Gym Candy Page 9

  I took a couple of steps, as if I were playing, and somehow I wasn't in my backyard in the moonlight anymore. Instead, I was in a big-time game under the lights, and tacklers were fighting through blocks, trying to get at me. Everything was confused, cluttered, closed. I had no chance, none; I was going down. But then I made a quick move, and found some space, and then made a second move. A tackler dived for my ankles but missed. I cut back and saw it—an opening. I darted through the hole; a final tackler tried to grab me high, but I shrugged him off, and a split second later all was open in front of me, open and green and empty, and I was running down the field, running and running until I'd run out of space, run through the end zone. I raised the football above my head, then spiked it onto the lawn. It landed just short of the hedge, took a crazy football bounce, and disappeared under the shrubbery. I stood there, trying to remember why I was out in the yard in the first place. It took a while, but I finally remembered the bucket.

  12

  I wasn't giving up, but I couldn't keep doing the same things. I'd worked as hard as anybody in the weight room. Still I wasn't big enough or strong enough to go one-on-one with a linebacker in the red zone. To get bigger and stronger, I had to go back to Popeye's. Sunday, while my mom was at her new church, I asked my dad if he could still get me a membership. "I thought you hated Popeye's," he said.

  "You were right about the weight room at school. I'm not making much progress. And I don't think our coach knows much about weight training. It's all three sets of ten and that sort of thing."

  "Yeah, that's how the old guys did it. In fact, that's how I did it. I'll call Popeye's and get you an hour a week with that trainer. What's his name? Or do you want a different guy?"

  "His name is Peter Volz, and he was fine. He knew what he was talking about. I got it in my head that he was gay."

  My dad snorted. "Mick, gay guys are in every gym. Fact of life. You've got to take what people have to offer, whoever they are."

  While I washed the Jeep, he called Popeye's. I was drying it when he came outside. "Tuesday," he said. "Three-thirty with Peter Volz.You're all set."

  ***

  At school on Monday morning, I took the stairwell leading down into the basement. I knew Carlson's office was somewhere down there, but I had never been in the school basement before. I wandered around awhile before I saw him through an open doorway. He was seated in front of a computer, his head in his hands, deep in study. "Coach," I said.

  He motioned to me with his hand. "Come on in. This will just take a minute more." I stepped into the little office and sat down on a blue plastic chair. "I can check every square foot of the school from here," he said as I sat. "Lights and heat and alarm systems."

  "I thought your job was pretty simple," I said, and then I was embarrassed, afraid I'd insulted him. "I mean—"

  "It's okay, Mick. You don't have to explain. But there is one thing you should always remember: Nothing in life is simple."

  He went back to his computer. A minute or two later, he hit the Enter key and then turned to me. "So what can I do for you?"

  I explained to him about Popeye's, how my dad could get me a free membership, and how I was going to start training there after school instead of with the team. "I wanted you to know that I'll still be lifting even though you won't see me."

  "I don't check on my players, Mick. I told you that."

  "I know," I said, "but—"

  "But you thought I might check on players." He smiled. "That's okay. I am glad you told me, because I'd like you to reconsider."

  "Why?"

  "Because friendship counts for something, too. You work out with guys, you form a bond. Fourth quarter, tight game, everyone's tired—that bond matters. See what I mean?"

  I squirmed in my chair. "I'm stuck, Coach. I've been stuck for weeks. You told me I'd get through it, but I haven't. I came up short last time. I don't want to come up short next time." He leaned back in his chair but didn't speak. "So, is it okay?" I said.

  "Your decision, Mick. You do what you think is best."

  ***

  When Carlson had mentioned friendship, I'd felt a sting. It had been a month since the run-in with Drager and Clark. Nobody had forgotten about it—not me, not Drew, not DeShawn. We acted like friends. We ate lunch together, and most days I gave one or both of them a ride home at the end of the day. But I didn't meet up with them between classes; and at lunch and during weight training, they talked more and more with each other and less and less with me.

