Chapter 13
I hastily made my way over to the classroom. While peeping through the door window, I scanned the room looking for an available seat. I spied Keith and Shannon sitting next to each other toward the front. The only free desk was on the far side adjacent to the outside windows. I waited until I saw the teacher turn to write on the chalkboard and then I quietly opened the door and crept inside.
Everyone's head turned and watched me as I silently made my way across the room. I was halfway to the desk when Keith loudly growled, "AHEM." At this sound the teacher, Mr. Ramirez, turned around. He stared at me and asked, "Excuse me, but who are you?"
I stood still and replied, "I'm Lance Rock. I'm a student in this class."
"Mr. Rock, this class began 15 minutes ago. Do you have a written excuse as to why you are late?"
"No. I forgot to get one. I was down at the athletic office joining the football team." I quickly glanced over at Shannon after saying this, but her expression did not change.
"You'll have to forgive him. He's the exchange student from Canada," said Keith sarcastically.
Mr. Ramirez looked at Keith and then back at me. "Mister Rock, the school policy is that if you are late for class without a valid written excuse it is an automatic write-up."
"I know," I replied. "I'm sorry." I continued walking toward the desk.
"However," he continued, "My personal policy concerning unexcused lateness is that it is an automatic after-school detention. Therefore, Mister Rock, you will not be attending football practice this afternoon."
"But that's not fair," I protested. "I have to be there because Coach Pernell is giving me a shot at the quarterback position."
At this statement Shannon's eyes grew large and she glanced over at Keith. He mouthed, "He's full of it." Other students were now quietly murmuring and glancing at Keith too.
Mr. Ramirez replied, "Alright, Mister Lance Rock from Canada; I'll make a deal with you. If you can recite the Declaration of Independence word for word until I tell you to stop, I'll forgo the detention and give you a write-up instead."
"The Declaration of Independence? Okay, I'll give it a try."
"Mister Rock, because this is Spanish class you will do it in Spanish." At this statement everyone chuckled.
"Fair enough," I replied.
"I'm not finished yet, Mister Rock. I am from Spain; therefore, you will recite it in Castilian.
"Castilian?"
"Yes, Castilian. In an Andalusia dialect!"
Now the class was laughing and Keith grinned while remarking mockingly, "Good luck, Canuck!"
I stood there glancing around at everyone, and then I began to recite. All attention was focused on me. After a minute or two Mr. Ramirez said, "Stop! That is enough. Please take your seat." He stared at me completely baffled. Then he asked, "Why are you even taking this class?"
I heard Keith mutter under his breath, "I knew he was a freak."
I sat down. My only thought was on the football practice after school. In my mind I began to replay all the televised football games I had ever watched while trying to remember what the quarterback had been doing; his footwork, his cadence calling, his movements—anything that would help me. I had never played a game of football in my life and trying out for this position was going to be the hardest thing I had ever attempted.
The period ended and as I walked out the door a number of students congratulated me and said that was probably the first time in the history of the school that Mr. Ramirez had been beaten at his own evil game. An attractive brunette asked me if I'd be willing to tutor her and some guy gave me a high-five hand slap. Shannon stood there and smiled at me while slowly shaking her head in admiration. I tried to walk over to her but Keith intercepted me.
"I don't know what little stunt you pulled with Coach, but you are truly psychotic if you think you have any chance of playing quarterback—let alone making the team. What are you trying to pull, Rock?"
"Why don't you give your questions and threats a rest, Mitty? I'm tired of them, and you," I replied as I watched Shannon walk away.
He followed my gaze. "Yeah, now I see. You won't give up, will you? Your brain really is fried. She's already mine. I guess you'll have to find that out the hard way, though."
"We'll see."
I continued to focus on playing football through the rest of my afternoon classes. School ended and I made my way out to the athletic field locker room. Once inside, I saw several players changing into their practice uniforms. I walked over to them and asked where I could find the coach. None of them knew. I wandered around for a bit until I spotted a man who looked like he was in a position of authority.
"Are you a coach?"
"No. I'm Mr. Humphries, the trainer."
"My name is Lance Rock. I was told by Coach Pernell to meet him here. Do you know where he is?"
