Raiders Night (5 page)

The shrink called Dad in and talked to both of them. Said he thought it would be a good idea if Matt came in once a week for a while, and talked on the phone at least once a week, too. Dad said he would think about it, but on the drive home he exploded, called the guy a quack. Dad said the shrink knew Matt was a winner and he wanted to get on the gravy train early, screw with his head, get control. This is a quick-fix situation and this hustler's looking for a long-term payoff.

Never saw the shrink again. Monty found the steroid combo that worked and Matt broke up with Terri. Never dropped another pass.

Wonder how the shrink would deal with Chris and Ramp.

The third and fourth days at camp went quickly, as they always did. They were the busiest, the hardest, and in some ways the most fun. The players were starting to understand the new plays even if they couldn't always execute. The pains of the first two days had settled into the dull aches that would remind them all season they were football players. And they were hitting now, which was what the game was all about.

On the fourth day, Chris went up against Ramp one-on-one for the first time. No contest. Ramp hit low and hard and came up with Chris on one shoulder like a matador speared on a bull's horn. Everybody winced when Chris hit the ground. He didn't bounce up, but he didn't rub. He said something to Ramp they couldn't hear, but it wiped the smirk off Ramp's face.

The second time they collided, Ramp was too eager.
He drove Chris backward, but he couldn't knock him down. Ramp glowered as Chris walked away, smiling. Chris had toned down the hotdogging, but he could get Ramp steamed just by making a good move.

Matt avoided them both. There was plenty to do. He worked hard, running, lifting, paying attention at meetings. A captain is a role model. You don't always have to be on people's backs. You can just be. Show them. The younger players would come hunching up, shyly or with bravado, to ask questions—Did he use stickum? Did the new face masks obscure his vision? What about bump and run?—but it was really to see if he would blow them off. They wanted to be sure he'd be there for them if they ever had a real problem. He listened carefully and tried to answer their questions. If they asked for advice, he would tell them to concentrate, not to let anything distract them, to keep their eyes on the ball. They nodded seriously at that, made him feel like Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He could always concentrate, could shut out the distractions, the noise from the sidelines, the waving banners, the stray thoughts that could snag like plucking fingers. Dad, Ramp, Mandy, Chris: bury them all deep in the duffel bag. Think ball. Learn the new plays, make the new routes automatic, home in on the vibes off Brody, the ball a heat-seeking missile locked on his hands. Brody was complaining that the new plays gave him too much to think about, three primary targets instead of two, but
Matt figured he really wanted more chances to run with the ball. Corndog didn't like Brody scrambling. He said that's when bad things happened, injuries, lost yardage, turnovers.

The defensive backfield coach, Dorman, a young guy, had come up with some new pass coverage ideas. More to learn. That was good. Keep the mind as tired as the body. Matt liked playing safety on defense because it reminded him of centerfield, the last chance to stop a score.

Casually, during a water break, Dorman asked Matt if he had ever thought about moving to cornerback.

“I think you'd have a better shot at the NFL as a corner than a receiver,” said Dorman. “Try it out here—you might think about making the switch in college. Your grades and all, you could get a Big Ten ride as a corner like that.” He snapped his fingers.

He liked wide receiver, liked catching the ball. What would Dad think about that? If he was against the idea, he'd be on Dorman like a dog on a bone. Coach Mac was probably behind the idea but was letting Dorman take the heat. Would Coach Mac have Dorman mention it to Dad when he came out for the barbecue? Was the barbecue even going to happen? No word yet. Put it out of your mind, Matt. Too much stuff going on, all those plucking fingers. Concentrate.

He spent a lot of time with Coach Sims, who was working with quarterbacks and wide receivers. He'd been
an all-conference wide receiver at Wisconsin and lasted two years in the NFL on special teams before he got hurt and cut. He worked on Matt's mechanics, his start and the position of his hands while running. He made Matt run the same receiving route a dozen times before he was satisfied.

“Muscle memory,” he said. “You can't be thinking about it. Mind got to be clear for the unexpected.”

When Coach Dorman whistled Matt over for defensive drills, Coach Sims held up five fingers for a few more minutes. Dorman looked annoyed but Sims had more clout with Coach Mac. Two years in the League was a heavy résumé.

“Coach Dorman talk to you about switching to corner for college?” When Matt nodded, Sims said, “You got to do what feels right. You're a real good receiver, good instincts, good hands.”

“You switched.”

“Got switched. So hungry to play pro, I let it happen.” Sims shook his head. He was the only black coach among the five in camp. “A little more confidence, a better agent, I might still be in the League, catching the rock. You could use another twenty pounds. Receivers are getting bigger.”

