1st and 10
“And joining the field now is the Memphis Howlers’ offense, which has been simply electric so far this season, thanks to the talents of their rising star Evan Crawford, who leads all quarterbacks so far in yards, completion, and passing touchdowns. Undefeated through the last five games, this team has clearly made a name for themselves. That being said, and as you all tuning in today should know, there’s another juggernaut in the AFC West looking to prove themselves in this rivalry game today, and that is the immovable object of the St. Louis Tomahawk’s defense, led by the punisher himself, Gregory McBain. Winning defensive player of the year last season, and leading his defense to less than fourteen points a game so far, St. Louis has also managed to stay undefeated. The star edge rusher is as hard hitting as they get, leading the league in sacks. A match between these two is always a spectacle, especially with both looking to become the favorite in the AFC this season.”
I fucking hate these guys. I don’t even know why. Nobody alive remembers at least. It’s my job to hate them. It makes me play better. Stronger. Six years in the league and these are still the games I get most fired up over. The games I live for.
I crouch down and ready myself at the left. We’re running Tampa 2. Ready for anything. One deep breath, and my muscles are primed. My hands grip into the turf, my foot hits that sweet spot where the cleat digs in perfectly and stops so I can push off. I get my eyes on the prey. The goal. The prize. Open this drive with a sack. Crawford starts his snap count. I tune out all the noise. All the bullshit he’s about to spew. None of it matters. All that matters is what happens when that ball hits his hands.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He’s taking his time on this one.
Five.
Six.
Ball snaps.
Immediate hand off to the running back. Lineman blocks me. I rotate, spinning off him. Where’s the ball? Turf sprays up from behind the ballcarrier’s cleats. I rotate back, trying to snag a leg. He jukes left. My face hits the dirt, and I hear a whistle. I swing my head up, and he’s down not far past me. One of our blockers is celebrating.
5 yard gain.
***
A pair of broad shoulders burst through the locker room door. Gregory McBain explodes into the center of the room, tearing his jersey and pads clean off, and throwing them into the corner of the rounded space. They clatter, sending a plasticky echo bouncing off every single curved wall. His chest rises and falls in rhythmic mania, chugging like a steam engine. His eyes twitch back and forth.
Training room.
He barrels out of the room, voices reaching in from outside in the hallway. Like a perfect machine his body carries him through fluorescent-lit hallways and corridors, passing black and red paint lining every single cement brick. McBain moves with precision, like a heat seeking missile designed for one destination.
The doors to the training facility fly open. The deafening thudding of McBain’s heart begins to die down. He breathes for the first time. The training facility is massive, with every single piece of gym equipment imaginable, all perfectly matching the St. Louis Tomahawks black and red color scheme. Exercise bikes, benches, cables, you name it. McBain begins to walk forward, but stumbles. Gregory McBain doesn’t stumble. He tramples. His perfect mechanical musculature begins to buckle under the weight of the moment and falls to the ground, collapsing in a pose that could only be described as a silent prayer to an absent god. Flooded with a foreign barrage of emotions, he pounds his fists on the ground, before rotating to his rear, and sitting like a child. Raising his hands, he looks forward at the white palms, flecked with a smattering of red blood.
***
2nd and 5
“A successful run comes from the Memphis offense as Teddy Jordan celebrates his five yard gain. The squads line back up for the second down.”
It’s bigger than just a rivalry game. This is the role I was born into. The job I was chosen to complete. I come here every Sunday to do one thing, and that’s to show no mercy. Every muscle fiber, every drop of sweat, every pint of blood in my body is engineered to attack. This time I’m lined up on the right side. The read from the team is a play action pass. Close enough to run so Crawford will fake the handoff. He loves to do that shit.
I feel the perfect stretch in my calf as I crouch down. One breath, and I focus my mind. I lock in and focus on Crawford. Our eyes meet for a moment, and he flashes me a grin. I grip the grass tighter. The war flag has been raised. I’m going to annihilate this little fuck.
Words fly from his mouth.
I feel a light breeze on my face.
I grind my teeth together.
Ball snaps.
Running back runs a drag route across the field. I spot the fake handoff. They double team me this time. Break right, shed the blocker. Other guy falls back to cover. Bullet pass from the quarterback. Huh? Momentary confusion as I look around, until I spy the ball as it meets the tight end at the other side of the field. One of our guys makes the tackle. I pull away from the blocker, and look back at Crawford. He’s pissed off. Swearing under his breath. I think he’s talking about me.
1 yard gain.
***
As McBain shifts his weight, the thin lining of paper on the doctor’s office table crinkles and folds into uncomfortable shapes. Annoyed, he tears it slightly to sit normally. The room is cramped. Uncomfortable. The clinical walls close in and judge. Nothing good happens here.