"I believe he's already out on the field. Is there something I can help you with?"
"I'm a new player. I guess I need equipment."
"New player? I wasn't told anything about that. What position do you play?"
"Quarterback."
"Quarterback? Where are you from? Did you just transfer in?"
"Yes. I'm from Canada and I'm here on the Student Exchange Program."
"You came all the way down from Canada to play ball here? You must be an outstanding player! I'll set you up with some gear. Tell Tom, Coach Pernell I mean, that you talked to me."
"Thanks." I took the equipment over to a bench to sit down and then get dressed with the other guys. Then I realized I had no cleats. I turned to the player sitting next to me and said, "I forgot my cleats."
"Sorry dude, I can't help you," he replied.
I hurried back to the equipment counter. "Mr. Humphries, I forgot to bring my cleats."
"Hmm, that could be a problem. The coach has strict rules when it comes to the players being dressed properly. Let me think here a minute." He walked over to the lockers and began going down the rows while opening doors on the empty ones. The rest of the team had left to go out on the field.
"Here we go," he remarked, after digging an old, smelly pair out of one of the empty lockers. "A few of these kids leave their old shoes lying around in here from year to year. What size do you wear?"
"Size eleven."
"These are size nine and a half," he continued while examining them and crinkling his nose. "Do you want this pair?"
"I'll take them. Thanks." I forced my feet into them. Besides smelling like rotting cheese, they were excruciatingly uncomfortable. As I finally ran out onto the field to join the rest of the team, I could already feel the onset of blisters.
"Remember to only take your helmet off when Coach says you can!" Mr. Humphries yelled after me.
The team had lined up in an organized formation and was currently engaged in warm-up exercises. I hurriedly joined the last row. I saw Keith, Greg Schulman, and another unidentified player standing in front and facing us. They must be the team captains, I thought. There were 35 of us including myself. I looked around the field and spotted the cheerleaders a short distance away. Shannon and Jill were leading them in routines. Then I noticed the trainer, Mr. Humphries, now approaching Coach Pernell who was standing with some other men. I guessed they were the other coaches. He started talking to him while looking and then pointing in my direction. Coach Pernell shook his head in affirmation. Suddenly, Keith yelled for us to follow him in running laps around the field. As we jogged around the perimeter, I looked over at the cheerleaders. Other players did as well with some making suggestive, sexually explicit remarks about them.
Twenty minutes later we were finished preliminary exercises. My feet felt like they were on fire! Coach Pernell barked out orders and the starting squads on both offense and defense lined up to run plays. "Rock!" I heard my name being yelled out. I ran up to one of the coaches. Keith, after having recognized my name, glanced in my direction.
"You see that bench over there, Rock? I want you to
sit on it and observe everything that's going on here. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
I ran over to the bench he had pointed to, grateful to be able to sit and take the pressure off my swollen, smoldering feet. Forty minutes later, several of the cheerleaders having finished their routines, came over to stand nearby and watch the practice. Shannon was among them. I waved to her, but she ignored me. I was ready to get into the practice to try and impress her. I got up and walked over to Coach Pernell.
"Hey coach, I'm ready to play."
He looked at me and then screamed, "WEREN'T YOU TOLD TO SIT ON THAT BENCH?"
I stood there speechless. Everyone on the field turned to stare at us.
"NOW YOU GO BACK TO THAT BENCH, ROCK, AND YOU SIT THERE UNTIL I TELL YOU TO GET UP! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?"
"Yes sir," I sheepishly replied as I scurried back to the bench, now utterly humiliated. While glancing around, I could see most of the other players laughing heartily.
Fifteen minutes later Keith and some of the other starting members were dismissed. He and Shannon walked back to the locker room. His right arm was around her shoulder. He glanced in my direction and gave me the thumbs up sign. An overwhelming feeling of depression began to engulf my mind.
After 20 more minutes, practice ended and the team slowly made their way off the field. Coach Pernell strode over to me and told me to stand up. He put his hand on the bench where I had been sitting and sarcastically remarked, "You did a good job warming this today. At tomorrow's practice, I want you to sit on that bench over there and keep it warm. Because if you want to be on this team, all you're ever going to be is a bench warmer. Is that understood?"
