Anthology

The Free Ride

Charles A. Barley

 

As his vision cleared, he could see he was in the training room again. The room was spinning and his stomach was heaving.
“Get that trash can over here. He’s going to puke again,” said the head trainer.
It was his third concussion in as many weeks. Maybe this one would get him a free rideto the hospital. The things he could remember from the last three weeks were a mad kaleidoscope of blurs. He knew this much: the Darvon the trainers gave him were just not getting the job done. He had had a three-week headache so bad at times he couldn’t see, or, when he could see, he saw double. When he had told Coach about it before practice, the only answer was “Hit the one in the middle.”
“Inform his mom that he just got his bell rung, but we are going to take him to the hospital just to be sure, and we are taking good care of her boy.”
As the room spun, he could not help but think, "Why bother to inform her now, ya sorry son of a bitche? Ya hadn’t bothered with the other two, or the two last fall."
The room stank of sweaty jock straps and jerseys, blood, rubbing liniment, alcohol, tape, ammonia, and now puke.
“How long was he out this time?” asked Booger Red.
“’Bout six minutes,” the trainer replied.
“Well, Coach said to git ‘im dressed and back out on the field. We’re ‘bout to start work on the kickin’ game,” said Booger.
“Y’all tryin’ to kill this kid? He ain’t goin’ nowhere but to the hospital . . . and you can tell that asshole I said that.”
Ol’ Booger looked sullen, took a deep breath, and said softly, "Coach ain’t goin’ like that none. That kid has three more years on his free ride. We are all on the bubble, and that includes you Ross. We need ‘im on the specialty teams. He’s the only deep snapper we got.”
A look from Ross was all it took to send Booger out of the training room and back to the field to report to Coach.
“How many fingers am I holdin’ up, Big Un?” Ross asks.
Four?
“What day of the week is it?”
DamnedifIknow
“Smelley, git that damn popper from under his nose. The kid is already sick."
Sarge the equipment manager wanders in asking “Where’s his helmet?”
“Over in the corner—split right down the middle like the last two,” replied Smelley.
“Ya can’t even make a decent lamp out of this. This kid is costin’ the school a small fortune in helmets alone. I told that cheap son of a bitch he wouldn’t save any money by buyin’ them damn suspension helmets.” Sarge fumed out.
“I feel like this may be the best recruiting class ever. (What he didn’t bother to tell them was only one of forty-five would ever graduate). Why, I will personally take care of him like he was my own son. What this scholarship guarantees him is room, board, books, tuition, fifteen dollars a month for laundry, as well as tutors for any class he might have trouble in (so long as we need him ). This is truly a free ride. Just sign right here next to your son . . . "
“Where’s that ambulance?” asks Ross
Coach Billy, the special teams coach, came in the training room. It was apparent to everyone that he was not pleased.
“Why wasn’t that kid sent back to practice? The spring game is Saturday, and we couldn’t even get the ball back to the punter. Now just how is that going to look to the new chancellor and the boosters? Throw a handful of Darvon down that big ol’ puss’s throat, and get him on the field tomorrow!”
“Kid, there is forty-five thousand seats at ten bucks a pop just waitin’ to be filled. You show them some of those highlight reel hits you made last year, and they will all be screamin’ your name. Listen . . . Can’t ya just hear it now” (putting his hand to his ear as the stadium scoreboard was flashing the seventeen year old’s name in lights).
He heard nothing but the West Texas wind.
“I’m gonna leave ya in ‘Ol Bobby’s hands for now,
(he leaned over slipping a Franklin in the players hand and whispered to Bobby,
(“git ‘em throwed and blowed”) then to the kid
“and I’ll see ya at the game tonight. We’re gonna introduce ya to all those fans at half time.”
Bobby, who wouldn’t be there in the fall, made a quick calculation. Let’s see, now ten to get the kid taken care of in, “Adult Disney Land” a cross the River, a fiver for beer and the rest for me.
“Come on kid I’ll give ya a free ride.”
“Booger!” Coach yelled. “What’s this shit ‘bout the kid? Ya know damn good an' well we got forty-sumthin’ thousand supporters, the chancellor and the alumni association officers gonna be here Saturday. I need that lil’ commie piss ant. (A Dylan record and anti-war poetry had been found in his room on room inspection.) There’s a lot riding on this, like contract extensions and T. V. shows and Graduate Assistant grants—not to mention we got forty-five more recruits we’re gonna introduce to the crowd.”
“I know Coach, but Ross feels like maybe it would be better to send him to the hospital and sit him the rest of the spring.”
By now they were at the training room door. The Coach screamed out at the kid still lying on his back.
“Kid what do ya think all those pro scouts are gonna think of ya? Ya gotta play with the lil’ hurts!”
At the same time, ‘ol Booger had the forty-five new recruits out on the field sayin’ . . .
”There is forty-five thousand seats at ten bucks a pop just waitin’ to be filled. You show them some of those highlight-reel hits you guys made last year, and they will all be screamin’ your name. Listen, . . . Can’t ya just hear it now?” (putting his hand to his ear as the stadium scoreboard was flashing the seventeen year olds’ name in lights).
Back in the training room the coach roared, “What do ya think this is, a free ride!"