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Freshman High Football

Dana Stamps, II

Once again, a fat kid, slow, exhausted, near collapse
was behind the other players, dead last after a run
around the field. The coach, a biology teacher,

ordered the second biggest kid on the team
(who I knew was on steroids and methamphetamines)
to tackle the fat kid – shouted: “Julio, hit him.”

Without delay, the crunch of shoulder pads, the grunt,
thud, and the 14 year old fat kid was down.

“Get up, Patterson! Get up now, and get in line!
We’ll have no losers on this team!” yelled the coach.

But the fat kid did not get up, and I was worried
that obese Patterson was dead, or dying,
and I thought that an ambulance should be called,
but I just stood there, afraid of what would
happen to me if I spoke out.
                                                But the winded gimp
got up only minutes later, angry at him-
self, cursing, chastising himself for not being a good
enough team player, trying not to cry –

but he showed up for practice the next day.

Two months earlier, the first day of the semester,
my counselor said, “You’re a big guy; I’ll bet
you are good enough to do well on the football team.
I’ll give you the easiest classes in English
and math, so you’ll be sure to pass,
so you can play football. How does that sound?”

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