Playing Hurt

“Yes!” Joshua Meyer yelled, and raised his arms as he reached the tree-marked endzone, still grasping the dirt-caked football in his right hand. “Thirty-Fiiiive to 14. This game is over!” This – Joshua’s third touchdown of the weekend’s second game – didn’t come by way of an interception return or a long fingertip catch, but rather from a tackle-cracking, 30-yard run. And if the backyard field had sideline bleachers and people sitting in them, eating popcorn from small white sacks and pointing excitedly towards their favorite players, they may have noticed how Joshua – instead of eluding tacklers – actually sought them out. The 12-year old didn’t bob, weave or juke-step, he preferred to lower his right shoulder – bowling and high-stepping his way right through his friends. Tommy Boddecker, Travis Smith, Chris Omiatek, and Joe Kingsley – all emitting various shouts of success – ran over to congratulate Josh. The group hustled to the end zone in various kinds of strides, gallops, and skips, knowing the celebrations after touchdowns were usually more fun than achieving the score itself. They gave leaping high-fives, created zany end-zone dances … and usually wound up bent over in laughter. (Of course, as the normal picks for “Team Joshua,” the five boys had grown accustomed to celebrating). After creating a few new dances, the boys walked back to the other end of the field. Play wouldn’t immediately resume, however. An incident had occurred. Near the other end of the field, not far from the row of bushes marking one sideline lay one of Joshua’s first targets during his touchdown run – Big Timmy Brown. Brown rolled in the grass, his body writhing and contorting as he clutched his right leg. Matt Wilson, Timmy’s teammate and closest definition to a best friend, stood over him. “Timmy, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?!” Matt said. Brown yelled as he rocked side to side: “Oww-oh-oh! … Oww!” The grass was tall enough to nearly hide his arms, but a circle of blood showed through a tear in Brown’s blue jeans, just below his knee. After a few more hollers and congratulations, Team Joshua had all wandered over to the scene. None hurried. In general, the boys’ mouths were curled at corners, eyes squinted – as each seemed to hold his own devious thought. (Nobody would ever accuse the bunch of being sensitive). “So what’s up with him?” Travis Smith said, pointing flippantly to the ground. Smith, tall, with defined cheekbones, reddened, chapped lips and straw-blond hair, looked upset. “Oh, he’s fine,” Chris Omiatek said curtly. Travis, now smiling, began to circle the scene: “Yes, you’re right Chris. He’s fine. Little … fat … Timmy’s fine. I don’t see no bone showing.” The group began to form a circle around Brown, who, torn from his usual macho act, still wailed as he rocked back and forth on the grass. Travis, showing a smile that now revealed straight, white teeth and the unadulterated confidence of youth, continued his taunting: “Oh, guys, little bitty Timmy’s hurt. Oh nooo. Should we get him a snack cake? No, that won’t do. I know, how about some Ho-ho’s?” Laughter erupted from the group. Without missing a beat, the next boy entered. “Yes fellas, I see we do have a little wussy here!” Joe Kingsley said, as he strolled towards Brown with intentional flourishes and inflections, looking and sounding like a traveling circus barker. “It looks like Mr. Brown has forgotten our number one rule! In fact, our only rule.” Big Timmy Brown looked up, suddenly quiet. His face contorted as if he were considering whether to ask a question, or to beg for mercy. However, a moment later pain struck again as the large boy resumed his wail-n’-roll. Chris rejoined the taunting. “Yes, that’s right Joseph. I almost forgot. You should know that by now, Big Tim, you should know that you can’t just get hurt out here. C’mon chunky butt, it’s illegal.” Chris’ eyes looked sinister; he wasn’t just having fun by picking on Brown, the boys knew he was gaining vengeance. A few weeks ago, it was Chris who’d been hurt and Brown who’d done the kid-picking. Chris then nudged his foot into Timmy’s belly twice, the second landing with more force than the first. Brown groaned after the first kick, and then swore at Chris as he swatted his foot away during the second. Joe stepped into the circle and spread his arms wide. Missing only a long brown robe, a shaved head, and a crucifix, he began. “Guys, it has been written, hasn’t it? And you know what we have to do if you’re acting hurt, don’t you, Biggy Timmy?” Brown wiped a tear with his forearm and looked up again. His face fell. Brown suddenly seemed to be pain free – as if he knew something worse than blood would be soon on its way. Chris yelled. “Loogie time! You either get up, and start playing hurt, or we spit on you until you do!” The boys formed a tight circle around Timmy and, with heads bowing and lifting, began to gather their mucus. In seconds, a gross chorus formed. Hwwakkk. Hwwwaaaaaccckk. Whaaaaccck! Joshua, who’d been standing amongst his teammates during the entire ordeal—not joining in the circus but laughing from time to time—chose to step in. He pushed his way into the inner circle, nudging out Joe and Chris with his right and left elbows, respectively. “Guys, guys. Alright. You got him,” Joshua said. “I think Timmy gets the point.” Travis and Joe looked up at Joshua, even though their backs still hunched over the prey. For a moment, they stopped their preparations. Chris, however, moved his way back towards Timmy’s face, still planning to punish his nemesis with a batch of saliva. But Joshua saw Chris’s move and pushed Chris away from Timmy. “Let’s remember that we actually want people to come back to play,” Joshua said, as much to Chris as to anyone else. “Why don’t you and Timmy find another way to work out your problems … like on the next series of downs.” Chris flung his arms up in the air as Joshua pushed him backwards. “He’s the one who started it,” Chris said, lying and grinning. “I’m just helping him get back up.” Joshua smiled and laughed. “Yeah, right.” Just yards away, Timmy Brown finally stood up, grunting and huffing as he did. Once on both feet, he lowered his head and peered at the group of boys around him – like a bull ready to attack his annoyances. The circle around him had already parted a bit, and nobody scattered even though Timmy – his face flushed, and shoulders and chest rising and falling – looked ready for vengeance. “Uh-oh, boys, watch out. He looks hungry,” Travis said, drawing a round of laughs from the group. Coming out of a daze, Brown gained his balance just enough to go after the first person he saw – ironically, the newcomer to the neighborhood, Brian Rostendorf – who’d inadvertantly crept behind Joe and Chris moments earlier. Brown chugged two short steps then leapt to make the tackle on Rostendorf, a tackle full of more aggression than any he’d completed during any game. Rostendorf fell to the ground like a bag of dog food tossed in a truck bed. Still grunting, Brown immediately began to swing at Rostendorf’s face. Rostendorf covered his face with his forearms and tried to wiggle free. Most of Brown’s punches glanced off his forearms and shoulders. Joshua and Travis glanced at each other. Oops, their faces said. The two immediately went to gain the innocent newcomer’s freedom, knowing Rostendorf didn’t deserve any of Brown’s retribution. Joshua grabbed Brown under his left arm and pulled him upwards and backwards, while Travis grabbed around Brown’s waist and did the same. With the extra help, Rostendorf soon shook himself out of Brown’s grasp. “Hey! Hey! What’d the heck did I do? I was just standing back there!” Rostendorf yelled. “Nothing,” said Travis. “He must’ve thought you had a donut in your pockets.”