The Front Porch Prophet

Football was very important to Coach Crider. He had played professionally for two years with the Chicago Bears back in the days when a good lineman made twenty-five thousand a year and was proud to get the work. Unfortunately, he had received two torn ligaments in Cleveland and a bus ticket home shortly thereafter, which was how the pigskin used to bounce in the National Football League.

Homing in from the general to the specific, Coach Crider turned his attention to A.J. “Longstreet, just what the hell do you’re doing out there? I’ve seen legless nuns in wheelchairs hit harder than you’re hitting that damn hog.” A.J. was lying on his back on the floor wondering why he was playing football at all and where, exactly, Coach had seen legless nuns play. He supposed it was one of those Chicago things. His nose was smashed. His jersey was ripped, and his pads were hanging out. He had what felt like a cracked rib, and his arms were solid blue, just two long bruises. He was bleeding from several bites, and his left thumb was broken and taped to his hand. Mayo had beaten him like a drum.

“You want to go hit him?” A.J. asked wearily, holding up his helmet to the coach. He was beyond fear or caution, even with Coach Crider. He felt that nothing anyone could ever do to him again could possibly compare with what Mayo had already done. He had underestimated. Coach got down on his hands and knees and positioned his face about an inch from A.J.’s.

“Get your weak, sorry ass up and go out there and take that big piece of shit out! You get him, or you’ll be running laps until your feet are gone.” Coach had a dynamic effect on the boys, and they were always eager to please him. A.J. climbed to his feet and went and stood, uniform and all, under a hot shower, preparing himself mentally for one final attempt.

It was and is a Southern tradition to send adolescent boys to men like Coach Crider to learn to play the game of life. A.J. was not particularly interested in the game of life at that point, but neither was he yearning to run laps for the next three decades or so, and Coach was not prone to idle talk. After the kickoff for the second half, Sequoyah returned the ball to their own twenty-three-yard line. In the huddle, A.J. outlined his plan.

“Booger, take the snap and lie down. Eugene, hit him in the nuts as hard as you can. I’m going to hit him in the throat. If we’re lucky, he’ll die.”

It was a simple plan, but it had potential. The ball was snapped, and they executed Operation Mayo. He came thundering in, and A.J. and Eugene fired like cannonballs at their targets. Charlie Trammel, the Sequoyah center, got a mean elbow into Mayo’s kidney for good measure.

After the play, everyone got up but Mayo Reese. He was in the fetal position, vomiting while trying to swear at A.J. and Eugene. They were both standing there shaking their heads, as if it were just a darned shame the young athlete had been hurt and was now being dragged to the bench by his coaches. He wasn’t terminal, but he was out for the game. Unfortunately, so were A.J. and Eugene, thrown out for unsportsmanlike conduct. As they approached the bench, Coach Crider came up to them. They figured they were in for it for sure.

Then Coach smiled and said, “Now that’s some goddamn football.” Sequoyah went on to lose forty-two to nothing, but Coach Crider didn’t seem to mind. He kept looking over at his boys, benched in disgrace. They reminded him of himself back in the golden days when he, too, had been a warrior, eager for the taste of battle and the sound of leather slapping flesh.

So A.J. and Mayo had history prior to their encounter in Sand Valley. While A.J. was willing to let bygones be bygones, Mayo seemed to feel the need to linger over old times.

“Let him up,” Mayo said to his companions. He pointed to A.J. “That’s the one we want.”

A.J. stood his ground with the shotgun aimed at the crowd. He eased the weapon to his left so it pointed at Mayo.

“You won’t shoot,” Mayo sneered. “You’re afraid you’ll hit him.” He pointed at Eugene, who was clambering to his feet. Mayo was correct in his assertion, but A.J. hoped he didn’t know that he was for certain.

“You’ll get most of it,” A.J. replied, wishing he had stayed behind the depot. Eugene shoved his way past Mayo and asked him how his sex life was these days. Recognition flickered across Mayo’s features when Eugene arrived back at the Lover.

“Start the damn car,” A.J. said tensely. Eugene gave his recent companions a gesture before doing as he was told. A.J. backed up slowly and got in, still holding the shotgun on the group in the street.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Mayo said, eyeing A.J. with raw hate.