Jeff Pine's 1st Novel, Can You Keep A Secret?

2003-08-12T22:32:00.000-07:00

Check out the entire novel at www.1stbooks.com/bookview/17027 if you like what you've read so far.

Also, join my Yahoo group page at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/JeffPinesGroupPage/

2003-08-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

2003 Western High School Eagles Varsity Football Roster

No. Name Year Height Weight Position (Off./Def.)
2 Phil O'Malley jr. 5'6 160 K/P
3 Thomas Hill sr. 5'8 170 WR / CB
4 Steven Dentry sr. 5'11 190 RB / DE
10 Darnell Smith so. 6'2 190 QB / FS
12 Tynan Rogers sr. 6'2 200 QB / FS
16 Johnny Thomas jr. 6'1 180 QB / FS
20 Tommy Hilman sr. 6'0 210 RB / LB
22 Ronnie Mills jr. 5'9 165 RB / SS
23 Jayson Khan jr. 6'0 175 QB / WR / DB
32 Bill Wheaton sr. 6'3 200 TE / LB
50 Tom Jones sr. 5'11 195 OL /DE
54 Chris Smitherman jr. 6'0 205 OL / LB
65 Jeff Iaonucci jr. 6'1 220 OL / DL
70 Tony Sharp sr. 6'3 240 OL / DL
75 Bo Winston sr. 6'3 255 OL / DL
76 Tyler White jr. 5'10 200 OL / NG
78 Mike Stone jr. 5'8 210 OL / DL
80 Irving Stone jr. 5'8 180 WR / CB
84 Brett Stevens jr. 6'0 190 TE / DE
85 Sam Ronin so. 6'3 200 TE / LB
88 Rob Remmel sr. 6'4 170 WR / CB

Team Info:
Head Coach and Offensive Coordinator: Fisher
Asst. Head Coach and Defensive Coordinator: Tom Murphy
Special Teams Coach: Steve Reynolds
JV Coaches: Rudy Jones, Matt Combs, Mike Douglas

Team Mascot: Eagles
Team Colors: Green and Gold
Principal: Thomas J. Harding, Ed.D.
Athletic Director: Fred Johnson

2003-08-12T21:28:00.000-07:00

2003 Western High School
Varsity Football Schedule

Friday, August 29th -- Webber High School
Friday, Sept. 5th -- at Packard High School
Friday, Sept. 12th -- Kennedy High School
Friday, Sept. 19th -- at Truman High School
Friday, Sept. 26th -- at Eisenhower High School
Friday, October 3rd -- Smith High School #
Friday, October 10th -- Pontiac Southern H. S.
Friday, October 17th -- at Detroit Northeastern H. S. (3:30)
Friday, October 24th -- at Eastern High School

Home Games are in Bold Type
# Homecoming Game

All games start at 7:00 unless otherwise noted.
All home games are played at the Jim Eubank Memorial Field, which is located east of the school. Plenty of parking is available next to the field.

2003-08-01T15:39:00.000-07:00

Chapter One - The Interview

Steve Dentry was late for the interview but he knew that there was nothing that he could do about it. This time, like most times, it was his dad's fault. Steve had helped his mom get his dad in the shower, clean up the vomit, and get him ready for work. However, as Steve zipped through the brisk spring air towards school, he couldn’t shake the image of his father who had passed out on the couch in the living room. I’m getting tired of this, he thought. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
Steve played with his class ring, a 10K gold ring set with a green stone, as he tried to refocus his mind on the interview for which he was late. Last year, he had been the first junior captain on Western High’s football team in twenty-seven years, and last week the principal had asked him to sit on the interviewing committee for a new head football coach. Not since the great Roger Jones had worn the green and gold Eagle on his helmet over his long stringy hair and mutton chops had a junior been named captain at Western High. Jones’s yellowed picture hung in the football coaches’ office as a testament to the school’s only brush with football greatness. Jones had gone on to play at Michigan State and then was drafted by the Detroit Lions in 1977 where he played running back for two years before blowing out his knee in a preseason game. Occasionally, Jones will show up at homecoming games having gained a few pounds but never able to lose the limp that became a permanent part of him after that injury. Steve knew the lore by heart, and sometimes he wished he wasn’t blessed with such gifts, like now, or the responsibility that came with being the captain of a losing football team.

Last year’s head football coach, Coach Stevens, wasn’t a very good coach. Steve knew this from the moment he set eyes on him his sophomore year when he was called up to the varsity. Steve could still remember seeing him standing on the field, wearing jean shorts, a soiled yellow Western High t-shirt, and black socks and white tennis shoes. Like all coaches, he had a whistle around his neck, but this coach had the disgusting habit of chewing on the whistle during practice. Steve had sometimes seen pen caps that his sister had chewed on, the plastic hammered into an amoebic non-shape. Well, Stevens’ whistle looked exactly like that. But it was worse because sometimes during a drill, he would get so angry that the whistle would fall out of his mouth and a slow moving rivulet of saliva would dribble out of the end of the whistle and wet the front of his t-shirt. Not that it mattered, it looked like the same t-shirt to Steve at every practice. During that season, Stevens must have gnawed his way through four or five whistles, and last season, a particularly bad one, Stevens must have chewed through at least six. And the weird thing about it was that when the custodians cleaned out his office after he quit in January, they found at least a dozen misshapen whistles in a drawer next to Western’s offensive playbook. Why he kept the whistles, no one knew or ever found out.

