| Visit our Bookstore |
|
|
|
|
Written by Erik Olson
Click here if you'd like to exchange critiques
Ronnie listened to the echoing roar of the stadium with his stomach slightly churning. Twenty thousand people had packed themselves into the double-decker football stadium on the unusually cool Texas night. Not one of them sat and all made noise. Ronnie watched as his opponents, Mayville High, screamed loudly as the announcer bellowed each starter's name. Soon every starter had run through the tunnel of pads and flesh to the center of the field. The rest of the team followed them madly, whooping and hollering like savages entering battle. They reached their comrades and piled onto them like ants on a chocolate chip cookie. The roar from the Mayville rooters leaped in volume.
Ronnie's team, the Cook City Falcons, watched the pile-up, their
intensity growing stronger with each Mayville player's cry. Several
of the more vocal team members began priming the rest of the Falcons
for the game at hand by yelling and screaming at them, trying
to raise the fire within each player to a temperature previously
unreached for any other game.
"And now, the starting offense for the Cook City Falcons!"
the announcer bellowed. The Falcon rooters exploded. Nearly
three quarters of the entire town of Cook City, population 12,765,
managed to make the trip to the game. Everyone brought along
some representation of their team. Red and black shirts dotted
the stadium. Fans painted their faces and bodies red and black.
Zealous students flapped their arms ominously, taunting the opposing
team's fans and players with the motion of a falcon searching
for its prey.
Ronnie felt wild excitement well up inside him, but he kept a
steady face on the outside. He was entering what could be his
final game in the red and black uniform of Cook City. He didn't
want his emotions to cloud his mind, or disturb his already overly
frenzied teammates. Ronnie watched as each starter blasted through
the tunnel to the sound of wild cheering. His eyes naturally
closed as his ears listened for the next name.
"Starting at wide receiver, a six foot, one hundred eighty-five
pound senior, number eighty-three, Ronald Jacobs!"
Ronnie raced through the tunnel, hands slapping at him and voices
hurling encouragement at him. He burst through the tunnel and
greeted his fellow starters with the fierce yell of a warrior
ready for battle.
The radio alarm clock blared the morning DJ's annoying voice.
Ron half-opened his crusted eyes to face the digital 6:00 staring
back at him. He groaned as he stumbled out of bed to shut off
the alarm
He went in the bathroom and pressed a cold washcloth to his face.
He vaguely remembered the night before, downing shots of whiskey
one after another, hunched over on a stool in a lonely bar on
the edge of town. His head still ached from the alcohol. He
felt dizzy when he moved and gripped the sink tightly as a sudden
wave of nausea struck him. He threw open the lid of the toilet
and vomited the contents of his stomach. He kneeled over the
toilet and caught his breath, his face white with the effort.
He struggled back to his feet and stared at his own bloodshot
eyes in the mirror. His eyes flicked across his reflection, gazing
over the early wrinkles forming on his forehead to the sagging
skin along his jawbone. He rubbed his face with the washcloth
one last time, reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels conveniently
stored in a cupboard, took a swig, and staggered into the shower.
He showered, dressed, and left for work. He spent the drive
trying to straighten his crooked tie, and trying not to drive
off the side of the road. Ron worked at a plastic manufacturing
company where he did all the unwanted and boring paperwork his
bosses shoveled down to him. He had begun working at the company
after a year of college because the starting pay beat all other
options, especially the classroom. He had worked his way up from
mailboy to a much higher position with a desk and responsibility.
Ron arrived at the large plant on the outskirts of town. He
sighed as he looked up at the tall structure. People moved around
him like bees returning to the hive, some taking honey home with
them and others bringing it in to be synthesized. Ron took out
his breakfast, a Bit O' Honey Bar, and ate it while walking into
the building.
"Hey Jacobs! Big day today, huh?" Williams, Ron's
co-worker, yelled out. "The head honchos have been holed
up in their nice big office for an hour now. The time of my final
triumph over you is near. You sure you can take the news?"