“Twenty pounds'd slow me down.”

“Not if you put 'em on right.” Coach Sims didn't look at him. Coaches never looked at you when they were
pretending they weren't talking about steroids. How else you going to pack on twenty pounds of muscle quickly? Don't ask, don't tell.

Something else he didn't want to think about right now. He wouldn't be playing both ways in college. Most of the recruiters were promising a slot at wide receiver, not starting as a freshman but high on the depth chart. But you can't ever be sure what happens once they get you there.

Another twenty pounds? Would have to up the dosage. Ask Monty about that. Monty would talk to Dad. His money. Matt had never talked to Dad directly about steroids, but he knew Dad and Monty sometimes hung out and he figured they talked about it. Two years on steroids and he liked the way he felt now. Strong, big, up. Sure, there were a few pimples on his shoulders. Now and then a sudden flush of anger. But that usually happened when Dad pissed him off. Could happen if he was shooting Gatorade.

By the afternoon of the fourth day, it was clear that Dad wasn't showing up with a Rydek barbecue. Matt was relieved and disappointed. He hated the way Dad grab-assed with the coaches like he was one of them. But the barbecue also seemed like just another half promise that wasn't kept. Had he dangled the possibility of it to tease him?

Nobody mentioned it. Wasn't missed. Even Brody
had forgotten about the jumbo shrimp. Dinner was just a fuel stop, the end of the physical part of the day, stuff down enough food to fill the holes and try to stay awake through the after-dinner meetings. Close your eyes only during the videos. Everybody was whipped and sore. Head crammed with information.

The air never seemed to cool off here, the sandy soil holding the heat of the day into the night, a dry wind moving it around like a kitchen fan.

The coaches disappeared into their cabins after the team meetings. They had their own meetings. Or maybe they were drinking and watching pornos. A couple of them would reappear at lights-out to take a head count.

There were always stories of guys on past teams who had girls waiting in cars on the other side of the woods, but they were probably just stories. Too tired. The Back Pack had trouble concentrating on its poker games in the double Brody and Pete shared. The games broke up early.

Pete had followed Matt out of the room on the third night. “Maybe you should call Mandy.”

“Why?”

“Lisa says she's really hurt. You should reach out.”

“What am I gonna say? I'm sorry? Never happen again?”

“Make her feel better,” said Pete. “Even if it's not true.”

“Don't do it,” said Brody. He had followed them out.
“Lose concentration. When Terri starts that stuff, I hang up.”

“I thought you weren't answering your phone,” said Matt.

“Could be my brother,” said Brody.

“Caller ID?”

Brody changed the subject. “You know Rydek Catering lost the quarter final?”

So that was why no barbecue. The old man wasn't coming out to camp a loser.

Ramp wanted the Back Pack to attend his Raider Games, but they weren't in the mood. Matt checked in briefly because it seemed like something a captain should do. They were silly and harmless, the usual, making the freshmen sing, stagger blindfolded through obstacle courses of garbage, find the statue of a snarling catamount, the Eastern Valley High mascot, that had been hidden in the woods. The freshmen stumbled through the woods in the dark, wearing only helmets, jockstraps, and shoes, while sophomores and juniors hid behind trees and made animal noises.

Matt remembered he'd liked the camaraderie of the Raider Games his freshman and sophomore years, but by junior year he was bored.

Chris showed up for the games, did what he was supposed to do, and Ramp left him alone, practically ignored him. Matt wondered if he was really cutting the kid slack
or setting him up. Ramp was tricky. Matt sensed that Chris wasn't sure what was happening either. Matt caught Chris looking at him a few times like he wanted to talk but was waiting for Matt to make the first move again. Let him wait. Or ask. I'm Captain Matt, not Dr. Phil.

But at practice, the kid was still pushing hard. Coaches' pet. He volunteered to hold for Patel's kicks, and he even tried his leg at field goals. Not bad. He was mowing down the sophomore and junior linemen on one-on-ones. The coaches didn't match him with Ramp again, but they put him in with Hagen. Chris ran over him and Ramp gave him a thumbs-up. That wasn't Ramp's style, Matt thought. Chris better watch out. But the kid just grinned.

Everybody went all out the fifth day. Final chance to make an impression. The season opened in a week, and the starting lineup was taking shape in the coaches' minds. Last day was always as dangerous as the first. Hamstrings pull, shoulders pop. Villanueva went down with a possible broken wrist. A trainer drove him back to Nearmont for X-rays.

