Dying to Live
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7859
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
The return has been long awaited
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Black and Pink Frapp
The sun sat low in the sky, casting shadows across the parking lot as Royce pulled into the coffee shop. His muscles ached from practice, but it was a good kind of pain – one that he would accept because it reminded he was back where he belonged. A week or so had passed since he’d first stepped back onto the field as a player, and each day felt like another small victory.
Especially as the coaching staff had kept working him into the rotation despite Donovan’s knee not giving him any real trouble.
Royce caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, stubble beginning to grow on his chin as he no longer had the energy or desire to shave every few days. The journey back hadn’t been easy, and it wasn’t over, but he was defying odds and that continued to drive him as it had his entire life.
He stepped out of the car, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested the movement. The familiar twinge was there, a throbbing in his leg, hand and side that would take a few hours to subside. It was different now, no longer forcing him to remember that he was a shell of what he had been.
The coffee shop’s neon sign buzzed quietly in the growing dusk, something normal in his life that had been anything but lately.
~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m telling you. This nigga used to always watch that Dragon Ball Z shit and then would get mad if you tried to clown him about it. Talking about some kamuhemuhe,” Arianna said, pointing at Royce as she spoke.
“If you gonna say the shit, say it right. It’s Kamehameha,” Royce shot back.
“It’s lame.”
Malik held up his hands. “I ain’t even going to hold y’all. I used to watch it, too. That was my shit.”
“My nigga,” Royce dapped up Malik as the two of them laughed.
The aroma of grilled meat and laughter filled Rana’s backyard as she and Tyrell hosted yet another cookout. While the two of them and their friends were mostly on one side of the patio, Royce, Arianna, Toni, Mike Mike, Malik, Alix and Jonah had taken up residence on the opposite side. It was a far cry from the many times Royce had sat out at such events alone, angry at the world.
Royce glanced at Alix out of the corner of his eye. She smiled at him for a brief moment, that knowing smile, that they had a secret no one sitting around the table with them knew about. Throughout the afternoon, she found reasons to brush past him, her hand lingering on his arm just a moment too long, always ending up close enough to him that he knew she was there but not too obvious.
“All I’m saying is y’all niggas too old for that shit. Not even Mike watches no fucking cartoons,” Arianna said throwing her hands up.
“That’s why his ass still a virgin,” Royce said, taking a sip from cup he’d filled with vodka and Kool-Aid. “If he’d been watching that shit, he would’ve known you gotta go out here and get some fucking Chi-Chis.”
“I’m not,” Mike Mike said, shaking his head.
Royce leaned forward, pointing at Mike Mike and looking at Malik and Jonah. “Now, y’all tell the truth. This nigga look like he know what pussy feel like?”
“I’m not in this,” Jonah said, drinking from the cup in his hand.
“That’s right. Don’t bring him into it,” Arianna said, casually putting her arm around Jonah causing him to blush.
“Ro, you know them girls at Terrebonne will let anyone fuck for a four-for-four and a little Taaka,” Toni said, rolling her eyes.
Now, Malik sat forward in his chair, almost falling as he leaned on the table. “Oh, that’s how y’all be getting down in Houma? I got four dollars right here.” He slapped his pocket.
The two groups merged seamlessly, Royce’s family and his new friends sharing stories and inside jokes. The conversation continued, everyone ribbing one another, when Alix leaned into Royce’s space to grab a napkin from the table, her perfume mixing with the smoky air.
“You want another drink?” she asked, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel them as her mouth moved, her fingers trailing across his shoulders as he stood.
“Yeah,” he said, keeping his eyes on Malik to make sure he hadn’t seen anything, but he was engrossed in the conversation.
She took the cup from him, her fingers lingering on his, before she walked away.
Arianna kicked Royce under the table, fixing him with a glare when he looked at her. Royce only shrugged.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Where’d you park your car?” Royce asked as he opened the door, looking outside at the driveway.
“I saw a squirrel run across the street and put it in the ditch by the park. I figured if anyone found it, I could just say some young dudes stole it and ran from BRPD,” Alix laughed as she slipped through the door. Royce pulled her close, both of them still playing at being secretive despite their growing connection.
“You so fucking goofy,” he said, but his hands were already finding their way under her shirt.
They barely made it to the guest room, leaving a trail of whispered words and stifled laughs in their wake. Alix’s fingers traced the scars on his body, with the familiarity of reading a story she’d memorized.
Minutes stretched into hours until they lay tangled in sheets, light from the streetlights outside streaming through the window. Alix propped herself up on her elbows, studying his face with a mix of mischief and affection.
~~~~~~~~~~
The field hummed with energy as played moved through drills. Royce stepped up between the defensive linemen and pointed at the tight end.
“Rico! Rico!” he shouted, the linemen and linebackers shifting to account for the adjustment.
He stepped back, wiping his gloved hands down his jersey – now sporting his proper number instead of the high temporary number he’d been given at first, a small change, but one that spoke volumes to him and the rest of the team -- as Will, the team’s quarterback, went through his cadence.
