capacity, 237 million gallons of ethanolwill be exported from Clinton by the end of the year, a sizeable chunk of the 1.7 billion that ADM claims yearly. The baby corn the players drove by on the way in churned into something new and shipped back out along the highways and the railroads and the river.
I stand close to Danny as he changes with the rest of the team before the first game of the season. I’m pressed against the divider between his locker and Hank’s. I try not to look down at bare penis, but in a tight room crammed with twenty-five of them, that’s a difficult thing to try.
I seem to be the only uncomfortable one, something noted and then exploited by two players whose names I haven’t learned yet, who turn and whip their cocks for my benefit like cowboys getting ready to do some steer roping. There is no shame to it. In this place, there is constant, pragmatic exposure and assessment, even of things that should be private. In the training room, there’s a thick black cylinder used for shoulder stretching nicknamed in an honest reference to a well-endowed Dominican pitcher who has become locker-room legend.
The players’ bodies, after all, are what got them here and what are under inspection. They poke and prod themselves and each other. They compare the diameter of lats, the density of thighs. They grab each other around the neck and squeeze, force each other to the ground in headlocks, the stubble of their shaved chests burning on one another’s skin until someone is forced to say stop, please, I can’t. They stand on the scale before going home every night and record the number on a hanging chart. There is a small, frantic man named BJ whose only job is to stretch and massage and monitor their bodies. Their bodies are the product.
Some do push-ups to warm their muscles now, popping off the ground, coiling then springing. Most rub baby powder along their thighs and crotches so that the skin won’t burn when they slide on their Under Armour. They take stiff medical tape, wrap their forearms with it, then slap the tape to hear the hardness of the sound, “for no reason other than to be cool,” Danny says. They pass around aerosol cans to shine their cleats. They line the space between their bottom lip and bottom teeth with tobacco and give themselves brownish-green smiles inthe mirror. They smear sun-reflecting eye-black along their cheekbones like warrior paint, even on cloudy days. There is ritual to all of it.
As Tamargo emerges to tack up the first lineup of a season that will include 139 more, the bodies push into a clump by the corkboard dotted with Louie the LumberKing mascot stickers. It’s like the cast list for a high school musical has gone up, complete with all of the brutal, overly dramatic weight of high school anxiety, of this moment meaning
everything
. I see Danny holding his fists together, swinging them gently, as though gripping a phantom bat.
There are shouts from players who will play tonight, shouts of “Let’s do it boys.” And, “First win! Right now!” And, “Let’s fuck these faggots up!”
Danny isn’t in the lineup. There’s someone newer than him, someone he will compete with all season, maybe for the rest of their careers. Matt Cerione wasn’t drafted three years ago. He is shiny and unblemished, selected in 2009 from the University of Georgia, a perennial powerhouse, their bulldog mascot seen cavorting on ESPN during the College World Series.
Matt Cerione says, “Game time, bro,” and shoves a teammate hard, who then reciprocates. They both smile.
Danny doesn’t say much as he walks back to his locker. Just, “Well, I’m gonna have another sandwich.” And then, “Dang, I need to clean my cleats.” I want to tell him something reassuring, but it would be absurd. This isn’t a place of reassurance. This isn’t a place where one is supposed to be found seeking validation or giving it freely. Danny stands alone, pushing two fingers into the flesh
I stand close to Danny as he changes with the rest of the team before the first game of the season. I’m pressed against the divider between his locker and Hank’s. I try not to look down at bare penis, but in a tight room crammed with twenty-five of them, that’s a difficult thing to try.
I seem to be the only uncomfortable one, something noted and then exploited by two players whose names I haven’t learned yet, who turn and whip their cocks for my benefit like cowboys getting ready to do some steer roping. There is no shame to it. In this place, there is constant, pragmatic exposure and assessment, even of things that should be private. In the training room, there’s a thick black cylinder used for shoulder stretching nicknamed in an honest reference to a well-endowed Dominican pitcher who has become locker-room legend.
The players’ bodies, after all, are what got them here and what are under inspection. They poke and prod themselves and each other. They compare the diameter of lats, the density of thighs. They grab each other around the neck and squeeze, force each other to the ground in headlocks, the stubble of their shaved chests burning on one another’s skin until someone is forced to say stop, please, I can’t. They stand on the scale before going home every night and record the number on a hanging chart. There is a small, frantic man named BJ whose only job is to stretch and massage and monitor their bodies. Their bodies are the product.
Some do push-ups to warm their muscles now, popping off the ground, coiling then springing. Most rub baby powder along their thighs and crotches so that the skin won’t burn when they slide on their Under Armour. They take stiff medical tape, wrap their forearms with it, then slap the tape to hear the hardness of the sound, “for no reason other than to be cool,” Danny says. They pass around aerosol cans to shine their cleats. They line the space between their bottom lip and bottom teeth with tobacco and give themselves brownish-green smiles inthe mirror. They smear sun-reflecting eye-black along their cheekbones like warrior paint, even on cloudy days. There is ritual to all of it.
As Tamargo emerges to tack up the first lineup of a season that will include 139 more, the bodies push into a clump by the corkboard dotted with Louie the LumberKing mascot stickers. It’s like the cast list for a high school musical has gone up, complete with all of the brutal, overly dramatic weight of high school anxiety, of this moment meaning
everything
. I see Danny holding his fists together, swinging them gently, as though gripping a phantom bat.
There are shouts from players who will play tonight, shouts of “Let’s do it boys.” And, “First win! Right now!” And, “Let’s fuck these faggots up!”
Danny isn’t in the lineup. There’s someone newer than him, someone he will compete with all season, maybe for the rest of their careers. Matt Cerione wasn’t drafted three years ago. He is shiny and unblemished, selected in 2009 from the University of Georgia, a perennial powerhouse, their bulldog mascot seen cavorting on ESPN during the College World Series.
Matt Cerione says, “Game time, bro,” and shoves a teammate hard, who then reciprocates. They both smile.
Danny doesn’t say much as he walks back to his locker. Just, “Well, I’m gonna have another sandwich.” And then, “Dang, I need to clean my cleats.” I want to tell him something reassuring, but it would be absurd. This isn’t a place of reassurance. This isn’t a place where one is supposed to be found seeking validation or giving it freely. Danny stands alone, pushing two fingers into the flesh
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