I said nothing.
"No student threatens me, ever! Let that be a lesson to you!"
I slowly hobbled my blister-encrusted feet across the field back to the locker room. As soon as I walked through the doorway, I was greeted by taunts and jeers.
"Hey benchwarmer from Canada," remarked an unidentified player. "My seat here is a little cold, eh. You’ll come over and warm it up for me now, won't you, eh?"
Everyone was laughing. I didn't think it was funny. My hands formed into fists and I went into combat mode. I scanned the room noting positions and details. Fifteen seconds later I had plotted a solution for the quickest, most efficient way to kill them all! But my conscience reprimanded me. Are you seriously thinking of murdering them? Where has your honor and discipline gone? What's wrong with you? Why are you acting this way? "I don't know," I quietly replied.
While ignoring their provocations, I relaxed my fists and made my way over to the locker where I had stashed my clothes. The players stopped teasing me when they saw that it had no effect. I took off my helmet along with the rest of the equipment, dressed into my street clothes, and then carried the gear over to the storage area. As I turned around to leave, I came face-to-face with Ron Boyle! His eyes grew large in surprise, and then they squinted into a sinister stare.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the wrist grabber."
"It's a small world."
"And soon to be a painful one for you. Listen up team!" he hollered. "This is the guy I was telling you about; the loser who disagrees with our free lunch buffet privileges!"
There was loud murmuring and I was soon surrounded by what was left of the team—seven players. Ron stood directly in front of me. I looked down into his face and runny nose. I then surveyed my immediate area while noting positions and stances including the guy who was standing directly behind me. Ron held up his arm in front of my face and challenged, "Now Mister Wrist Grabber, why don't you go ahead and try to bend it again?"
"If you try to steal someone's lunch, I will," I replied matter of factually. "But if I'm forced to intervene again, next time, I'll break it."
His upper lip curled in a sneer and he leered at me with his beady little eyes. Then with an incredibly hideous sound, he began to clear his throat. I could tell he was working up a chunk of snot. He stood there for about 15 seconds with an agonized, tortured expression of concentration on his face. Finally, he stopped, smiled, and then opened his mouth.
Covering the whole of his tongue was the largest, thickest, foulest-smelling clump of yellow-green phlegm I had ever seen! He drew back his head to spit it at me, and I lightly jabbed the middle finger of my right hand into his solar plexus at the same time. As he began to choke and cough, I grabbed him by the back of his head. Mucus was being spewed out of his mouth and I was directing his head like a missile launcher at the guys who were standing nearby. There were shouts and curses as players were being splattered by the slimy, sticky, globs of phlegm. As they dodged and ducked out of the way, I looked for an opportunity to make my escape. I released my hold on Ron, and then I spun around while snatching the guy on my left and throwing him into three other players. The two remaining players tried to catch me as I ran towards the outside door. I sidestepped them just as they attempted to grab me and they ended up in each other's arms! Once outside, I bolted for the street and slowed down only when I knew I was well beyond their reach. My feet were throbbing terribly, so I took my shoes and socks off. Then a thought occurred to me. How in the world was I going to get home?
Even if I had my own transportation or was able to take a bus, I had slept in Stacy's car on the morning ride in. I had no idea which direction to go. I walked along the street until I found a bench. I sat down to muse. The trip up to this point had been a complete failure. I had come down here to get away from the regimented life that I had grown tired of along with Scott's prying eyes. I had also come here in the hope of finding a girlfriend. But ever since I had stepped off that airplane, nothing had worked out the way I wanted it to. And I couldn't understand why.
Stacy's allegations were also troubling my conscience. Was I really the reckless, brash, nosy, hothead she accused me of being? What would my mother think if she heard those accusations? What would Scott or Sifu Lu Tang think? While staring at the ground and sighing heavily, I rubbed Scott's key between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. I heard a car pulled up alongside the curb in front of me and honk its horn. I raised my head to look at it. Then I saw Jill Cruse stick her head out of the driver's side window and shout, "Hey, Canada, you look a little lost. Do you need a ride?"