Get Into James Shorts - 16. A Small Glimpse of Normal

A Small Glimpse of Normal

I showed up for summer football practice on my bike at the appointed time of 7am in August my 8th grade year.

August is a blow torch here in Mississippi. It's not cool in the mornings. It's just less hot. We like to say that we share the zip code of hell.

I was wearing my Red team jersey that I had earned the year before. I was supposed to be on the 8-9th grade starting team, but the redneck coach wasn't having any of that. There was no use arguing with him. He just wasn't going to have a faggot on his team and that was final.

The coach of the blue team was delighted to have me. It still pissed me off. I had earned at least a shot at the red team. Hell, I had won the jersey. It just wasn't going to happen because a shitty redneck had the power to say no. Story of my life.

The blue team wasn't bad. They were mostly eight graders like me, but they weren't as big or fast as me- and none of them were nearly as angry. I think I scarred some of them. I had played with most of the kids before. The good ones were on the red team, and I was humiliated by my demotion.

There was a new kid at quarterback and I could tell right away he was great. He wasn't big, but he was quick, superbly coordinated, and had striking good looks.

We didn't do any training in pads for the first few days. We just wore shoulder pads and helmets and did non-contact drills designed to sweat the summer out of you.

I made it a point to get to know Pat. His father was an Air Force officer who had married his Danish mother in Europe. Pat was shy and soft-spoken, but I could tell that he was intelligent. He was tall and slightly built with sparkling blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair.

As training continued, we got our playbooks and I got a blue jersey with number 44 on it. At least I got to keep my number. After a week, we finally put on full pads and got some contact.

The coaches intended to run a 4-3 defense and penciled me in as the strong side linebacker. I would line up across the line from the offensive tackle on the tight end side of the line most of the time. I had to learn a lot about reading the offense and moving into the correct position depending on how they lined up.

Our offense was basically the I-formation with a few wrinkles. One of the best wrinkles was that we had a competent quarterback in Pat. He moved with a smooth grace that intrigued me. There was just one problem: the left side of the offensive line was simply too small. They couldn't block me and I could have really roughed up Pat. I enjoyed the contact, but I would just wrap him up. I had no intention of hurting the kid. He was good and... easy to look at.

After practice one day after Pat had taken a beating from some other players I asked our coach about the possibility of me playing left tackle. I didn't like playing on the offensive line. It could get hideous in there but, if we were going to be any good, we had to protect our quarterback.

I traded in my number 44 for a 77 and started playing both ways. I became Pat's bodyguard.

The left tackle on the offensive line is a very critical position. There's no glamour involved at all. The down linemen get serious contact every play. Left tackle is critical for two reasons. First, he protects the quarterbacks blind side where he is most vulnerable. Miss too many of those blocks and your QB will probably end up getting hurt. The second reason the left tackle is critical is that without his block, the offense can't run effectively in that direction. It's a position that no one notices unless you screw up.

Maybe I had the beginnings of a crush on Pat. OK- cut the crap. I did have a crush on Pat. I was in a position to protect him, and I liked it. When he found out that he could trust me to handle the left side, that gave him the confidence he needed to focus on running the plays and not worrying about getting killed.

My dad was pissed at me, but that was nothing new. He accused me of lying to him about being on the red team. I told him that they were overloaded at linebacker. I couldn't tell him that Coach Redneck didn't want me. At least on the blue team I was on the field.

At this point, normal kids would have invited Pat to come over to his house. That was something I didn't dare do because of the way my parents were acting. If I acted friendly toward anybody, they were suspicious and angry.

Pat beat me to the punch. He invited me home for lunch and a rest in between our morning and afternoon practices. After a shower and a quick change, his mother picked us up and took us to his house. Pat introduced me as his bodyguard.

Pat's mom was simply wonderful. She was beautiful and had a sexy European accent. If I had been str8, I would have been crushing on her because she definitely had it going on. Maybe I'd crush on her anyway.

She took us home and fed us a light lunch of soup and sandwiches. She treated me like a normal kid and I loved it. When we had eaten we went to Pat's room, sat in two bean bags on the floor and watched TV, laughed and napped.

It was over all too soon. We had to go back to practice at three in the heat of the day.

I don't think they even knew how much I wished that I could just go home with them and stay. It was rare for me to have that moment of bliss in the chaos storm I was living in. The usual suspects teased: Jimmy has a new boyfriend. That was OK. I'd knock the snot out of at the next opportunity.

It became our routine. We would go to Pat's house in the middle of the day and rest up for afternoon practice. Pat's mom, Mona, would always be just so nice and hug us both when we left.

Our friendship grew and school and football season started. The blue team started winning.

Pat could run the option better than any eighth grader I've ever seen. He wasn't a bad passer either. With me protecting his blind side and opening holes, our offense was a machine. We didn't have a ton of long plays, but we would almost always get four to seven yards. We were playing ball control and it was working. Our defense was just as nasty as it had been the year before. With our offense holding the ball on long drives and scoring, it was much easier to play defense.

Winning solves numerous problems. Other kids that were not thrilled about having a gay guy on their team could live with it when we were successful. The red team under Coach Redneck was winless. HAA!

Even my Dad was impressed to see me playing both ways. It's the most fun I ever had playing.

We finished the year 8-0-1. It's the best record that any of the jr. high teams at Oak Hill had managed since the fifties and much of it was because of a shy, handsome quarterback and the left tackle that didn't let anyone get near him.

All was well until one day in algebra we were introduced to something quite horrible called quadratic equations. Equations weren't so bad, but to my 8th grade mathematical ability, the quadratic variety might as well have had horns and hooves.

We had these huge worksheets with 32 problems to do. I fought, I struggled, and I sweat bullets, but I just couldn't make them work. Finally, I gave up and called Pat.

Pat explained the FOIL (First, Outside, Inside, Last) method better in three minutes than the teacher had all week. I did a couple of problems and BINGO- it made sense. We talked for another minute. I said, "Thanks for the help Pat, you're the man." Then I hung up.

My dad had been listening to the conversation. He marched in and slapped me hard.

"So he's your man, huh? I told you I'm not having that!"

"No dad, we're just a friend."

*Slap*

"Liar. You disgust me. You're lying little faggot."

*Slap*

"You are never to see or speak to him again. Is that understood?"

"No. He's my friend."

*Slap*

"Defy me, you little shit..."

I didn't see the punch coming. It was hard and fast, and it knocked me into a bookcase.

By this time, my Mom was there but as usual, she was pretty useless. She just cried, but Dad didn't go any further. I think he knew he had blown a fuse and had taken it way too far.

I think it hurt Pat's feelings that I never invited him home. I told him that things weren't good there. When I showed up all bruised and battered after one of my dad's rages, I think he understood.

When school ended my parents sent me to a private school and I lost track of Pat. I doubt that he ever knew how much I loved him and his Mom and how much I treasured the rare glimpses of normalcy that they provided me.

Sometimes when I have a particularity good dream, Pat and I are hanging out on his bean bags under a cool ceiling fan, laughing at cartoons, innocent with no horrible secrets or suspicions hanging over us.