  I could never make up my mind how I felt about the way Drew and the rest of my teammates had acted. Sometimes I'd think about them watching while Drager and Clark beat me up, and I'd feel betrayed. But other times I'd picture the whole thing reversed, picture those two guys pounding on Drew or DeShawn, and I'd wonder what I would have done. There was something scary-crazy in Drager's eyes, something almost everybody in the school felt. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds—that's how long the whole thing took. I wanted to believe I'd have jumped in right away, but would I have been any quicker? I didn't know for sure.

  When weight training ended on Monday, DeShawn went back to the library to use the computers. Drew and I walked out to the Jeep together. "I can't give you a ride home anymore," I said once I started it up.

  "You losing the Jeep?" Drew asked.

  "No, it's not that. I'm not going to do my weight training at school. I'm going back to Popeye's."

  He flinched. "Popeye's? Why?"

  "They've got great equipment, that's why."

  "But it was so weird."

  "It wasn't that weird."

  A moment passed."Is this because of Drager? Is that why—"

  "It's got nothing to do with him," I insisted, and then I paused. "Look, you're a quarterback. Nobody expects you to go busting tackles and carrying guys into the end zone. Fourth and one, you're going to hand me the ball and you're going to count on me to get that yard. I've got to get stronger, Drew, and I've got to do it fast. Popeye's gives me the best chance." Neither of us spoke for the rest of the ride. I pulled up in front of his house. "You okay for a ride tomorrow?"

  "Hey, what is it? A fifteen-minute walk home? I'm fine. Don't worry."

  13

  I was one hundred percent certain about Popeye's, but I was still nervous driving to Fremont on Tuesday afternoon, and I grew more nervous when I saw the mirrors with the guys standing in front. What would Peter Volz think when he saw me? I remembered how I'd acted that day—had he suspected what I'd been thinking?

  There was no turning back, though. I pushed the door open and saw Peter sitting behind the main counter. "Hey, what's up, Mick?" he said, sticking out his hand.

  I shook it. "Nothing much."

  Peter nodded. "I talked to your dad. He said you're not happy with your weight program at school."

  "I don't feel like I'm getting stronger."

  "Well, you've come to the right place. You'll have to work, but I can help you make that work more effective."

  I nodded toward the gym. "Should we get started?"

  "We need to talk a little first. Ever had a mango smoothie?"

  "No," I said.

  "Jamba Juice is right next door. Let's go."

  I wanted to buy my own, but he wouldn't let me. "You sit down," he said, and he went to the counter and ordered. A couple minutes later he stuck a tall cup in front of me. I took a sip. It was cold and sweet. "It's great," I said. "Thanks."

  He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. "There are a couple of things we have to clear up if I'm going to be your trainer," he said. He thumbed through his photos. Finally he took one out and dropped it on the table. He was on a beach, and he had his arm around a beautiful black girl wearing a bikini. "First of all, that's my girlfriend, Tamika. She can tell you that I'm definitely not gay."

  "I never thought you were—"

  He put his hands up to stop me. "Yeah, you did, Mick. Look, you're a kid. It's a strange world. But from now on, if I move your arm up o
r down on a barbell or I show you how far to bend your knee, you can't freak out on me, because if you do, we won't get anywhere. Okay?"

  He could have made me feel foolish—foolish and childish and stupid. But there'd been no mockery in his voice. I took a deep breath and exhaled, and when I looked back at him, he smiled. "Okay?" he repeated.

  "Okay," I said.

  "Good. That's settled. Now clue me in. What's the real reason you're back? And don't say you want to get stronger. Tell me what makes you tick, what's driving you. The more I know about your goals, the better."

  I swallowed. "This is going to take time."

  "That's why I got us the smoothies."

