George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

“Fired up!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo.”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

Strange watched the Cardinals warming up down on the edge of the field. He watched their coach, a fat white man in Bike shorts, yelling out the calisthenics count to his team. Strange remembered this guy from a scrimmage late in the summer, a heart attack waiting to happen, and how he coached his kids to be intimidating and mean.

“You hear what went down back there?” said Quinn.

“I heard it,” said Strange.

“I hope we beat the shit out of these guys, Derek, I swear to God.”

There was only so much money in the program. The kids had to come up with fifty dollars to play for the squad, and some of them hadn’t even been able to raise that. Dennis Arrington, who was flush from his job in the computer industry, had donated a couple of thousand dollars to the team. Strange, Blue, and Quinn had come up with a grand between them. It bought good pads and replacement helmets and mouthguards, but it didn’t buy new jerseys and pants. The Panthers’ green uniforms were faded, mismatched, and frayed. The number decals on their scarred helmets rarely matched the numbers on their jerseys.

“It’s not the attitude we’re trying to convey to the boys,” said Quinn, “but I can’t help feeling that way, even though I know it’s wrong.”

“It ain’t wrong,” said Strange. “But we got what we got. Game time comes, it’s not the uniforms gonna decide the contest. It’s the heart in these kids gonna tell the tale.”

Strange called them in. They gathered around him and Quinn. Quinn talked about defense and making the big plays. Strange gave them instructions on the general offensive game plan and a few words of inspiration.

“Protect your brother,” said Strange when he was done, trying to meet eyes with most of the boys kneeling before him. “Protect your brother.”

The boys formed a tight group and put their hands in the center.

“Petworth Panthers!” they shouted, and ran down to the field.

Both teams were rusty at the start of the opening quarter. Morris fumbled an errant Prince snap in the first set of downs but fell on the ball and recovered. They went three-and-out and punted. On first down the Cardinal halfback was taken down behind the line of scrimmage, and on second down he was stripped of the ball. A Panther named Noah picked up the ball off its bounce and ran ten yards before he was dropped. It was the gasoline on the fire the Panthers needed, a wake-up call that would carry them the rest of the game.

The offensive line began to make their blocks and open the holes. Rico hit those holes, and the chains began to move as the team marched down the field. The Cardinals’ coach called a time-out and yelled at his defensive line. Strange could see the veins on the man’s neck standing out from across the field.

“No heart,” said Strange.

“Their hearts are pumpin’ Kool-Aid,” said Blue.

The line tightened its play and stopped a thirty-five-run call on the next play. Strange had Joe Wilder run in the next play to Morris, a triple-right. Morris lobbed a pass in the direction of the three receivers – halfback, end, and flanker – who had lined up on the right and gone out to the flats. Rico caught it and took it in, freed by a Joe Wilder block on the Cardinals’ corner.

Strange stuck with the running game but took it to the outside. The Cardinals’ left side was weak and seemed to be growing weaker the more the coach screamed at his players. At flanker, Wilder was taking out the defensive man assigned to him, pushing him inside, allowing Rico to turn the corner and just blow and go.

By halftime, the Cardinals were totally demoralized and the Panthers were firing on all cylinders. Barring an act of God, the game was theirs, Strange knew.

The second half went the same way. Strange played the bench and rested his first-stringers. The Cardinals managed a score against the Panthers’ scrubs, causing an anemic eruption from the cheerleaders on the other side of the field. But the drive was just a spark, and even their coach, who threw his hat down in disgust when his team turned the ball over on their next possession, knew they were done. The Panthers moved the ball into Cardinal territory easily and were threatening again with a minute left to play.

Strange brought Joe Wilder out of the game and rested his hand on his shoulder. “Next play, I want you to tell Dante to down the ball. Just let the clock run out, hear?”

“Let me take it in, Coach,” said Wilder. He was smiling at Strange, his eyes eager and bright. “Forty-four Belly, that’s my play.”

“We won, Joe. We don’t need to be rubbin’ it in their faces.”

“C’mon, Coach Derek. I ain’t touched the ball all day. I know I can run it in!”

Strange squeezed Wilder’s shoulder. “I know you can, too, son. You got real fire in you, Joe. But we don’t do like that out here. Those boys been beat good today. I don’t like to put the boot to someone’s face when they’re down, and I don’t want you doin’ it either. That’s not the kind of man I want you to be.”

“Okay, then,” said Wilder, the disappointment plain on his face.

“Go on, boy. Run the play in to Dante like I told you.”

The game ended the way Strange had instructed. At the whistle, the players gathered on the sideline. Wilder got a hug from Quinn and a slap on the helmet from Strange.

“Line up,” said Strange. “Now, when you go to shake their hands, I don’t want to hear a thing except ‘Good game.’ No trash-talking, you understand? You said all you needed to on the field. After what you did out there, don’t shame yourselves now, hear?”

The Panthers met the Cardinals in the center of the field, touched hands as they went down the line. The Panthers said ‘Good game’ to each player they passed, and the Cardinals mumbled the same words in reply. Dante Morris stared into the eyes of the pug-nosed boy who had cracked on their uniforms, but Morris didn’t say a word, and the boy quickly looked away. At the end of the line the Cardinals’ coach shook Strange’s hand and congratulated him through teeth nearly clenched.

“All right,” said Quinn, as the team returned and took a knee before him. “I liked the way you guys played today. A lot of heart. Just remember, it’s not always going to be this easy. We’re going to be playing teams who have better athletes and are better coached. And you need to be ready. Ready in your minds, which means you keep your heads in the books during the day. And ready physically as well. That means we’re going to continue to practice as hard as we ever have. We want the championship this year, right?”

“Right!”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Right!”

“What time is practice Monday night?” said Strange.

“Six o’clock on the dot, be there, don’t miss it!”

“I’m proud of you boys,” said Strange.

LATER that afternoon, Quinn sat behind the counter of Silver Spring Books reading The Pistoleer, a novel by James Carlos Blake. His coworker, Lewis, was back in the military history room, straightening the shelves. A homeless intellectual whom everyone in the area called Moonman was sitting on the floor in the sci-fi room, reading a paperback edition of K. W. Jeter’s The Glass Hammer . A customer browsed the mystery stacks nearby.

Quinn had put Johnny Winter And on the turntable, and the molten blues-metal classic was playing at a low volume throughout the store. Syreeta, the owner of the business, who was rarely on site, had instructed the employees to play the used vinyl in stock to advertise the merchandise. This disc, with its faded black-and-white cover portraits, had recently been inventoried as part of a large purchase, a carton of seventies albums.