At dinner, Coach Mac congratulated them on a good camp.

“Last time we hear this speech,” said Brody sadly.

“I have high hopes for this team.” Coach Mac's voice was low and raspy after five days of shouting. “I found out this week that you gentlemen have the
skill
to be football
players. This season we'll find out if you have the
will
to be Raiders. To get back up when you've been knocked down. To put out when you're hurting. To suck it up and soldier on when everybody else thinks you're beaten.”

Coach Mac took a deep breath, and Tyrell whispered, “If you can be a football player and a Raider, you know you're going to be one helluva man.”

Brody glared at Tyrell.

“If you can be a football player and a Raider,” said Coach Mac, “you know you're going to be one helluva man. No meetings tonight. On Raider Pride Night, your captains are in charge.”

The assistant coaches followed him out. Ramp swaggered to the center of the mess hall. He grinned at Chris and then at Matt. The food in Matt's stomach suddenly felt like a hard, cold lump.

Trailed by the linemen, Ramp stomped around the mess hall, rapping a little white plastic bat on the tables and chairs he wanted them to clear away to the corners of the big room. Sheets were hung over the windows, the lights dimmed. Waving the bat, Ramp ordered the freshmen to the center of the mess hall and told them to strip to their underpants. The rest of the team crowded in a semicircle around them.

The freshmen stood shoulder to shoulder in a line, grinning and jiggling nervously as linemen tied their hands behind their backs with cord. Ramp was following the script. When he asked Matt to read “A Letter from No. 75,” Matt relaxed. The little white bat had him worried for nothing. It was the same old same old.

“Dear Mom, Dad, Grandma, Sis, and Buddy,” Matt read. He almost knew the letter by heart. He avoided
looking at Tyrell, who would be mouthing the words and trying to make him laugh. The letter was supposedly from a soldier writing home from somewhere in Europe during World War II. His platoon was resting after a firefight, and the reason they came through it was because of the discipline and unit solidarity No. 75 had learned playing Raider football. Tyrell claimed that a cousin of his in South Carolina had heard the same letter.

When Matt finished reading, Ramp took the paper back and read, “That letter Captain Matt just read to you is more than sixty years old. But it could have been written by a Raider fighting for his country in Korea, Vietnam, Kuwait, Somalia, Iraq, anywhere a warrior depends on his teammates when the going gets tough.” He lowered the paper and searched the semicircle around him until he found Chris. “Anyone else here who has never been
initiated into the Raider brotherhood?”

In the dim light, Matt sensed more than saw the confusion on Chris's face. What does he do now? Still say he's not a freshman, or step forward? The kid was afraid to put himself in Ramp's hands, but he wanted to be part of the team.

Ramp said, “Is there anyone else here who wants to show his brothers he's man enough to be a Raider?”

Chris looked around until he found Matt. Chris's eyes were wide. He's waiting for a signal from me.

Matt nodded. Let 'em bring it. You can take it.

Ramp saw it all. He gave Matt a thumbs-up and nodded at Chris.

Chris stood up and stepped forward. He stripped down to his shorts and held his hands behind his back as Boda tied them. He was grinning as he took his place with the freshmen.

Ramp said, “All sophs and juniors out of here.”

“They didn't send anyone out last year,” said Pete.

Ramp locked the door after the sophs and juniors left. “Blindfolds for the rookie Raiders. It's tea bag time.”

“Thought no more of that shit,” said Tyrell.

“Least it's not swirlies,” said Brody.

“What you gonna do, Cap'n Matt?” said Tyrell.

“Be okay,” said Matt. But he wasn't sure. “We're here.”

Should I do something now?

But what?

He felt suddenly small, the way Dad could make him feel small. Powerless.

Just before the rags were tied around the rookies' eyes, Ramp, Boda, and Hagen dropped their pants and underwear and cupped their genitals in their hands.

“On your backs.” Ramp rapped the bat against his bare leg. “Open your mouths for the dipping of the tea bags.”

Still nothing new here. Matt remembered his own fear and disgust freshman year when he was tea bagged, the relief and laughter afterward when he'd realized that he'd been slapped in the face with a boiled hotdog and a leather sack of little rubber balls. He, Brody, and Pete had become even closer after going through that together.

But there was something in Ramp's voice….

The linemen moved among the bodies, dangling the little bags and the hotdogs into the upturned faces. Some of the kids gagged, tried to turn their heads; one began to whimper.

Ramp, Hagen, and Boda chanted, “Tea bag, tea bag, tea bag.”

