State In ’08

All-Conference Fiction

In accordance with our mission of producing content that celebrates the traditions and customs of the American people, the following is a semi-fictionalized short story, based upon the experiences of Club members, to usher in the beginning of one of America’s most treasured pastimes: high school football. We hope you will enjoy.

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6:00 AM: The Road to State starts in 13 hours, and number 9 is going to die.

The number 43, outlined in white and yellow against a mesh navy blue jersey, stares me in the face as soon as I wake up. We were issued our game jerseys last night after our final team meeting, and I hung it up against the door to make sure nothing else but the game was on my mind for the rest of the day. Not school, not girls, not even my family. Game day means nothing matters until 7:00 PM.

6:30 AM: The Road to State starts in 12 and a half hours, and number 9 is going to die.

Mom, Dad, and Jordy are still asleep. Breakfast is three eggs, two sausage patties, orange juice, and the defense. Every bite is followed by a page of the playbook. Egg yolk, flip page. Sausage, flip page. OJ, flip page.

Last season, I was starting outside linebacker on the junior varsity squad. My jobs were to mug tight ends at the line, spill on outside run, keep contain, follow the back into the flat, and make sure every hit came with a crash. Dad always told me, “You’re either the hammer or a nail.” That’s how he got to college ball, and that’s how I’m going to. I wasn’t the biggest kid, but I will never be a nail.

Last year I took two running backs and one receiver out of our games. I watched them fold and struggle to get up. On the varsity, I’m third string. Being buried on the depth chart means two things: know the playbook — because you can’t ride the bench AND be a dumbass — and do your job wherever you can find work. Work this season means kickoff team, and that’s mine until I can’t walk.

7:00 AM: The Road to State starts in 12 hours, and number 9 is going to die.

The drive to school helps me keep my focus. Every other house is a reminder of what’s gotta get done. “SIOUX TO STATE IN ’08” plastered in bold, blue letters on plywood signs populate every neighborhood.

Pulling into the parking lot, and I see 74 beat me there. Cam Erhmoff is a junior, too, but at 6′2″ and 255, that means he’s starting at guard this season. Cam always wanted to duke it out in practice with me since I never let up on him, but he respected me for it. It made him a better player, but our battles always got us pissed off to a point where we tried to kill each other. Coaches always let it happen. Said it gave us an edge.

“HIT SQUAD, BABY!” came in as clearly through my windows as if he yelled it right to my face when I pulled in. Hit Squad was the kickoff team, and Cam was as excited to see us get a crack on the Plainfield boys as much as he was to start on offense.

“You ready to fuck somebody up, McNamara?” The only thing on my mind, 74. The only thing on my mind these last four weeks.

9:00 AM: The Road to State starts in 10 hours, and number 9 is going to die.

Second period English is a waste of time. We were supposed to finish chapters 3 to 6 of “Wandering Heights,” but I haven’t even read the dust jacket. Ms. Cleary won’t call on me; I’m wearing a football jersey. Fridays mean we wear our jerseys to school, and that separates us from the civilians. It also means different treatment. Don’t call on us; we’re locked in for tonight and have bigger things to worry about than your lesson plan. Faculty and students know the drill. It’s on us to win.

12:00 PM: The Road to State starts in 7 hours, and number 9 is going to die.

The season opener calls for a pep rally. The cheerleaders make signs with the number of every starter and post them around the gym. Number 43 isn’t up on the wall, but I couldn’t give a shit about that or this rah-rah crap they make everyone sit through. I got a job, and this doesn’t help.

“And now, the captains of your 2008 Beaver Valley High Fighting Sioux!”

Students, teachers, and the mascot give the Tomahawk chop as 12, 55, and 33 jog out to the center of the court. Number 12 is Nate Healy, starting quarterback; 55 is Pat Mannheim, starting center; 33 is Charlie Donovan, starting middle linebacker.

Healy has his sunglasses on and hat backwards. He’s trying to look cool and collected, but he doesn’t want anyone to see his eyes are about as big as saucers right now. He threw three picks in the semifinals against Ratliff High last season, and it’s haunted him for the past nine months.

Mannheim is coming off of Second-Team All-Conference from a year ago. He’s had surgeries on both shoulders and had to pack ice on them every day after practice during August. He’s always in pain after games, but he’s not letting the town down. Only State can make the pain go away.

Donovan would be a real piece of shit if he wasn’t wearing a blue jersey with “BEAVER VALLEY” across the chest. The crew cut, square jaw, and “Don’t Fuck With Me” look on his face kept everyone at arm’s length. He wears the same number his brother did. His older brother, Mike, was the conference Defensive Player of the Year back in ’01 playing defensive end. Mike was bigger, more athletic, and nicer than Charlie back when he was in high school. Mike passed in a car wreck in 2003 driving back home from college on Thanksgiving break. Charlie has to pass by Mike’s picture every day in the school’s trophy case when he walks to class. It keeps him humble, but more importantly, it keeps him mean. Number 33 was retired until Charlie got on the team. The coaches saw no issues.

