Page 31 of High Notes & Hail Marys

TrIIue to Jameson’s prediction, Tampa Stadium is awash in Cyclones colors. It makes sense: the fans only had to drive about five hours to get there. Tampa is geographically the closest team to Miami, and it’s a party city. Tickets were probably cheaper there than for any other Cyclones away game on the schedule. A fleeting moment of pity for the Terriers flickers across your mind. You always feel slightly bad for teams who don’t have a loyal fanbase. The fans are the twelfth man. The backbone of team spirit.

Florida hasfinallystarted to cool off a little in earliest November. The sun is hot, but not aggressive, and the slight breeze puts a spring in your step. Something inside you comes alive on days like this. The sky is blue, the turf is green, and the crowd is roaring when the Cyclones take the field. Sterling is recovering from his first overseas show, having flown back to New York in the wee hours of the morning, but Gabi is in the box, staring starry-eyed at GoGo.

Tampa wins the coin toss and defers, putting Sandy and the offense on the field after kick-off. They rack up forty yards quickly on a steady, coordinated march, and things are looking amazing for an opening drive score when the impossible happens: a Terriers linebacker breaksfree of Anderson, your left tackle, and sacks the shit out of Sandy. As if in slow motion, you see Sandy go down hard, landing on his side. The ball is knocked out of his hands by the force of the fall and rolls about two yards away. There’s an immediate dogpile, huge men piling atop each other for possession of the fumble. The refs yank them off one-by-one. At the bottom of the huddle is a lone Terriers player clutching the ball like a priceless treasure. Tampa turns it over.

The defense takes the field. Your eye goes automatically to the Terriers’ LT: Julian Tamatoa. He’s a big Samoan bitch with a riot of blackwork tattoos. Six-foot-four and 300 pounds on a slender day, he’s not hurting for meals. You know all about Tamatoa: he got traded this year; you used to play him twice a year in Buffalo. He’s deceptively agile and light on his feet despite his size. He’s also a massive asshole, literallyandfiguratively. If there’s one player in the Association that you have beef with, it’s him. He likes to run his mouth and make things personal, which is a play-style that you loathe. Football is your passion, but it’s also yourjob.Is a little professionalism too much to ask? But Tamatoa knows how to get under your skin, and he’s made it his personal goal to get your goat for three years now.

The jawing starts when you guys are lined up. Crouched on opposite sides of the line, looking straight into his beady black eyes, you see Tamatoaflash his white teeth in a grin.

“It’s my li’l buddy. Choo-choo,” he coos. “Gonna chugga-chug real hard, Choo-choo? Think you’re going somewhere?”

You ignore him until the snap. Then you’re struggling against him. You are far more fit than Tamatoa, but he’s got the brute strength of sheer bulk. You’ve no sooner broken free of his mass than the ref blows the whistle. Tayden Harris, Tampa’s QB, just threw an incomplete pass. It’s discouraging that he even got the throw off. Back to the line you go.

On the second down, Tampa tries the run and gets maybe half a yard before being swallowed up. Tamatoa won’t shut it.

“I missed you, Choo-choo. When I left New York, all I was thinkin’ was, ‘man, I’mma miss my buddy Choo-choo.’ Who else is gonna keep you in line, baby?”

Gritting your teeth when the snap happens, you fake out past Tamatoa. Harris is in the pocket, looking for an opening. You arealmostthere when he throws the ball. It goes deep—surely there’s nobody open back there? But thereis, some scrappy fucking nobody receiver who snatches the throw from the air and takes off like his ass is on fire.

In a matter of moments, Tampa has six points onthe board.

Things don’t get better from there. The first half drags on with one embarrassment after another. On the Cyclones’ next possession, they get stuffed at the three-and-a-half on a failure to convert a fourth down. Tampa follows that with a field goal. You guys answer with your own field goal. Both teams go back and forth with no score for a while, then Tampa runs in another TD. The Cyclones finally manage a touchdown, but Dettweiler screws up the extra point.

At halftime, the score is 17-9 in Tampa’s favor.

In the locker room, Coach is the color of a busted cherry tomato. F-bombs fly as he berates the entire team, offense and defense alike, for looking like morons on the field. The ass-chewing goes on for what feels like an eternity. When he throws his hands up and remands everyone to their respective position coaches, you take a free moment to peek at your phone. You feel Ike your blood is simmering.

Sterling:You hanging in?

You:we’ll shake it off

Sterling:The commentator was talking about that big guy. Julian-something. He says you guys have almost fought a few times. You never mentioned him.

You:cuz he’s just a dick. gtg.

Palys is rounding the corner with thunder on his face, but you quickly realize that last message was abrupt.

You:xo

You just barely catch his response as you quickly shove your phone in your locker.

Sterling::)

When you retake the field at the top of the second half, every man on the Cyclones has a bug in his ear from the coaching staff and a fresh fire under his ass.

Tampa has first possession this time. You will yourself to go to a Zen place in your head as you line up opposite Tamotoa. Even though the team just had a break, he is sweating profusely, and a noxious wave of body odor rolls off him in waves. You tell yourself not to make eye contact.

“Choo-choo.” There’s laughter on his breath. “You’re looking real nice in those pants, Choo-choo. You tighten up this off-season?”

“Sexual harassment is so funny, bruh.” The play begins, and the Cyclones immediately pick up a pass interference call. It’s spot-of-the-foul, so the Terriers advance twenty-something yards. At midfield, the once-balmy sun feels broiling. It’s probably tension.

“You know you guys are gonna lose, Choo-choo.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ain’t you never heard of a trap game?”

Another penalty leads to another first down. Harris, who isn’t known for being especially mobile, fakes the throw and runs in another touchdown. You want to kill someone.

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