Just thinking about last season made Steve queasy. 2-7. The only teams that they beat last year were Packard High on a last minute field goal, and Mt. Zion, a small Catholic school with 200 kids in it. That school, from the downriver area of Detroit, only had 19 mismatched kids on the roster at the end of the season, and Western crushed them 27-0. Most of Western's losses last season were by at least twenty points, and half of them were by more than 35 points.
After having suffered through three losing seasons at Western, two on varsity and one on the JV, Steve yearned for a winning season. He’d had plenty of individual honors last season: he had rushed for over 1,300 yards, scored 22 touchdowns, made All-Metro, All-State, and 3rd team Dream Team. Several smaller Division I schools had made some scholarship offers, but he wouldn’t make up his mind until later that fall after his senior season was over. He had had enough individual success that all he wanted to do now was win. And he hoped that the new coach, whoever he would be, could coach better than Coach Stevens. That wouldn't be too hard to accomplish, he thought as he pulled into the school’s parking lot. A corpse could coach better than Stevens. If the new coach knows how to win, then I’m satisfied. He parked his beat-up blue Chevy Cavalier among the glittering status symbols in the parking lot, grabbed the notes and questions he had prepared for the candidates, and sprinted towards the main office. Once inside, he slowed down, sniffed under his armpits and then put a hand in front of his mouth and breathed. He wrinkled his nose and popped a breath mint into his mouth. Everything has to look all right, he thought. He glanced down at his blue suit, red and blue striped tie, and shiny new shoes. On the outside, everything looks fine.

When he arrived at the main office, he saw Dr. Harding, Western’s principal, standing next to the conference room door. Harding was a small man with thinning brown hair and a full mustache and somehow always seemed to wear ties that didn’t match what he was wearing. Today, he wore a dashing paisley pink tie with a corduroy brown suit.
"Sorry I'm late," Steve apologized averting his eyes from Dr. Harding’s glance. "My alarm clock didn't go off this morning." Dr. Harding motioned into the conference room where three men sat.
"Steve, I'd like to introduce Coach Fisher," Dr. Harding stated pointing in Coach Fisher’s direction. Across the table, in front of what appeared to be carefully prepared notes, Coach Fisher stood up and shook Steve’s hand. He tried not to wince as Fisher’s vice-like grip squashed his own hand so he smiled at him. The first thing that Steve noticed about him were his intense blue eyes. Once the coach turned those eyes on him, Steve felt stripped bare, like Fisher intuitively knew the reason why Steve was late. But, he also felt reassured because he didn’t smell any alcohol on the coach either. Sometimes, Steve could smell alkies just be being near them. The smell of alcohol seemed to evaporate out of their skin. But he got no particular vibes from Coach Fisher.

“Nice to meet you, Coach,” Steve stated. He thankfully removed his hand and tried to rub some of the blood back into it. Dr. Harding sat at the front of the conference table while everyone else took their places. The other two members of the interview team were the athletic director, Fred Johnson, who had played at Grambling and in the NFL before getting his administrator’s degree; and the social studies department head, James Wingram, a pale looking man with wire-rimmed glasses.

“Now that we’re all here,” Dr. Harding said, “let’s get started. Coach Fisher, Western High School is a school that has the highest standards for academic excellence. However, we haven’t had an athletic program to be proud of in recent years. I hired Fred Johnson,” he motioned across the table to Fred, “last spring to revamp Western’s athletic department.”
“One of the first things that I wanted to do,” Fred continued, “was hire a new football coach to replace Coach Stevens. That’s why we’re here.” Steve had noticed in earlier conversations that Mr. Johnson always spoke in slowly measured tones, almost as if he were thinking before letting the words escape from his mouth. This time was no different.
“So, Coach,” Dr. Harding asked, “what would you bring to the Western football program?”
Coach Fisher paused before responding. “One of the impressions of Western around the OAA was that Western’s football players were talented yet undisciplined. Last year, we scouted Pontiac Southern when they played Western, and I got that same impression.” Steve groaned inwardly, remembering that game. He had rushed for 150 yards and scored twice, but as usual, the Eagle defense was as porous as Swiss cheese and allowed 42 points.
Coach Fisher continued, “I will bring integrity, discipline, and a proven program that will work here. I’ve been coaching for ten years at Braddock, the last five years as the defensive coordinator. In those ten years, we’ve won the state championship three times, made the playoffs seven times, and never had a losing season.”
Braddock? That got Steve’s attention. He flipped through the three resumes that were in front of him and found Fisher's. This coach had worked at one of Michigan’s most successful high school football programs, and now he was interviewing for a job here! At Western! Oh my God, how did he get here? I figured we would get more retreads like Stevens, but this guy… “Coach, one thing that I’ve been thinking,” Wingram stated, “why would you want to come here, where football has ranked dead last in student and faculty interests, when you can win to your heart’s delight at Braddock? Western isn’t exactly a football mecca.”
“I’ve asked myself that a couple of times,” Fisher replied and shifted in his seat, “and honestly, it would be easier to stay at Braddock and continue to win. I’ve wanted to be a head coach for a few years now, but Ed Monroe, the head coach at Braddock, is only 45. He’s not leaving anytime soon. Plus, I’ve always been one for challenges, and I can’t think of a greater challenge than turning Western around.”
The interview droned on for a few more minutes but Steve couldn’t help but tune out the comments and just focus on the way Coach Fisher moved and talked. Everything about him spoke about his confidence. There never seemed to be a false move or misspoken word. Whenever he felt strongly about something, Steve noticed that his square chin jutted out as if daring anyone to challenge him. His sharp dark grey pin-striped suit didn’t appear to have any lint on it, and Steve couldn’t take his eyes off of the large golden ring on Fisher’s right hand. I’ll bet that’s a championship ring there, Steve thought. Gosh, I’d love to have one of those. He’s probably got two more to spare just sitting at home in a dresser drawer. Then, his thoughts started turning to a more serious subject matter.
Does he drink? Of course, he does, all coaches probably need a beer or two after a game. Maybe even more if they lose. But does he drink so much that he passes out on the couch in his own vomit? Does he disappear for the weekend and come home Sunday night smelling like shit? Has he been fired from a job because he failed too often at work because he was hung over?
“Steve?” Dr. Harding asked. “Do you have any questions for Coach Fisher?”
Steve looked at his notes and quickly found the one that he wanted to ask. “Coach, I was hoping to ask you a hypothetical question. Let’s say the night before a big game, it comes to your attention that one of your star players was caught smoking marijuana at school that day. The game is extremely important, your playoff chances are on the line, and you might not win if this player is suspended. What would you do in that situation?”
Coach Fisher’s brow furrowed, and he paused for a couple of seconds while he pondered what he would do. “That’s not really that difficult of a decision. The kid shouldn’t play. If the school suspended him, and the proof is there, then he doesn’t play. It doesn’t make a difference who the kid is, because I will not have my players doing any kinds of drugs. Coaches cannot and should not tolerate that kind of behavior.”
Steve smiled because that was what he would have done in the same situation, so he said, “thanks.”
The rest of Coach Fisher’s interview focused on teaching, and Steve asked some questions about teaching history. He also sat through the next two candidates’ interviews and compared their answers, their persona, their aura to Coach Fisher. The other candidates fell short, Steve felt, because no one compared to Coach Fisher.

