It was the Wednesday of the first full week of school at Jesuit Catholic, and it was the first day of pads for football. The team had one week before the Mission Catholic Jamboree in St. Pete, and I was pumped. Wyatt and I slapped each other's shoulder pads as we listened to Metallica in the weight room, waiting for practice to start, when Tim came in. His douche level turned up to one thousand.
“Hey, Dowling!” he hollered over the music. “I heard you got a thing for Four Eyes Williams.” Typical Tim.
Wyatt caught my look as I turned towards Tim.
“Fuck You, Man!” I muttered as I shook my head.
“Yeah. Well, I’ll try to bang her like I banged your sister.” Dinforth laughed. He pulled his helmet on and jogged out to the field for running back practice.
“Hey, dude.” Wyatt snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You good? He’s just an asshole. He’s trying to get under your skin.”
I nodded my head, but didn’t let it go. I was quiet as I trotted to the field for practice. Tim was laughing and joking with the quarterback when the coach called me over.
“Bigun! I want you to learn both sides of the ball.” Coach Smith barked behind his lip full of beech nut. “You down for that?” he questioned. We lined up, and I took the Defensive Tackle position on the right side.
The whistle blew, and I got smoked by a tight end. Frustrated, I got up, picking the grass from my helmet as Tim laughed from the huddle.
Bigun! Get your ass over here.” Coach Smith barked as I jogged to his spot.
“Look, I want you to learn both sides of the ball. Don’t let those seniors mess with you.” Coach pleaded as he slapped my helmet. “Get it together. Now go put somebody on their ass,” he barked in assurance.
I lined up in the defensive tackle position again, and this time, Tim was on my side. I saw red as all the bullshit he had spewed stacked on top of me. I pushed it back and concentrated on his number. I thought about my Mom, my Dad, and Tim Dinforth’s laugh.
The whistle blew, and I slammed the offensive lineman aside. Tim was my target, and I didn’t care what got in my way.
Tim jooked me as I dropped my shoulder, catching his waist, spinning him in the air, landing him on his back, the wind knocked out of him as the whistles blew. It was a dirt hit, but it proved my point.
Tim just lay there with a blank expression on his face. The ball was beside him as the coach ran over.
“Damn it, Bigun!” Coach said. “Hit him, don’t kill’em,” he barked as he slid to Tim’s side.
I stood by as Tim sat up, coughing. I helped him walk to the sidelines. A wave of guilt swept over me as I immediately felt bad about it after the adrenaline wore off.
“Dowling. You sit with him. Make sure he doesn’t pass out.” Coach spoke as he checked Tim’s pupil reaction. “You’re back in the next play. I’m lining you up at defensive end,” he said as he trotted back off the field.
“Tim…Tim,” I sputtered. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Tim yelled between breaths. “I knew you had it in you… You can be a real threat. I’m just here.” His voice filled with an unexpected rawness. “This is my last season. The only reason I’m here is so my dad doesn’t take my Beemer.” Tim just looked ahead, sucking wind. I just nodded, not comfortable with Tim's sudden change. Tim clapped my back. “God Damn we are going to destroy Mission Catholic this year.”
We were laughing before the next play when Coach Smith put me at defensive end.