Chapter Three
Channing
In high school, Coach Larson told me that eating right was the best thing I could possibly do for myself. It took me all of an hour to adopt that philosophy, and I never regretted it. I took a protein shake and a sandwich bag of broccoli out to the courtyard and proceeded to fight off an undead hoard on my phone.
I was the zombie master. I had three-inch thick adamantium armor and a plasma gun that disintegrated every piece of rotting flesh in sight with a single tap. At this point, it was just mindless destruction until a pale white hand grabbed my character’s shoulder and flipped me around. The mangled corpse was standing sideways on a broken foot, and he was holding a rusty knife that he thrust forward. I died instantly.
Mike grabbed me by the shoulders from behind and jolted me.
“I’m going to kill you.” I stood up, grabbed my bag, and held it up to bash him with it. He turned around and started running. I slammed him into the grass and put him in a headlock.
“Get off me!”
“Say, ‘I’m sorry, Channing.’”
“Screw you!”
I dug my arm into his throat. “I’m sorry, Channing.”
“I’m sorry!”
I let him go and stood up to offer him my hand. He took it, and I pulled him up so hard his feet went off the ground. When he righted himself, he socked me in the shoulder.
“Hey, that hurt.”
“You deserved it.”
I walked back to our table to get my bag and pull out a water bottle. “It is far too hot out here.”
“You won’t notice once you’re running,” Mike snagged a piece of broccoli from the bag sitting on the table.
I snatched the bag from him. “We have 15 minutes to get to the locker room.”
Mike’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t wanna.”
“Let’s go.” We took a path between the dorms and the science building, leading across the outer field, towards the gymnasium. The university spent most of their money on the athletics department. We had the best equipment, the best facilities, and an arena bigger than the one downtown. The NFL used our field when they came to town.
The locker room might as well have been a spa. There were saunas, a pool, Jacuzzi tubs, and private showers. I took my time getting my gear together and scrubbing myself down. Practice was for me. It wasn’t about bragging or snapping towels around, but some talking was required. I was the guy that everyone wanted to talk to, so I had to learn to keep myself detached.
A shrill whistle ripped through the air. “Let’s go!” Coach Saxon strode past the rows of lockers.
“Barker, front and center,” he sounded off when he reached the double doors leading out to the practice field.
“Yes, Coach.” I ran out, and the other players followed me single file. Coach popped the doors open, and we ran past as he congratulated each of us. “Good game.” When we lined up, he blew his whistle. “Four laps. Hustle, hustle, hustle.”
My feet moved faster than my mind. I ran out onto the track, closed my eyes and let the wind rush past me. There was nothing purer or more beautiful than running. It represented self-betterment, an act of will, proving time and time again that I could accomplish anything so long as I pushed myself.
The trick was not to think. The second I thought about moving my feet, or whether or not I was flinging my arms, I’d slow down and lose time. My goal was to beat my time every day. I didn’t always make it, but I pressed myself to the limit, struggling to keep my legs, my lungs, and my heart pounding. Nothing else existed but me and the field and the track lines racing past. They seemed to curve of their own accord, then straight again, past the goal, one, two, three times. I left everyone else behind, but I didn’t notice.
Competition was nothing. The only one that I had to prove myself to was myself. The only reason I played was to hone my body and keep my mind sharp. Winning was about the accomplishment and progress, but it wasn't everything. So long as I was bettering myself, it didn’t matter.
The coach was standing at the finish line when I stopped running. “Eight minutes, fifteen seconds.” He tapped the timer on his phone. “You are one hell of a runner.” He was standing next to a table with cups and an orange water dispenser. I poured myself a cup, took a drink, and threw another on my sweat-drenched face. “You’re screwing up, Barker.” He was still facing the track with his timer.
“What are you talking about?”
“Eight minutes, fifty seconds,” he tapped his phone. “Eight minutes, fifty-two seconds. Fifty-three.” The team was running on and he was distracted. He had us line up at the edge of the field, and we went through our exercises—sixty jumping jacks, a hundred squats, a hundred push-ups, then crunches. I got through the workout easily and moved onto field exercises, relay, then a mock game. Not once did the coach take his eyes off me. I saw him smiling when I threw a pass out to Mike and he made a goal. Afterward, I looked back and he was shaking his head.
He blew his whistle. “Dress down! Hustle, hustle, hustle.” We ran single file into the locker room, and I went back to my locker to change. “Barker!”
“Yes, Coach,” I called out.
“In my office now.” I wanted to run out. Things were supposed to be simple and easy; a quick run, a good workout—playing with the guys. This wasn’t right.
The man was military with a bright red face of leather and a gray buzz cut, but he took care of himself. His office reflected his trademark discipline, a simple stack of papers in the corner, a plain metal desk, and his tablet. He was staring down at it when I walked in and sat down.
Coach kept his eyes posted to the screen. “I’ve got three emails that I’m looking at right now. Would you like me to read one of them to you?”
“Pfft, no.”
“Channing is a disgrace to this institution. Please, for the love of God, take his face off of the jumbotron and chain him to a desk.”
“Fucking hag.”
The coach laughed. “That’s not the only one. She sent me a message this morning saying that you shouldn’t be allowed to waste good government funds on a shitty education.”
“Coach…”
“I don’t care. Hamburg might be a wretched woman, but she is your teacher, and you’re about to fail her class, and she’s not the only one either. Did you really fall asleep in calculus last week?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Give me one good reason why I should let you play.”
I turned back and pointed out the office window, where a poster with my face on it was taped to the wall. “That stadium holds thousands of people, and I’m the reason why they’re buying tickets to see the game.”
“This is a school, not a league. I have to play things by the book. If you don’t get your grades up, you can’t play. You won’t even be allowed in the locker room.”
“But—”
“No, that’s the rules. It ain’t my problem. You should be studying anyway, and Channing, I know what you’re doing. You’re holding out thinking you’ll get signed, but it might not happen. You might have to fall back on school.”
“Shit.” I got up and walked out. Mike was leaning against the cinderblock wall to my right. “You were listening.”
“Of course I was. I thought he was going to bench you.”
“He’d better not.” I started walking back to my locker.
“You don’t get it.” He followed me.
“What?” I pulled my clothes and a towel out.
“You’re blaming everyone else when what you should be doing is focusing on yourself. Did you go to the tutoring center?”
“No,” I groaned. “I know, I should’ve.”
“You are screwed if you don’t do something about this.”
“Hey, you don’t have much room to talk.”
“At least I’m working on it.” He walked off, and I slammed my locker shut to go shower.
When I got done, I toweled off, dressed, and walked out to the courtyard to call the tutoring center. They wanted me to meet the tutor early Monday morning.