fit actually, which is what really sucks my king-sized ass.
Betsy purses her lips and scrunches her eyebrows a little, the same way Mom does when she’s trying to get at something. “The offensive line requires major contact. Don’t you have to be a certain size to block?”
“Um, not necessarily.” Sweat’s beading up on my forehead and I wipe it away with my sleeve. I stink. The papers on her desk are flapping around from the breeze. How the hell am I so hot?
“No?” Her face crinkles more. “My understanding is that size is the most important attribute for an offensive lineman.”
“Size is important, yeah. But strength also. And height and arm length.”
Betsy stares at me for a few moments, her lips still in a tight line. Then she takes a deep breath.
“Bobby, if getting this surgery meant you would no longer have the bulk to play for a Division One school, like Notre Dame, would you still want it?”
“Definitely,” I say way too quickly. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’ll be tough, but I’m also sure I can build enough muscle to stay big and strong.”
Big in the right places
.
Betsy sighs. “I’m not sure you’re thinking about this realistically.”
I shift to make myself more comfortable. “I get it. I do. Really.”
She picks my questionnaire up off her desk again, still shaking her head. “Bobby, high school football is one thing, but college is another. When a lineman slips below three hundred pounds, he’s usually not allowed to play. If you have this surgery, by the time you go to college next year, you’ll be closer to two hundred pounds than three hundred. I need to know you understand that this surgery
will
put any collegefootball career you’re thinking about in jeopardy. At least as a lineman.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, nodding down at my filthy fingernails. My dad and I have the same ink-black freckle below the nail of the forefinger on our right hand.
“Bobby?” I look back up at her. “That means having this surgery is likely to affect the colleges you’ll be accepted to, and that will affect other things down the road. Your decision will ripple throughout your life, present and future.”
I nod and keep eye contact this time. I don’t know what to say to convince her.
Betsy shakes her head again. “Bobby, I need to hear you say it. I need to hear that you understand what I’m saying, and I need to hear that you mean it. Is this surgery important enough to you that you’re willing to give up football and everything it means to your future?”
Rivers of sweat feel like they’re pouring out of my forehead, but I don’t even try to wipe them away. “Yes! I want it—this surgery. And if—and
yes
, I’m willing to give up football and everything it means in order to get it,” I practically shout. And the certainty I hear in my own voice is so startling, I almost believe it.
Betsy stares at me hard, but I keep my eyes stuck on hers like my life depends on it. “Okay,” she finally says, looking down to rustle through her papers. “Let’s bring in your parents—okay, just your mom is here—and talk about the lifestyle changes this surgery requires.”
7
Under Cover
Saturday, June 6, 2009
East
“Mom.
Mooom
.” I’m knocking on her door for the third time this morning, listening for sounds of movement while I finish getting ready. “We should try to leave by two-thirty, the latest,” I say. I’m careful. If I open her door, if I rattle her cage, I’ll blow this. But our appointment with Dr. Glass is at three-thirty and it takes a good forty-five minutes to drive into the city and find parking. I have to get her up now or we won’t make it. “I’m wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. You could wear that maroon terry zip-up,” I call in again. Nothing. “You know, the one Julius sent you at Christmas?” Nothing still. I head back down the hall, then stop and raise my voice a bit. “I’m making us an early lunch, okay?”
When I reach the kitchen, I
Betsy purses her lips and scrunches her eyebrows a little, the same way Mom does when she’s trying to get at something. “The offensive line requires major contact. Don’t you have to be a certain size to block?”
“Um, not necessarily.” Sweat’s beading up on my forehead and I wipe it away with my sleeve. I stink. The papers on her desk are flapping around from the breeze. How the hell am I so hot?
“No?” Her face crinkles more. “My understanding is that size is the most important attribute for an offensive lineman.”
“Size is important, yeah. But strength also. And height and arm length.”
Betsy stares at me for a few moments, her lips still in a tight line. Then she takes a deep breath.
“Bobby, if getting this surgery meant you would no longer have the bulk to play for a Division One school, like Notre Dame, would you still want it?”
“Definitely,” I say way too quickly. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’ll be tough, but I’m also sure I can build enough muscle to stay big and strong.”
Big in the right places
.
Betsy sighs. “I’m not sure you’re thinking about this realistically.”
I shift to make myself more comfortable. “I get it. I do. Really.”
She picks my questionnaire up off her desk again, still shaking her head. “Bobby, high school football is one thing, but college is another. When a lineman slips below three hundred pounds, he’s usually not allowed to play. If you have this surgery, by the time you go to college next year, you’ll be closer to two hundred pounds than three hundred. I need to know you understand that this surgery
will
put any collegefootball career you’re thinking about in jeopardy. At least as a lineman.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, nodding down at my filthy fingernails. My dad and I have the same ink-black freckle below the nail of the forefinger on our right hand.
“Bobby?” I look back up at her. “That means having this surgery is likely to affect the colleges you’ll be accepted to, and that will affect other things down the road. Your decision will ripple throughout your life, present and future.”
I nod and keep eye contact this time. I don’t know what to say to convince her.
Betsy shakes her head again. “Bobby, I need to hear you say it. I need to hear that you understand what I’m saying, and I need to hear that you mean it. Is this surgery important enough to you that you’re willing to give up football and everything it means to your future?”
Rivers of sweat feel like they’re pouring out of my forehead, but I don’t even try to wipe them away. “Yes! I want it—this surgery. And if—and
yes
, I’m willing to give up football and everything it means in order to get it,” I practically shout. And the certainty I hear in my own voice is so startling, I almost believe it.
Betsy stares at me hard, but I keep my eyes stuck on hers like my life depends on it. “Okay,” she finally says, looking down to rustle through her papers. “Let’s bring in your parents—okay, just your mom is here—and talk about the lifestyle changes this surgery requires.”
7
Under Cover
Saturday, June 6, 2009
East
“Mom.
Mooom
.” I’m knocking on her door for the third time this morning, listening for sounds of movement while I finish getting ready. “We should try to leave by two-thirty, the latest,” I say. I’m careful. If I open her door, if I rattle her cage, I’ll blow this. But our appointment with Dr. Glass is at three-thirty and it takes a good forty-five minutes to drive into the city and find parking. I have to get her up now or we won’t make it. “I’m wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. You could wear that maroon terry zip-up,” I call in again. Nothing. “You know, the one Julius sent you at Christmas?” Nothing still. I head back down the hall, then stop and raise my voice a bit. “I’m making us an early lunch, okay?”
When I reach the kitchen, I
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