A dozen national championship flags hung from a beam by the kitchen. Max let his eyes linger on the lore affixed to the walls: the stuffed elephant mascots, the old-time ribbons decrying greatness, the lyrics from a fight song scrawled on the back of a famous quarterback’s shirt. Portraits of coaches shouting, discourteous, praying beneath a flag. WHO BELIEVE IN 2009???? was scribbled across a large poster board. Under it lived the names of every fan who knew their team would take the championship that year.
The photograph above Max’s table showed a bird’s-eye view of the college campus. The football stadium reached over the top of even the highest building, like the university’s castle. Lights pointed their golden faces toward it, as if to italicize its significance. The campus was in another town about an hour away. But its lore, the storied football team, reached all the way to Delilah and beyond. Pride raced down every red dirt road in Alabama.
Max’s father whistled and flicked his fork toward the frame.
His mother said, Well, they certainly are proud.
Reminds me of Rome, Max said. He snapped a picture of the picture with his disposable camera. Like the Colosseum, he said. The size of them. The stadium’s huge. People take trips there just to look, right?
His mother snorted.
Max took a picture of his mother drizzling honey over her biscuit like the cheerleading waitress recommended.
I’ve never tasted something this good, said his mother. She held up her biscuit and stared at its breaded face. They imported you from heaven. I’m sure of it. Almost makes me believe in this God.
Max chewed on something called chicken-fried steak. His craving caused him to pour syrup over his meat. His mouth stung with a sweetness that reached into the roots of his teeth. He took more pictures of the photographs above their table. The players made him think of Florence and the summer he’d seen the David statue, how he’d pushed his way to the front of the crowd to gaze at the Roman body. Here were those same lines chiseled into football players from Alabama as they reached their notched arms out to catch something coming right for them.
MAX HAD NEVER WATCHED an American football game, but when the guidance counselor asked what he was good at, his father cut in and said: Max is a runner. Fastest on his track team.
Max eyed the crucifix on the counselor’s wall, the daily devotional that doubled as a calendar on her desk. The guidance counselor smiled at Max with a new warmth.
Oh, she said. You’ll be a football boy.
Max’s father nodded. He draped his arm around his son’s shoulders.
That’ll keep you busy, he said as they walked out into the soupy afternoon. Keep those headaches away.
At practice, the boys on the football team towered over him. Their shadows prowled beside them like animals on the freshly sheared field. Their eyes were soft, and their teeth were tinted Coca-Cola brown. The heat did not slow them. It sat in sweaty foreheads and shimmered down their necks. Max had difficulty enduring the weather. Monday was hotter than Sunday and Sunday had been hotter than Saturday. It seemed to continue that way, each day trying to stuff more heat inside itself. Relief happened at the less-hot times, early mornings when the sun was just a promise edging at the sky and in the late afternoon, nearly dusk, when the midday rain had left a layer of cool behind it. Sweat found Max anyway. It slipped out of his body and greased his limbs.
Coach lined the players on the edge of the field. They crouched low. Max heard himself breathe inside his helmet. He’d been tackled with such ferocity he feared his ear was bleeding, but he hadn’t had a chance to take off his helmet to check. His elbow throbbed. His knee screamed. His leg made a right angle with the earth.
Ready.
Coach jabbed at the air, and the whistle trilled.
Run!
Running was the only part of the game Max understood. The shape of the ball and the arrangement of the offensive and defensive lines puzzled him. The slow way they moved toward the goalpost. The pain of collision and the courage it took to hit someone bigger than you. But to run, he understood. His body shot forward.
Max pulled out ahead of the pack of boys, revealing his speed like it was a kind of trick. He could hear their grunts behind him, trying to catch up. His legs burned. He lived for that feeling, that burning under his skin like his muscles might melt. He liked to reach through the pain and touch what was on the other end of it. He could run forever. As Max won each round of sprints, he felt himself becoming a prize. Suicide after suicide, he hit the white line first.
Nazi dude sure got a talent for gassers, said a boy named Davis.
Max winced.
Do not please, he said, call me that.
Davis’s corn-silk hair was long enough to slip behind his ears. He studied Max. Max hoped he hadn’t sounded too formal. He hadn’t learned the regional slang yet. He smiled because he knew that Americans liked smiles. This was something his mother had told him. Americans like smiles and they like pleasant, happy things. You should speak as though you are ending your sentences with an exclamation point. Everything should sound cheerful. Awesome and amazing.
All right then, Davis said. He spat at the ground. We’ll call you Germany then.
Davis didn’t smile, and Max wondered if something had gone wrong. Davis had perfected a scowl of detached evaluation that could sweep over a person and bring them into immediate awareness of their own physical shortcomings. But Max had a feeling Davis wanted to be his friend. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve it, but he basked in the promise of it.
This here is Wes, Davis said catching a handsome player by the shoulder and corralling him. He’s like a pinch of genuine Miracle-Gro sprinkled upon our dumb, dirty asses.
Max must have looked confused because Davis continued.
What I mean is—he brings the magic to the team. Wes is our quarterback. His arm is a wonder of the world. So, handle him with care.
Pleasure, said Wes. His hand extended from a limb of pure, perfect muscle. Max watched his bicep flex and felt something tighten at the base of his tongue.
A pleasure, Max said back because he didn’t understand the context of the word, and what he didn’t understand, he repeated.
Max here is from Naziland and we’re going to call him Germany.
Cool, said Wes. Sup, Germany?
Wes here is the whitest black boy on earth, said Davis.
It seemed Davis meant this as a compliment, and Wes smiled and shook his head, but Max wasn’t sure what Wes was thinking. Max was not skilled at discerning what lived below the surface of a person.
Max here is one fast fucker, said Davis.
I like to run, said Max. Feels freedom.
Davis said, Say what? You feel freedom? That’s cute, Germany. I need to remember that one. Running feels freedom.
Davis spread his arms before him like he was visualizing the slogan written in the clouds.
Wes began to laugh. The two of them, Davis and Wes, stood in the sun laughing until Max began to laugh, too. It felt good to laugh with other people.
As Max got in line for the next drill, sweat pouring down his chest and his whole aching torso, he was happy. He’d never played a team sport. Never felt like another person might count on him and come to love him for how well he played a game. Coach patted Max on the back and his spine grew an inch to meet it.
During a Gatorade break by the bleachers, Max looked up toward the parking lot at a line of trucks. He noticed a figure pacing the lot. Max had a moment of déjà vu. The figure smoked in broad daylight on school property. There was something about the angle of the elbow as it lifted the cigarette, something about the way the chin tilted to the sun. The familiarity unsettled him. The figure walked in front of a row of pickups like a kind of dark angel, beautiful and gaunt and hawkish in high heels and lipstick so black Max could see it from where he stood. The figure seemed to be waiting for something. Davis caught Max staring.