Free The Perk by Mark Gimenez Page A

and kicking footballs; boys were running and balls were
flying. The wind was down and the humidity was up; the air in the bowl of the
stadium was thick with sweat and testosterone. The boys' voices sounded manly.
    Beck spotted the quarterback at the far end of
the field. He was a tall kid. He grunted a deep "Hut!" and the
center snapped the ball back to him. Five receivers raced down the field
toward the south end zone where Beck and Luke were standing. The quarterback waited
for a three-count, then his right arm suddenly shot forward and the ball rocketed
downfield as if fired from a cannon; it flew in a perfect spiral on a high arc and
dropped right into the outstretched hands of a receiver running full speed down
the sideline—and he dropped it. A voice bellowed out from above like the voice
of God—"Catch the damn ball!"—except God didn't cuss like a football
coach. The boys turned in unison and looked up at a solitary figure sitting on
the top row of the home bleachers in the shade of the small white press box
under a black sign: LAND OF THE GALLOPIN' GOATS. The man seemed familiar.
    "Is that … ? Come on, Luke."
    They walked around the track to the concrete bleachers,
then climbed the twelve rows to the top and cut over toward the man. He was wearing
black knit shorts, a white knit shirt, and a black cap over short blond hair.
He was leaning back against the press box with his legs stretched over the bench
in front; his thick arms were folded across his chest, and he was studying his
players so intently that he didn't notice he had company until Beck called out
to him from twenty seats away.
    "Aubrey!"
    The man's head swiveled their way; his left
cheek bulged like he had a tumor the size of a golf ball. His face remained
blank for a beat, then he broke into a big smile. He didn't stand; instead, he
spat a brown stream of tobacco juice in the opposite direction then held a big
hand up to Beck. They shook.
    "Beck Hardin. Heard you finally come to
your senses and got your butt back to the country where you belong."
    "Word travels fast."
    "Ain't every day a local hero comes home."
    Beck Hardin had been the star quarterback and
Aubrey Geisel his favorite receiver; they had been the best players and best
friends. Their senior year they had won the state championship for the first
and only time in the school's history.
    "Real sorry to hear about your wife, Beck."
    Luke turned and walked back down the bleachers;
he stood at the railing and faced the field.
    "I say something wrong?"
    "Luke's having a tough time. We all are."
    Beck sat next to his high school buddy. From
twenty-five feet above ground level, they caught a hot breeze and a clear view
of the distant hills etched against the blue sky. Beck could see the tall screen
of the old Highway 87 Drive-in Theater where he and Mary Jo had made out in his
truck. Aubrey turned away and spat, then drank beer from a can. Four empty
cans littered the concrete under him.
    "Sign says this is an alcohol and tobacco
free zone."
    "Beer and chewing tobacco ain't free,"
Aubrey said with a smile. "I'm the coach … and I'm not officially
here."
    "Head coach of the Goats?"
    Aubrey nodded. "Ten years now."
    "You're starting practice early."
    "We can't hold organized practices till
August one, but the boys can work out on their own and I can sit up here and cuss
at them. Hell, fact is, we never stop practicing. Only two sports seasons in Texas, Beck—football season and football off-season."
    "Boys here don't play soccer now?"
    Aubrey spat. "Only the Mexicans."
    "Luke played up in Chicago, all the boys
did. No interest down here?"
    "No scholarships down here, except for girls. That Title 9
forced the colleges to equalize scholarships on gender, so they had to cut scholarships
for all the boys' sports to keep football and basketball. Black boys from the
cities get the basketball scholarships. If you're a white boy and you want a
full scholarship in Texas, you don't play