*****
Steve had lived with his dad's alcoholism for as long as he could remember, and he was twelve when he really started worrying about it. In fact, it was at his cousin Marcia's wedding that he had his first huge emotional outburst over his father's drinking.
It was summer, mid 1990’s, and everyone was dancing to the Fine Young Cannibals and some obnoxious grunge rip-offs. The hall was one of those halls that had a huge moose on the wall, cobwebs strung between its monstrous antlers. Steve sat at a table near the moose and stared at it in fascination, wondering if the hunter who had killed this awesome beast - and he’s assuming the moose was huge because its head was the size of a Geo Prizm - had also lost his life when killing the beast. The instrument of death for the hunter would have been those sharp velvety antlers. Steve would always remember that moose because of the gory scene he envisioned while perched within range of the moose’s deadly antlers at Marcia and Garth's wedding.
Marcia was the daughter of Steve’s Aunt Debbie. Debbie was Steve’s mother’s older sister. For some strange reason, Steve’s maternal grandmother had named all of her children with names that began with D. There was, in order, Debbie, Diane, Darryl, and David. Darryl had just gotten married two years ago, a lifelong bachelor who had finally found his soulmate, and Steve’s dad had gotten royally soused at that wedding too. And then there was Uncle David, who no one was allowed to talk about. He was persona non grata around the family because he had just gotten divorced from his college sweetheart, leaving her with two kids in a trailer near Traverse City when he ran off with a stripper from a club named KittyCats. The stripper’s name was Cheyenne. Similar circumstances surrounded this wedding, and everyone was hoping that the wedding would go off without a hitch.
The problem wasn’t with Marcia, it was with her fiance, Garth. Marcia had graduated from the University of Michigan with a business degree, and she had just enrolled in MBA school at U of M when she met Garth. They had met at a bachelorette party - one of Marcia’s friends from college was getting married and was having a huge party for all of her girlfriends, and Garth was one of the three dancers hired for the party. He had given her his phone number after the evening’s festivities were completed, saying shyly that he had never done this before - which was true. They had started dating around two years ago, and last Xmas, Garth popped the question in his own inimitable fashion - he showed up at her management class in a trench coat and fedora wearing nothing but a G-string underneath. Attached to the G-string was a small jewelry box with her engagement ring. After all of the embarrassment died down (several of her classmates wanted to know if he was available - thinking he was only a delivery guy - strip-o-gram), Marcia had said yes but not before exacting a promise from Garth: he had to give up stripping and get a “real” job within a year. Well, the wedding had arrived, and the only thing that Garth could get that was steady was work as a bouncer at a local Hooters restaurant.
All of this Steve knew because his mom had shared it with him a couple of weeks before the wedding. However, most of the older guests at the wedding weren’t aware of Garth’s past nor would they ever be. Only a few of the inner circle of Mayfields knew the real truth. After hearing this, Steve had wondered about the nature of truth and who was privileged enough to hear it. Sometimes, he thought, it might be better NOT to know the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Throughout the service, Steve looked at Garth and tried to imagine him as a male stripper. His blond hair, down to his shoulders, had recently been cut to an acceptable length, but the tux did little to hide Garth’s sexy build. Damn, Steve thought, I bet if I looked like him, I could get all the chicks. I wouldn’t even know what to do with them clamoring all over my jock like he’s probably got at some of his shows. Girls putting money in your underwear, maybe touching your thing. I got a boner from slow dancing with Jessica Smithers at the 7th grade dance last month, how could I keep from NOT getting a boner then? And if that happened, what happens if they think I’m too small? Am I too small? No one’s ever seen it but me. Steve shifted uncomfortably in his pants because he could feel an erection growing. He tried thinking of other things, reminding himself that he was in church, for God's sake!