  I thought what I was saying would bore him, but the more I talked, the harder he listened. It was like talking to an older brother. Better, really, because guys I knew who had older brothers mostly complained about how mean they were. I told Peter about my dad, how he'd been great in high school and college but had fallen apart during training camp in the NFL, and how he'd kept that from me, and how I'd found out only about a year and a half ago. I told him how my dad had taught me football from the day I was born, how it was the only game I'd ever played, and how now it was my turn, and I was right there, so close, but that I needed to get stronger. "I feel like if I can succeed, in a way I'll be doing it for both me and my dad. Lots of times he makes me mad, but he taught me the game. I don't want to let him down."

  Peter stirred his smoothie for a while. "Look, Mick, if you work with me, your muscles are going to burn. They're going to be on fire and then I'm going to tell you to do another rep. And then, when you're done with that one, I'm going to want you to do two more. So if you're here just for your dad, you should go back to your school and work out with your team. Nobody puts up with the kind of pain I'm talking about for dear old Dad. So what I need to know is, are you here for you, too?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean ... do you want to be a football star?"

  There was a challenge in his voice. "Yes," I said, loud and clear. "I want to be a football star."

  His eyes brightened. "That's what I wanted to hear. You supply the willpower and I'll supply the knowledge. Together, we'll get you there."

  We fell silent. I stirred my smoothie, sipped, and stirred again. When there were only a couple inches left, I remembered my supplements. I reached down into my duffel, took them out, and used the last inches of the smoothie to wash them down.

  "Let me see those," Peter said.

  I handed the vials to him. "Are they okay? I drink protein shakes, too."

  "The protein shakes for sure are good. There's nothing wrong with this stuff either. Putting good things in your body is never a waste of money. Only..."

  "Only what?"

  "Nothing. Let's get going."

  For the next hour, Peter worked me incredibly hard, just like he'd said he would. Bench presses, military presses, curls, rows, squats. He had me do sets in a way that was completely different from Carlson. I started by doing eight reps at a light weight, and I ended up doing only three reps, but he had me add weight for each new set so that the final three seemed a hundred times harder than the first eight. As I lifted, he took notes on everything I did.

  My muscles burned in a way they'd never burned at Shilshole. He saw the pain in my face. "I got to warn you, this is a light workout. Eventually you'll lift to total failure. Then you'll know what pain is."

  When the session was over, he walked outside with me. A light rain had begun falling. "That was great," I said, reaching out my hand.

  "Got a minute?" he said.

  "Sure."

  He motioned to an overhang at the side of the building and we walked there. He scratched the back of his neck, frowned. "Look, Mick," he said, "you're going to find out from somebody in the gym, so you might as well find out from me. Those supplements you're taking? They might get you a little bigger, but just a little. If you're after serious gains, there's other stuff that produces better results much faster, stuff that a lot of guys in the gym use."

  "What other stuff?"

  "You know what I'm talking about—gym candy. I started with Dianabol when I was your age. Basically they're all testosterone or testosterone derivatives."

  I could feel the blood rush to my face. "You're talking about steroids, right? Those things mess you up. Every coach I've ever had has said that."

  Peter shrugged."People say that Adam and Eve came from outer space. Just because people say something doesn't make it true." He paused. "You've got testicles, right? Listen to the words. Testicles ... testosterone. You take testosterone and you'll just be doubling up with something that's natural, something your body makes all the time."

  I shook my head. "No. Not steroids. I'm not taking steroids."

  Peter put up his hands. "Hey, that's fine, Mick. I only wanted you to know what's available. You can get plenty strong just by lifting."

  I started to leave, but after a couple of steps, I turned back. "I can come tomorrow?"

  "You're a member. You can come whenever you want. I've got other clients, but when I'm not busy with one of them I'll check in with you. Our next full hour together will be Saturday. By then I'll have a series of workouts set up for you—what I want you to do each and every day of the week."

  14

  Those days I was incredibly busy. Shilshole High had gone to an online grading program, and my mom had a password that let her check every assignment with every teacher, so I couldn't let school slide. After school I drove to Popeye's and lifted, with Peter woofing at me if my form was a fraction off. In my free time, I was working jobs around the house to pay for the Jeep and the supplements.