The other seniors pushed forward to watch. Some were laughing.

“Ready to kiss the tea bag, hotshot?” Ramp stood over Chris. He was naked from the waist down. He whacked the bat against his leg.

Abruptly, he squatted and dropped his groin into
Chris's face. Urine squirted out, into Chris's mouth and nose.

There was a choking sound, then Chris kicked up at Ramp, catching him on the thigh.

“You cunt,” roared Ramp, jumping back. He kicked Chris in the ribs, then dropped down on him, knees first into his chest, driving the air out of him.

Chris fought to get up. He heaved Ramp off, then rolled over on his knees, still blindfolded, his hands tied behind him.

“I'm gonna get my gun and blow your fucking head off,” Chris yelled.

Ramp leaped on Chris's back, drove him flat into the floor. “You're shit on a stick, wiseguy, shit on a stick.”

Ramp pulled down Chris's underpants. Roaring, his muscles bulging, Ramp plunged the white bat deep into him.

Chris screamed.

Matt tried to move, felt paralyzed.

Tyrell said, “Motherfucker,” and hurled himself through the linemen surrounding Chris and Ramp. Matt and Pete followed him, pushing through the freshmen, still blindfolded, tied, looking scared.

Vomit rose into Matt's throat.

Chris was on his knees again, shaking, his tied hands trying to reach down to the bat sticking out of him. Blood trickled down one leg.

Tyrell pulled out the bat and threw it away. In the sudden silence, he looked over his shoulder at Ramp. “You crazy?”

“It's Pride Night,” said Ramp.

“You crossed the line.” Tyrell lunged at Ramp, but Matt got between them.

“He needed it,” said Ramp. “Asked for it.”

“We don't do this shit,” said Tyrell.

“Like you people know.”

Tyrell went straight for Ramp's throat, screaming, “You cracker,” but hands pulled him back. Matt put his palms on Ramp's chest, expecting resistance, but the big lineman just grinned at him.

“What's the big deal? You gave the okay, Cap'n Matt.”

Matt felt frozen, tongue-tied. What's he talking about?

Pete helped Chris to his feet and gently steered him through the silent semicircle toward the mess hall door.

“Figures,” said Ramp.

“What?” Matt's tongue was unstuck, but dry and thick.

“Missy Chrissie and Tweety Petey, two of a kind.” Ramp snapped his fingers at Boda and Hagen. “Turn the rookies loose. Have 'em clean up. Show's over.”

“Just starting, shithead,” said Tyrell. “You're gonna get fried for this.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Ramp. “Everybody better shut the fuck up.”

“Let's go,” said Brody. He grabbed Tyrell and Matt and pulled them toward the door. Matt let himself be pulled, and he saw Tyrell did, too.

What do we do now? he thought.

Pete was waiting for them outside the mess hall. It was dark, but still airless and hot.

“He took off after I untied him,” said Pete. “Said he wanted to be by himself.”

“Better find him,” said Tyrell.

“Then what?” said Brody.

“Be sure he's not hurt bad,” said Tyrell.

“Or hurt himself more,” said Pete.

“You think?” said Matt.

“He was fucked up,” said Pete. “Cursing and crying. What should we do?”

They were all looking at Matt. “Which way'd he go?” Matt said.

“Toward the woods,” said Pete.

“Never find him,” said Brody.

“Gotta try,” said Matt.

They searched for hours, rarely speaking except to shout, “Chris, Chris,” the sound muffled by the low branches that whipped their heads and shoulders. It seemed like a waste of time to Matt, yet they had to do it. Gotta try, pushing on, numb and tired and feverishly hot. He could tell they all felt the same way. Should we have stopped it, he thought, could we have? We? Me.

They didn't actually quit searching. Around midnight, they just followed a trail out of the woods and stumbled back into the clearing. The barracks lights were out.

“His bunk's in Ramp's barracks,” said Pete. In the silence, he said, “I'll look.”

They waited outside while Pete went inside.

“What'd Ramp mean by Tweety Petey?” said Brody.

“He's trying to split us up,” said Tyrell.

“Gotcha,” said Brody, but Matt wondered if he did understand. Wonder if I do, he thought.

Pete came out shaking his head. “Never showed up.”

“He could have got to the highway and hitched a ride,” said Tyrell. “Now what?”

They were looking at Matt again. He said, “If he doesn't show by morning when we leave, we'll have to tell a coach.”

“Tell 'em what?” said Brody.

“In the morning,” said Matt. “Let's get some sleep.”

“Yeah, right,” said Pete.