Eight Inches. Sean Wolfe Fay
stayed behind and ran several laps around the field as fast and as hard as he could. He’d thought that if he ran fast and long and hard enough, that he’d feel better about himself and his lackluster performance. It didn’t work out that way, though, and instead he realized that he’d let himself go over the summer and was out of shape. His throat felt like sandpaper, and excruciating pain shot up through his ribs, which felt like they were on fire. He didn’t dare try to stand up yet, because he was sure his legs would not support him.
He felt so removed from reality. The first six weeks at UCLA had been an eye-opener, and not one he particularly welcomed. Back home at Haverford High School, in the quaint Philadelphia suburb where he’d grown up, he was the superstar quarterback who could do no wrong. He was the guy that every girl wanted to claim as her own, and with which every guy wanted to be seen. The trophy case in the main hallway had numerous trophies bearing his name, and even the teachers treated him with a sense of respect and awe.
Los Angeles was a whole other world for him, and he felt like E.T. trying desperately to get back home. Despite his six foot two frame and 210 pounds of solid muscle, he was treated as a little kid at UCLA. Upperclassmen teased and harassed him, and most of the girls pinched his cheeks and looked at him as if he were a lost and mangy puppy. They were all after the same guys who taunted Justin. And to top it all off, he wasn’t even being considered for a quarterback position at UCLA. He was alternating between center and wide receiver, and he didn’t like either of those positions.
School itself was much more difficult than he’d expected, too. He took the minimum number of courses, and those that were considered easy and “blowoff classes. Everyone else seemed to be sailing through them with no problem, but Justin was barely squeaking by, and that was with him studying hard for three or four hours a night after football practice.
He lay down on his back on the grass and stared up at the darkening sky. It was just past dusk, and the stars were beginning to peek out from the advancing darkness. No matter what was happening in his life, how bad things got or how much he wished he were someone else, watching the skies and the stars always calmed him down and helped him put things in perspective. He grabbed a couple of handfuls of grass from the field and threw them high into the air. When the blades were within a couple of inches from his face, he blew them up and away from him.
“Bennett, is that you?”
Justin startled, and sat up as gracefully as he could. “Coach Wynette?”
“What’s going on here?” the offensive coach asked as he walked over and sat next to Justin. “Why aren’t you off fucking your girlfriend or something? Practice ended almost an hour ago.”
“I just thought I’d get in a couple of extra laps, you know, without all the other slowpokes getting in my way.”
Coach Wynette laughed. “Right. You have penis envy or something? Can’t see the other guys in the shower without getting a boner?”
“No!” Justin said quickly. “I just felt like I was a little sluggish today, and wanted to put in a little extra time.”
“You were more than a little sluggish today, Bennett,” the coach said, and put a piece of gum in his mouth. “You sucked a big old donkey dick this afternoon. It looked like I was watching a high school junior varsity game or something.”
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Like fuck it wasn’t, kid,” Coach Wynette said, and kicked at Justin’s feet. “What the hell is up with you? I saw you play three different games back in Philly, and you were brilliant. You weren’t that same kid out on the field today. Why not?”
“I just can’t get into playing wide receiver, coach. I haven’t played anything other than quarterback for the past three years. It’s in my blood.”
Coach Wynette laughed. “That’s ridiculous, son. It’s not in your blood. We can tell when it’s ‘in your blood,’ that’s what we’re trained to look for. And it’s easy to spot when it is there. It’s like an aura around your body, if you believe in that shit. But it’s there even if you don’t believe in it. Well, for guys who do have it in their blood, it is. It’s not there for you, Bennett.”
Justin flinched.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” the coach said. “It doesn’t mean you can’t be a damned good football player. Obviously it doesn’t mean that, or we wouldn’t have brought you here on a scholarship. It just means that you aren’t quarterback material, not on a college level, or at least not on our college level. But you might make a decent center or a better-than-decent wide receiver. If you can get your shit together, that is.”
“I’m trying, coach, really I am,” Justin said as he stretched his legs. “It’s just that it’s harder than I thought it would be.”
“What is?”
“School. I wasn’t expecting it to be this hard. I barely had to study at all back in high school, and I sailed through. Here, I study my ass off and I’m barely scraping by.”
Coach Wynette snickered again. “Boy, they grow ’em naïve back in Philly, don’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“You sailed through high school because you were the star athlete, and they needed you more on the field than they did in study hall. And your good grades would make you more marketable to good universities, which in turn looks good for the high school. Or at least it would if you were to become a star college player as well.”
Justin looked stunned.
“Don’t worry, the same thing can happen here, Bennett. We can sail you on through the classes here, too. But not until you become more valuable to us. Not until you become a star player for us like you were for your high school back home. We have to be getting something in return for the favor. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir,” Justin said, even though he really didn’t have a clue.
“Good. So you just do whatever it takes to keep scraping by if you have to. But you better dig deep down and find whatever it takes to make you a superstar on this field. Do you hear me? Whatever it takes. When you do, and when you make a name for yourself here, and when pro scouts start mentioning your name, then you’ll see that school just starts magically getting easier. Capiche?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Coach Wynette said, and stood up. “Now get your ass back to your room and start studying. And I goddammed better see a better practice out of you tomorrow.”
III.
Justin had intended, with every ounce of his being, to apply himself and to do better in school since his talk with Coach Wynette almost a month ago. He wanted more than anything to be that superstar athlete his coach had spoken to him about. And he knew deep down that he could be that person.
But knowing he could be that person and actually becoming that person were two very different things, and the latter was proving to be much more difficult than the former. He tried to study, to understand the words he read in his books, to make sense of the psychological and philosophical crap that his professors insist he read. But it all just gave him a headache, and he couldn’t get out of his head all of the laughter and fun that everyone else on his floor seemed to be having without him.
“Are you even listening to me right now, Bennett,” Professor Reid said, “or are you daydreaming like you do in class?”
“What?” Justin said sleepily. Goddam, Reid sounded a lot like the invisible teacher in the old Charlie Brown cartoons. “Huh?”
Professor Reid laughed, and shook his head. “Get out of my classroom, punk. You just failed this class.”
“No,” Justin said, suddenly snapped back to the present. “No, please, Professor Reid. I can’t fail this class. I can’t flunk any class. I’m barely getting by, and if I fail any classes,