“You fucking defensive players. You think you’re so hot. That you won the Championship last year.” Fozzy leans closer, so close I can smell the meat he had for lunch and it’s not good. I shift away. He follows like a dank stalker. “That game that we lost last year. That was you guys fucking up. The offense scored thirty-five points. All you guys had to do was make one stop but instead, you allowed the team to score. A team that we embarrassed the year before. If anyone needs replacing on this team, it ain’t Ace.”
I look past him to Ace, who’s standing over in his corner looking smug as fuck. Doesn’t he get that this is bad for the team? No matter what happens, we can’t be fighting like this.
“Fozzy, we’re one team. We’re not offense or defense. We’re one team, and we win and lose based on the team effort.” I reach for patience, wondering how in the hell we’ve come to this point. Not once during last year, even during games the offense managed only a couple scores, did our D grumble about the offense. We all worked hard and that’s what mattered. What happened to measuring that? I wave toward Jack. “Hell, Jack’s almost part of the defense what with his sister and Masters getting married. One team, Foz.” I stand up and punch him in the shoulder. Not as hard as I want, but hard enough for him to know I didn’t appreciate my surprise bath. “Save the water for your gut next time.”
“If we’re really one team, why aren’t you standing up for our boy Ace?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Ace is now leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring back at me.
The whole room is staring back at me. Fuck me. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Can’t this team just carry on like it did last year? What difference did it make who was sticking his hands under Fozzy’s ass? It is the damned defense that carries this fucking team. I take a deep breath before I spew all my shit out onto the weight room floor. Voicing these sentiments might win me favor with the defense, but the stuff I told Foz was true. We rise and fall as one.
“I’m standing for the team,” I tell Foz. I tell them all. “The Warriors stand together. They fight together. Or we lose…together. It’s not about one player. It’s about all of us.”
“Then you don’t stand for Ace. Well, fuck you then.” Foz spits at my shoes.
Hammer has had enough. He lunges for Foz. I can’t get up from the bench fast enough to stop the clash. Foz swings at Hammer. Hammer goes low and knocks him backward. Darryl throws himself into the mix and soon, it’s defense against offense. There’s pushing and shoving and fists are flying.
Bishop runs from across the room and launches himself, Iron Man-style, onto Fozzy’s back. Fozzy starts swinging the smaller man around like a cape. Visions of weight benches and racks tipping over causing serious injury flash before my eyes like some kind of nightmare on Elm Street, gym version.
I wade in and start throwing guys to the side.
I finally make some headway through the mass of bodies when someone’s fist glances off my chin, and I have to take an extra moment to prevent myself from introducing my fist into someone else’s face. In the space of that moment, it all goes to hell again until Coach walks in.
He blows the whistle long and hard, and like the trained animals we are, we snap to attention.
“What in tarnation is going on in here?”
I heave Roberson off my chest and stagger to my feet.
No one answers the coach. He eyes Ace, whose hair is mussed but other than that looks like he wasn’t touched. I don’t know whether to be impressed that the O-line did its job protecting him even in the weight room or pissed off that his pretty-boy face doesn’t have a scratch on it.
“Anderson, care to tell me why in the blue hell half your line is on the floor looking like they’re about to host a goddamned Greek orgy?”
Ace folds his arms across his chest.
Coach turns to me. “How about you, Iverson? Got anything to say for yourself?”
Nothing you’d like to hear. I swipe a hand across my mouth. It comes away bloody.
He spits on the floor in disgust. “You two are clowns.” He swings around and eyes every player in the room. “Maybe I should replace the whole lot of you. None of you have guaranteed scholarships. You boys better whip yourself into shape real quick or you’ll be paying for the rest of your college career instead of enjoying the free ride that Western so kindly provides.”
What bullshit. Western gets millions of dollars from us. Our bowl games fund academic scholarships and music shit and art shit that is totally unrelated to football. And Coach? He wouldn’t enjoy his three million a year if it weren’t for us and our backbreaking efforts. My throat aches from swallowing all those thoughts down.
Still no one stands up to him because he’s Coach.
“Ace, you’re the hotshot quarterback. Rein in your boys. And Iverson.” He turns back to me.
“Yeah?” I know whatever he’s going to say I’m not going to like.
“You got a lot to prove this year, and so far you look like your pants are around your ankles. Maybe the defense was good because Knox Masters was the leader in the locker room. I guess we’ll see this year, won’t we?”
I haven’t been embarrassed in a long time. Not like this. Now my cheeks burn with the way he’s dressed me down, implying I was only good because of Masters. What about my average of thirteen tackles per year? Or the sixteen in the championship game along with the sack at the end? Those count for shit, huh?