Gym Candy (19 page)

Sometimes, though, the harder you try, the worse you do. That's what happened against Roosevelt. I kept running into my blockers or tripping over defenders or taking the ball outside when I should have cut it back against the grain. I had eleven carries for forty-seven yards, and my longest run was a paltry eight yards. I did score a touchdown, and we did win 27–6, but the feeling afterward was nothing like it was the first two games, and there were no headlines in the paper.

Carlson didn't say anything—good or bad—about my performance, but my dad did. "You looked sluggish out there."

"I just never found my rhythm," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah, I know the feeling. It's hard to get up for a bad team you'll break one next week."

But it was more of the same against Inglemoor. Drew and DeShawn clicked big-time, so we won 48–6. I carried the ball nine times for forty-six yards. Nothing
wrong with those stats, but nothing particularly right about them, either.

The Inglemoor game was on Saturday night. Sunday morning I drove to Popeye's. Peter was there, and he gave me a quick wave, but he didn't come over to ask how I'd played. I went to the cables and started to do some curls, but my shoulders hurt and so did my back. Nine carries—and I ached all over.

Peter was working with Paul Krause, a guy in his late twenties. Most lifters who used steroids were secretive about it, but not Krause. I'd heard him talk about his favorite drugs as if he were describing toppings for a pizza. Now he was standing in front of the mirror, bench-pressing two hundred pounds in perfect rhythm: inhaling, exhaling—his arms moving from flexed to straight to flexed. He would work for another hour, and tomorrow he wouldn't hurt like I hurt.

The first time the D-bol had kicked in, I'd felt strong—just like Krause felt strong. And as those weeks rolled by, I'd just kept feeling stronger, which was the opposite of what was happening to me now, when with every passing day I felt weaker. The temptation was right in front of me. I could walk over to Peter, talk to him for thirty seconds, and pay him his money. Within a week the steroids would be working
their magic. I'd be back on the train; I'd be stronger and faster—with less pain.

I looked around, feeling panicked. I had to get away, and I had to get away fast. I stopped right in the middle of a set, dropped the weights, walked out of Popeye's, and got into the Jeep. I started it up and then sat, engine idling. Where was I going? What was I going to do?

I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Drew's number.

"How you feeling?" I said when he answered.

He groaned. "How do you think? I'm sore all over."

I laughed a little. "Me, too. But I'm also bored out of my mind. You want to do something—maybe miniature golf?"

"I'll tell you what I want to do. I want to lie in bed all day long with a heating pad taped to my ribs. I think every single one of them is broken."

"Come on, Drew."

"I'm in serious pain here. I don't feel like doing anything."

After I closed my cell phone, I sat looking out at the Fremont Bridge. There was no one else I could call. That's when my cell phone rang. I flipped it open. "All right," Drew said. "Miniature golf it is. I'll meet you in
half an hour at Interbay. But you're probably going have to take the ball out of the hole for me. I don't think I can bend."

"No problem," I said. "Glad to do it. See you in half an hour." I shut the phone and then leaned my head against the steering wheel and closed my eyes. He'd save me from myself; I could breathe again.

***

That week I took a different approach. I did everything I could to conserve my energy, to save every ounce of strength for the game. Instead of working super hard at Popeye's, I cut back, using lighter weights and concentrating more on stretching out my muscles than building them up.

I needed a good game Friday night against Juanita. I needed it for my confidence, and I needed it to give Carlson confidence in me. Everything he'd said after the Inglemoor game was positive, but I knew what was happening. Dave Kane was playing better and better every week. His star was shining brighter and mine was fading. Instead of being the number one option in the offense, I'd become just one of the options.

In the warm-ups before the game, I tried to judge my readiness. Were my legs strong? Was my first step
explosive? Was I mentally ready? I thought so, but I'd thought so when we'd played Roosevelt and Inglemoor.

We won the toss and took the opening kickoff. Our first two plays were passes, and both of them were completions—one to Bo Jones and the other to DeShawn. I was figuring on another pass play, but Drew leaned forward and said the magic words: 34 draw on three.