Will snapped the ball and turned to his left, pitching it to Andre, the running back. Andre caught the ball and slowed down to allow his blocks to develop in front of him. Royce shuffled to his left, flowing with the play.
Once Andre committed to take it to the outside, Royce burst forward, swinging his arm up as linemen tried to block him. Andre saw him and planted his foot, trying to juke back to the inside, but Royce closed the gap too quickly, wrapping him up and spinning him to the ground.
Whistles blew the play dead.
“Way to attack the ball, Lafitte,” Coach Vaughn said as Royce jogged back to the huddle for the next rep.
Royce muttered a thanks, coach, but pride swelled in his chest. Each successful rep would keep him running with the ones, keeping him getting more reps under his belt and getting his sharpness back. His reads were getting fast, his timing sharper and the rust was falling away by the second.
…
“I ain’t seen him really hit nothing though. Nigga might be scared,” Justin joked, wrapping his arm around Royce’s neck during a water break. “He be out here wrapping up everyone. Gotta peelay someone. Make ‘em respect your mind.”
Royce shrugged Justin’s arm off, the limb heavier than he expected it to be. “I ain’t trying to hurt my own guys.”
“They used to it. You forgetting we got Seth crazy ass. Receivers just be letting the ball sail over their heads on posts if Seth got the deep third,” Donovan said, kneeling down to try to catch a breather during their break.
“Y’all just trying to find flaws in my nigga’s game,” Malik said, tapping Royce on the chest with the folded up cup he held. “That boy already came out here and hit the ground running. If he turn into Ray Lewis out here, both you niggas gonna be on that bench.”
“Shit, that’s Tyler gotta worry about that. I’ll just beat this scrawny lil’ nigga’s ass like that white woman from the Olympics,” Justin said, drawing laughs from the group, including Royce.
Whistles echoed around the field.
“C’mon, ladies. Back to it!” Coach Smith shouted. “Knees to fucking chest if you want to get out here sooner rather than later!”
Royce swung his helmet onto his head before jogging back onto the field, the unrelenting Louisiana heat bearing down on them mercilessly.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce reached behind his head to roll the window all the way down, every inch of glass in the car fogged up. His car sat alone in the parking lot outside of the school, hours before he needed to be at the stadium for that day’s practice.
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, catching everything in that peculiar pre-dawn glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.
Alix rested her head on his chest as they lay in the backseat, both of them still catching their breath. Royce grabbed a discarded, possibly dirty from days prior, shirt from the floor and wiped his face of the sweat that seemed to be drenching him.
“I ain’t gonna lie. I think you might be getting to attached to me,” Royce said. “I might need some space.”
“Boy, please,” she scoffed, making no attempt to get up instead adjusting her body so she was in a more comfortable position. “You’re the one who texted me at five in the fucking morning.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“Sure could’ve.”
Those early morning meetings were becoming a habit, stolen moments before the rest of the world woke up. A switch up from the late night meetings that they’d also had in their arsenal of sneaking around.
“We should probably get out of here soon. I forgot my shit at the house,” he said.
Neither of them made a move to leave.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Dog, you can’t tell me that this motherfucker don’t be trying to sound like Dr. King. Brother be up there in front of the team about to tell us about being on the fucking mountaintops. Hollering about ‘Uh, uh our GOD is marching on,’” Pat, a corner on the team, said, drawing laughter from the table.
Royce sat at one end of the table, having joined Pat, Malik, Donovan, Dru and Justin after practice to grab a bite to eat. As they were all seniors starting on defense, Royce had naturally been included in their group.
Despite the fact he was technically not yet a starter himself.
“That nigga Andre can’t be Dr. King. He a Black Muslim. Louis Farrakhan ass nigga,” Dru said. “I remember one time bro sat me down after a game and told me to make sure I didn’t go risk my freedom with any white harlots.”
Donovan laughed. “You a fucking lie.”
“On my mama, bruh,” Dru said, tapping his fingers against his lips and then his chest. “But he ain’t got no problem running up McKinley fucking with them ratchet ass hoes around there with five baby daddies and ten kids.”
“On some real shit, and I’m just saying,” Royce said, tossing a napkin down on the tray in front of him that once held a hamburger and fries. “I don’t think you can say that shit. Like we know you Black, but when you talk your ass sound like one of them country music singers. Like we know you fucking white girls when you talk.”
Royce’s quip brought a round of laughter to the table.
“When this nigga started telling jokes?” Dru asked, jabbing his thumb in Royce’s direction.
“You should’ve brought Andre on a two man with two blondes named Becky,” Malik said, laughing. “That’s what I would’ve did.”
“This man always trying to mess with scary hoes,” Royce shook his head. “Can y’all tell him that shit gonna get him locked up? Maybe he’ll listen to y’all.”
“The thanks I get for putting you on a baddie,” Malik said. He tapped Justin on the shoulder. “He been fucking Bree for weeks because I set him up.”
Justin leaned back and laughed. “Bree Ordoyne? My nigga, do all y’all fuck white girls? Y’all know this a chocolate city, right? Ain’t nothing but us out here and y’all running behind the same white bitches.”
