Free The Perk by Mark Gimenez Page B

soccer. You play football." He
gestured at the field. "And every white boy out there wants a scholarship,
just like we did. It's their ticket out."
    "No black players on the team?"
    "No black kids in the school. Hell, even
the Katrina kids wouldn't stay, went down to Houston. Sauerkraut and
bratwurst, that's a big-time culture shock after crawfish étouffée." Aubrey's
attention was drawn to the field; he yelled out, "Catch the damn ball!"
He spat. "You staying out at the old place?"
    Beck nodded. "J.B.'s putting us up."
    "You and him back on the same page?"
    "Working at it."
    "Wish my dad was still alive so we could
work at it. Me and him, we fussed every chance we could. Now I'd give
anything just to have a chance to fuss with him again."
    "I didn't know he died."
    Aubrey nodded. "Thirteen years ago. Now
they're both gone, mom and dad." He spat. "Anyway, you went up to
Notre Dame, I went over to Southwest Texas, got a degree in education so I
could coach. When Otto died—"
    "Coach Otto?"
    "Yep, heart attack right out there on the
field. Boys busted a play, Otto went into one of his tirades, cussin' up a
storm in German … keeled over dead as a doornail. But hell, you can't eat kielbasa
and eggs every morning like Otto did and live to be eighty. I was his
offensive coordinator, so the school board made me head coach. We're favored
to win state this year."
    "Your boys are big, Aubrey."
    "That's the game now, Beck. Bigger,
stronger, faster. Boys start pumping iron when they're ten these days, gotta
bulk up to move up. Pro offensive lines, they average three-thirty. Colleges,
three hundred. Mine averages two-seventy. And it ain't just linemen. My quarterback
is six-five, two-thirty-five."
    Beck watched the big kid rifle another pass
downfield.
    "Runs a four-five forty in full pads,"
Aubrey said, "and can throw a football through a brick wall. Number one
prospect in the nation. Before he committed to UT, every coach in the country came
here to watch him play. He's the real deal. Two years of college, he'll jump
to the pros."
    "German boy?"
    Aubrey shook his head. "He's from Austin. Name's Slade McQuade."
    " Slade? What kind of parents name their son Slade?"
    "His kind of parents. It's a football
name. People name their boys Colt, Chase, Shane, Slade—movie star names
that'll sound cool when they're playing on national TV."
    "But that's not going to happen for most of
these boys."
    Aubrey spat. There was a brown puddle on the
gray concrete on his far side.
    "It's gonna happen for every one of these
boys, Beck. November nine, we play Kerrville right here, the Nike High School
Football Game of the Week. On national TV."
    "High school football on national TV?"
    "Yep. High school ball is big-time now,
Beck. Schools spend whatever it takes to win. And colleges only recruit the
best players, so the dads spend whatever it takes to make their boys the best.
Slade's dad—name's Quentin McQuade—says he's spent a half-million bucks on
private trainers and coaches."
    "That's a lot of money."
    "He's got a lot. Real-estate developer. Come rolling
in here five years ago from Austin, bought the old Hoermann place."
    "That was a big spread."
    "Almost three thousand acres. Heard he paid twenty
million, cash. Built himself a mansion, now he's developing the ranch, a
high-falutin' gated golf community."
    " Gated? Who's he trying to keep out?"
    Aubrey spat. "Goats, I guess. They say he spent ten
million on the golf course, figures on selling two hundred homes out there, one
million and up. We're in a goddamn drought, ain't enough water for the people
and livestock as it is, much less to feed a fancy golf course"—he spat—"but
Quentin's money cut a wide swath through city hall so he gets what he wants.
He ain't someone you cross."
    "What brought him out here?"
    "He wanted a pro offense for Slade. Shopped
high schools around the state, picked us."
    "He moved here for your offense?"
    "Yep. We spread five out, shotgun,