King’s Hill

The blocking drills alone were enough to knock me off my high horse. The best athletes went out for running back, and we had to drill against each other, one of us playing the defender, and the other playing the blocking halfback. I won’t sugarcoat the truth. I ended up on my back every time. After the blocking drills, I found out that we would all have to choose a defensive position. I chose linebacker. Once again, the best athletes wanted to be linebackers. We did tackling drills and, like before, no matter whether I was on offense or defense, I ended up on flat on my back.

Even with my constant failures, I learned to embrace the pain. I figured if I wasn’t the best, at least I could show the other guys that I was tough enough to be there. At the end of practice, we were told to line up at the bottom of this steep grassy incline Coach Brown called King’s Hill. He instructed us to hoof it to the top and back down. Then repeat the process until the coach called it a day. It surprised me how many of the best athletes moaned and groaned during this exercise. It was a difficult undertaking, but definitely better than getting hit by a pickup truck every other minute. Before I know it, I’m leading the pack, while Coach Brown is cursing his superstars, mocking them for letting a rookie smoke them. I don’t let it show, but inside I’m beaming.

When coach blows the whistle, he doesn’t do so to tell us to quit. He directs us to the track where he instructs us to run five laps, the equivalent of one mile. Some players whine about being thirsty, and he tells them to “Go ahead, get some water, but anybody that grabs a drink before they run their mile won’t be starting our first game.” 

I’m thirsty too, but I don’t have an issue with running a flat mile after all those hill runs, so I take the lead and keep it during the run, finishing first, and causing the coach to berate the players even more. He takes a special interest in one lineman, a chunky, sad-faced freckled kid named Corey. As we all finish, he starts the last lap. His face is beyond red, turning to an eggplant shade of purple as he struggles to draw in oxygen. Even with us being kids, we can see that he’s in trouble. He’s not being weak-minded, he’s reached his physical limit. Yet, because of the coach’s words, he wills himself to continue, pushing through the discomfort until it’s unbearable, and he keels over on the track. Our head trainer and a few assistant coaches rush in to care for the downed player, but it’s too late. His heart has failed. Some guys cry, others turn away, not being able to bear the sight of their motionless peer.

I keep my eyes glued to Coach Brown, who stands stone-still, muttering to himself as if he’s having some kind of internal battle. He doesn’t appear worried about his player’s well-being, or the consequences he may face for playing a part in his death. There is something inside of him that is gnawing away, threatening to change a man who’s held in the highest regard and respected throughout the community.

One of the team captains calls the players together. We all get down on one knee in a circle and he leads us in a prayer for our fallen brother. Some of the other guys say a few words. We’re still hoping he’s okay. We don’t know that he died instantly at the spot where he fell. When we break our prayer huddle, the boy is still laying on the field, surrounded by all the coaches. All but one. I look around for Coach Brown, and catch a glimpse of his sweat-soaked t-shirt disappearing into the locker room.

Part 2

I remember his father well. Smug, arrogant prick that he was. We went to school together K-12, thirteen years I put up with him. When we were young, it was simple petty picking. He’d flick my earlobes on the bus, or give me wet-willies. (For those of you that don’t know, it’s when you spit on your finger and stick it in an unsuspecting victim’s ear). The older we got and the bigger he got, the meaner he became, and little fat boy Brown was always the number one target. He put me in the Mellow Yellow dunking booth, which is what he called forcing the victim’s face into a toilet bowl full of urine. If you were lucky, it was fresh. But what he really liked to do was find the toilet full of rust-colored urine that had been sitting for a while. (Our school wasn’t air conditioned back then, so in the early fall and late spring it could get awfully toasty inside).

One day In middle school gym class, he opened my locker and took my clothes, replacing them with these cut-off shorts that were way too small for my girth, and an undersized T-shirt. I go to change after class and find them, so I tell my coach and he says that I shouldn’t have left my locker unlocked. I ask him if I can wear my gym clothes for the rest of the day, but his answer is a strict, no. Long story short, I was forced to parade around in daisy dukes and a belly shirt until one teacher became so utterly disgusted with the sight of me she escorted me to the principal’s office. I told them that someone stole my clothes, but they acted like they didn’t even hear me and suspended me for three days for violating the dress code.

In high school I was spit on, kicked down a small flight of stairs, and… well, there are some humiliations which I’d rather not share with the world. In fact, I believe I’ll take them to my grave.

My rough childhood made me resilient, but that was the only good that came from it. Otherwise, I was bitter towards a world which didn’t care about the fat boy. Nobody ever believed me, and if they did, they turned a blind eye to Mr. Trust-Fund. Mister, “I’m going to be a hedge fund manager just like my dad.” — Gulian Girardi.

I forced him out of my mind when I went to college. I started lifting weights and ended up walking on and starting at left tackle for my division II school. By my senior year, I was 2nd team all-state, and my grades were impeccable. I had a few meetings with some NFL teams, but ultimately decided I’d rather become a teacher. I wanted to help youngsters, especially the ones who weren’t the golden children. My calling was to mentor the dyslexic and give support to the overweight kids. I was determined to make a difference.

Fresh out of college, I got a job as a teacher and assistant football coach for a private school in my hometown. For fifteen years, I did my best to mold boys into young men, both in the classroom and on the field. I gave them tough love, but I wasn’t abusive. I cared about every single one of my students. All of them equally, although the ones who needed special attention received it from me. I would stay late and tutor the kids having problems and I helped kids in the weight room, worked with them on their pass rushing techniques, blocking, and their footwork. The kids loved me, the parents too. The school staff and administrators revered me. Everything was perfect. Absolutely perfect until this past summer, when I saw that last name on my roll sheet: Girardi. I told myself it couldn’t be the same bloodline. Surely there were a million Girardi’s in the world. I let it go. Until we had our meet and greet with the parents and my suspicions were verified. There he was, decked out in a shiny suit, looking more like a pimp than a businessman. Life had been kind to him, even though he didn’t deserve kindness after the hell he put me through. I knew I wasn’t the only one, just the worst case. At least throughout our school years. There’s no telling how many lives he ruined in college and the real world.