Royce held up his hand. “One. I’ve fucked one chick from BR. I ain’t even been here that long to have that on my jacket.”
“Because you be passing on the alleys I’m throwing you,” Malik said.
“Wait until you get on that field in the fall. That one gonna be one of a dozen real quick,” Donovan said, slapping Royce on the back.
Royce shook his head as the conversation shifted to inside jokes that he didn’t quite understand, but the table was an island of laughter, annoying the other patrons in the restaurant.
~~~~~~~~~~
The coffee shop’s interior was cool and dim compared to the sweltering heat and humidity outside. Royce spotted Alix, one of only two people sitting at a table along a window running the length of the building.
She pushed a drink across the table as he sat down, that smile playing on her lips.
He took a sip and shook his head. “The fuck is that?”
“Blackpink frappucino,” she said, taking the drink back and taking a sip herself.
“I just know Marc’s family hate to see your white ass coming. I’d ban you from every family get-together just for drinking that kinda shit,” he said, motioning to the drink.
“You love it,” she countered, but the way she moved the straw around with her tongue after saying that let him know it was that was a bit of double entendre.
Royce sat back, shaking his head again, but fighting back a smile.
The sun sat low in the sky, casting shadows across the parking lot as Royce pulled into the coffee shop. His muscles ached from practice, but it was a good kind of pain – one that he would accept because it reminded he was back where he belonged. A week or so had passed since he’d first stepped back onto the field as a player, and each day felt like another small victory.
Especially as the coaching staff had kept working him into the rotation despite Donovan’s knee not giving him any real trouble.
Royce caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, stubble beginning to grow on his chin as he no longer had the energy or desire to shave every few days. The journey back hadn’t been easy, and it wasn’t over, but he was defying odds and that continued to drive him as it had his entire life.
He stepped out of the car, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested the movement. The familiar twinge was there, a throbbing in his leg, hand and side that would take a few hours to subside. It was different now, no longer forcing him to remember that he was a shell of what he had been.
The coffee shop’s neon sign buzzed quietly in the growing dusk, something normal in his life that had been anything but lately.
~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m telling you. This nigga used to always watch that Dragon Ball Z shit and then would get mad if you tried to clown him about it. Talking about some kamuhemuhe,” Arianna said, pointing at Royce as she spoke.
“If you gonna say the shit, say it right. It’s Kamehameha,” Royce shot back.
“It’s lame.”
Malik held up his hands. “I ain’t even going to hold y’all. I used to watch it, too. That was my shit.”
“My nigga,” Royce dapped up Malik as the two of them laughed.
The aroma of grilled meat and laughter filled Rana’s backyard as she and Tyrell hosted yet another cookout. While the two of them and their friends were mostly on one side of the patio, Royce, Arianna, Toni, Mike Mike, Malik, Alix and Jonah had taken up residence on the opposite side. It was a far cry from the many times Royce had sat out at such events alone, angry at the world.
Royce glanced at Alix out of the corner of his eye. She smiled at him for a brief moment, that knowing smile, that they had a secret no one sitting around the table with them knew about. Throughout the afternoon, she found reasons to brush past him, her hand lingering on his arm just a moment too long, always ending up close enough to him that he knew she was there but not too obvious.
“All I’m saying is y’all niggas too old for that shit. Not even Mike watches no fucking cartoons,” Arianna said throwing her hands up.
“That’s why his ass still a virgin,” Royce said, taking a sip from cup he’d filled with vodka and Kool-Aid. “If he’d been watching that shit, he would’ve known you gotta go out here and get some fucking Chi-Chis.”
“I’m not,” Mike Mike said, shaking his head.
Royce leaned forward, pointing at Mike Mike and looking at Malik and Jonah. “Now, y’all tell the truth. This nigga look like he know what pussy feel like?”
“I’m not in this,” Jonah said, drinking from the cup in his hand.
“That’s right. Don’t bring him into it,” Arianna said, casually putting her arm around Jonah causing him to blush.
“Ro, you know them girls at Terrebonne will let anyone fuck for a four-for-four and a little Taaka,” Toni said, rolling her eyes.
Now, Malik sat forward in his chair, almost falling as he leaned on the table. “Oh, that’s how y’all be getting down in Houma? I got four dollars right here.” He slapped his pocket.
The two groups merged seamlessly, Royce’s family and his new friends sharing stories and inside jokes. The conversation continued, everyone ribbing one another, when Alix leaned into Royce’s space to grab a napkin from the table, her perfume mixing with the smoky air.
“You want another drink?” she asked, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel them as her mouth moved, her fingers trailing across his shoulders as he stood.
“Yeah,” he said, keeping his eyes on Malik to make sure he hadn’t seen anything, but he was engrossed in the conversation.
She took the cup from him, her fingers lingering on his, before she walked away.
Arianna kicked Royce under the table, fixing him with a glare when he looked at her. Royce only shrugged.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Where’d you park your car?” Royce asked as he opened the door, looking outside at the driveway.
“I saw a squirrel run across the street and put it in the ditch by the park. I figured if anyone found it, I could just say some young dudes stole it and ran from BRPD,” Alix laughed as she slipped through the door. Royce pulled her close, both of them still playing at being secretive despite their growing connection.