Later on in the evening, Steve had overheard his mother arrange for his grandmother to take both he and his sister home, preferably early. The unstated reason why, Steve thought, was because his mom probably wanted to deal with their drunk father alone without two children hanging around to make things more complicated.
I’m not a child anymore, I know what’s going on here, Mom. You don’t have to pretend to hide things from me. God, I hate it when she does that. If I could only drive, I’d be able to take myself and Angela back and not have to worry about anything. Only four more years and I can drive. And when I get my license, I’ll take Ange and we’ll get the hell out of here, away from Dad, away from Mom. Anywhere but here.
Those last comments caused him to stop for a second. Guilt tore through him like an icy winter storm - he couldn’t abandon his mother, even though he thought she was partially responsible for his dad’s drinking. If she had come down harder on him, drawn the line and said, “no more”, like Ty’s mom, then maybe this whole thing would have stopped. Maybe Dad would have stopped trying to drink himself to death.
Steve went into the bathroom at the Elks Hall and sat down in one of the stalls because he didn’t want anyone to see him crying. He buried his face in his hands and cried as quietly as he could. Is it Dad’s fault? All those things that Mrs. Cudahy was saying in Health class about alcoholism, that it’s a disease, that those who have this disease can’t help themselves, that they have no control over it, that they have to keep drinking and drinking. But why can’t he stop? Doesn’t he love us enough to stop? Doesn’t he want to grow old and see me and Ange married with kids of our own? Ty’s dad quit, why can’t mine?
A sudden knock at the stall door snapped him out of his thoughts.
“You o.k. in there?” Steve recognized his father’s voice, and suddenly he was frozen in shock. Steve’s hands started to tremble, his mind racing, and he tried to do the best he could to drop his voice a couple of octaves.
“Yeah, just having a bad day,” Steve responded. He held his breath and closed his eyes for a moment.
“O.K., just wanted to make sure,” his father responded. Steve heard the water at the sink turn on and he felt elated that he had fooled his dad. His hands stopped shaking, his breathing returned to normal, and he was feeling great until he heard his father’s final comments as he left the bathroom.
“When I feel like that, sometimes I end up having a few drinks. Makes me feel better in no time.”
When the bathroom door shut, a new crying jag began, this time with more intensity because, even worse than before, there were many more questions racing through Steve’s head. The worst part about it was that he had no idea what the answers were.
*****

“Dr. Harding? You got a second?”
Steve had noticed Dr. Harding in the hallway about a week after the coaches' interviews and decided to take this opportunity to ask him about the decision making process. As usual, Dr. Harding had on a beige camel hair jacket with maroon pants and a green tie. Steve wondered sometimes if his principal was colorblind.
“Sure, Steve, what can I do for you?"
"How’s the hiring process going?”
“Well, all three of us, Mr. Johnson, Mr. Wingram, and myself, appreciate your help in the decision-making process for our next football coach. In fact, all three of us agreed with your assessment of Coach Fisher, and we’ve decided to hire him as our next football coach and history teacher.”
“Great!” Steve said with a smile. “I know we’ve made the right decision.”
“I do too, Steve. We’ll have a completely different football team out there on Eubank Field come September.”
“One that should know how to win, that’s for sure.”

2003-08-01T15:27:00.000-07:00

Chapter Two - Michigan Football Camp

During school that day, two football players were working out in their physical education class. The larger one, named Tony Sharp, was a returning junior and a starter on the offensive line. He stood about 6’3 and weighed 240 pounds. His blond hair was cut crew-cut short and his skin was still tan from a vacation with his parents to Mexico in February. The other player was a smaller lineman, a sophomore who had started on JV but had the burning desire to start on varsity next season. His brown hair was cut short like his friend’s, but his skin was pasty white which was typical for Michigan in March. His name was Jeff Iaonucci.
"There's one thing I have always wondered, Tony," asked Jeff in between repetitions of thirty pound single arm curls.
"What's that?" Tony replied as he completed a set of single arm curls, each weighing forty pounds. Tony did those just for starters, and eventually he got up to sixty pounds.
"How did you get so big during the off season last year?"
Tony finished his reps and then put the weights back on the shelf. They were in the corner of the weight room by themselves where they could talk. The teacher and two dozen other students were scattered throughout the spacious musty weight room. Paint was flaking off the walls and one of the wall-sized mirrors were cracked and needed to be replaced. The whole room smelled not only of sweat but also of mildew.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I want to get big like you. I mean, you were smacking people all over the place last season. You were a junior and you started on the offensive line after you were just second string on the JV the year before," Jeff replied. "What you did last year was awesome!"
"Thanks.” Tony thought for a moment considering his friend’s request. He looked down at the weights and then decided that it was time to tell Jeff. He had been thinking about telling him for a while now. “You remember that Michigan Football Camp I went to last June?"
"Yeah. Did it help that much?"
"Kinda. But what I learned from one of the players was more important.” Tony picked up another set of 40-pound curls and sat down next to Jeff. “I worked with linemen from all over the state. And the guy I roomed with last summer was Willie Miles. You heard of him?"
"Willie Miles? Wasn't he that huge lineman from Colanger High who went to Michigan? Damn, I think he weighed close to 300 pounds!"
"Yeah, he was a big boy," Tony looked around the room, and seeing that no one was close by, he edged closer to Jeff and whispered, "and he taught me how to get that big."
*****

