Shanked - Pt. 3

I woke up around 8 to take a piss and couldn’t go back to sleep. Gabe wasn’t in his room; he must have gone out after I had passed out. He was probably with Maria, the freshman independent studies major and Cameron Diaz look-alike who had allegedly let Gabe fuck her in the ass. Recreating this scenario in my head, I replaced Gabe’s face with my own and began beating off half-heartedly, but my thoughts kept drifting back to last night’s game and I gave up.

Given the choice, I would have gladly spent the entire Sunday in bed, reading the online profiles of strangers in between chapters of Introductory Anthropology. However, after skipping dinner last night a foraging expedition could not be avoided. I showered, threw on a hoodie and jeans, queued some chilled-out electronic music on my iPod, and set off for the cafeteria.

University of Boston is situated just outside of the city, close enough for students to feel like sophisticated urbanites, but not so close that they are ever exposed to the seedier aspects of the modern metropolis. The campus had recently been transformed into a model student environment, thanks to the deathbed generosity of an alumnus who had struck it rich in fast food. The green, rolling grounds were dotted with a few original buildings in red brick, an outdated dorm cluster that only Mies van der Rohe could love, and a new library, student center, administrative building, and gym that were blandly attractive and noncommittally allusive to the neo-gothic structures they had replaced. In sum, antiseptic brochure grist. On a perfect fall day, though, even a depressed, failed field goal kicker like myself could not deny its charms. It was still early, and the commons were mercifully empty: a few random nerds scuttling to the library, a hungover co-ed making the walk of shame back from the frathouse, and an underpaid groundskeeper raking leaves in the sunlight.

The sweet smell of bacon wafting from the cafeteria dissuaded me from my original plan to raid the vending machines and retreat back to my room. With my hood up, I made my way efficiently through the food line, settling on a mushroom, cheddar, and bacon omelet at the hot food station; a large glass of OJ; an everything bagel; and a peanut butter cookie. I grabbed a discarded newspaper and found an empty two-person table near the window.

The sports page was on top, and after a few deep breaths and a reminder that my value as a person was not contingent upon my success rate, I flipped to the college football recap. It wasn’t as bad as I had feared, although I couldn’t decide which quote was more nauseating – my angelic quarterback’s vote of support, or Coach’s blunt ultimatum. I was searching for respite in the funny pages when my cell phone vibrated. I took another deep breath.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Baby! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, mom. You want me to call back later? It’s, like, six o’clock in Seattle.”

“No, no, I want to talk to you. You must feel horrible.”

I could see my mom perched anxiously on the edge of Dad’s big leather chair in the living room, still dressed in her nightgown.

“I’m OK, really.”

“Well, it was such a tough kick, especially for your first college game.”

“It was an easy kick. I’ve made kicks just like a hundred times in practice. I just choked. Can’t handle the pressure, I guess.”

“Don’t you talk like that! Remember when you scored the game-winning goal in the state championship game?”

“That was soccer, Mom.”

“Maybe, but you made tough kicks in high school football.”

“Yeah, but we were usually winning when I hit the long ones. And that was high school. Big difference.”

“What’s so different? The field’s the same, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then maybe it’s just your confidence. I know you can do it.”

“That must be a pretty lonely conviction.”

“Don’t you believe you can?”

“I don’t know. Sort of.”

“Baby, you’ve just got to believe in yourself.”

“I know, I know. Anyway, it probably doesn’t matter; hopefully Gabe will be back next week.”

“What happened to that boy, again?”

“It’s complicated, Mom. Hey, can I call you back later? The librarian is shushing me.”

“Oh, you’re at the library? OK. I’ll talk to you later tonight, honey?”

“Hopefully. I’ll try.”

“I love you, Riley.”

“I love you, too, Mom. Thanks for calling.”

I finished my bagel, went through the line again for some dinner supplies, and then went back to my room. The rest of the day was spent reading about bonobo monkeys and analyzing the vast social network that digitally binds the Facebook members who count themselves among the “OC, Bitch!” interest group.

Shanked - Pt. 2

Gabe was on the toilet when I got back to our dorm room, and I tried to make it into my room unnoticed.

“Not so fast, douchebag. Your ass is mine as soon as I finish wiping,” Gabe said through the door.

I sat down on the couch and reached for the remote before thinking better of it. After some dramatic grunting - and without a flush - Gabe emerged from the bathroom wearing orange flip-flops, team shorts, and nothing else. He plopped down on the tattered orange love seat with a look of exaggerated admonishment.

“Hombre. You hurt sensai. Sensai bestows upon young grasshopper all of his considerable knowledge, and grasshopper misses a 20-yard chip shot in perfect conditions. Seriously, Kempton, what the fuck?”

I usually put up with Gabe because he was an upperclassman, not to mention one of the best kickers in the nation. At this point, however, my breaking point was within spitting distance.

“Yeah, I know. Can we talk about this some other time? I blew it. No excuses; I just didn’t have what it took today. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that you’re going to get it together. Look, Kempton, I want this team to at least be bowl-eligible when I get back. The national radar’s a fickle beast, and with every kick you miss and game we lose I drop another round in the draft.”

I looked at him blankly. If only the hot hippie chicks who fell for Gabe’s happy-go-lucky schtick could see him now. Underneath the curly locks, Phish t-shirts, Where the Wild Things Are tattoo, and philosophy-major trappings, Gabe was a jock of the first order. He could be endearing, but he could also be a dick.

“Sorry. I really am.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, too.”

His condescending tone set something off in me.

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t got caught shoplifting Robitussin this could have been avoided.”

“Maybe if you weren’t a smart-assed punk I wouldn’t have to kick your ass!” Gabe grabbed my collar and cocked his fist. I didn’t think he would punch me, and at this point I didn’t really care. He seemed to realize this, and let me go. We both slumped back in our seats.

