Wyatt and I left the house that morning around 7:30 and swung by to pick up Liam. We hit the Blvd by eight and turned into the lot at Jesuit around eight-fifteen. The three of us stepped out of the wagon and into the crowd by the gym. It was a mix of familiar faces from middle school and kids I’d never seen before pressed in around us, all of them buzzing like they were waiting for a concert instead of orientation.
Wyatt looked up at me and shook his head sarcastically. “Jeez, did you grow more overnight?”
Liam snorted, clutching his chest in fits of laughter. “He’s blocking out the sun! I can’t see the building! Oh, help me!!!”
“Dude….,” I remarked. “Is everyone staring?”
“They are,” Wyatt answered. “Because you look like you got held back for six years.”
I tried to laugh, but he wasn’t wrong. I could see over the entire student body drifting past us. It was unnerving; it felt like someone had raised the camera angle on my life.
I felt disoriented.
I hadn’t been around this many people all summer.
As we got through the door, a girl in black glasses and a ponytail stumbled as she tried to squeeze through the crowd. She glanced up at me, did a double-take, and nearly lost her footing again. Her eyes flicked from my face to my shoulders like she was recalibrating reality. She pushed her glasses up as her cheeks went pink, and she smiled before fading into the crowd.
“Who was that?” I thought, trying to find her face.
Wyatt watched her go. “See? You’re a landmark now.”
Liam elbowed me. “On the bright side, Father Jack’s gonna assume you’re a senior and skip yelling at us for being late.”
Wyatt nodded. “Come on. Use your powers for good.”
I shook my head, thinking about the girl, but the corner of my mouth pulled up. “Powers?. I’m just tall.”
“Same thing,” Wyatt insisted. “Welcome to High School. Try not to step on anybody, but dude, clear us a path.”
Coach Smith tapped me on the shoulder as we waited. “Son! What did they put in your cereal over the summer? Bigun?” he whistled in a thick Alabama accent, slurred by chewing tobacco and southern charm. He looked at me and tipped his ball cap up out of his eyes. Smith epitomized a high school football coach. He sported a classic look: a white T-shirt, navy blue polyester shorts, and knee-high ringed socks.
“You ain’t Amish, are ya?” he asked.
Nervously, I responded. “No, Sir.”
"Hell’s bells, Bigun! Find me after orientation. I’ve got a spot for you on the line," Coach Smith said, clapping me on the shoulder with a booming laugh before jogging off to catch up with some players.
“Football?” I muttered, glancing at Liam as he cracked a quick joke.
“Hmm? Football. Okay,” I thought, still processing it all as I picked up my schedule from Father Jack. The usual suspects: Latin I, Algebra I, Theology of Catholicism, Biology… and weight training. Heck yeah, weight training.
Liam and I strolled through the halls of the upperclassmen building. The old lockers gave off a familiar metallic tang, mixed with the faint, lingering scent of the teachers’ lounge smoke drifting from the end of the corridor.
“Big un!” Coach Smith yelped as I walked into the weight room. Wyatt was on the bench, repping 185, and smiled as I dropped my head instinctively to come in the door of the weight room.
“I got you for weight training. Coach.” I stammered as I pointed to my schedule. The weight room was the old locker room for the varsity football team and had the smell of metal, sweat, and athletic equipment. The wall by the door had the bench press records from 205 pounds to 405 pounds.
“Hot Damn! Son.” Coach squealed as he took in the prospect of a semester of his influence and coercion. Coach leaned up from spotting Wyatt on the bench and put his arm around me, and walked me into the training room. I sat down in an old, brown, metal desk chair that stuck to my arms in the August Florida heat.
“I’m not trying to blow smoke up your ass, but son!” his excitement grew. “You do realize you have the potential if we get you in some pads this fall.” Coach Smith smiled from ear to ear as he sat at the table. He shuffled papers and dug out his release forms and health check slips for fall football from the file cabinet behind his desk.
“Wyatt here, says you're a great guy and team player.” Coach motioned as Wyatt stood at the door, arms folded, and nodded in agreement.
“ So what do you say?” He left the question in the room, sitting lightly amongst the footballs, old jerseys, and musty pads.
“Sure,” was all I said.
“Hot damn!” Coach joyously replied as he handed me the waiver packet and then clapped his hand on my shoulder.
“Have you ever benched?” Wyatt asked.
Slightly disoriented, I answered.” No, what is it?”
Wyatt and Coach Smith laughed as they walked me into the weight room and then had me give it a shot after a quick tutorial. With a bit of shaking, I benched 185. Coach Smith huffed a smile of approval.
“Bull shit! You ain’t never benched before?” He cackled as he racked up 205 on the bench.
“How do you feel?” Wyatt asked me as he went to spot me on the bench.
“ I feel,” pausing for a minute. “Good,” I added as I swung my arms, loosening up for the excursion.
“Come on, Big’un, let’s see if you got it?” Smith declared as I lay down on the bench. The room was heavy as five more players came in to observe the test.
I unracked the weight, my arms screamed from the exertion as I lowered the bar and the 45-pound plates to my chest. Quickly, I exhaled and pushed the weight back up, shaking and trembling as I put the bar back on the rack. The room exploded in cheers.
Claps filled the room, and hands fell on my shoulders as Coach Smith screamed in congratulations and tossed me a 205 Jesuit Catholic bench press shirt.
“Welcome to the team! Son.” He shouted. I’ll never forget Wyatt’s face after that. I couldn’t pin it down, and he never admitted it, but it all felt like a setup. A setup I didn't mind. He knew I needed a tribe, and he was going to get me one whether I wanted it or not.