“You so fucking goofy,” he said, but his hands were already finding their way under her shirt.
They barely made it to the guest room, leaving a trail of whispered words and stifled laughs in their wake. Alix’s fingers traced the scars on his body, with the familiarity of reading a story she’d memorized.
Minutes stretched into hours until they lay tangled in sheets, light from the streetlights outside streaming through the window. Alix propped herself up on her elbows, studying his face with a mix of mischief and affection.
~~~~~~~~~~
The field hummed with energy as played moved through drills. Royce stepped up between the defensive linemen and pointed at the tight end.
“Rico! Rico!” he shouted, the linemen and linebackers shifting to account for the adjustment.
He stepped back, wiping his gloved hands down his jersey – now sporting his proper number instead of the high temporary number he’d been given at first, a small change, but one that spoke volumes to him and the rest of the team -- as Will, the team’s quarterback, went through his cadence.
Will snapped the ball and turned to his left, pitching it to Andre, the running back. Andre caught the ball and slowed down to allow his blocks to develop in front of him. Royce shuffled to his left, flowing with the play.
Once Andre committed to take it to the outside, Royce burst forward, swinging his arm up as linemen tried to block him. Andre saw him and planted his foot, trying to juke back to the inside, but Royce closed the gap too quickly, wrapping him up and spinning him to the ground.
Whistles blew the play dead.
“Way to attack the ball, Lafitte,” Coach Vaughn said as Royce jogged back to the huddle for the next rep.
Royce muttered a thanks, coach, but pride swelled in his chest. Each successful rep would keep him running with the ones, keeping him getting more reps under his belt and getting his sharpness back. His reads were getting fast, his timing sharper and the rust was falling away by the second.
…
“I ain’t seen him really hit nothing though. Nigga might be scared,” Justin joked, wrapping his arm around Royce’s neck during a water break. “He be out here wrapping up everyone. Gotta peelay someone. Make ‘em respect your mind.”
Royce shrugged Justin’s arm off, the limb heavier than he expected it to be. “I ain’t trying to hurt my own guys.”
“They used to it. You forgetting we got Seth crazy ass. Receivers just be letting the ball sail over their heads on posts if Seth got the deep third,” Donovan said, kneeling down to try to catch a breather during their break.
“Y’all just trying to find flaws in my nigga’s game,” Malik said, tapping Royce on the chest with the folded up cup he held. “That boy already came out here and hit the ground running. If he turn into Ray Lewis out here, both you niggas gonna be on that bench.”
“Shit, that’s Tyler gotta worry about that. I’ll just beat this scrawny lil’ nigga’s ass like that white woman from the Olympics,” Justin said, drawing laughs from the group, including Royce.
Whistles echoed around the field.
“C’mon, ladies. Back to it!” Coach Smith shouted. “Knees to fucking chest if you want to get out here sooner rather than later!”
Royce swung his helmet onto his head before jogging back onto the field, the unrelenting Louisiana heat bearing down on them mercilessly.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce reached behind his head to roll the window all the way down, every inch of glass in the car fogged up. His car sat alone in the parking lot outside of the school, hours before he needed to be at the stadium for that day’s practice.
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, catching everything in that peculiar pre-dawn glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.
Alix rested her head on his chest as they lay in the backseat, both of them still catching their breath. Royce grabbed a discarded, possibly dirty from days prior, shirt from the floor and wiped his face of the sweat that seemed to be drenching him.
“I ain’t gonna lie. I think you might be getting to attached to me,” Royce said. “I might need some space.”
“Boy, please,” she scoffed, making no attempt to get up instead adjusting her body so she was in a more comfortable position. “You’re the one who texted me at five in the fucking morning.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“Sure could’ve.”
Those early morning meetings were becoming a habit, stolen moments before the rest of the world woke up. A switch up from the late night meetings that they’d also had in their arsenal of sneaking around.
“We should probably get out of here soon. I forgot my shit at the house,” he said.
Neither of them made a move to leave.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Dog, you can’t tell me that this motherfucker don’t be trying to sound like Dr. King. Brother be up there in front of the team about to tell us about being on the fucking mountaintops. Hollering about ‘Uh, uh our GOD is marching on,’” Pat, a corner on the team, said, drawing laughter from the table.
Royce sat at one end of the table, having joined Pat, Malik, Donovan, Dru and Justin after practice to grab a bite to eat. As they were all seniors starting on defense, Royce had naturally been included in their group.
Despite the fact he was technically not yet a starter himself.
“That nigga Andre can’t be Dr. King. He a Black Muslim. Louis Farrakhan ass nigga,” Dru said. “I remember one time bro sat me down after a game and told me to make sure I didn’t go risk my freedom with any white harlots.”
Donovan laughed. “You a fucking lie.”
“On my mama, bruh,” Dru said, tapping his fingers against his lips and then his chest. “But he ain’t got no problem running up McKinley fucking with them ratchet ass hoes around there with five baby daddies and ten kids.”