“You can’t keep playing like this, Gregory,” Dr. Haden says, almost sounding like a concerned parent.
“This is my game, doc. That’s who I am and it’s what I get paid to do,” McBain bites back.
“Look, you’re lucky to not be concussed after last game, especially with your history. That last concussion was no joke.”
“Yeah. I’m lucky. So I’m good.”
Haden massages the bridge of his nose.
“Gregory,” he begins, “The likelihood you’re suffering from some level of CTE is pretty high. You play like a rhinoceros out there. Your coaches and staff have reported a decline in your rationality and cognitive skills. Now it can stay mild, or you can keep injuring yourself. You have to play safer.”
McBain stares back, mentally thrashing the doctor.
“Does playing soft win championships? Does playing soft win me defensive player of the year? When you watch Sunday game day, do you like to watch soft players? This is who I am,” McBain spits at Haden.
“I don’t want you to end up sidelined, or worse. You’re destroying yourself,” Haden replies.
McBain stands, now towering over Dr. Haden. He pushes past him towards the door before stopping and turning over his shoulder.
“Watch the game this Sunday against Memphis,” McBain says, with a glaring smile.
“Greg—”
“I’m going to fuck them up, and everyone is gonna love it.”
***
3rd and 4
“The Howlers are looking to put together a solid opening drive and push past the brutal St. Louis defense. It’s third and four, I think we all know what’s gonna go down here.”
They gotta go for a deeper pass on this one, so we’re playing back. Spreading out. I’m set up a bit wider to the right. We’re running a cover three, so I’m covering the receivers this time. Crawford won’t expect that. I swear to god he’s taunting me. I can feel it. The fucker can’t wipe that stupid grin off his face before the snap count. I think I might’ve seen him point. Nearly rung coach out for putting me on the zone. I want to break him.
I set myself and get ready. I have so many thoughts. Hit like a truck. Maim. Torture. Slam them on the ground and listen to the whole stadium lose their goddamn minds. I focus up. Across the field I stare at Crawford. I begin my mental count.
One.
Two.
Four.
Five.
Snap.
The play unfolds. One of the wide receivers charges up toward me and I can tell it’s gonna be him. He cuts left just past me and I watch the ball bullet right to him. I steady my leg and leap out. I feel the impact of my skull ringing into the inside of my helmet as I slam into his ribcage. I fall down with him, driving his body into the hard turf below. There’s a slight cushion as his diaphragm compresses, shoving all of the air out of his throat in a sudden pop. I stand up and flex in his face. My ears ring. I’m his boss.
Just short of the first down. I own these guys. The receiver is slow to get up, but eventually stands. Knocked all the wind out of his sorry ass. The crowd roars. I feel like a warrior. I turn to Crawford, staring across the line of scrimmage. I raise my arm, and make a finger gun right at him, slowly lowering my thumb.
All done for you.
2 yard gain.
***
“Thanks for your time Gregory, first question, how are you feeling about the Tomahawks’ defense today?”
The whole stadium surrounds McBain as he stands on the sidelines. He can see his face reflected on the massive jumbotron above. He turns to the reporter.
“A whole lotta pain,” he cockily replies.
The reporter laughs. Thousands of people stare down, waiting, trembling for the next words.
“And what message do you have for the fans out here today to support you at home?”
“I’m gonna give you what you want,” McBain smiles.
The crowd roars even louder.
“That’s great, that’s great. About this game, obviously the bad blood between the Tomahawks and the Howlers goes way back; how does that change your game and the way you play against this team?”
Blood pumps hard in the back of McBain’s skull. Thousands murmur and wait. Craving the call to war.
“I’m gonna see how bad they want to play Football.”
Roaring. The discordant screams of the crowd merge and transmute into one single phrase.
Puh-nih-sher!
PUH-NIH-SHER!
PUH-NIH-SHER!
“Lastly, what do you have to say about the narrative of good versus evil in this game? Obviously Crawford is known for his positive image; do you embrace being the bad guy?” The reporter asks.
McBain smiles with clear intent. His fist clenches tighter around his helmet.
“I embrace being the better player,” he answers.
“Thanks Gregory.”
McBain jogs off away from the reporter. The crowd surrounds everything, begging for the bloodsport. Somewhere off in the distance, Evan Crawford turns to his teammate.
“That guy is fucking nuts.”
***
4th and 2
“I can’t believe it! What a statement of disrespect to the St. Louis defense! They’re going for it on fourth and two, on the first drive! This has already been such a spectacle, will Crawford be able to expose this defense? Or will they show up like they always have?”
