Team Bus

    The team bus, all sunflower yellow and gunmetal gray, is humming diesel and waiting. A few of us shuffle about the high school parking lot with helmets already on, itching for the doors to open. Chomping at the bit as Daddy would say. I grab my helmet and gear from the bed of my truck and join them.

   We were born into this. My daddy, like everyone’s daddy, played high school football. He’d throw me the ball in our backyard, and laugh when it bounced off my 9-year-old hands. He’d show me how to cup the ball to my chest like “you was catching your baby sister falling out a burning window”.

     The pneumatic doors open with a woosh and a hiss, and we climb inside. Boxes for the team fill the front seats. When I was little, there were always boxes on the gameday bus. The team mothers stuffed them for us with paper sacks full of turkey sandwiches, orange wedges and snickerdoodle cookies. On the ride to the field, we’d gobble down the sandwiches and goad each other in our toughest little man voices to save the rest for after we win. On the ride home, we’d celebrate with dancing cookie-eating rituals. We’d make orange wedge orangutan lips and try to smile without laughing.

     Tonight, the boxes hold canvas bags. Logoed, durable and hard. They’re heavier now that I’m getting paid for this. I ain’t never seen a cookie in one of these.

**

     I made Varsity when I was just a freshman. By then, playing awkward catch in the backyard had turned into tackling drills with Daddy. As broad as I was tall, he’d line up across from me and blow a whistle to start. Then he’d beat the ever-living shit out of me, pushing my face into the freshly-mowed grass taunting “You gonna cry, pussy?”

    I wanted to. Badly. I did sometimes.

    He’d get up, smiling proud. “No tears. No mercy. You knock ’em down hard on that first play,” he’d say, over and over. “Next play, they thinking about that pain. About that dominance you have on ‘em, Son. You own ‘em.”

     You hurt ‘em, he meant.

     After every whistle. Every time. He’d pick me up and say “I know it hurts, but you gotta come off that pile smiling. You know something that they don’t yet. You already won, Son. You the smoke walking out on that field, boy. But when that whistle blows, you gonna be the fire.”

     Thinking about it, I got the same training for this team. A lotta whistles. Lotta drills. Lotta owning and getting owned.

**

       I push down the bus’s narrow aisle and solemnly nod to the others. Each nods back ritualistically. Each knowing what’s coming.

     Growing up, I would’ve known each of these boys for years. I would’ve played wiffle ball in the streets in front of their houses. I might have dated their sister – if they allowed it. Definitely would have spent a Sunday dinner or two at their dining room tables with their families. Getting fed by their mommas. Getting praise from their daddies.

    The game feels like life or death now. No more singing chants or telling bathroom jokes. My teammates are strangers. Each of them sits alone in their own heads preparing for the silent drive and the big night before us.

     I settle into a seat and into my own thoughts. No lie, my hands are sweaty. My knuckles are bruised, but pale and tight under the bus’s running lights. Back during pre-season conditioning, my high school coach told us to dig our knuckles into the kidneys of the kid we tackled. “When you’re under the pile, the refs can’t see. That’s when you hurt ‘em. If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying.”

     Everyone cheated then. The only honor worth protecting is the honor of victory. Same now.

     Coach would shout “On my whistle!” then blow.

     We’d react with brainstem memory and fast-twitch muscles. When that whistle blew, we beat the smiles off each other chasing that glory.

     My phone buzzes in my pocket.

     Daddy’s words glow in the dark – Son. You gotta do better than this. This ain’t what I taught you.

     The doubt and shame of that skinny freshman, face pushed into the ground, creeps back in. I’m fine being the smoke. I don’t know I want to be the fire.

     We pull out of the parking lot. No cheerleaders or proud parents waving us down the road to the rival town. Just quiet time. The crowd of mommas, and daddies, and baby sisters with chants and banners are waiting for us at the stadium.

**

     Dozens of other team buses sit idling as we arrive.

    “Gentlemen.” The Captain stands in the aisle next to the driver. “We beat the hell out of these folks last week.”

     Yeah we did.

     “But these protesters didn’t get the message and they’re looking for more. The Ministry has legally defined this week’s rally for the opposition candidate as an insurrection.”

     Helmets strapped, rifles cradled to chests like baby sisters, we share glances in the glare of the stadium lights filtering through the windows.

     “That’s right, Gentlemen. The official rules of engagement have changed. We have new orders directly from Central Command. There are 20 teams arrayed around the entrances. We’re assigned to Gate F.”

     “F is for fuck around and find out!” a helmet shouts. Nervous chuckles ripple down the aisle.

     “Tonight, you have live rounds.” Captain cuts through the chatter. “No more less-lethal ammunition. No more protests. No more protesters. That’s the order, Gentlemen. From the top. Lock and load.”

     Fumbling with the magazines in my tactical bag, I load my weapon.

     It takes a just flick of the safety switch and I’m no longer the smoke. I’m the fire.

     But if I leave the safety on, I can’t kill anyone.

     It feels like my life ain’t mine to guide anymore.

     Captain’s whistle blows. Each blast rings in my ears. Taps my spine.

     My finger pushes at the safety.

     

     click