“On some real shit, and I’m just saying,” Royce said, tossing a napkin down on the tray in front of him that once held a hamburger and fries. “I don’t think you can say that shit. Like we know you Black, but when you talk your ass sound like one of them country music singers. Like we know you fucking white girls when you talk.”
Royce’s quip brought a round of laughter to the table.
“When this nigga started telling jokes?” Dru asked, jabbing his thumb in Royce’s direction.
“You should’ve brought Andre on a two man with two blondes named Becky,” Malik said, laughing. “That’s what I would’ve did.”
“This man always trying to mess with scary hoes,” Royce shook his head. “Can y’all tell him that shit gonna get him locked up? Maybe he’ll listen to y’all.”
“The thanks I get for putting you on a baddie,” Malik said. He tapped Justin on the shoulder. “He been fucking Bree for weeks because I set him up.”
Justin leaned back and laughed. “Bree Ordoyne? My nigga, do all y’all fuck white girls? Y’all know this a chocolate city, right? Ain’t nothing but us out here and y’all running behind the same white bitches.”
Royce held up his hand. “One. I’ve fucked one chick from BR. I ain’t even been here that long to have that on my jacket.”
“Because you be passing on the alleys I’m throwing you,” Malik said.
“Wait until you get on that field in the fall. That one gonna be one of a dozen real quick,” Donovan said, slapping Royce on the back.
Royce shook his head as the conversation shifted to inside jokes that he didn’t quite understand, but the table was an island of laughter, annoying the other patrons in the restaurant.
~~~~~~~~~~
The coffee shop’s interior was cool and dim compared to the sweltering heat and humidity outside. Royce spotted Alix, one of only two people sitting at a table along a window running the length of the building.
She pushed a drink across the table as he sat down, that smile playing on her lips.
He took a sip and shook his head. “The fuck is that?”
“Blackpink frappucino,” she said, taking the drink back and taking a sip herself.
“I just know Marc’s family hate to see your white ass coming. I’d ban you from every family get-together just for drinking that kinda shit,” he said, motioning to the drink.
“You love it,” she countered, but the way she moved the straw around with her tongue after saying that let him know it was that was a bit of double entendre.
Royce sat back, shaking his head again, but fighting back a smile.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Eyes On
The morning still held that sneaking oppression of the humidity and heat to come later in the day that was all too common for a Louisiana summer, but there was an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere as August crept it. As the players filed onto the field, with the start of the school year on the horizon in a few days, everyone knew that everything they’d spent all summer working toward was about to be put to the test.
Royce rubbed his eyes as his helmet hung loosely from his fingers, the night before having been another late one for him. Still, he woke up at 5 a.m. to get an extra work out in, still feeling as though he was needing to do twice as much work to catch up to where his teammates were – and potentially three times as much to be ready for opponents.
He glanced over at the team managers, filling water coolers for the day, and shook his head, remembering how close he was to that becoming his only contribution on a football field to end his high school career. It had been something he’d used to drive him over the last few weeks, knowing how easily he could up back over there with Zach, handing out water.
…
Later, as the team stretched before the start of practice, he could feel Coach Cunningham’s eyes on him. The old coach moved between the rows of players, his arms folded over his chest, occasionally stopping to correct a player’s form, chastise them for laziness or offer a word of encouragement.
“Leg giving you any problems?” Coach Cunningham asked, his voice carrying that familiar gravel. “You haven’t been saying anything so I figure it hasn’t, but I also know that you boys are all piss and vinegar and wouldn’t say anything anyway.”
Royce tapped on his shin as he met the coach’s gaze. “Ain’t nothing a bag of ice can’t fix, coach. Feeling like a million bucks and all that.”
“Alright. Think you’ll be saying that in a month if we put you in a game?”
“No doubt. Ready to hit something right now,” Royce said, nodding.
Coach Cunningham’s face remained impassive, years of experience having perfect his poker face. He offered only a curt “good” before moving on, leaving Royce to wonder whether he’d done enough to see playing time in a game.
He reminded himself that wasn’t something that he could control. The coaches would make the decision that they would make. He just had to keep doing his thing until the day came for them to make it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce shuffled to his right as Joe, the team’s backup running back, shifted from one side of the formation to the other. He shouted an adjustment to his teammates. They adjusted their positions, Donovan creeping up toward the line.
Will snapped the ball and the offense looked to set up a screen. Royce read the play, sprinting to the right then turning down the field as Joe ran out into the flats behind a developing wall of offensive linemen. Royce split between the offensive linemen, shoving Joe to the ground just as the ball reached him.
Royce ran over and picked the ball up, jogging toward the endzone before the coaches blew their whistles to end the rep.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Royce!” Coach Vaughn shouted, smacking him on the helmet when he jogged back to the huddle. “Way to read that and go and make a play!”
As the reps continued to rack up, Royce continued to be in and around the play, even if the offense was successful in moving the ball forward. He’d been watching film and reading the playbook incessantly for weeks, learning the ins and outs of both the offense and the defense. All in an effort to lessen his reliance on physicality.
On the field during practice, it’d led to him being able to direct traffic pre-snap like a veteran on the Cubs’ defense.