"The only thing I'm worried about is where I'll put the
big plant in my new office. I hope that it doesn't block the
window view from your cubicle." Several people giggled softly
to themselves at their desks.
Williams also laughed. "Big talk, Jacobs. Let's see how
big you talk at four o'clock this afternoon."
"I'll be there." Ron headed over to his desk and sat
down. He took some papers out from his desk and pretended to
busy himself with them. He shifted his eyes back and forth among
the people in the room, whose eyes all focused on the papers in
front of them. When Ron determined no one was watching him, he
reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a flask
of bourbon, and took another quiet drink. He quickly concealed
the flask again, and concentrated on his work in front of him.
The game started out as any other. Cook City received the kickoff, and proceeded to march straight down the field. Their early plays centered around Ronnie, their primary weapon. Although Ronnie had run these routes and caught these passes in practice after practice and game after game, he felt a special new twinge in his stomach after every play, a twinge of tension mixed with relief that the tension was over, at least until the next play.
As Ronnie ran each play, his intensity grew and finally stabilized
as he found his rhythm. Each play ran in perfect harmony with
Ronnie's motions. The football gods had written a theatrical
play, staged it on the field, and Ronnie was playing the lead
role, expressing his character just as the gods had written the
part. He ran each route by instinct, stepping each time just
where the defender would not, and turning just in time to cradle
the football in mid-air like a doctor grasping a newborn baby.
When the Falcons began dusting their feet off on the welcome
mat in front of Mayville's goal, their coach sent in their bread-and-butter
play. As Ronnie heard the call leave the quarterback's lips,
his mind began focusing on where his feet should go, how to get
past his opponent, and the perfect spot to ready his hands for
the incoming pass.
The center snapped the ball back to the quarterback. Ronnie
set his feet in motion. He watched his defender's eyes, and saw
them widen slightly as the quarterback faked a hand-off to the
running back. Ronnie sensed the weakness in his defender's stance
and cut across his face, getting behind him by a step. Ronnie
knew his quarterback had also recognized the opportunity and seen
the perfect place to throw the ball. Ronnie turned to the spot
where he felt the connection.
The throw floated unusually high, but Ronnie's focus moved from
Ronnie and the quarterback to Ronnie and the ball. He felt a
radar click in his brain, adjusting his body to the position of
the ball. He leaped, aiming his hands at the center of the radar
screen. As he extended his arms out, he felt the ecstasy of the
football securely in his hands, never to touch the ground without
Ronnie's express permission. He landed in the end zone, and the
Falcons had their first points.
The words on the paper seemed to try to run off the page. Ron blinked his bleary eyes a few times to try to get the words in focus. He had poured over the tiny print of the twenty page company budget for three hours now. Ron got up to get some coffee. As he got out of his chair, fiery pain shot through his right knee which made him grimace and grab his desk for support. He had torn the anterior cruciate ligament in that knee while playing playground basketball shortly before he graduated from high school. The knee never healed properly and caused him pain from time to time, even from simple walking.
Ron remembered his life before the sporadic pain in that knee.
His senior year of high school neared a close, and college football
recruiters fought for his promise to play for their school. Ron
had many things going for him back then. He enjoyed his freedom
before the rigors of college football and he possible full-time
job as an NFL wide receiver, a career many felt he would possess
in the near future.
He was playing a friendly game of basketball with a few of his
friends when it happened. He went going up for a simple lay-up
when he felt a fiery pain shoot through his knee. He crumpled
to the ground like a deer cut down rs gradually quit calling him
until all his scholarship offers slowly faded away. This loss
of interest only served to depress Ron more, until he finally
gave up on the rehab altogether. Now he walked with a slight
limp and endured random bouts with pain.
Ron took five minutes to drain his cup of coffee and hobbled
back to his desk. He began busying himself with the unending
flow of numbers again. He sighed as he took his pocket calculator
from his desk and began the tedious job of adding up the budget
for employee health insurance.
The phone on Ron's desk rang. "Hello?" he answered,
grateful for an interruption.
