Drag

After awhile all the workouts and drills don’t matter anymore. After all the protein powders and creatine runs out all that’s left is the core muscle. With out working out, putting in that effort it all just…goes away. Vanishes and all that hard work just doesn’t matter anymore. The problem with sports is no matter how hard someone works, no matter how much of an addiction it is one injury can un-do everything.
Sitting in the back of a white civic that’s all Cruz can think about, that one injury.
“Wanna blaze another bowl?” Cruz looks with red eyes at his friend.
“Of course I want to blaze another bowl.” Already his friend starts packing the metal pipe with his stubby fingers. They’ve got pot smoking down to a science Cruz and Jerry do.
“Let’s migrate though, I’m pretty sketch.” Closing his eyes, Cruz wants to move.
“You’re always sketch, we’ll go to the hill at my place.”
“Perfect.” The lighter brightens the inside of the dirty car; Cruz tips the end of a cigarette into the flame, “Just enough time for a smoke.”
Through the open window smoke jets out of Cruz’s mouth and the cold air comes in.
“It’s getting cold.” Jerry says over the beats of the music.
“It sure is.” Rubbing his leg Cruz takes another drag.

The night is so late, no more movies are playing and the only place left to go is the bars. Even the bars though will be closing in less than an hour. Sitting in the white civic on top of that promised hill Cruz takes the last hoot that the pipe offers.
“We need something to do.” He says tapping the pipe on the outside of the car, letting ashes spill onto the snow.
“We sure do.” Is all Jerry offers as the lighter ignites again, this time lighting Jerry’s cigarette.
“We should shit on Claire’s lawn, like a massive dump. I can feel one coming on.” Cruz lights another cigarette.
Jerry starts laughing and starts the car.
“You know what…we really should.” The car starts moving forward, the green radio displays lets them know it’s two in the morning.
“Fucking bitch, if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be smoking.” Another cloud of smoke comes from Cruz’s mouth. All Jerry does is laugh, a laugh high and childish the laugh of someone who is stoned.
“How do you figure that? You didn’t start smoking till you started smoking pot and that was way after you guys broke up.”

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Dragging his feet back in the dirt like a bull Cruz finds his target, number fifty-four the same number as him. Before his blood was filled with smoke it was were filled with adrenaline. Looking down and up over and over again Cruz is watching him, just staring at him. With his gloved hands in the grass Cruz is just waiting for the whistle to blow, just waiting for his opportunity to hurt number fifty-four.
Some people have mantras for meditation. Cruz has them for football, kneeling down on the line waiting for the play to start words just play over and over in his head. Sometimes its song lyrics or one-liners from movies, today it’s neither.
“I think we should break up.”
Those words go over and over in his head, the leak out of his lips over and over again. The mantra for the play and his prayer for number fifty-four.
The whistle blows and the large muscles in Cruz’s leg contract and expand, launching him forward. There aren’t any noises around him, just the mantra.
“I think we should break up.”
In the instant before contact an eternity exists in his head. All the memories of the previous month seem so tangible for just a moment. In his head Cruz sees Claire’s face and feels her kiss. Cruz can remember her touch and just all the curves of her body.
Number fifty-four gets hit with a force that knocks him to the ground, number fifty-four feels the weight on top of him and the fists getting their cheap shots on his kidneys.
Cruz of course feels his own body bruise under the football pads, the pain of the hit he dealt quickly replaces the memories of her.

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The fluorescent lights of the seven eleven illuminated all the tasty treats they came in to buy.
Chips and Doritos, pop and Gatorade, it was their paradise. Jerry and Cruz combed through the rows, picking up bags of chips and candy. Cruz limps through clutching at the leg, even months later its still stiff. By the time they buy their food and march back towards the car with idiotic grins the pub next door is kicking out its last patrons. The green light display lets them know its just after two thirty in the morning.
Ripping open a bag of Doritos Cruz looks towards Jerry, “What were we doing again?”
Jerry laughs, “We’re going to shit on Claire’s lawn buddy.”
Through a dry mouth of chips Cruz laughs.

