Free The Front Porch Prophet by Raymond L. Atkins Page B

was semilegal since the teams were from different states, but Southern high school football coaches are entities unto themselves provided they posted winning seasons, and both coaches decided the game would be a good way to toughen the boys up.
    They had squared off on a hot and humid August night. Sequoyah dressed out seventeen gladiators for the game including the three boys who never got to play, so it was another iron man night for A.J. and Eugene, offensive and defensive right guard and tackle. The Sequoyah Indians kicked off, and Sand Valley returned the ball to their own thirty-yard line. The trouble began on the first play from scrimmage. Big Mayo hit his stance about five yards behind the line, and when the ball snapped he lumbered straight for A.J. When he plowed into old number nine, A.J. knew he had been hit. To make matters worse, as he ran over A.J., he slugged him hard in the solar plexus. A.J. grabbed Mayo’s leg when he went by, and when the play was over he found himself under a pile of sweating, swearing country boys with Mayo on top of him biting his calf. A.J. knew he was in for a long game.
    The first half was a study in pain, with A.J. doing everything he could think of to keep his opponent at bay. Even so, Mayo sacked the Sequoyah quarterback five times during the first half and spent most of the rest of his time chasing the beleaguered general all over the backfield.
    “A.J., you’ve got to stop that motherfucker,” Booger Brown told him during one huddle. “He’s gettin’ here faster than the ball is.” Booger was the quarterback. Luckily, he was a fast one or he would have already been killed.
    “I could shoot him,” A.J. growled, “but I’m afraid it would just piss him off.” He was in sad shape and not receptive to criticism.
    Sequoyah was down twenty-eight points at halftime, and Coach Crider was not happy with the way the first two quarters had gone. “I don’t know what you pussies think you’re doing out there, but you’re damn sure not playing football! Hell, I could dress your
mamas
out and do better than this! This is the most pitiful excuse for a football game I’ve ever seen!”
    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