Last June, Tony was a little scared going into the Michigan football camp having just finished his sophomore year – there were so many upperclassmen who looked like giants – great mountains of muscle and flesh and bone that looked as if they could move mountains of earth and stone. What Tony didn’t notice was that he was the biggest sophomore there. And soon, he would be just as big if not bigger.
His room assignment was chosen at random. He bunked with three other guys, all from other parts of the state of Michigan, and two of them from schools that he had never heard from before. Owosso? Ishpeming? Where in God’s green earth were these towns located? The two boys had used their right hands and shown Tony, approximately, where their town was on their hand. Everyone who’s lived in Michigan has a ready made map at the end of their wrist, and the map/hand became a convenient geography tool in those opening hours of football camp when everyone got to know each other. All three boys knew their other roommate because he had already accepted a scholarship offer from the University of Michigan in May and had been named an All-American lineman as a junior.
His name was Willie Miles and he was a metro Detroit football factory named Colanger High. The year before, his team had won the Division 1 state championship defeating Sterling Heights Stevenson in a thrilling 28-27 contest. But the one big thing of which everyone took notice was the absolutely dominating play of Willie Miles – especially since he was paired up against Stevenson’s All-American defensive lineman, Bruce Caroon. The next day, the newspapers reported on his sensational play, describing him as if he were some new discovery or invention. He made all of the All-everything lists. And he was even featured in Parade All-America. He signed a letter of intent to go to Michigan and was now here to check out the facilities and get a taste first hand at what it was like to be a Michigan football player.
Problem was, Willie wasn’t very bright. And he loved to brag. Tony remembered during camp after a strenuous day’s practice, the stories that Willie would weave about playing against some of the area’s top schools. He sat there in the hot stuffy room that they all shared, the fan humming, straining to cool the room down, but the heat and the humidity were just too much. All the boys sat shirtless, wearing nothing but shorts or boxers and a lot of sweat. It just dripped. Each boy would leave a damp spot wherever he sat down. Tony remembered watching the sweat bead up one of Willie’s huge cystic pimples on his forehead until it would become so large, the sweat would then run down his face. Tony thought to himself that he wanted to pop one of those zits because it seemed to be staring at him like a third eye. It followed him wherever he went in the room. But before he could think about popping the pus out of Willie’s zit, the skinny wide receiver from Ishpeming asked Willie how he got so big.
Willie sat back, chuckled, and said, “well, I work on my uncle’s farm in Oscoda during the summer, and he had me lifting bales and bales of hay, so I naturally just got bigger.” Tony shook his head, because he knew that Willie’s story wasn’t true. He had heard from some of the other players at camp that Willie was a steroid freak. They had pointed to the constellation of pimples, not only on Willie’s face, but also his neck and back as well. Plus, a couple of the boys had played against him during the season, and he was one mean son of a bitch. He even broke a player’s arm once during a game by landing on it – it looked intentional, the boy from Farmington had said.
Later on that evening, after the other two boys had left to go talk with friends and share their psuedo-celebrity status accorded them because of their “celebrity” roommate, Tony finally asked Willie what was on his mind.
“Willie, there’s something I’ve been wondering.”
“Yeah?”
“I can understand the whole bales of hay thing,” Tony said looking Willie in the eye, “but doesn’t there come a point when you reach the limits of what your body can do naturally?” Willie looked at him a little perplexed, wiped his pimply brow, and took a sip of water.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you can only lift so many bales of hay. They don’t get any heavier, so your body will only get so big and toned from lifting those bales of hay…”
“Right, I see what you mean.”
“O.k. So, lifting bales of hay is all I have to do to be like you?” Tony figured a little flattery wouldn’t hurt in this situation. Willie smiled and looked around the room, as if he were checking for an eavesdropper. He got up, closed the door that had been left open in the faint hopes of catching a stray breeze, and looked Tony square in the eyes.
“If I tell you this, you cannot breathe a word of this to anybody. You got it?” Tony nodded, heart leaping in anticipation. “I know a guy, his name is Blair, and he works at PowerMan gym over in Southfield.”
“Hey, that’s right by my house.”
“Cool. So, Blair introduced me to some other ways of getting bigger…” He left it open hoping that he wouldn’t have to tell Tony the details. But Tony wasn’t going to be deterred.
“Like what? Power shakes and drinks? Supplements? Different lifting techniques?” Tony knew the answer but felt like hearing Willie say it himself.
“Well, that was part of it. Let’s just say I got to be this huge with some artificial help.”
“Like what?” Tony saw Willie rolled his eyes at him with a look that wondered how could anybody be so dumb.
“You can’t tell anyone I told you this. Blair would kill me. So you didn’t hear it from me.” Tony nodded and waited. “Have you ever heard of anabolic steroids?”

After that evening, Tony was sworn to secrecy. Willie threatened to pound the shit out of him if he whispered a word to anybody, especially while they were at camp because he didn’t want to lose his scholarship. Willie talked the rest of that evening, probably until close to midnight, about what kinds of steroids there were, how to inject them, how much they cost, and how long of a cycle to take them.
When Willie had had enough of this talk and the roommates had finally returned, everyone went to sleep, all except Tony who lay awake in his squeaky lumpy bed thinking about the ramifications of his new knowledge.
I wonder if I should talk with Blair about getting some of this stuff? It shouldn’t be that expensive, plus I’ve got some money stashed away that Mom doesn’t know about. Man, what I would be able to do if I got my hands on some of that stuff. If Willie is that big, imagine how big I could be. I’m smarter than he is, he’s a frickin’ moron. I’m more dedicated than he is – he said he hadn’t lifted weights in two months since signing that letter of intent with U of M. Plus, I could finally fulfill my dream…
His memories flashed back to those Sundays with his father watching football. One particular Sunday, the Lions were losing again, and Tony wished that he could do something to make these games easier, more enjoyable, and less frustrating to watch.
“Dad, if this is so upsetting, why do you keep watching the Lions all the time?” His dad looked at him as if he had just noticed that his son had turned into a two headed blue alien that had just been transported here from the planet Clueless.
“Because I love the Lions, Tony,” he shrugged his shoulders and readjusted himself. “Because I grew up with them, watching them with my dad back when they were winning football games, winning championships back in the 50’s.”
“Why aren’t they winning now?” His father let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark.
“Well, where do you want me to start? The coach is an idiot, you have the best running back in football and you take him out in goal line situations, the owner is also an idiot…I could go on and on.”
Tony let that sink in for a few minutes and then turned back to his dad, “what if I played on the Lions? Would you enjoy the game more?”
His father looked at him with probably the most tender look Tony ever remembered seeing, a look that still brings tears to Tony today, and smiled a warm smile. “Sure, Tony, I’d love that. I would go to see every game you ever played in.”
But he hadn’t come to see every game that Tony ever played in. His dad left when Tony was ten, moved farther up north, at least two hours away in Saginaw. Tony constantly invited him to his middle school football games, and then his freshman football games, but he never came. By the time Tony was a sophomore, his heart had hardened a little so he stopped sending the schedule to his father with a letter asking, pleading for him to come to a football game. But every once in a while during his sophomore year, when he stood on the sidelines during a break in the action, he would look at the Western bleachers hoping just a little but not expecting too much to see his father amongst the fans in green and gold. But he was never there.
And somewhere burning deep inside Tony was that thought, maybe if I was good enough, maybe he would come to see me. Maybe he’s waiting to come see me in college. I’ll have to be big enough to play in college, get noticed by the scouts, grab some pub in the newspapers, and then he will finally come.
Back in his lumpy bed in the overheated room in front of the wheezing fan, when no one was looking, he wiped the tears from his eyes, rolled over, and went to sleep.
*****