I did my best to avoid him that night, but when he noticed me, he made a special trip over to my table to belittle me for my “Lack of ambition.” He said he was only in town because his kid’s “Slut of a mother,” lived here, and she was “Too busy burying her face in blow” to handle her kid.  

Junior wasn’t exactly what I expected. He was a plump little guy with a look on his face that said he knew diddly about the world. He was soft-spoken, well-mannered, and shy. The polar opposite of his father.

I never planned to kill the little guy. At least, not consciously. But subconsciously, I knew he was the weakest link. I also knew the pressure his father put on him to succeed. Two-thousand tons of bad luck, weighing on his shoulders. When he collapsed during that run, I knew I’d gone too far. I wasn’t pleased. I was mortified by how I’d carried on during practice. Never had I ever run the players into the ground like that on such a scorching hot day.

Our wide-receivers coach was the first to get to him. He took off his helmet and checked his pulse and screamed, “He’s not breathing!” He acted fast, slipping the shoulder pads and jersey over his head, then he began CPR, while ordering someone to get him some water. I was stationary as a statue during the entire ordeal. Frozen in fear and indecision for the first time in my adult life. Girardi Junior died on the field that day, but by the grace of God, or thanks to the quick actions of our wide-receivers coach, he came back to life. 

The report of my killer practice session made it to the principal and around the carousel of parents, all of which were infuriated. All except one. I was awaiting the decision of the school board of whether I would be allowed to keep my job, and Girardi senior showed up. I had no doubts he came to watch me flounder and flop like a fish out of water, and witness my embarrassment one last time.  He stayed silent during the hearing while different parties presented their version of the story. I thought the players and coaches who gave testimony were more than fair to me. They said that I’d never run them that hard before, and that I had given them plenty of water breaks throughout the practice. But the final mile long run was the kicker. When a few of the players asked about water and I told them to “Go ahead, go get some water. But if you hit the water cooler, you won’t play in our first game.”  

I didn’t mean it, but they didn’t know that. And I was prepared to take my career execution like a man when they asked Girardi senior if he had anything to say. With junior sitting next to him, he stood up and said, “I don’t understand what everybody is so upset about. My kid,” (He practically shuddered when he said those words,) “is alive. If you want to know my honest opinion, I think he could use some toughness and discipline. I told him months ago that if he was going to go out for the football team, he needed to run outside to get used to the heat.” He looks down at his son with disdain. “But the little fat boy just wants to sit on mamma’s couch and eat fudge rounds and pork rinds. This was just the kick in the teeth he needed to get his butt in shape. The coach should get a medal if you ask me.”

The room goes silent. Everyone looks uncomfortable. No one more than me. I don’t agree with a word he said. There’s a difference between whipping a player into shape and pushing him to the verge of death or over the ledge like I did. I look at his son and see pools welling in his eyes, because his father, a man he looks up to and is doing everything in his power to please, just embarrassed him in front of the entire room. At this moment, I realize that he never grew up. He’s directed his incessant bullying toward his son. I don’t want his endorsement. But his words sway the board to vote that, because I had no prior incidents, and because of the stance of the parent, I would be on probationary status for the rest of the school year and could get back to coaching and teaching immediately.

After the meeting, I hear Girardi senior yelling a few less than encouraging words to Junior as the boy’s mother drives away. I do my best to keep my head down and go straight for my car, but I’m about as inconspicuous as a rhinoceros in Downtown Manhattan. He jogs over to me wearing a smirk and says, “You owe me one. I could’ve crucified you in their, but I saved your ass.”

“Instead, you crucified you own son. The one time in my life I deserved punishment, and you let me slide.”

He lowers his voice. “I couldn’t say this in there, but between you and me, I wish you killed the little bastard. His mother’s bleeding me dry with child support. The more I make, the more I gotta give to her. And he’s far from a prize. I got other kids with my wife up in New York. They’re smart, athletic, — they show off the champion Girardi bloodline. Junior, well… He’s a….”

As I listen to him continuing to berate his son, black circles encase my vision and I feel a lifetime of pent up aggression taking its hold on my limbs. I’ve never had an out-of-body experience until that moment, but now I know it feels like you are watching someone else take control of your body. I watch as I lower my shoulder and drive him into the door of his flawless Mercedes, then I grab his thick black hair and slam his face into the window until blood smears the on the glass. I put him in a head-lock and drive his skull into the side-view mirror, causing his body to go limp as a wet dishrag. I drop him onto the blacktop and I stand over him, ready to use my wingtips to finish the job and wipe this scum from the earth. He rolls over and spits blood through his teeth and says, “Go ahead, fat boy. I know you want to.”

He’s urging me. Taunting me. Begging me. But I step away from his body and shake my head. I won’t fall into his trap. I want to help people. Not destroy them. As I climb into my truck, I hear him say, “I knew you didn’t have it in you! You’re a loser! You’ll always be a loser!” As I drive down the road, I look at myself in the eyes in my rear view mirror for the first time since the day junior almost died, and I like what I see. I’m a pillar of strength. I want to continue helping kids grow and mature and succeed. If Girardi senior is what a winner looks like, then I think I’ll stay a loser.