He picked up on subtle cues from the offense, shifting the defensive front to counter the offense’s motions and calling out formations that required different coverage packages. He’d internalized the entire defensive scheme in a way he’d never even dreamed of doing when he was at Terrebonne, understanding how each piece worked together.
What really caught the coaching staff’s attention was how he’d integrated with the other seniors on the defense, especially Donovan and Justin. The three of them operated like a well-oiled machine on the second level of the defense, making people forget that while Donovan and Justin had both been at UHigh for three years, Royce was just joining the team.
Royce’s understanding of the game shone brightest when it came to being in the right place at the right time on passing plays.
“You got him!” Royce shouted to Donovan, pointing to Luke, the tight end as he shifted out wide. Royce looked back at Malik as Malik shouted a coverage audible, signaling the change toward both sides of the field.
Will called for the snap and Luke took off from the line. He ran straight down the field before curving his run, an over. Donovan ended up behind him. Royce looked at Andre leaking out of the backfield then to Will, watching his eyes.
Royce turned and ran to his left, getting depth, just as Will brought the ball back to throw it. He released the ball and Royce kept dropping deeper, now watching as the ball spiraled toward him. Jumping, he picked the pass off before Luke shoved him to the turf from behind.
“Yeah! Read that like a book!” Coach Smith shouted, pointing at Royce.
Coach McDaniels threw his hands up and strode over to Will. “You can’t make it so damn obvious that you’re throwing the over. You hade Andre wide open and he just left him because he knew what you were doing.”
Coach Cunningham blew his whistle and signaled for the players to rotate, sending in the twos to get some reps in. Royce jogged to the sideline, waving off offered water as he was eager to get back into practice and keep racking up the reps.
~~~~~~~~~~
Coach Cunningham walked over to the sideline as the team went through their final reps of practice. He swiped his hand under his sunglasses to wipe away the sweat that had been accumulating around his nose. A man wearing a polo shirt emblazoned with the logo of a local TV station stood next to a camera man at the edge of the field. He stepped forward and held his hand out to Coach Cunningham.
“How’s it going, Coach? Got your boys looking good out there.”
“It’s going to be a tough year for us if we can’t sort some things out, but I’m confident in this team,” the coach said, putting his playcard under his arm as he crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you, Alce? Been over to Catholic yet?”
Alce Guidry, one of Baton Rouge’s most respected sports personalities, laughed. “They’re next week.”
“Heard y’all think they’re going to win state this year.”
Alce whistled. “They’ve got a pretty good squad. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re playing late into December. No more surprised than I’d be if your guys were still playing when we come up on Christmas.”
“From your lips to the good lord’s ears,” Coach Cunningham said. “Who do you need after practice?”
The sports reporter tapped on his chin, trying to decide which players would be best on camera for their annual high school football preview segments.
“I’ll let you decide. Just make sure I get Will,” Alce shrugged.
Cunningham nodded, taking the playcard out from under his arm and circling names on the roster that he had clipped to it. “I’ll let you know when we’re done,” he started walking back to the field before stopping to turn back. “And don’t keep me out here all night like you did last year. Y’all ask me questions for 40 minutes then use 40 seconds of what I say.”
Alce held his hands up. “Hey, Coach. I just ask the questions.” He pointed to the cameraman. “Jalen over here is the one who edits everything so feel free to lodge your complaints with him.”
“Yeah, the both of you just make sure I get home at a decent time. My missus isn’t going to be looking for Alce and Jalen to complain to, now is she?” Cunningham turned to head back onto the field when Alce called out to him.
“Hey, who’s number 5 at linebacker? I don’t have him on any roster we’ve gotten from you,” Alce said, flipping through his notes. “He’s got a motor on him. Moves well, too.”
Coach Cunningham looked out onto the field. “Transfer. He’s only been with us for a couple months.”
“Woodlawn? Scotlandville? Oh, maybe McKinley?”
“No, he’s from Houma. His name’s Royce Lafitte. Call your buddies down in New Orleans, they probably have something on him.”
Alce watched as Royce jumped at route, nearly coming away with an inception. “Houma? Didn’t know that y’all went looking down that way. My people are from Galliano, you know? You got him with the ones? That’s pretty fast for a kid who has only been here since June.”
Coach Cunningham’s expression remained neutral. “Just trying out different guys to see where they best help the team.”
Jalen tapped Alce on the shoulder and held his phone out to him. Alce quickly read what was on the screen and nodded to his cameraman.
“Think we can get him for the preview?” the reporter asked.
The old coach shook his head, starting to walk away. “No. He needs to focus on learning the ropes of how we do things here, not get in front of any TV cameras. I’ll send you some of them in 30 minutes.”
Alce leaned over to Jalen when Coach Cunningham was back on the field, having been in the business long enough to know when he’d stumbled onto a story that would do numbers during sweeps. “Steve is going to want a package on that kid if he ends up starting for them.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jalen said.
The morning still held that sneaking oppression of the humidity and heat to come later in the day that was all too common for a Louisiana summer, but there was an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere as August crept it. As the players filed onto the field, with the start of the school year on the horizon in a few days, everyone knew that everything they’d spent all summer working toward was about to be put to the test.