“I’m sorry, bro. I’m just fucking stressed. I was already on edge with this investigation – the AD, the reporters, even my moms, for crissakes.” he said.

“Yeah, I know.” And I was sympathetic. I had seen Gabe go through hell over the past week, beginning when he called me from a CVS on Comm Ave, frantically imploring me to send him a lawyer. Instead, the unsympathetic Korean proprietor contacted the police, who then called Coach Mularkey. Somehow Coach convinced the owner to hold off on pressing charges. Over the course of a long car ride through Newton, Gabe then proceeded to convince Coach that the incident stemmed from nothing more than a bad head cold and a particularly sad case of student poverty. Coach almost felt sorry for Gabe by the time he dropped him off, and I chalked it up as further proof of Gabe’s sweet sliminess. It turned out, however, that Coach was wilier than either of us gave him credit for. We’ll never know whether Gabe’s undoing was Google, Coach’s incredulous wife, or simply karma, but by the time practice rolled around the next day Malarkey had put together the pieces and accurately pegged Gabe as an over-the-counter-drug-abusing kleptomaniac.

The rest of the team rolled their eyes when they heard Gabe called into Coach’s office once again. I was less amused, remembering all too vividly the exact pitch of Coach’s heaving sobs as he stood before us at last year’s preseason retreat and recounted the harrowing story his younger brother’s fatal descent into heroin addiction. Once he pulled himself together, he told us that he owed it to his brother to respond with an iron fist to the first sign of drug abuse among any of his players. As I laced up my cleats and anxiously watched the door, I silently prayed that Coach would take into consideration the inexperience of his backup kicker before making any rash decisions. The look of unvarnished shock on Gabe’s face as he hurried past me on his way out of the locker room dashed any such hopes. Before calling a brief team meeting explaining that Gabe was suspended indefinitely for a “breach of trust,” Coach poked me in the chest and informed me that is was showtime.

Back in our room, Gabe broke the silence with a loud fart and informed me that my mother had called our landline approximately 10 seconds after my botched kick. I asked Gabe to tell her that I was asleep if she called back, and retreated to my room for a restless night of Benadryl-induced sleep.

Shanked - Pt. 1

Note: Because I am both shameless and completely comfortable wasting your time, I've decided to begin posting installments of this novella/short story/complete piece of shit as it comes to me. I'm not really working from an outline, and I am easily frustrated, so this could hit a dead end mercifully soon. Until then, updates will appear as my schedule permits/whenever the self-loathing becomes too much to bear. Also, if anyone could tell me how to indent paragraphs properly through Blogger, I would be much obliged.

BOSTON (AP) - Even Virginia College players felt sorry for Riley Kempton, the sophomore kicker whose muffed field goal smothered University of Boston’s opportunity take the conference lead. “You could tell he felt like he let the team down, especially after Baker got them back in the game with that drive,” said VC running back JaMarcus Zare, who racked up 193 yards on twenty carries, including a 43-yard touchdown dash that tied the score with 3:23 remaining in the fourth quarter. Kempton, who was violently ill on the field after missing n 20-yard chip shot, was thrust into the starting role after Gabe Collins, the senior kicker with NFL aspirations, was suspended for undisclosed violations of team policy. UB quarterback Pat Garret, whose late game heroism failed to rub off on Kempton, was philosophical following the tough loss: “I guess it wasn’t meant to be. Riley’s just starting out, and I’m betting he’ll learn from this experience and put it to use later in the season.” Head coach Mike Mularky saw things a bit differently. “We played pretty good football, but couldn’t close it out. Hopefully Riley will figure it out; otherwise we’ll have to have to move on without him.”

My facemask stunk of last night’s burritos, but I kept my helmet on as we made our way off the field. I got a few ass pats and “Shake it off, bro”’s, but the night’s theme was more accurately expressed in the profane threats my drunken classmates lobbed from the stands. “Go fuck yourself, pukey bitch!”, “Try soccer, fag!”, or “Better watch your back in Poly Sci recitation, Kempton!” The tunnel was silent except for the muffled clatter of cleats on concrete. The prayer circle was already forming when I arrived in the locker room. I moved to the back of the crowd and mumbled my “Amen”’s as Father Jerry reminded us that every loss presented valuable growth opportunities, and that we needed to trust in God and stick together as a team. I was holding hands with Billy Monroe, a 350-pound right guard from Alabama, and Jamiri Smith, a hotshot freshman wideout who kept glancing at me, waiting for the waterworks. I felt bad enough to cry, but apparently my body had betrayed me enough for one day. Thank god for small mercies.

After Father Jerry had finished, Coach Mularkey stood up and cleared his throat.

“Well, boys, today was a tough one. We almost pulled it out, but just couldn’t follow through.” At this juncture everyone pointedly avoided looking in my direction. “But we’ve got a must-win next week against North Florida, and there’s no time to fuck around feeling sorry for ourselves. So clean yourself up, get your ass home, go to sleep, and wake up thinking about what you’re going to do this week to help us win next Saturday. All in now.”

We rose from our knees and the circle collapsed. Someone, Garret probably, yelled, “St. Thomas Aquinas!” - and the rest of the team responded with a resounding “Pray for us!” We then broke up and shuffled to our lockers. I stripped down quickly, throwing my vomit-stained uniform onto the floor and trying to ignore the mumbled conversations taking place around me. Skipping the showers, I put on my street clothes and made for the exit, eyes down. Baker made a move to talk to me, but the last thing I was in the mood for was a few words of wisdom from the golden boy. I ducked behind a defensive lineman and made it out untouched. There were still some stragglers in the parking lot, and I pulled my beanie down low, almost over my eyes. I made it back to the dorms without anyone saying anything to me.