Steve sat with his friends in the cafeteria during 2nd lunch laughing at one of his friends doing an Eric Cartman imitation from last night's episode of South Park when Ty, his best friend, arrived at the table holding a lime-green poster in his hand. Ty was tall and gawky, almost 6'4, but he carried himself as if he were better than a back up quarterback.
"Steve! Check this out!"
"What's that?" Steve replied as he finished a ham sandwich.
"A new football coach, man. What does it look like?"
A couple other football players at the table stood up and also checked out the poster. The interest in the upcoming football season, though months away, was already starting to grow.
"He’s been an assistant at Braddock,” Steve stated. “They’ve won three state championships and made the playoffs seven times over the past ten years. It’ll be a huge change for everyone around here next year.”
“How do you know so much about him?” Ty asked.
“Dr. Harding asked me to be on the hiring committee since I was the only returning captain. He was easily the best candidate for the job. The other two guys were coaches from the west side of the state and didn’t have much experience.”
“Why would the head coach of Braddock want to leave that school and come here?”
“He’s not the head coach,” Steve replied, “he’s the varsity assistant and defensive coordinator. He’s wanted to be a head coach for years, and this will be his first opportunity.”
"When's the meeting?” another player asked looking at the poster. “Good, right before Spring Break. Hopefully most of us will still be around."
"Yeah, everyone except Darnell," Steve said chagrined. The players there all remembered the incident during half time against Eastern last season and shook their heads. “He had so much potential. Hell, he beat out Ty for the starting QB job. Anybody hear how Darnell’s doing down in Tennessee?”
“He likes it so far,” Thomas Hill replied. He was a skinny dark-skinned wide receiver who acted like the second captain on the football team. “He’s staying with his dad and has already talked with the head coach down there. They’re looking for him to challenge for the starting spot in the fall.”
“Too bad he wasn’t here. With the new coach and a new offense, we could light up the OAA this year,” another player stated.
"Thanks for your vote of confidence, ya jackass," Ty grumbled. "I'm the only quarterback around here, and I'll do great in the new system." With that said, he picked up his bag and stormed out of the cafeteria. Steve shook his head watching his best friend leave in a funk.
“Ty ain’t bad, Steve," Thomas said. "Don’t forget that. His dad played at Purdue. And he helped us win when we were freshmen.”
“I know, Thomas. I sure hope Coach Fisher can kick some sense into him and make him into a real QB.”
"He’d better, Steve, because I am so tired of losing," Thomas replied.
“Me too, Thomas. Me too.”

2003-08-01T15:20:00.000-07:00

Chapter Three – First Impressions

Before they could get away for Spring Break, thirty-five football players gathered after school in Room 116 A for their first meeting with Coach Fisher.
At the front of the room was the coach, a tall man with broad shoulders. He was wearing green shorts and a white T-shirt, white socks and black shoes, with a whistle around his neck. He waited until the clock hit 2:45, the time written on the lime-green posters scattered around the school, the time announced by the students on the daily TV announcements. At 2:45, he waited a beat, and then began.
"My name is Coach Fisher. You can call me Coach, Fish, or Coach Fisher. I don't care. But one thing that we will call ourselves by this time next year are winners." He paused a second, and then continued. "I know the history of your football team here at Western High School. In the past twenty or so years, it has been lousy." He saw heads nodding in agreement. Steve dropped in shame. "The last time this school has had a winning season was 1975. 1975! None of you were even born then.
"That losing tradition is about to change. I come from an assistant's job at Braddock where I had worked for the last ten years. Do you know how many state championships Braddock has won in the last ten years?"
"Three," said Thomas Hill who sat in the front row. "The last one was last year when they smoked Colanger High 54-12, man. I was there. I watched that game at the Dome."
"Thank you, and your name is?"
"Thomas Hill, Coach."
"Thank you, Thomas. Right. Three championships in ten years. And the other seven seasons were all winning seasons, the worst of which was 6-3." Snickers and snorts went through the crowd. Thomas Hill shook his head and laughed while Steve said, "Hell, we're lucky if we get three."
"Like I said, things will change around here starting today. Things will have to change if we are ever going to have a winning sea --"
Two boys wearing denim jackets noisily entered the room. All heads turned to look, but before they could sit down, Coach Fisher spoke up.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah," said one of the boys who had long dark hair hanging in his eyes. He flipped it back with a hand in a gesture that seemed commonplace. "We're here for the football meeting."
"Oh. But it's already started. You're late, and my football players arrive on time. You're obviously not going to be part of this team. So, please, close the door when the two of you leave." Fisher gestured towards the door while the two boys started at him incredulously. The one with the long hair snorted and said, "whatever", and left. The other boy reluctantly followed.
Fisher continued like nothing had ever happened, but the boys sat in a stunned silence never having seen anything like that before.
"Boys, I expect you to be here on time and prepared. That's the way I teach my classes, that's the way I coach my football teams. Whenever there is a meeting and you are late, your playing time will be diminished. If you're late for a meeting and you have the privilege to be a starter, someone else will be starting the next game in your place.
"Don't underestimate my seriousness on this or any other matter where this football team is concerned. I have learned a lot from some great coaches over my ten years of coaching, but I have seen many ways NOT to run a program either. Here at Western, we will do things the right way. Any questions?"
Thomas raised his hand.
"You're gonna teach here too?"
*****