Royce rubbed his eyes as his helmet hung loosely from his fingers, the night before having been another late one for him. Still, he woke up at 5 a.m. to get an extra work out in, still feeling as though he was needing to do twice as much work to catch up to where his teammates were – and potentially three times as much to be ready for opponents.
He glanced over at the team managers, filling water coolers for the day, and shook his head, remembering how close he was to that becoming his only contribution on a football field to end his high school career. It had been something he’d used to drive him over the last few weeks, knowing how easily he could up back over there with Zach, handing out water.
…
Later, as the team stretched before the start of practice, he could feel Coach Cunningham’s eyes on him. The old coach moved between the rows of players, his arms folded over his chest, occasionally stopping to correct a player’s form, chastise them for laziness or offer a word of encouragement.
“Leg giving you any problems?” Coach Cunningham asked, his voice carrying that familiar gravel. “You haven’t been saying anything so I figure it hasn’t, but I also know that you boys are all piss and vinegar and wouldn’t say anything anyway.”
Royce tapped on his shin as he met the coach’s gaze. “Ain’t nothing a bag of ice can’t fix, coach. Feeling like a million bucks and all that.”
“Alright. Think you’ll be saying that in a month if we put you in a game?”
“No doubt. Ready to hit something right now,” Royce said, nodding.
Coach Cunningham’s face remained impassive, years of experience having perfect his poker face. He offered only a curt “good” before moving on, leaving Royce to wonder whether he’d done enough to see playing time in a game.
He reminded himself that wasn’t something that he could control. The coaches would make the decision that they would make. He just had to keep doing his thing until the day came for them to make it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce shuffled to his right as Joe, the team’s backup running back, shifted from one side of the formation to the other. He shouted an adjustment to his teammates. They adjusted their positions, Donovan creeping up toward the line.
Will snapped the ball and the offense looked to set up a screen. Royce read the play, sprinting to the right then turning down the field as Joe ran out into the flats behind a developing wall of offensive linemen. Royce split between the offensive linemen, shoving Joe to the ground just as the ball reached him.
Royce ran over and picked the ball up, jogging toward the endzone before the coaches blew their whistles to end the rep.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Royce!” Coach Vaughn shouted, smacking him on the helmet when he jogged back to the huddle. “Way to read that and go and make a play!”
As the reps continued to rack up, Royce continued to be in and around the play, even if the offense was successful in moving the ball forward. He’d been watching film and reading the playbook incessantly for weeks, learning the ins and outs of both the offense and the defense. All in an effort to lessen his reliance on physicality.
On the field during practice, it’d led to him being able to direct traffic pre-snap like a veteran on the Cubs’ defense.
He picked up on subtle cues from the offense, shifting the defensive front to counter the offense’s motions and calling out formations that required different coverage packages. He’d internalized the entire defensive scheme in a way he’d never even dreamed of doing when he was at Terrebonne, understanding how each piece worked together.
What really caught the coaching staff’s attention was how he’d integrated with the other seniors on the defense, especially Donovan and Justin. The three of them operated like a well-oiled machine on the second level of the defense, making people forget that while Donovan and Justin had both been at UHigh for three years, Royce was just joining the team.
Royce’s understanding of the game shone brightest when it came to being in the right place at the right time on passing plays.
“You got him!” Royce shouted to Donovan, pointing to Luke, the tight end as he shifted out wide. Royce looked back at Malik as Malik shouted a coverage audible, signaling the change toward both sides of the field.
Will called for the snap and Luke took off from the line. He ran straight down the field before curving his run, an over. Donovan ended up behind him. Royce looked at Andre leaking out of the backfield then to Will, watching his eyes.
Royce turned and ran to his left, getting depth, just as Will brought the ball back to throw it. He released the ball and Royce kept dropping deeper, now watching as the ball spiraled toward him. Jumping, he picked the pass off before Luke shoved him to the turf from behind.
“Yeah! Read that like a book!” Coach Smith shouted, pointing at Royce.
Coach McDaniels threw his hands up and strode over to Will. “You can’t make it so damn obvious that you’re throwing the over. You hade Andre wide open and he just left him because he knew what you were doing.”
Coach Cunningham blew his whistle and signaled for the players to rotate, sending in the twos to get some reps in. Royce jogged to the sideline, waving off offered water as he was eager to get back into practice and keep racking up the reps.
~~~~~~~~~~
Coach Cunningham walked over to the sideline as the team went through their final reps of practice. He swiped his hand under his sunglasses to wipe away the sweat that had been accumulating around his nose. A man wearing a polo shirt emblazoned with the logo of a local TV station stood next to a camera man at the edge of the field. He stepped forward and held his hand out to Coach Cunningham.
“How’s it going, Coach? Got your boys looking good out there.”
“It’s going to be a tough year for us if we can’t sort some things out, but I’m confident in this team,” the coach said, putting his playcard under his arm as he crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you, Alce? Been over to Catholic yet?”