We all walked by that trophy case. The biggest award in the cabinet came from the 1999 squad that took State. This season will be our best shot at putting another trophy behind glass in almost a decade. I know it, Healy, Mannheim, and Donovan know it, the town knows it, and Plainfield High knows it.

3:00 PM: The Road to State starts in 4 hours, and number 9 is going to die.

I don’t know why they even make us sit through class on Fridays, but the formalities are over. The defense takes over the history classroom with a projector for the final film session before kickoff. Number 40, Brian McInnerney, is the starter at Sam Linebacker, and wherever he moves on film, my eyes follow. McInnerney’s a senior and has fifteen pounds on me, but I need to know his job almost better than he does if I want a shot at the starting defense next season. McInnerney showed coaches he had guts on the Hit Squad as a junior, and when you keep showing up on film, you force them to recognize you. I’m getting on game film tonight, and I’m making damn sure the coaches keep notes on 43.

5:30 PM: The Road to State starts in 1 and a half hours, and number 9 is going to die.

Everyone’s getting taped up and going stir-crazy from the wait. Seventy-two players cooped up and ready to finally hit someone with a different-colored jersey on. Erhmoff, Mannheim, and the rest of the offensive line take up a corner, passing around cans of Copenhagen and using Gatorade bottles for spitters. Healy’s with quarterbacks and receivers using a whiteboard drawing up routes. I’m with Donovan, McInnerney, and the linebackers going over coverage assignments. Some guys are blasting Slayer on their headphones, some guys are listening to rap, some are bullshittin’ and talking about parties after the game. Parties suck for losers.

6:00 PM: The Road to State starts in 1 hour, and number 9 is going to die.

Eggs, sausage patties, orange juice. A sickly sweet and acidic concoction that, on top of the cherry Gatorade I had an hour ago, has produced a stream of brown, watery filth into the toilet. I haven’t thrown up before a game before today. I’ve also never played for a team trying to win a State Title before.

The stall door next to me crashes open as I hear someone else’s nerves leaving the pit of his stomach. As I peer behind the door, the player’s head is in the bowl, but I can make out a 12 as the torso began to shudder and contort.

“You done heavin’, Healy?”

“Fuck yeah, Mac.” He let out one more dry belch with nothing left in the tank. “Fuck yeah…”

6:50 PM: The Road to State starts in ten minutes, and number 9 is going to die.

Everyone is in formation standing on the sideline, helmet in his left hand, right hand over his heart, all facing Old Glory.

“…O’er the land of the free, and the home of the—”

“SIOUX!”

6:55 PM: The Road to State starts in five minutes, and number 9 is going to die.

Numbers 12, 55, and 33 of Beaver Valley face 7, 15, and 63 of the Plainfield Pioneers at the 50-yard line. The three on each side all exchange handshakes, Plainfield with their helmets off and our boys with their helmets on. We’re always ready for war. Donovan isn’t breaking eye contact with 7, Plainfield’s quarterback. He’s waiting for 7 to look down.

“Plainfield is the visiting team, so it will be their call. Gentlemen, call it in the air.”

The ref sends the silver dollar into the air.

Number 7 calls tails, and sure enough, it is.

“Plainfield has won the toss and elected to receive.”

Before the captains on either side shake hands, 7 averts Donovan’s gaze. Number 33 is in his head, and is about to be in his facemask for the next few hours.

But Plainfield wants the ball. My opportunity to get on film starts with the first play.

6:57 PM: The Road to State starts in three minutes, and number 9 is going to die.

Coach Simmons rallies his legion on the sideline. “KICKOFF! On me!”

All eleven of us hang on his every word. We’ve been yelled at, instructed, and made to sprint for hours leading up to this first play. We’ve got our assignments, and more importantly, we have our targets.

“Brannigan, angle it to the left hash and force him to bounce it outside. Brock, O’Malley, and Jones, you take care of the wedge. McNamara! Keep your lane responsibility, keep everything inside of your left shoulder. Don’t let anyone get to your outside.”

7:00 PM: “Brannigan is set to kick off for the Sioux.”

The Road to State starts right now.

“Number 9, Quintin Davis, is back deep to receive for the Pioneers.”

And number 9 is about to fucking die.

7:03 PM: “Number 43, Jack McNamara, with tackle at the 19-yard line of the Pioneers, and Davis is slow to get up…”