Saint Joseph School

Oby got to the locker room early, before most of the rest of the team, suited up and grabbed the ball bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked to the coach's offices, peering around the corner, looking for one of the assistants. The door was open, so he knocked on the wood framing, a dull rap sounding.

"Dubois? What are you doing here early?"

"I need some extra practice, Coach. I'm not exactly happy with what happened out there on Friday." Oby let out a deep breath. "We got lucky. A last quarter interception runback to score the go ahead? We're better than that." The coach just looked at Oby levelly and didn't say anything. Oby fidgetted under the gaze, and added, "I wasn't happy with my running either." Oby rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the floor, and looked back up. "I was hoping you'd spend some time with me, before regular practice, working with Big Bertha, and some punch drills."

The coach looked at Oby with a slight grin. The rushing game wasn't all that bad, and the kid was a stellar back. He knew that the team had two outstanding backs in Oby and Delta. But if the kid wanted extra work, and requesting Big Bertha? Well, he wouldn't refuse. "Sure kid, let me grab my stuff and let Coach Waters know we'll be out there."

About 20 minutes later, after stretching out while waiting for the coach, Oby stood facing "Big Bertha". Bertha was a copy of the device used by the Pittsburgh Steelers. It hung on it's own pedestal, which looked like the frame for a kid's swingset. Four chains came down to a central link, which hung what could easily be called a heavy bag on steroids. It measured almost 4 feet in diameter, and easily weighed 150 lbs. Coach stood behind the contraption, and when a runner tried to make it by, would swing it, violently, towards the back. The object wasn't to avoid the bag, it was to take the hit, and keep moving.

Oby grabbed a ball out of the bag, and tucked it under his arm. He waited for the coach's whistle, and took off like a shot at Big Bertha. Coach swung it and it met Oby with a loud, solid, thud, which was answered by a smaller thud, as Oby hit the turf. Oby got up with a small growl and set up again. "Hey, Antoine, take it easy. You held onto the ball, which is a good start. Watch where the hit is coming from, anticipate it and brace and move."

Oby nodded, and the coach whistled again. Oby met the obstacle with a grunt as it hit, and managed to not get thrown to the turf, but stopped moving. Coach whistled again, and again. Oby started to get back into the swing of things, accepting the hits and rolling out of the worst of the impact, while keeping his momentum going downfield. After about 1/2 an hour, Coach called a halt. Oby stood sucking in big belts of air. Sweat rolled off of him, turning his light blue jersey top into a dark blue.

"Take 5, catch your breath, and we'll start with the punch drills." Oby nodded. Punch drills were fun. Well, for Oby, anyway. It was two different items really. First was the standard twine setup. Set so you had to pick up your feet and drop them down inside a grid of boxes made by the twine. While Oby did that, the coach took what amounted to a boxing glove on a pole and hammered at the ball from different angles, to try to make you fumble. The second half was a setup of blocking dummies, that had "arms" attached. The arms were set at different levels, and different tensions. The runner would run through a corridor created by the dummies, getting struck by the arms. It tried to simulate running through a line full of defenders trying to tackle you.

After his short break Oby lined up on the other side of the twine grid, and grabbed a ball, while coach stood grinning with the pole. The whistle blew and Oby took off at top speed, high stepping out of each grid to the next. The coach started to hammer at his arm, hard. It took Oby by surprise at first. Usually it was quick jabs, but coach was laying it on. Oby cinched up on the ball and grinned a little. This was it. This is what he wanted. The feel of breaking that first tackle, feeling defenders clawing at your arms, legs, anything they could grab onto, as you ran over, and by them. Oby made it to the end of the grid and plowed through the forest of blocking arms, feeling each hit and adjusting slightly to the collisions. As he burst through the other side, Oby turned back to the coach with a laugh, spiking the ball to the ground.

"I had a feeling that's what you were looking for. You just needed to feel that burn in your gut again, Tone. You'll do fine kid. Just keep in mind that you're not going to go out and rush for 200 yards every game. The Friars have a tough D, and it showed. You'll be ready for em next time we see em." Coach punctuated the speech with a solid rap to Oby's helmet with the boxing glove on his pole. "Now take a break. I don't want you wiped out for practice. Coach Waters wasn't the most pleased with the performance last Friday either. I've got a feeling you all have a lot of work ahead of you this week."

The somewhat malevolent grin on the coach's face didn't bode well. "Oh, great...." Oby said, heading back to the locker room to catch a rest before whatever torture Coach Waters had in store for them was pulled from what Oby was sure were Coach's days in the inquisition.

*Damian "Dozer" Singleton*


Damian looked on to the coach who was positioned down at the 40-yard line, the rest of the team forming four lines in the endzone. They were running wind sprints. Damian himself was at the end of the second line, waiting for his turn. He was extremely happy with the teams record, they had won all of their games, except for the one forfeit.