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Each bruise shines in the light of the bathroom. Looking at each one Cruz turns around to look at his back, over his heart blood trickles down. The shoulder pads and under armor lay on the ground by the door. Cruz hears the rest of the team, talking about what they need to do for the last quarter, making plans and talk of improvement. Putting the pads back on to his shoulders he doesn’t strap them in, he leaves the pads loose and poorly fitted. The cut over his heart happened because the strap ripped through his shirt. The helmet strap is loose, an invitation for a concussion. The knee and tailbone pads lay un-used in the big sports bag where the team is. The black grease under his eyes started to run looking like deformed tears, so he puts more on making them black blocks again. Taking in a large breath and loudly exhales Cruz looks to the ground before putting the gloves back on.

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The empty bags of chip lay in the back of the car discarded and forgotten. Outside they take in the night air through drags of a cigarette.
“ I’m feeling pretty burnt out.” Cruz rubs at his face and takes in another deep drag.
“Ditto.”
Leaning against the car the both of them watch the drunks from the pub stumble out, reaching for a cell phone or car keys. A tall bald drunk stumbles out of the pub by himself laughing and looking for a cab.
“That’s isn’t Logan is it?” Jerry asks through a choked laugh. Taking in a slow drag Cruz looks at the tall drunk.
“It sure fucking is.” Cruz grips at his leg again. All the mantras from football flood back and the old adrenaline starts pounding through his head again. In an explosion of orange embers Cruz flicks the cigarette onto the cold pavement.

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Standing in the huddle Cruz shoots daggers at Logan. Logan’s the coach for offense he calls the plays, tells everyone where to be and when.
Still shooting daggers Cruz says, “I’m not running that play.”
“ I think you’re mistaken. You are running that play.” Logan stares back.
“We haven’t ran through it, their left side is too strong for it. Someone is going to get hurt.”
“If you have a problem with my coaching bring it up at a better time. You pull when you’re supposed to pull. If not your not playing for the rest of the season.”
The huddle breaks and Cruz goes where he needs to be. Already the mantras and prayers run through his head, the pounding of blood begins and doesn’t let up. This play its not number fifty-four, it’s a number fifty on the other side of the line, the left side. Cruz picks him out, pictures all the hate Claire showered onto him. The whistle blows and the explosion of his legs fires off again, he backs up and runs all the way to fifty-one. The world goes black around him; all Cruz can feel is each thundering step he takes but before the hit happens Cruz is in the air. The world spins out of blackness into a mesh of color before he hits the ground. The impact is on his back but the pain throbs in his knee.
“Fuck Logan!” He yells, so loud the play is called. Gripping his leg he yells and yells.
From the sidelines Logan is telling the trainers to get him off the field because he is out of control. Logan doesn’t see the twisted knee or the black grease running down his face.

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Calm as a clam Cruz pops the truck of the white civic. Jerry is saying something but he doesn’t hear it. He’s singled him out on the playing field of the parking lot. On top of the spare is a tire iron that Cruz holds with certain affection. Jerry grabs at his arm but Cruz doesn’t say anything instead he shrugs him off with withered muscles. Breaking into a limped run Cruz holds the tire iron towards the sky before he yells. The same call he yelled for years as a football player. Logan turns around for just a second to see Cruz right there with the iron. In one swift motion all Cruz sees is the months of physiotherapy, doctors and the surgeries. The promise of early and bad arthestist, a future of canes, a future with no more sports or glory. The iron comes down hard on Logan’s kneecap, the bones splinter and tendons tare. Logan falls to one knee and screams; Cruz stands over top and drops the iron. The adrenaline has sobered him up, the yelling draws the rest of the drunken people. Cruz stares at him and says nothing.
“Cruz we have to go, we have to go now!” Jerry grabs his arm, leading him to the car.
They say nothing in the car as it drives away; instead Cruz dips the end of another cigarette into a flame.