Senior Year of High School

 

The moment he walked into the principal’s office, the air turned cold. If the look that he shot me was any indication of how pissed he was, I was in for a good, long lecture. He always started out with, “What you need is ROTC,” or, “Maybe I should just send your ass to military school, make something out of the worthless piece of shit that you are.” I’d love to be able to tell him not to pull that drill-instructor shit on me, but he would probably knock the shit out of me and I would end up in military school anyway.

My father joined the military straight out of high school. He wanted nothing more than to get away from his father’s ranch in Mason, Texas. I was pretty sure that when he dies, he would still be in the army. He was good at what he did—if he would only leave it at the front door when he got home. He worked long hours and was often in a piss-poor mood.

I looked up as I heard the door open to Mr. Deets’s office. My father stepped out dressed in his Class A uniform and carrying his campaign cover in his hand.

Shit. He looked even more pissed than when he first walked in.

“Mr. Mathews, if Gunn . . . errr, um, Drew gets into one more fight, I am afraid we are going to have to suspend him from the football team. That is the last thing we want to do. We need you, Drew, to win State,” Mr. Deets said as he shook my father’s hand and winked at me. My father replied with a “humph” and turned to walk away.

My father hated the idea of me playing football. My grandfather and mother practically had to beg him to let me play when I was seven. Once I stepped out on the field, I knew I found where I belonged. Football was all I had. I cared more about football than I did about girls . . . or the army.

I stood up to leave and shook Mr. Deets’s hand before I turned to follow my father out the door. I knew he would remain silent until we got to his truck.

Shit! I didn’t know why I hit Brad Jennings. Okay, well, I did know why. I saw the fucker behind the school push his girlfriend up against a wall, and it looked like he was about to hit her. No way I was going to let some douchebag asshole hit a girl.

So, I got involved.

There really was no use in trying to explain it to him. He wouldn’t understand. Even if he did, he would still be pissed. It was the third fight I’d been in since school started two months ago. This latest fight was the last straw, with Mr. Deets saying I might get cut from the team.

Get cut from the team? Football was all I had. I had to get my shit together and get my head on straight. It was the first time in my life I ever felt accepted and needed . . . the feeling was fucking great. The only other place I felt needed was at Gramps’s ranch.

Ever since my father got transferred to Fort Sill when I had just entered eighth grade, I had come to depend on football as my escape from my drill-instructor father. That man lives to tell me I need to focus on my grades and go in the army like he did. There is no way in hell I was going into the army.

My plan was to take the football scholarship I was offered at the University of Texas and get back to my grandfather and the ranch. Some of my best childhood memories were from his ranch. Man, I love that place. I could practically smell my Gram’s chicken and dumplings.

I told my grandfather that my dream was to play football and to get into architectural engineering. He was, of course, 100 percent supportive, which I think pissed my father off even more.

The minute the door shut to his black F-150 truck, I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing getting into another fight, Drew? Your mother is going to be devastated by this!”

Sure, bring my mom into it, you asshole. “It’s Gunner. I like to be called Gunner,” I shot back at him, a little too pissed off. I was mad that he was trying to bring my mom into this and guilt me yet again.

“The last time I looked on your birth certificate it clearly stated your name was Drew Garrett Mathews. Not fucking Gunner. Where the fuck did you come up with that name?” My father hissed at me through gritted teeth.

“Coach was telling the rest of the team how to hustle and used me as an example on the punt special team. He said I played the gunner position better than anyone, and I always made it down the field the fastest and made the most tackles. He started to call me Gunner and so did the guys. It just stuck.”

“Is that so? Think you are a hot shot ’cause you are some star high school football player? Bullshit! You are never going to make anything out of your life playing goddamn football! Nothing! Where could you possibly go in your life? You think football is going to get you anywhere?” My father said this with so much hatred I cringed.

I had yet to tell him about my scholarship and made my mother and grandfather promise not to tell him. I was going to wait until after football season, but fuck it.

“Sir, I got accepted into the University of Texas. I got my letter this summer. I intend to go.”

My father let out a laugh that just about made my stomach drop. “How the hell you think you’re going to pay for college? I’m not helping, I can tell you that right now.”

“I got a football scholarship, sir, and Gramps said he would help out with a place to stay in Austin,” I said with as much strength in my voice as I could muster. He didn’t need to know Gramps already said he would cover any other expenses my scholarship lacked.

“Is that so? Well, just to let you know: do not call me when you fail. Which you will, I guarantee it. Do not call me when you need help. Do not call me when your little football plan does not work out. As of right now, I am done with you.”