  Peter knew his stuff. My personal bests in the bench press, squats, and leg press started going up. And I could tell my body fat was going down; in the mirror I looked more muscular. But I wasn't lifting and eating right to look studly on the beach—it was all for football. Could I get the hard yards in the red zone? That would be the test.

  In early May, spring football began. Carlson ran it differently from Downs. "I heard Coach Downs never started freshmen," he told us. "Well, that's not how it is with me. I play the best players, period. If you're a junior with three letters on your jacket, and you shave twice a day, and some smooth-faced freshman whips your ass in practice, then you're collecting splinters and he's playing. Understood?"

  In a way, it was a bad joke. I knew the upperclassmen at my position, knew that none of them could challenge me. But there was an eighth-grader, Dave Kane, who was definitely a player. He had good size and he was fast. His long blond hair seemed to stream behind him when he ran. When I told Drew he worried me, Drew waved him off. "Pretty boy like that, he won't like getting hit by some two-hundred-fifty-pound lineman. I bet he switches to wide receiver by Friday."

  Mr. Stimes was back as trainer, but Carlson had five new assistants, older black guys just like him. Linebackers worked with one coach; linemen with another; wide receivers with another. Carlson worked directly with me and Drew and the other backs. Under his eye my technique—especially my footwork—improved. We had some full-contact drills, but not many. Mainly it was helmet but no pads, which made me itch for a real scrimmage, and I wasn't the only one. "When are we going to play?" Felipe Perez called out after four straight days of drills.

  "We'll play on our final Friday," Carlson said, "but that's it. I'm not getting anyone hurt for no reason."

  When I told Peter about the scrimmage, he told me not to lift that Thursday. "Save your strength." It was good advice, but it was hard to stay home. Before Peter, weight training had always been drudgery; now I was addicted.

  At last it was Friday—full-contact four-quarter scrimmage. Carlson put Drew and me on the Black team. When I looked around at the other guys with us, I saw nothing but first-stringers. Across from us, on the Red team, was the first-string defense.

  It was exactly the test I wanted.

  After the kickoff, Drew and I and the rest of the Blac
k team trotted onto the field. On first down, I took the handoff and worked toward the sideline, stretching the defense, my eyes searching for a place to cut back. I found it, turned upfield, and took three or four strides before somebody hit me. I went down, but not before I'd smacked him back a couple yards. I'd gained seven.

  I wanted the ball again, but Carlson had Drew throw over the middle to our tight end, Bo Jones. Drew's pass was right in his hands, but Jones dropped it. On third down Drew threw another pass, this one to DeShawn, running a post pattern down the middle of the field. DeShawn was open, but Drew's pass was about two yards too long. We had to punt, and the Red team's offense took the field. I trotted off, my mind working. One carry for seven yards—a good start. Only, why hadn't Carlson called my number on second or third down? Why the passes?

  The Red offense was going up against the second-string defense, and those guys weren't as good. Dave Kane gained four yards on first down, two on second down, and then thirteen on a third-down draw play that caught the defense by surprise.

  Three plays—and Carlson had called Kane's number three times. After a screen pass, Kane bulled his way for twelve yards straight up the middle. Drew had said he was soft, but he wasn't looking that way to me. Two downs later—on a third-and-three play—he took a short pass in the flat and with his speed turned it into a thirty-eight-yard touchdown. As Kane trotted off the field, Carlson was clapping his hands. "Way to run the ball! Way to run the ball!"

  For the rest of that scrimmage, a calculator was running in my head, keeping track of both Kane's yards and my own. In the middle of the third quarter, he had me by thirty yards. Then, late in the fourth quarter, he took a handoff straight up the middle and bounced off the pile, and the next thing anyone knew he was racing down the sideline—sixty-five yards for a touchdown.