"You son of a bitch," a harsh female voice hissed from
the other end of the line. Ron's pleasure for distraction changed
to dismay at the sound of the voice of his future ex-wife, Carol.
"What do you want?" he said, massaging his temple.
"You know damn well what I want. I got a call from you
lawyer today, and he demanded I let you have the Honda. How could
you do something like this? You know very well I had that car
long before I ever met you, and I'll be damned if I give it up!"
Ron began to get angry. "You only own that piece of junk
because I gave you the money to make the final payments. If it
wasn't for me, the repo man would've hauled it thing off a long
time ago!" he whispered harshly into the telephone.
"That's a bunch of bull! I was pulling double shifts at
that crummy hole-in-the-wall joint and I earned that money to
make those payments myself!"
Ron could feel himself being pulled into the same old argument.
If it wasn't about who owned the car, it was about who owned
the furniture, who owned the TV, or even who owned the dog. "Look,
Carol, I can't discuss this right now. I told you never to call
me at work. Good-bye."
"Don't you dare--" Ron cut off her voice by slamming
down the phone.
Ron stared down at his desk, frustrated, as he always felt after
talking with Carol. His eyes floated upward, and fell upon an
open window colored light blue from the clear sky outside. Ron
felt his attention flutter to the freedom of the outdoors, and
shook his head violently in an attempt to focus on the work in
front of him. He stared at the never-ending flow of numbers,
then felt a sudden sense of claustrophobia. He glanced nervously
at the walls around him, certain they had moved in a few inches
closer than a few seconds before. He tried to take a deep breath
to calm himself down, but the air he brought in his lungs tasted
pungent; wisps of cigarette smoke mixed with the manufactured
new smell of plaster. Ron tried to find a clean pocket of air,
but his cubicle seemed to suffocate him. He hurried to the bathroom,
where he took a long drink of water and pressed a cold, damp paper
towel to his face. The cool water relieved some of the pressure
he felt
As Ron walked out of the bathroom, he encountered one of his
bosses.
"Jacobs," his boss said.
"Yes, sir?" Ron replied.
"This promotion sure could mean a lot for your career here
at this company, isn't that right, Jacobs?"
"Certainly, sir. It's a huge deal for me."
Ron's boss leaned over as if to whisper to him. "I'm not
in charge of hiring at that position," his boss said in a
low tone. "But I don't think taking two breaks in less than
ten minutes in the mark of a future vice-president, do you, Jacobs?"
"No sir. I'm sorry, sir."
Ron's boss walked away, his eyebrows raised condescendingly at
Ron. Ron returned to his desk and found the air breathable, at
least for the time being.
The tension crackled through the stadium like lightning on a stormy summer night. Although Cook City had scored the first touchdown, Mayville High roared back to push the ball over their opponent's goal line twice. Cook City added a field goal into the mix, and trailed by a mere four points with time running out in the fourth quarter.
Mayville had pulled ahead by capitalizing on key errors by the
Falcons, intercepting two passes which led to their two touchdowns.
Yet they had still not discovered an answer for Ronnie. He caught
long passes, short passes, and even ran the ball on reverses.
Mayville tried man-to-man coverage, switched to zone, and finally
sent two defenders to cover Ronnie on certain plays. But Ronnie
continued to control the game from his wide receiver position.
The Falcons began their drive as they had begun all others.
They aimed their primary weapon directly at Mayville's defense.
Ronnie now drew two defenders at almost all times, yet he always
found the open spot on the field, and his quarterback continually
hit him there on the mark.
Ronnie lined up on the far right, noticing only one defender
across from him. Despite the darkness of the Texas sky, Ronnie's
eyes lit up like the twin headlights of a sports car preparing
for a nighttime speed run. The quarterback hollered his cadence
and received the snap, and Ronnie exploded from the line. The
lonely defender, realizing he had no help covering Ronnie, desperately
tried to hold up Ronnie at the line of scrimmage. Ronnie merely
brushed past him, using the hapless defender's momentum to sprint
a full two steps past him. Ronnie looked over his shoulder for
the ball and saw it there, a spiraling brown and white star illuminated
by the bright stadium light. Ronnie reached out his hands and
picked the ball out of the air. He raced down the sideline, yards
past his unlucky defender but wary of another opponent sprinting
madly to angle Ronnie off. The Cook City cheering section rose
like a sleeping lion awoken prematurely from a deep sleep. Ronnie
ran as fast as he could, but the Mayville defender had taken the
proper angle and pushed Ronnie out-of-bounds at the ten yard line.