Juanita came with the blitz. Drew sold the pass perfectly and slipped the ball into my arms, and I was past the first wave of defenders before they even knew it was a running play. My legs felt strong as I burst past the fifty-yard line. A linebacker was closing, but I dipped left, did a one-eighty-degree spin, and he missed me. A little stutter step followed by a quick burst took care of the safety, and I had enough speed to take it all the way to the end zone before the final cornerback reached me.

It was the shot of confidence I needed. As I crossed the goal line, all the clouds that had been hanging over me were blown away, just as I'd blown away that linebacker. I turned around, expecting to see my teammates streaking down the field toward me. Instead I saw the referee picking up the yellow penalty flag. The call was against us—holding.

The play was coming back; my touchdown was erased.

I should have shaken it off. Penalties are part of the game. You just go out there and do it again. It wasn't as if Juanita had a ferocious defense. No big deal—that's what I told myself. But after that play I couldn't get a spark. Instead of feeling fast and full of fight, I felt heavy and strangely unmotivated, almost as if I weren't really playing the game but was instead watching it from somewhere inside my head. I didn't stink up the place—ten carries, forty yards, one touchdown. Dave Kane carried the ball about the same number of times for the same number of yards, maybe a few more. We won the game 32–12, our fifth straight win—but my third straight mediocre game.

***

Heather's birthday party was the next day. I had told her I'd be there, and she said that Kaylee would be glad. That morning came up cold, gray, and blustery. I cleaned the gutters for my dad, which took a couple of hours. After lunch, I drove over to Popeye's, but instead of going in, I walked along the Fremont Cut, frozen to the bone by the sharp wind and the constant rain.

Was I just having a down time? Every player has
times when nothing seems to go right. Emmitt Smith, Walter Payton—all the great ones had lousy games. And I hadn't been that bad. I thought about the touchdown run that had been called back and how that might have changed everything for me.
Just hang in there,
I told myself.
Things have to start breaking my way. They just have to.

I drove home. Heather's party started at six. Pizza, then swimming, then cake—why didn't it sound good? "Did you remember to buy Heather a gift?" my mom said as I headed out the door.

I hadn't. "There's a Starbucks across the street from the pool. I'll get her a gift card."

"Have fun."

I was halfway up Phinney Ridge when I remembered my swimsuit. It was wrapped up in a towel by the side of my bed. I turned on Greenwood and started to circle back, and then I just didn't want to do any of it—go back home, go to Starbucks, go to the swim party—nothing felt worth it.

Instead, I drove the Jeep out to I-5 and drove up to Bellingham, the whole time thinking about the new stuff, the XTR, Peter had told me about. If I did use it once, just to find out if it really worked, how bad would that really be? I didn't know what other guys were
using. Number 50 from Foothill—Drew and DeShawn had been suspicious of him. They'd been suspicious of Foothill's whole team.

I stopped at a Starbucks in the Fairhaven neighborhood and had an Odwalla and a bagel, taking as long as I could, my mind going and going. Being a cheater—that's not how I wanted to think of myself. But I didn't want to be stupid, either. Guys used caffeine drinks all the time. Some guys even took caffeine pills. In one league a supplement would be legal; in another the same one would be banned. None of the rules made much sense when you stepped back and thought them through.

I stayed at Starbucks for about an hour. Afterward I found a Barnes and Noble and killed another hour looking at magazines, but really thinking the same thoughts. Instead of I-5, I took Chuckanut Drive home. As I drove along the Sound, a sudden fear chilled me. What if Drew called my house and asked where I was? I worried about that for ten miles or so, until it hit me that Drew didn't care much if I was there or not. I could picture him sitting by the pool with DeShawn. He'd be eating pizza and staring at the girls in their swimsuits. We'd been best friends once. That we weren't anymore was my fault.

When I got home, the house was dark. The next morning my mom asked how the party had been. "It was great," I said. "A lot of fun."

The easy part of our season was over. Our next game was against Woodinville. They were 4-1, their only loss coming against Foothill on a last-second field goal. Beating them was going to require our best game of the year, especially since we were playing them on their field. Everybody knew the stakes, and the intensity picked up all week in practice. The coaches yelled more; guys scuffled more.

