We raced down the stairs, and when we got out to the quad behind the dorm, I saw a bunch of big, muscular guys standing around on the grass, tossing a football. Sort of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad come to life.
“So, okay,” Steve said, racing toward them. “Who’s this guy look like?”
“Your mama?” one kid said. Then the guys looked at me, and I saw a bunch of grins.
“Thought we were rid of the Schroedster already. Where’s he at, Tufts?” This came from a guy with a deep voice and acne all over his face.
“Yup.”
“What’s your name?” The comments and questions were coming so fast that I had no time to notice anything beyond the fact that I was facing a group of, like, twelve guys, all built, most very good-looking. They were a huge mass, a giant blob of testosterone.
“Rafe Goldberg.”
“Oh! You’re the new junior, right? Where you from?” a kid with stringy blond hair and a skater T-shirt said.
“Yeah. Colorado.”
“Right. Heard we had a new junior,” a very tan kid wearing an inside-out Patriots jersey said. “You playing?”
“Sure,” I said.
Introductions were barely made. It wasn’t that kind of scene. Deep-voice Acne Guy stuck out his hand and said, “Robinson,” so I said, “Rafe,” back to him. No one else offered.
“Yo! Colorado,” Steve said. “You fast?”
“Yeah,” I said. Other than skiing, that is probably the best thing about me, athletics-wise. I’m an average soccer player, and the crowd I hung with back in Boulder wasn’t much for pickup games of football. Here, though, maybe my crowd was?
They chose up sides. My team was Steve; the tan kid with the inside-out jersey, whose name turned out to be Zack; a quiet black guy named Bryce, who was wearing a T-shirt that read I WANT TO GO TO THERE; and a huge guy named Ben, who was twice as wide as me, with legs like fire hydrants.
“You get the ball first, ’cause you guys are gonna get your asses handed to you, anyway,” Steve said, and we went back to do “the kickoff.” I really wasn’t that familiar with football, so I decided my strategy would be to hang back and watch.
Steve kicked off, throwing the ball really high and far toward the other team, which was facing us. Then we all ran toward one another, the strong sun blaring down on us, the air thick like honey.
It turned out to be pretty fun. The guys on the other team tried to block us as we ran toward the one who caught the ball. One guy put his forearms up in front of him while I ran at him, so I tried to run around him. He knocked me in the chest with his arms one time, which nearly knocked the wind out of me. Then I looked over and Steve was slapping two hands on the guy with the ball, and the play was over.
While the guys on the other team huddled up, Steve told us all what to do. I was supposed to cover Robinson. He came to the line, saw me, and smirked. He was taller and broader than me, with leg muscles way bigger than mine, and he wore a cross around his neck. I just figured that if they gave him the ball, I’d make sure to tag him before he got by me.
This tall kid with lily-white skin and a buzz cut stood in the middle, with two guys on either side of him, facing us. He yelled, “Hike!”
Robinson took horselike strides, and I backpedaled for a bit, staring at his face. His eyes got big, and he accelerated past me, so I turned and ran as fast as I could. I heard Steve’s voice yelling my way, and I somehow knew to look up.
There was the ball, flying toward us. Robinson turned and was adjusting so that he could catch it. I was right next to him, and the split second before he jumped, I did.
I’ve played volleyball. I know how to jump high, and I know how to spike. I used my fists and smashed the ball down to the ground.
“Yo!” Steve screamed, running over to me like a crazy person. “He is Schroeder! Nobody brings that shit into my house!”
Zack was coming over too, and the two of them looked like I’d done something incredible. Blood coursed through my veins, and I felt the hairs on my neck stand on end.
“That’s what Schroeder used to say,” Steve said, high-fiving me.
I copied the voice Steve had used when imitating Schroeder. “Nobody brings that shit into my house!” I bellowed.
Steve looked over at Zack, and they bumped fists. “He even sounds like him!” Steve said.
I pointed at Robinson, who was jogging back to his teammates. “Nuh-uh,” I said, wagging my finger at them. He ignored me and went back to his huddle.
Steve and Zack hugged in hysterics. “Now that one’s pure Colorado. No finger wagging for the Schroedster! We gotta call you Schroedster Two!”
In my life there had been moments of great pleasure. I couldn’t recall any, though, that felt anything like this one. It surprised me. I’d never thought of myself as the kind of guy who wanted to fit in with the jock crowd, but here I was, swelling with pride at being given a nickname.
Me, a jock? I thought about it, rolled it around on my tongue. It made me smile, and then laugh a little. I was elated. That was the feeling in my chest. Elation. I’d never experienced it before.
Bathing in it, I glanced over at Ben and Bryce in time to watch them share an eye roll. I stopped smiling, embarrassed. What was that for? What had I done to them? All I had done was enjoy myself. They reminded me of the jock versions of PIBs, back in Boulder — the People in Black, the kids who wore trench coats and sat on the sidelines and judged everyone. Who the hell were they to judge me?
Despite that, the football game was a good time. I was actually a bit relieved that the name Schroedster Two died a quick death when I showed myself to be less adept at catching passes. Steve threw me two in a row, and the first one skidded off my hands, while the second hit me in the chest and bounced off. I thought I was close, especially on the second, but that didn’t seem to count for anything, and the name fell away. Fine. Just another label to define me.
“Okay,” Steve said in the huddle as we set up for our final drive, with the score tied. “Colorado, you do a ten-step buttonhook. Zack, go flat left. Benny, out and in. Bryce, flag deep. Okay?”
In previous huddles, he’d traced the routes on his hand with his finger, but suddenly we were getting names of plays. I had no idea what to do, so after we all yelled, “Break!” I tapped Ben the Jerk on his massive left shoulder.
“Um, what’s a buttonhook?” I said.
He looked at me funny. Then he turned his palm up and drew the play for me, a quick run — ten steps, I guessed — and a turn.
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. “I owe you one.”
He cocked his head slightly and went off to the other side of Steve. I lined up on the left, facing Robinson, and when Steve said hike, I ran the ten steps and spun around.
The ball was in my face immediately. It smacked me in the nose right as I put my hands up. Too late. The pain in my face knocked the wind out of me. The football glanced against my left hand as it ricocheted off my nose, and I adjusted, thrusting my hands out away from my body.
There was the ball, against my fingertips. I juggled it until it was cradled in my hands, and then I closed them in, brought my arms into my chest, and began running.
“He only got him with one hand!” I heard Steve yell, and I sped up, scurrying toward the other team’s end zone. I knew once I got going, Robinson wasn’t going to catch me.
“Touchdown!” Steve yelled. I spiked the ball, like I’d seen football players do on TV and like I’d seen some of the other guys do. Then I did a little dance, because you gotta dance when you get into the end zone. Everyone knows that. I shrugged from side to side, lifting my shoulders rhythmically as I moved back and forth.
“Kid’s got moves!” said Steve, coming over to slap me on the back. I turned toward him to say something, and that’s when I felt the blood.
“Oh, shit!” Steve said, and the other guys on the team ran over.
“Looks bad,” Bryce said.
“I’m fine,” I said. It didn’t really feel fine, but I wasn’t in the mood to have my celebration cut short, even for a medical emergency.