What the fuck. I don’t know what stupid stunt this is but it’s not going to work. We’re running a blitz. Full rush to the quarterback. No mercy. Collapse the O line, blow up the play, and break them. I cock my head over across the line of scrimmage as I jog to set up.
Crawford is standing there, looking right at me. That shit eating grin is there again. I want to pound his fucking skull in. What is he doing?
Crawford raises his finger in the shape of a gun, and pulls the thumb down right at my face.
I want to hurt him.
I crouch.
Count.
Maim.
Tear.
Attack.
Shatter.
Destroy.
Snap.
The play collapses. I rush as hard as I fucking can. Two blockers immediately rush into my face, and filled with the strength of a bull I cast them aside. I begin to run. I see Crawford getting closer and closer as I hurtle towards him. I’m a comet. A bulldozer. A destroyer. I lock eyes with him. There’s nowhere for the ball to go. I watch as his eyes widen and he tries to scramble. My cleats dig into the turf and I lunge at him. I feel my hand tighten around his facemask as my other hand grabs the collar of his shoulder pads. I rip and tear to the side to twist his body laterally as hard as I can. I want to snap him like a twig. We go hurtling to the ground, only stopping when I smash his helmet straight down into the turf, his head still inside. I hear a massive crunch, and instantly see a flash of red out of the corner of my eye.
I turn over. Crawford isn’t moving. I look closer and see blood pouring gently out of his nose and mouth. My eyes steadily track down to his neck and…
There’s a bump about 3 inches down from his neck, poking out slightly, pushing the skin upward.
I stand, looking all around me. I throw my helmet off.
Eyes, everywhere.
The players look at me in confusion, before looking down in horror at Crawford behind me. I then look up to the stands. The place is vibrating. I can hear my name being chanted all across the stadium. All I can hear before running off the field is the roar of the crowd, cheering me on as I slay their beast.
Five yard loss.
***
This isn’t a home. It’s an epitaph. Posters, memorabilia, magazine covers, and other bits of history hang crooked on the walls, or scattered on the floor. They all portray the same man, once a superstar and now a taboo. A football card sits silently cast aside on the floor. The print is small at the bottom.
Gregory McBain – DE
Commercials cycle through on a massive television screen in the center of the room.
Scrunching his face in pain, McBain leans forward in his chair towards the television. It’s worse than usual today. The insurance commercial briefly cuts to black as it ends, and McBain stares back at his darkened reflection. A batten, worn, and broken visage stares back. The cruelty of the years has reduced him to confusion, pain, and faded glory. There’s no spark of recognition anymore. Maybe he died that day too.
The television sparks back to life. Men in suits stand onstage, all holding a velvet drape over a strange shape.
“Today, we officially honor the incomparable Evan Crawford, who would have been thirty-five this year, and surely would’ve been accepting this induction. A pioneer not just of the game, but of the impact a player can have on and off the field, Crawford will be remembered for his next level play, and his incredible sportsmanship,” a man in a golden jacket reads from a podium. McBain might recognize him.
The men pull back the velvet, and a bust of Crawford stares right through the screen. His signature perfect grin is captured vividly in the bronze. McBain unconsciously looks down to his neck-
A vibrating in his pocket.
McBain feels around in his jeans, his gut hanging over the edge of his beltloops. Shoving it aside, he drags his phone out from his pocket.
It’s Coach. There’s an ounce of hesitation before he presses the green button.
“Hey Greg,” Coach says.
“Why are you calling?” McBain asks.
“I’m not sure,” Coach replies, his tone colored by strokes of indescribable feelings. Guilt, remorse, anger, sadness, none of it makes sense, or helps.
“It’s nice. The ceremony,” Coach remarks. He knows McBain is watching.
“Yeah,” McBain grunts out in a hoarse whisper, “I wish I was there.”
The pair sit in silence for a moment, the static of the phone line crackling gently in their ears. Sounds, smells, and sights flash in broken intervals between the two as they reflect to the best of their ability. Shattered fragments of a career rolodex through McBain’s head, all coated with a regretful jealousy. He would have been there. Coach finally speaks up.
“Was it on purpose?”
McBain stares for a long time. Deep in his head, the crowd roars, the money flows, and the fame skyrockets. People pull away, people point fingers, his head screams. Crawford’s neck crunches and snaps, cameras flash, the whistle blows.
“I don’t know.”
***
Rylan Fischer is a sophomore at Emerson College majoring in Interdisciplinary Studies, with a specific combination of writing and film. He is a published writer for Parade Magazine, and this is his first fiction publication. When he’s not working on writing or directing a film, he’s most likely yelling at the Pittsburgh Penguins for another blown lead.