Early on at Thursday's practice, I saw Carlson talking on the sidelines with Dave Kane. Kane kept nodding his head, and at the end Carlson put his hand on Kane's shoulder pad and gave it a good shake. Kane hustled over to where I was. "Coach wants to talk to you," he said, a cockiness in his voice.

I made my way to Carlson. "All right, Mick, here's the deal. In the first half, you and Kane will split time at running back. He'll get the first quarter; you'll get the second. Whichever one of you has got the better feel
for the game will play the second half. Neither one of you impresses me, then you'll alternate the second half, too." He paused. "No knock against you. Kane's been playing hard; he's earned this chance."

"I understand, Coach," I said calmly. But inside my head a buzz saw was roaring.

For the rest of that practice, Kane would run a series of plays with the first team and then stand back while I ran a series of plays. Nobody said anything to me, but I could feel what they were thinking: I was on my way out. That's what my dad would think, too.

When practice ended, the buzz saw was still going in my head. I drove straight to Popeye's, tracked down Peter, and pulled him off to the side. "That new stuff," I said, my voice anxious. "Do you still have some?"

"Yeah," he said. "I've got some in the back—"

"I want to try it," I said, interrupting. "Just to see."

"Hey, fine by me. I never understood why you stopped in the first place."

He led me into the conference room. "How many doses do you want? They're twenty-five bucks a shot."

"Just one."

"Mick, how many games you got left?"

"Four. More if we make the playoffs."

"Then I'm going to bring you four vials. Just pay for
one, and if you don't use the other ones, give them back to me. No charge. I don't want to be running back and forth handing you product every week. This is illegal, remember?"

He disappeared and came back a few minutes later with four small vials in his hand. I slipped him a twenty and a five. He stuck the money in his pocket, but he still kept hold of the vials. "This stuff is an amphetamine-steroid mix. You inject it and it goes to work almost immediately. Two to four hours—that's how long the effect lasts. All the things I warned you about—the 'roid rage, the depression—they come big-time with this. But the benefits are big-time, too."

When he finished, he slipped the vials to me. I stuck them into the small kit he'd given me when I'd started with the injections. I put the kit in the very bottom of my duffel bag and left.

As soon as I was outside, a crazy thing happened. Once I had the stuff, I decided I didn't really need it. I pictured Kane, pictured the way he ran with his blond hair flowing behind him. I was better than he was; I knew it in my heart. If Carlson wanted to see us head to head in a game situation, that was okay with me. I wasn't afraid to compete.

All Thursday and Friday I went back and forth. I'd
come up with five reasons that I should bring the XTR and then an hour later I'd think of five reasons that I shouldn't. I must have taken the kit out of my duffel and put it back in a dozen times.

Finally it was time to pack for the game. I had to decide. I knew the risk: If I got caught with a needle, that would be it for me, and not just for one year, but for my whole high school career. And if I couldn't play in high school, how could I ever get on a college team? But everything I'd done from those first D-bols on had been risky. The 'roid rage was a risk; the black hole was a risk. Going out and playing the game of football was a risk. I hadn't run all those risks to stand on the sidelines and watch Dave Kane play my position. I rolled up the kit in a small towel and shoved it deep into the duffel.

Because it was such an important game, Carlson insisted we all go on the team bus. As guys waited in the school parking lot, they dropped their duffels onto the sidewalk, but I kept mine tightly in my hand. And on the bus, instead of shoving it under my seat, I held it on my knees, close.

Once inside the locker room at Pop Keeney Field, I started to get into my gear. As I slid on my shoulder pads, all I could think about was the injection. When
should I do it? Before Carlson's talk, or after? I kept putting it off and putting it off.

"All right, men," Carlson boomed out, and I moved toward him and listened as he gave his regular speech. When he finished, the guys turned and started to congregate at the mouth of the tunnel, their voices alive with excitement. The bathroom was empty. This was my chance, but before I could take a step Carlson yelled: "Let's go." Everybody started hollering and ten seconds later I was caught up with my teammates, charging through the tunnel and onto the field, screaming my lungs out, my duffel and the XTR back in the locker room.