but almost 30 running plays, many of them option plays that required a little more athletic ability on my part than I was used to.

But the hardest work was reserved for the poor souls who manned the front line. In four days, they had to adjust to a whole new blocking scheme — one completely different than the one they'd had to learn the week before. So, in the space of four days, we went from a throw-first offense to a zone-blocking offense. It didn't matter. Judging from the opponent's glazed looks Friday we could have been using a basketball offense and still whipped them.

The team's reputation was preceding us everywhere we went, and the opponents fell by the wayside one-by-one. No longer were we the certified whipping-boy every team wanted to play for homecoming. We came in each week and exacted a measure of revenge for all the former teammates who took a pounding season after season for the last 15 years. We rolled into the playoffs undefeated and left that way, too, bringing home the first state football title since 1963 (a considerable time considering for one 15-year stretch we were the second-largest school in the state).

As the team's reputation improved, my personal reputation was growing in its own right. My nickname, which I thoroughly enjoyed at the time, was The Slayer. I did my best to pass my favors on to as many girls as possible, leaving many young women with a new-found ache in their heart and missing their virginity. Because that was the rule: If you dated me, you'd better put out. As I've written earlier, teenaged girls are the dumbest people on the planet. I swear my female children will be in a nunnery until they're 25.

It didn't matter how poorly I treated a girl, there was always another one waiting. Freshman, sophomores, juniors and seniors, it didn't matter. If you had low self-esteem, a hot body and a vagina you were ready to use, I was the guy for you.

I didn't care if you had a boyfriend. I didn't care if I was dating your best friend. I didn't care if your old man carried a shotgun (that one, I should have cared more about).

For the most part, I stayed away from the high-maintenance cheerleader types. They required effort and they thought they were as good as I was. I stuck with the "cute in a wholesome way" girls. The girls you'd never imagine with a dick in their mouths.

Not that there wasn't an upside to being with me. You got invited to the best parties and got to hangout with the coolest people. If you were one of the lucky girls I deigned to be seen with in social situations, you were treated like royalty, or as close to royalty as you can be in our little town.

My homecoming escort was experiencing her first-ever date that night. She was sweet and innocent — at least for a little while longer. If I hadn't seen her in a bathing suit the summer before, I'd never have looked twice at her. Man was she built for pleasure. The woman at the dress shop gave her mom a huge discount when she found out Marnie was going with me, and by homecoming night, she looked good enough to eat. Marnie turned out to be a tougher nut to crack than I'd expected, and I actually had to date her two more times before her flowered panties were on the floor and my dick was nestled inside her. She joined the ranks of my ex-girlfriends not long after.

I also didn't care about birth control — that was the girl's responsibility.

I got my first pregnancy scare right before Christmas that year. Much like Marnie, she was a mousy girl, not particularly pretty, but she had a rockin' body — a body that I rocked several times, thank you.

When Kayla told me she'd missed her period, I didn't care. What did she expect me to do about it? I was more pissed that Kayla's revelation cost me the chance at landing a girl I'd worked on for almost a month.

But when Kayla's mom called my mom, suddenly I cared much more. My mom coupled a sexual responsibility talk with an introduction to reproduction talk. It was not a pretty couple of hours.

It got worse when I mentioned that she'd gotten pregnant when she was in high school and we turned out OK.

The icy glare I've mentioned earlier returned.

"Robert James," she said. "My childhood ended the day I found out I was pregnant. My parents didn't speak to me from the day I told them until the day they died. Most of my friends deserted me. Look at me. I'm 31 years old. I haven't had a date in five years and I don't have a friend in this world outside of work.

"I love you and most days I wouldn't trade you for all the tea in China. But there's not a week goes by I don't think how much better my life would be if I'd waited 10 years to have you.

"If you think I'll let you subject some girl to the life I've been forced to lead, you've got another think coming. I don't care if you have to bag groceries for the rest of your life. You're going to take care of any child you produce."

I was abashed, but when Kayla's visitor came in mid-January I was right back to raw-dogging.

Since I already knew everything I didn't feel the need to listen to my mother — or any other person who was trying to help me.

The second pregnancy scare came in late February, I put off telling mom as long as possible to avoid another lecture. My plan worked and when the girl discovered she was not with child, I thought I was home free.

I should have known mom would find out anyway.

It wasn't a lecture she had in mind.

My mom went to her desk and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.