I got a little nervous when Komen said, Take your shoes off, gentlemen. Relax. Gary was pulling on a slimy rope. We were all playing it cool. We were all laughing and joking. We didn’t feel nervous, we were part of the team. I didn’t have to worry that Gary was pulling up a crab trap. I didn’t have to worry that they were going to make the crabs pinch our toes. We’d been buzzed in. We didn’t have to worry anymore.
And I was right again. It wasn’t a crab trap. It was a blue cooler, secured with a bungee cord and covered in barnacles. I felt that something incredible was about to happen.
Nature’s refrigerator, Gary said, gesturing toward the bay. He unhooked a rusty carabiner on the bungee cord and opened the top of the cooler. It was filled with rows of golden cans. Sunken treasure, Dean said. We all laughed.
Dean tossed beers to the others, one at a time. The smell from practice drifted away over the slow-moving water. We dipped our bare toes in the bay. Our feet were hot and tired, and the water felt good.
I wasn’t sure if we sophomores were going to get beers or not.
Greg Morrissey and Matt Iglehart didn’t want beer. I was confused, but I didn’t want to look stupid, so I didn’t say anything. But they told us anyway. We’re on Oxy, they said. Can’t drink on Oxy.
Shrivels your swimmers.
Which is why I don’t mess with Oxy.
Me neither. I save them for girls.
Yeah. It’s better that way. When the girl takes the Oxy. We all laughed at that.
“What’s Oxy?” Richard was my oldest friend, but I really wished he wouldn’t be such a dickhead. Dean still hadn’t tossed us beers. Morrissey and Iglehart looked at each other and started laughing.
Oxy makes you happy about everything, Komen said.
Yeah, Wilbur got it when he broke his ankle in June, Iglehart said.
Matt Wilbur, one of the seniors, raised his beer in salute. He didn’t say anything.
Komen said, He’s a true tough guy. He took, what, like one a day? Barely any. So he could save some of the love for the team. Komen had a couple of big pits on his nose, like he’d scratched a bad batch of zits. He had a lot of freckles so you couldn’t really see the scars. But I was sitting a few feet away from him; I could see. He was pretty funny looking, actually. But everyone seemed to like him. He talked for a while. You guys can try some next time, he was saying. There’s not enough to go around now, but it won’t be long until someone else gets injured and gets a prescription. There’s always injuries.
Then Komen looked at Wilbur. Wilbur nodded. He seemed to be the resident expert on injuries. He seemed to be a true tough guy. He hadn’t said a single word yet. And then he said, If it’s you? You know what to do.
We nodded solemnly. We agreed with all our hearts. We’d take only the minimum Oxy. We’d save some of the love for the team.
We never got beers. We worried that we had failed, and we were right: on Monday after practice the seniors got into their cars and drove off without us. We felt humiliated, and we blamed Richard, mostly. He shouldn’t have asked what Oxy was. He should have played it cool.
But the next Saturday we won our scrimmage, and we were invited to the party after. Everybody drank. I had a beer even though I didn’t normally drink back then because I was an athlete first. Ham and Alan drank a lot. Richard drank a little. We sang the sacred team songs with our arms around each other in Wilbur’s backyard. When Alan threw up on the driveway we all helped hose off the pavement. We hosed off Alan, too. It was hilarious. After that we were invited to all of the parties. We partied whenever we could.
* * *
• • •
THE MOST LEGENDARY PARTY happened the summer after our junior year, right after school got out. We had just won the state championship, our sixth in a row. The Matts Wilbur and Komen and Iglehart and all the other seniors from our first year on the team had graduated the year before. McGarvey and Simpson and those seniors were on their way out. We were the rising seniors, and we were running things now.
The party was at Dave Campbell’s house. He’d made the team junior year, along with Max and five other guys. They were all good guys. But Dave and Max were the best, next to Ham and Alan and Richard and me. We started every game, we played goalie and attack, and I was the face-off specialist. The six of us were the best. We were the heart of the team. We were the rising seniors running things.
The party was a lacrosse party. But it was open to everybody. There were all kinds of people there. There were kids from the swim team, who were usually too preppy and uptight to drink, and from the soccer team, so even the German exchange student and Mateo, the guy who was born in Mexico, were there. There was a group of three girls who ran the school arts magazine who had shown up in matching wifebeaters. They all had Sharpies in their back pockets. As soon as they walked in the door they were telling people to write on them. So there were all kinds of people there. But everyone knew it was a lacrosse party.
Early on, some people were looking for Solo cups. Max had them. He wouldn’t give them out. He got up on the dining room table and held the stack of cups like a megaphone. He bumped into the ceiling fan. It was hilarious.
He shouted to everyone to be quiet. Gentlemen—and you know what I mean when I say gentlemen.
We were all cracking up. Then some guy heckled Max. Squeal like a pig! It was one of the younger guys on the team, shouting, You got a pretty mouth!
Max wasn’t fazed. He stuck his middle finger up in the air. He shouted louder. Gentlemen! And then he sang, We are the champions, my friends!
Max was hilarious.
He shouted, We are the state champions all year! Then he got serious. He almost looked like he was going to cry. For a second we worried. Then we realized he was faking it. He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. He pulled himself together and said, We are state champions all year. And then next season?
He paused, pretending to sniffle back a tear. This time we all cheered. Our voices joined in. We lifted him up. We all said together, WE WILL BE THE STATE CHAMPIONS AGAIN.
Then he handed out the cups and everybody got beer and the legendary party began.
At the legendary party, four guys vomited and Max hooked up with three different girls in the same night. At the legendary party we all ate cherries that Ham’s brother’s fraternity had been soaking in grain alcohol for a month. At the legendary party we did our best impressions, and Richard was pretty good at Nicolas Cage, but I won with my Jack Nicholson. At the legendary party we drew a hundred dicks on one of the art magazine girls’ tank top, the girl thought it was hilarious, and she got back at us by tricking Seth Marcus into letting her draw a dick on his cheek. At the legendary party, Max’s dealer showed up, and like magic everyone came together with the cash, and we hotboxed Dave’s entire bedroom.