Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by George J. Bryjak

The Big Game

Kenny Morrison jogged down the tunnel at the south end of the stadium, the sound of cleats on cement bouncing off the walls. This was the biggest weekend of his life. The championship game was less than an hour away, and tomorrow night he had a date with Meagan, the hottest girl in the senior class, the coach's daughter. He wasn't sure which prospect excited him more.

That's what this last minute meeting is about, he thought. Man, he must know she's ripe, that every guy on the team is hot for her. She's ready. All a guy would have to do is push a little and he'd score. But he must know that I respect Meagan too much to take advantage of her, maybe get her some ecstasy she's been wantin' to try. I would never get her high and screw her just because I could. He's gonna warn me what'll happen if I don't keep it in my pants. If that's what's buggin him, I'll let'm know everything's cool.

Kenny removed his helmet, knocked on the door and walked in. The room smelled of cigar smoke and too many years of sweat-soaked clothing. Drab gray walls were covered with photos of past glory.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?" he said to the big man whose once powerful physique now spilled over his belt.

"Sit down, Kenny," the coach said as he stepped with a noticeable limp around a cluttered desk. "Well this is it, what we've been workin' for all year. Winner takes the conference title and moves on to the state playoffs. And the losers..." He paused for effect, one of his favorite motivational techniques, "Well, they're just losers."

"We're not gonna lose, Coach," the boy said, crossing heavily taped forearms across the crimson 56 on his jersey. "We're better than they are—you been tellin' us that all week."

"No, we're not going to lose, but we can't take no chances."

The young linebacker cocked his head to one side, his blue eyes narrowing. "I don't get it."

"Their quarterback is a damned good player and we can't let him get on a roll."

"No problem—I'll be in his face all night."

"First chance you get, you slam your helmet into his knees. I want to see him carried off the field ... done for it."

"You want me to hurt him on purpose?" Kenny asked, springing from his seat. "Geez coach, I can't do that."

The big man stepped in front of the youth, grabbed the underside of his shoulder pads through the jersey, spun him to his left and shoved Kenny into a rusting wall locker. "Now you listen to me, boy," the coach's voice was controlled but angry, "This is a big game, biggern' you know. There are people out there lookin' at how you play ... how I coach."

"But Coach, don't ask me ..."

"I'm not askin' I'm tellin'. You keep your mouth shut and do what I say."

He took a step backward, relaxed his knotted shoulders and sat on the edge of a dingy metal desk. His tone softened. "You're almost eighteen years old. Next fall you'll be playin' college ball. You gotta learn to do what you gotta do. This is a good time to start." He turned around, took a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

Kenny looked down at the logo on the side of his helmet. Deliberately chopping somebody at the knees. It didn't seem right.

“Come on boy, injuries are part of the game, everybody knows that. And what d'ya think their coach is telling his offensive lineman?" He didn't wait for an answer. “ ‘Get Morrison out of the game and we win.’ That's what he's sayin’.” He removed the cigar, took a deep breath and tried another approach. "Listen Kenny. I'm not tellin' you to do nothin' that ain't been done before." He began massaging his stiff right knee. "Hell, if you don't go after their quarterback, you'll be letting your teammates down. And me. You wanna do that?"

Kenny hesitated, then shook his head. "No, I guess not."

The coach slid off of the desk and limped toward the door. The meeting was over. The young athlete stood up and the big man put his arm around the boy's shoulder in a fatherly manner.

"Life's not easy, Kenny, and it sure ain't fair. Remember that." He ripped the helmet from Kenny's hand then jammed it into the boy's chest.

"You really want something you go out and take it. Don't let anybody or anything stand in your way. Understand?" Kenny nodded. The big man slapped his star player on the back, gave him one of those 'You just listen to the coach' smiles and said, "Now go out there and have a great game."

Kenny walked down the tunnel to join his teammates for pre-game warm-ups. He could hear the band break into the school fight song as he caught a glimpse of tumbling cheerleaders in the harsh glare of the stadium lights. It was starting to make sense. Yeah, he thought, Coach was right, he's always right. A thin smile turned into a wicked grin as his pace quickened. He could barely contain his excitement.

Kenny saw her sitting in the stands behind the player's bench talking and laughing with friends. Just the thought of them together sent a shiver of delight through his body. He wanted Meagan bad, real bad, and after the game he was going to see a man about some ecstasy.

Copyright © 2004 George J. Bryjak

About the Author
George J. Bryjak taught sociology at the University of San Diego for 24 years. He is the co-author of three textbooks and his op-ed pieces appear regularly in the San Diego Union-Tribune. His stories have appeared in Beginnings, Short Stuff, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, The Dana Literary Society Online Journal, Dark Moon Rising (forthcoming) among others. He resides in the Adirondack Park region of New York State with his wife, Diane.