Ronnie's teammates raced down the field screaming his name and
yelling in frenzied hope. Ronnie accepted their praise, but with
reserve, for only three seconds remained in the game, and Cook
City still needed ten yards for the win. They had time for only
one more play.
The quarterback quickly quieted his team, and called their bread-and-butter
play, the play that had brought them their first score and countless
others before. Ronnie broke from the huddle with a powerful sense
of confidence ebbing through his veins. This time, he lined up
on the far left and saw two defenders madly run over to line up
across from him. The center snapped the ball, and Ronnie watched
his opponents' eyes. As the quarterback faked the dive up the
middle, the defender furthest from Ronnie bit at the lure and
took two steps forward. He quickly realized his mistake, and
hurriedly tried to reverse his movement. His right foot hit a
patch of slick grass, and he fell to the ground. The defender
nearest Ronnie continued back-pedaling and couldn't see his fallen
teammate on the ground behind him. One Mayville defender tripped
over the other, and now both lay on the ground.
Ronnie found himself entering the end zone with no one covering
him. His eyes widened at this unexpected fortune. He looked
over his shoulder and saw the perfectly placed ball floating lazily
in the air. Ronnie stuck his hands out, waiting for the ball
to nestle into them and seal the victory.
Ronnie felt the ball touch his palms, but reeled in shock as
he felt it bounce out of his grasp. He tried to clutch the ball
off the rebound, but couldn't anticipate its crazy movement.
Ronnie watched the ball bounce to the turf and rest there, unfeeling
and remorseless. In a blur, Ronnie saw the referee swipe his
arms in and out, signaling an incomplete pass. He saw the digital
numbers of the clock read :00, and the score read Mayville 14,
Cook City 10. He saw the Mayville players wildly hugging each
other and cheering, and his own teammates staring at him and the
score in utter shock. He saw his high school football career
come to a close.
"Jacobs! Williams! Get in here!" the senior executive barked.
Ron looked up to see the senior executive's board room door open,
and the executive waiting inside, stern-faced and impatient.
Ron slowly rose from his chair, a twinge of nervousness within
his stomach mixing with a dull pounding inside his head. Williams
quickly got up from his desk and walked into the room without
even glancing in Ron's direction. Ron watched Williams go through
the door and followed him in.
"Williams, Jacobs," the silver-haired, smartly dressed
company president said gruffly in welcoming. "Sit down."
Both men sat.
"We thank you both for your hard work and dedication to
the this company. Unfortunately, we can only hire one vice-president."
Ron blinked his eyes wearily at the president, afraid to move
yet wanting to relax and let his body go completely loose.
"Williams, you have proven yourself worthy of this position.
You are very reliable, you get fast results, and you have a real
feel for this job. Congratulations."
Ron glanced at the digital clock across the room. The bright
sunshine shielded the first number on the clock, so all Ron could
see was the :00 contrasted by the shadow. He cringed as he realized
the ghosts of the past had cut him down again with a flying tackle.
All the time he spent trying to advance to the next level was
wasted. Another phase of Ron's life slipped through his fingers.
Williams smiled and shook hands with the other executives around
him. The president turned to Ron and shrugged. "As for
you Jacobs, I'm sorry. Your portfolio was good, but just not
quite good enough. Better luck next time."
Ron took a deep breath, swallowed his pride, shook hands with
Williams, and hobbled out the door. His knee began to act up
again. He looked down at his digital watch. It read 4:15. He
bought a Bit O' Honey bar from the company vending machine and
left work for the day.
Click here to make comments
