Free Call Me by My Name by John Ed Bradley

running back, split end, safety, and middle linebacker. The black guys got the less glamorous positions. Coach Cadet didn’t explain why particular positions were the domain of whites only, but it was understood that blacks weren’t suited for them. They ended up standing behind the assistants who coached the defensive line and secondary—positions, it occurred to me, that didn’t require you to be very smart.
    One black player, Rubin Lazarus, hesitated when Coach told him he was a defensive lineman. “But can I go out for linebacker?” he asked. “Middle linebacker?”
    Coach Cadet laughed and glanced back at his assistants, all but one of them white. “The middle linebacker is captain of the defense,” he said. “He has to make quick reads and call out schemes, and this means he has to think on his feet. Can you do that?” Before Rubin could answer, Coach said, “I didn’t think so.”

    They made Curly Trussell a quarterback. Before the meeting started, Curly had knelt at one end of the basketball court and thrown spirals with a football to the other end. His passes were pretty to watch, and he’d demonstrated his accuracy by ricocheting them off a wall and landing them in a trashcan. The guys had erupted with cheers after each one found its mark, and Curly had danced around flexing his right bicep. Even the coaches had clapped for him.
    â€œThe opportunity will come,” I said to a dejected Tater, hoping to give him a lift. “And when it does, you’ll make the most of it.”
    â€œI’d rather not talk about opportunities,” he replied. That was the closest he’d ever come to complaining.
    After the meeting, we were issued helmets, pads, and practice uniforms, and then we were ushered out onto the field and put through drills until dusk fell at around eight o’clock. The coaches pushed so hard that guys were falling out from exhaustion everywhere you looked. I puked once myself, a real gully washer that strangely left me feeling better when I was finished.
    â€œGet it all out, Rodney?” Coach Cadet asked when it looked like I was done.
    â€œI think so, Coach.”
    â€œGood. Now get back out there and show me how bad you want it.”
    Practices were compartmentalized by position, which meant I spent most of the day with the offensive linemen, or Bigfeet, as we’d taken to calling ourselves. Casting around for a name to illustrate who we were as a unit, we’d tried the Sasquatches for a while but found the word hard to say. Eventually we’d settled on Bigfeet, the plural of Bigfoot, the hirsute giant that was half man and half ape and so shy he rarely left the woods. I saw Tater only at the end of the day when it was time for team drills, and even then we had little contact. We closed out each workout with sprints, and he was the kind of guy who had to win each one, while I was the kind who was happy just to finish them at all. Coach Cadet had us huddle around him for one last speech, and then we headed to the locker room. Or at least we were free to go there. Tater always went to the weight room instead and lifted for another half hour. If I hadn’t collapsed yet, he made sure I joined him.
    Our bodies had changed dramatically since the start of that summer—Tater’s more than mine. While I seemed to have added mostly girth, Tater had packed on muscle. He wouldn’t be fifteen until November, but the thin kid who’d been all kneecaps and elbows was now so well put together you wondered how it had happened.
    â€œMan, what does Miss Nettie feed you?” I asked him.
    â€œNot enough,” he said, taking the question seriously. “She works late and most nights doesn’t get home until I’ve already gone to bed.”
    â€œSo what do you eat?”
    â€œI’ll fry me some eggs or warm a can of beans. Sometimes it’s cereal and milk. Whatever I can find in the