The team played well as a unit, even though the games were close. Damian, was a more unhappy with himself. He hadn't been playing his best, and it had been four weeks since he wore his state rings. The meeting he had with the coach before the last game played over and over in his mind.

The coach was right, he had to show more skill. He played better at Prescott, and he wasn't giving it his all at SJS.

"I'm moving you from Defensive End, your gonna take over for Cloud while he's out. You played corner at Prescott, and led the conference in interceptions. Get your head out of your ass, and start playing Singleton."

"Ok Coach"

The converstation was rough, and it hit home.

Damian walked up to the endzone line, and took his stance, still thinking about the coaches words, letting them fuel him. He had to give it all he had. The whistle blew and he took off, as fast as he could. Faster than what he had been putting out all season.

Crossing the 40-yard line, the team manager designated for his line yelled out his time.

"4.4"

Damian smiled, he had the speed. Now all he had to do was adjust his sights for playing corner.

Oby got to practice early again, following the last victory. Everyone had been celebrating, but Oby still knew there was something missing. The team as a whole had played two halves of good football the entire season. The second half of each of the last two games, and they still had their harder games coming up. Luck wouldn't cut it in those games. They had to play better, and they had to get their heads on around the fact that they weren't playing well. Well, not state championship caliber football, at any rate. They'd given up touchdowns of 105, 85, and would have given up another of 35, if it hadn't been called back. Sure the saying was "better lucky than good", ut luck runs out, good doesn't.

They needed to come out blazing, right from the get go. The only way that was going to happen was preparation, and practice. Oby laced up his cleats, and donned his gear, pulling the grey "St. Joseph's Athletics" t-shirt over his head and pads, and heading for the field. The football bag was there, and Oby grabbed a ball out of it and picked it up, spinning it on his palm.

He headed for the arm dummies, and set the tension high. He set himself about 7 yards away and relaxed like he would waiting for a handoff. Eyes set straight forward, picking up imaginary defenders with his periphery, not looking either left or right, so he didn't give any defender a chance to read the play. Legs set even, knees bent, weight dead center. Nothing to tip the play to either side. Oby imagined McCarty in front, snapping the ball to Reed, and Oby planted and drove forward, cleats digging in and spraying turf and dirt behind him. He envisioned the handoff and headed for the dummies, carrying the ball tucked tight in his right arm. The arms of the dummies slapped into his arms and legs. Lead with your shoulders, keep your knees driving high, ball tight, keep yourself heading north/south, straight to the endzone. All of the coach's teaching ran through his head in a mantra as Antoine hit "Big Bertha" that was set at the end of the string of dummies. He grunted with the effort as the heavy bag barely gave at all, sending Oby off balance and to the turf beside the device.

Oby made some changes how the dummies were set up, and again set up as he had before, taking the imaginary hand off and hitting the tackling dummies, then spinning off the "hit" to bounce into another, only to have it tangle with his legs, sending him sprawling to the ground. Keep your knees and legs moving, don't let the defense have an easy target to trip you. Oby picked himself up, and lined up again, hitting the first dummy and spinning off, remembering to keep his legs pounding like pistons as the second set of arms smacked into his thighs. He busted through and into Big Bertha again, bracing and driving, turf churning up under his cleats as he pushed the bag slightly to the side, diving past it.

Over and over, Oby lined up, setting up the dummies in different sets. He wanted to be ready for anything the next bunch of games threw at him. He glanced over at the tunnel, hoping someone else wanted to be ready for it too.

*Damian "Dozer" Singleton*

"Sorry we missed the game" Damians mother said to him from across the table. "D.E. and all, not to mention this prolonged up roar with zombies." she added, with emphasis on the zombie mention.

Damian looked across the table at his mom, who had just put a stack of pancakes down in front of him. "Just don't get bit." He laughed.

"Ha ha, funny D, funny." She mocked putting his glass of orange juice down on the table. "So, that Aries Clark...85 yards?"

"Yea" Damian answered in a low embarrashed tone.

"Is that why your up so early, trying to get to school to practice before practice." His mother sat down at the table watching Damian shovel food in his mouth like it was his last meal. She smiled, "missed a spot."

Damian looked up, his cheeks packed with food, he swallowed. "Sorry, just in a hurry."

"The schools over 10 miles away, how are you gonna get there?"

"Run" He said, grabbing his bag and heading towards the front door. He turned to his mother who called out to him, catching something mid air.

"Take the Escalade, im off today."

"What about you?" he asked, looking at the keys in his hand. Rather shocked at the fact that his mom seemed a little supportive about the football deal, she was the main one pushing for him to go to Longbow.

"I got the motorcycle if duty calls, and your dad teletports, we will be ok." She smiled.

"Thanks mom." Damian smiled and walked out the door.

