Stupid Fast

Chapter 38: KEN JOHNSON




On the Wednesday of that third week of July, all us honky backs and receivers were out at the baseball field running routes when Ken showed up with a couple of even older guys who used to play for Bluffton and now play football at some of the small D-III colleges in Wisconsin. They wanted to coach us and tell us we were doing things all wrong.

A couple of times, I made catches and ran a little, and the older guys would say, “Jesus, that’s speed,” or whatever. Then Ken would make a squirrel nut joke, and they’d laugh as if he were funny. The more the other dudes acknowledged I was good, though, the more sort of red in the face and jerky he became.

Then he decided he would cover me.

I got a huge adrenaline kick when Ken lined up across from me. Finally, I’d get my chance. I would beat his jerk ass with my improved giant speed.

But more importantly, Ken was bigger than me. Not taller, just bigger. Even with me at 180-something, he outweighed me by twenty pounds. He used what he had.

Cody said go, and I took a step, and Ken leveled me. He exploded into me with both arms and knocked my feet right off the ground, and I landed on the back of my head.

I totally cried out like a little injured animal, like I would’ve in fourth grade or sixth grade or eighth grade even. It was an accident. The hit didn’t hurt that much, just surprised me, but I high-pitch monkey-squealed.

Ken stood over me and laughed. The older dudes fell all over themselves laughing.

“That’s how a squirrel sounds when it gets run over by a truck,” Ken said. Then because he’s a gentleman and because he succeeded in making me look like a donkey, he pulled me up by my shirt. “Going to have to get past d-backs, squirrel nut. Can’t pull that p-ssy stuff. Jay Landry is going to kill you next month if you pull that p-ssy stuff.”

I wanted to say “Thanks Coach,” but I didn’t.

Then he lined up again because he hadn’t gotten enough.

I looked at him, looked over at Cody, and Cody shrugged. I was completely enraged and trying to keep from just fighting him, especially because I figured he could still kill me. I didn’t want to run another pattern. But Cody picked up a ball.

My next thought was to punch Ken in the nuts when Cody said go. (What would I do then? Run away?) Then I thought I’d just fight him off the line, just go at him—maybe I can get a punch in by accident, I thought. What’s the worst that could happen? Ken might beat me dumb, I guess. So? Just fight.

But when Cody said go, something else happened. My body made a move to hit Ken. But then I sensed him coil so he could hit me. As he unwound, I slapped his right shoulder, pushed, then spun. In a flash, he was on the ground on his face, and I was ten yards downfield, the ball already delivered into my hands by Cody.

Everybody, including the older dudes, whooped.

I slowed, turned around, and jogged back toward them. As I did, Ken pushed himself off the ground, turned, and held up his hands like he wanted me to throw him the ball.

Because I’m a trusting soul or an idiot, I tossed it to him underhanded.

Before I’d taken another step, he reared back and threw the ball at my head as hard as he could. My right hand, without me even knowing it, reached up barbarian-style and caught the ball in front of my face. I held it up above me for a second, squeezing it, staring at Ken, and then I smashed it into the ground. The ball bounced away about twenty yards. Ken and I glared at each other. Everybody stood there totally silent for like two months; I guess waiting for us to fight (which I was ready to do at that point).

Cody wouldn’t let it happen though. Cody said, “That’s enough for today.”

Ken looked over at the older guys.

I exhaled, turned, walked up to Karpinski, Dern, and Reese, quietly said “See you later,” and then went over to my bike and left without another word. I rode directly to the Mound to do my running. Little bolts of lightning kept firing all over my body as I rode.