The last of the boys finally left 116 A after having made an appointment to come in after school during the spring and talk with Fisher about his role on the team. All of the boys left with copies of Coach Fisher's rules, weight lifting times, and a schedule of team building events over the summer. Fisher shut his file folders, breathed a sigh of relief, and headed for the door.
Out in the hall was the second boy who had arrived late, the one who hadn't said anything. He sat outside in the hall during the whole meeting, dismissing his other friend and former teammate, and looked up when Coach Fisher emerged from the classroom.
"Coach? I am so sorry about being late. It will never happen again."
"What's your name, son?"
"Sam. Sam Ronin, Coach. I am normally not like this, but Coach Stevens wasn't really a stickler for….."
"No excuses, Sam. And this is not Coach Stevens's program anymore. This is mine. You'll need to follow my rules if you want to be on my team."
"Yes, sir."
Fisher handed him the same packet he handed out to the other thirty-five football players and said, "I'll expect to see you in the weight room the rest of the spring if you’re not playing a spring sport. The first time you come in, make an appointment to see me so we can sit down and talk. Ok?"
Sam nodded and a smile sprang from his face. "Thank you, Coach. Thank you very much. Gosh, I thought you were serious about not being on the team anymore."
"I am serious, Sam. If you're late again, you're off the team." Fisher started walking up the hall and called behind him, "see you during the summer."
*****

"Is he serious?" Ty shouted indignantly. "You've got to be kidding about these rules, Steve."
Steve looked at his neighbor with a quizzical look after he had handed Ty the packet of rules and schedules that Fisher had given every player who had shown up at the meeting. Steve took a sip of his soda as Ty read from the list and snorted sporadically, presumably at the rules.
They sat on Ty's front porch waiting for some friends to show up. The crickets chirped in the twilight and mosquitoes, Michigan's state bird, were out in force. Only the citronella candle flickering in the breeze kept Ty and Steve from venturing inside to escape the feeding frenzy.
"Why didn’t you go to the meeting?" Steve asked. "You wanna be the Man, but this guy means business. He's no Stevens, that's for damn sure."
"No earrings? Dress in a shirt and tie on game days in school? Everybody at home Thursday nights before the game by 9 p.m.? Who does this guy think he is? My mother?"
"Give it a break, Ty, seriously. We got off easy with Stevens for the last two years, and this guy has to come in like gang busters or everyone will think it's business as usual."
"This is Communism, man! I will not bow to the almighty coach from Braddock. This is bull!"
"This guy has won before, Ty. You should see the rings on his hand. You would have seen them if you'd been there."
"Oh, now you're giving it to me, too?"
"Chill out, man. All I'm saying is that this guy knows how to win and I am tired of losing. Real tired. I can't do another 3-6 my senior year. I don't wanna go out like that. And I know a few other seniors who feel like I do."
A Lincoln Navigator cruised slowly by pumping a really loud Method Man rap, and Ty looked at it disappointedly as it went farther down the street. "Damn, when are those guys gonna get here? I am thirsty."
"You are always thirsty. That's your problem." With that last comment, Steve drained his soda and put the can aside.
A green Eddie Bauer Explorer quickly turned the corner down the street, tires squealing in protest, and came to an abrupt halt in the driveway. A massive kid with a crew cut, broad across the chest, shrugged out of the passenger seat carrying a case of beer.
"Ty, my man! The beverages have arrived and it's party time!" he said holding up the case. His biceps bulged in the blue polo shirt and his worn tan face smiled brightly. In his other hand, he held a beer.
"Bo, it's looks like you've started without me," Ty said pointing to the beer in Bo's hand. "Toss me one." A beer can sailed through the air and Ty caught it with ease.
"Steve, you want one?" Bo asked as he headed toward the side door.
"No thanks, man." Steve shook his head and looked away, down the street, towards something unseen, towards sometime in the future when he wouldn't feel ashamed for not drinking with his friends.
"Don't be too long, girls, we've got some serious partying to do," Bo shouted as he and the driver headed into the house. Inside, a TV turned on loudly and Steve and Ty could hear the laughter of the two boys inside.
"You comin' in?" Ty asked.
"No, I think I'll pass tonight. I've gotta long day ahead of me tomorrow. We're redoing the McCabe's lawn."
"Man, you should quit that lawn service gig you got," Ty said. "They work you too damn hard for peanuts."
Steve laughed and struck a sly smile, "we can't all be independently wealthy like you, my brother."
*****

Steve slipped into the house because he had noticed that his dad's car was parked askew in the driveway. One tire was up on the base of the portable basketball net and the window was still rolled down. Inside, next to the driver seat was an empty pint of bourbon.
Dammit, I don't wanna go through this crap tonight. I just wanna go to bed, Steve thought as he quietly put the keys down on the kitchen counter and searched for the keys for the car. He quietly found them, went back to the car, and parked it in the garage away from inquiring eyes. Inside, he shucked off his tennis shoes onto the mat by the door.
"Steve? Izzzz that you?"
A silent curse escaped Steve's lips and he closed his eyes in a prayer. Please God, just let me go to bed. He cleared his throat and replied weakly, "yeah, it's me, Dad."
"Come 'ere fur a sec, all right?"
Steve walked into the dimly lit living room where his father lay sprawled on the couch, tie undone, jacket still on but shirt untucked and very wrinkled. His father's five o'clock shadow was in full effect and a stench assaulted Steve's nostrils.
"Dammit, Dad, did you piss your pants again?" Steve said pulling him up to a sitting position.
"Yes I did, and don't talk to me tha' way. I'm still your father. Had trouble standin' up when I tried to go to the bat'room a little while ago but den I fell down and passed out right here." He patted the couch as if it was a long lost friend.
“Let's get you to the bathroom," Steve grumbled and jerked him up roughly off the couch and his father's head lolled on his neck like a doll’s. Suddenly his father looked pale and his eyes rolled back into his head.
"I think I'm gonna puke!" he yelled loudly and raced for the bathroom. On the way, he bumped into the wall, slammed the bathroom door open, heard Steve's younger sister yell, "DAD!", and that was followed by a retching sound. Steve's sister, Angela, shot out of the bathroom clutching a teen magazine and shot Steve a look of disgust.
"He's at it again, Steve," Angela said.
"What's new?" Steve said dejectedly.
"What are we gonna do with all of that mess?"
"I don't know. We'll have to get it cleaned up, I guess."
"Eeewww, gross. He is so gross right now." With that, Angela went to their parents' bedroom and knocked on the door. "Mom!? Dad's thrown up again."
"Don't wake her up. Let's just do it ourselves. Come on, Angie."
"I can't take this anymore, Steve. I just can't!"
Their mother emerged from the bedroom, hair frazzled and a grey withdrawn look on her face. "What happened, Angela?"
"Dad threw up all over the sink again in the bathroom," she replied pointing to the bathroom. There was a weak cry from the bathroom, "I'm ok. I'll clean up, just gimme a minute." Angela rolled her eyes and stormed off to her room upstairs.
"Steve, go to bed. You've got a long day tomorrow. I can take care of this," his mother stated.
"It's ok, Mom. You've got a long day too. I can help."
"No, Steve. Go to bed!" This time was much more forceful and said in the tone that told Steve his mom meant serious business. That tone was usually reserved for times like these. Steve headed to his room in the basement and heard a loud thwack followed by the slamming door. Then he heard his mother shout:
"Oh God, Joseph, look at you. Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you do this to us?"
*****