Damian arrived at the field, already changed over into his gear, as he walked down the tunnel from the locker room; he looked over to see Dubois already on the field, giving "Big Bertha" one hell of a time. Or was it "Big Bertha" giving him one hell of a time, glad i'm not an RB.

Damian stretched out then walked over to the 50 yard line. First line of action, sprints. Second, he had to get used to running while in coverage, so sprinting backward was his next idea. As far as reading the reciever, he would have to wait until he had someone to run mock routes with, but untill then, he was going to ensure that he would never be burnt again.

Oby picked himself up off the ground again, and heard the unmistakeable sound of someone running sprints. Gazing over he saw Damian running switch sprints. Starting off backwards, as if a receiver ran at him, then turning and sprinting, or cutting inside or outside, shadowing the "receiver". Oby was just glad to see there were some other players that knew they needed extra work.

"Hey, Dozer, want some help?"

Dar knew that he was playing better than he had been at the beginning of the year. If anything, the field was a good therapeutic treatment for him, helping to keep his mind off of school, Luke, Jess, and other stresses. That and the presence of the Coach helped to quiet down the spirits. The only problem with coming in early was that Coach wasn't there to quiet them down.

Good wholesome work such as this is good for you Angavu. You should be out here more often. Hodari rumbled in his ear. Doing his best to ignore him, the large linebacker walked on up to the field, duffel bag slung over one shoulder containing various things from the locker room and a few bottles of water. Dozer and Oby were already out there.

"Hell, why don't we just make this into a party?" Dar called out, tossing his bag onto one of the bleachers and grabbing his helmet. "I'll give ya a buck each time you manage to make it past Dozer and me here Oby." The linebacker grinned, hustling across the field to join his teammates.

*Damian "Dozer" Singleton*

Damian ended his sprint coming across the middle of the field, set as though he were tracing a receiver in anticipation of knocking the ball away from him. Stopping his run he looked over to Oby and shook his head as he began a light jog into his area.

Dar yelled his invitation from the side line, causing Damian to look over to him. Stopping, Damian shrugged his shoulders.

"Sure, why not...the more the better."

Brandon watched the altercation from the running track, where he was jogging laps. He jogged in place when he got closer, watching to see what would happen.

When Dar's challenge floated through the air, he laughed. "Hell, I'll match every buck you earn!" he yelled.

It had all come down to this.

There was a loud grunt in the air and a crash of metal, drowning out the thud of fabric and rubber.

Hit, spin, push off, sprint. Walk back, line up again. Hit, CRASH, grunt, spin, push off, CRASH, sprint. Walk back, line up again.

Diyar was alone on the dark, cold field. He had been running the drill for almost an hour, but he hadn't noticed. He'd sprint ten yards one time, the next he sprinted the entire length of the field, chasing some imaginary quarterback or running back or razor-back or hunchback. It wasn't late, but the winter months had made the sun a hermit, despite spring's best efforts to arrive.

Hit, CRASH, spin, push off, CRASH, sprint.

He'd imagine the rest of the line, the chaos that ensued every time play began again. He'd spin right to avoid a huge pile of fat and pads. He'd go left for a hole in the line and an easy sack.

Hit, CRASH, spin -

"Delevar!"

- trip.

Diyar hit the ground hard, instantly soaked by the damp grass. He cursed a bit, turning his head enough to see bright blue windpants. He rolled onto his back, rubbing a pain out of his knee.

"Son, it's close to nine; what are you doin' out here?"

Diyar sat up, shrugging. "Just...practicing a bit. Figured no one would care if I used the sled since it was already on the field."

Waters looked at the sled with the dummy standing on the end of it. "Why are you hitting my sled this late at night? You ought to be in your room studying; you'll have plenty of chances to hit something in the morning."

Diyar sighed. "I'm done with my work. Had nothing better to do...figured I'd work on what 'Dozer' had been showing me."

Waters looked at the boy, then back at the sled. "You're not worried about the next game, are you now?"

Diyar laughed. It had to have been the stupidest question the coach had ever asked that deserved a laugh.

Of course he was worried. This was the first time he had REALLY played football. He had somehow weasled onto the varisty line. And somehow, the team was going to state. Sure, 'Dozer' was back to where he had started the season, as another DE, so it made his job easier, not trying to pick up the slack from the second-string guy that had stepped up in his place. It was a state game...he had to be on the top of his game, even if his game wasn't all that great compared to the rest of his team.

"Nah, Coach. Just...working off some of that steam."

Waters laughed now, then hopped on top of the sled. He pulled his whistle out. "Well, then let's make this a bit harder." He blew the whistle.

Hit, CRASH, spin, push off, CRASH, sprint.

"Faster!" Tweet

Hit, CRASH, spin, push off, CRASH, sprint.

"C'mon, I barely felt that." Tweet

Hit, CRASH, spin, push off, CRASH, sprint.