Steve was on the phone a couple of minutes after Angie had hung up, and it was near midnight. He didn't worry about the phone ringing because it was in Rachel's bedroom and it wouldn't wake up her parents. She usually turned the ringer off and let the machine catch the call.
Rachel Brown was Steve's girlfriend, a cute little junior who was a three-sport jock. She had played basketball, volleyball, and softball for the past three years, and she always played outside of herself. She would play like a 6 footer on the basketball court at Western High even though she was only 5'4, throwing her body all over the place, sticking her nose into scrums, blond ponytail swinging around her head as she looked for someone to pass to as she ran the point. For the past several years, she and Steve had been just friends, but lately their friendship had turned into something deeper, something more meaningful. As the difficulties in his home grew more troublesome, Steve looked for someone in which he could confide. Last spring, when Steve asked Rachel to go to prom with him, he shared his story with her for the first time.
"Are you sure you want me?" Rachel had said that night after a softball game. Steve had watched her pitch against Troy High and he stayed after to ask her to go to prom. "I hear Jessica Smithers has a huge crush on you and has been waiting to hear you say the magic words."
"I'm sure that I want to go with you," Steve replied, hands thrust deep in his pockets, "but I am scared about what it will do to our friendship. I don't wanna screw this up."
"We won't screw it up. We'll just go as friends. Deal?"
"Deal." He smiled and let out a sigh of relief. "You don't know how long I've thought about asking you out for prom. I must have spent weeks thinking about how to do it, when to ask you, all that stuff."
She took his hand in hers and squeezed. "You only spent weeks thinking about it? Heck, I'd figured you'd been plotting this since we first met in middle school."
Steve looked at the twinkle in her eye, the sly smile, felt the assurance of her hand, and suddenly fell head over heels in love with her. Or maybe this was the first time that he truly recognized the feelings that he had for her. They’d always been there, but at that moment, he recognized those feelings for what they were. "I had been thinking about it ever since. I just never told ya."
The night after prom was over, while everyone else found hotels or houses to party at, they sat on her porch looking at the digital images on her camera that they had taken during the course of the night. The evening was cool, a slight breeze was making goosebumps appear on her arms, so Steve offered his coat. She snuggled into it, smelling his cologne, sighing, thinking of the great time that they had had that night. No one was surprised to see the two of them together at prom, even though Jessica Smithers was extremely jealous and threw a couple of nasty looks Rachel's way. Steve put his arm around her and they sat in silence for a while. Then she looked up at him gazing into his eyes and then kissed him.
"I could get used to that," she said after the kiss was over.
"Thanks," Steve sheepishly replied. "What happened to the 'just friends' thing?"
"Friends can kiss each other, can't they?"
"Sure they can," he replied, hoping against hope that the kiss was a sign that she wanted to be more than just friends. "Can we try it again?"
Later that evening, Steve started getting withdrawn when they started talking about families. "Can we change the subject?" Steve had asked.
"Why? What's wrong?"
"I just don't…. don't want to ruin the evening talking about my folks."
"Why? Are they being a pain?" His father's alcoholism had been a well-hidden secret for many years and not too many people knew about it. When thinking about his dad’s problem, Steve felt shame that he had never felt before, almost as if it were his problem, not his father's. But, here he was, sitting on a porch talking with his best friend, he thought, if I can't talk about it with Rachel, who can I talk with?
"No, not both of them, just my dad," he replied, choking on some of the next words, probably because he had never verbalized them before. "My dad's an alcoholic."
Since that night, Steve and Rachel had grown closer as friends, and Rachel had always been there for him since. That was the usual reason why he would call her at such a late hour.
"Rachel, this is me. We had our first meeting with Coach Fisher after school today and he's all business just like I thought he would be. He's such a change from Coach Stevens. I think we'll do all right next year." Then his voice got less excited, less animated. "Dad came home drunk again. Pissed his pants, threw up all over the john. I don't know how much more of this I can take--"
"Hi, honey. I thought it was Lori again so I didn't pick up right away. What's going on?" Steve repeated what he had just said into her answering machine. "I'm sorry. Do you wanna come over and talk?"
"I'd love to, but I've got a huge day tomorrow. We're re-landscaping the entire yard at the McCabe's. Mrs. McCabe is such a picky crab. The sooner we're outta there, the better."
"O.K. But don't worry about your dad. You only have one more year of high school and then you can go away to college."
"I know, I know. Hey, how'd your visit at Central go today?"
"Cool. The coach really likes me and my jump shot. She wants to talk with Mom and Dad tomorrow. Can you make dinner around six?"
"I should be able to."
"No problem with your parents?"
"There's no problem. Mom's used to eating dinners alone."