Alce Guidry, one of Baton Rouge’s most respected sports personalities, laughed. “They’re next week.”
“Heard y’all think they’re going to win state this year.”
Alce whistled. “They’ve got a pretty good squad. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re playing late into December. No more surprised than I’d be if your guys were still playing when we come up on Christmas.”
“From your lips to the good lord’s ears,” Coach Cunningham said. “Who do you need after practice?”
The sports reporter tapped on his chin, trying to decide which players would be best on camera for their annual high school football preview segments.
“I’ll let you decide. Just make sure I get Will,” Alce shrugged.
Cunningham nodded, taking the playcard out from under his arm and circling names on the roster that he had clipped to it. “I’ll let you know when we’re done,” he started walking back to the field before stopping to turn back. “And don’t keep me out here all night like you did last year. Y’all ask me questions for 40 minutes then use 40 seconds of what I say.”
Alce held his hands up. “Hey, Coach. I just ask the questions.” He pointed to the cameraman. “Jalen over here is the one who edits everything so feel free to lodge your complaints with him.”
“Yeah, the both of you just make sure I get home at a decent time. My missus isn’t going to be looking for Alce and Jalen to complain to, now is she?” Cunningham turned to head back onto the field when Alce called out to him.
“Hey, who’s number 5 at linebacker? I don’t have him on any roster we’ve gotten from you,” Alce said, flipping through his notes. “He’s got a motor on him. Moves well, too.”
Coach Cunningham looked out onto the field. “Transfer. He’s only been with us for a couple months.”
“Woodlawn? Scotlandville? Oh, maybe McKinley?”
“No, he’s from Houma. His name’s Royce Lafitte. Call your buddies down in New Orleans, they probably have something on him.”
Alce watched as Royce jumped at route, nearly coming away with an inception. “Houma? Didn’t know that y’all went looking down that way. My people are from Galliano, you know? You got him with the ones? That’s pretty fast for a kid who has only been here since June.”
Coach Cunningham’s expression remained neutral. “Just trying out different guys to see where they best help the team.”
Jalen tapped Alce on the shoulder and held his phone out to him. Alce quickly read what was on the screen and nodded to his cameraman.
“Think we can get him for the preview?” the reporter asked.
The old coach shook his head, starting to walk away. “No. He needs to focus on learning the ropes of how we do things here, not get in front of any TV cameras. I’ll send you some of them in 30 minutes.”
Alce leaned over to Jalen when Coach Cunningham was back on the field, having been in the business long enough to know when he’d stumbled onto a story that would do numbers during sweeps. “Steve is going to want a package on that kid if he ends up starting for them.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jalen said.
-
djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
Here we go. Almost game time!
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
North of Florida
Royce sat on the trunk of Malik’s car as the two of them along with Donovan, Justin and Dru sat outside in a random parking lot, partaking in food from a food truck specializing in Salvadorean food.
Royce picked up his second of three baleadas as Donovan retold a story from him and Justin’s childhood growing up in the area.
“Man, the craziest shit is I’m coming out the fucking store with a bag of flour and some Mike and Ikes and I see these three niggas creeping through the alley, Dracs and all, barefaced. His goofy ass,” Donovan said, pointing to Justin. “Come out the story behind me and wanna ask me if them guns were real. Like, yeah nigga! Let’s go! The fuck?!”
Justin put his hand on Donovan’s chest and pushed him back to plead his case. “Bruh, I ain’t seen nothing like that before that night. I thought that shit was just on Call of Duty and GTA or on rap videos.”
“And your dumbass was about to have us on GTA with the shit coming up talking about ‘wasted’ and everything turning gray. Fuck is you asking questions for when someone ‘bout to get gunned down?”
“We were nine.”
“Yeah, and we were about to catch a nine or fifty, nigga.”
“Shit, you were fat back then. I would’ve just pushed you in the way if we keeping it a buck,” Justin said, shrugging. “Nigga looked like Fat Albert. Hey, hey, hey head ass.”
Donovan sucked his teeth as Royce, Dru and Malik laughed along with Justin.
Royce glanced around at where they were as the conversation shifted to something else. It felt surreal. They were only a few miles away from UHigh and LSU’s campus, but it looked like a completely different world on this side of the campus.
Where on the southern side of it, stately oaks lined streets with older, but fancier, homes with well-kept lawns and manicured gardens, the northern side of the campus looked like something out of a rapper’s music video. Houses with robber bars on the windows sat in less-than-ideal lawns with the occasional broken down jalopy sitting on the sidewalk.
He hadn’t known what to expect when Donovan and Justin said they were from Old South Baton Rouge, but it wasn’t something that reminded him of home – albeit in a much bigger city and on a much larger scale.
Malik hit Royce on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “See this the real South Baton Rouge. When we be going to them parties and shit off Highland? Might as well call that Prairieville.”
“So, why you always going out there?” Royce asked, brushing his hands together over the tray in his lap.
“Because he scared,” Justin said, laughing. He turned to Donovan. “You remember when we used to walk to the barbershop over on Eddie Robinson and they’d have that clucker under the interstate trying to get money from us?”
“That motherfucker still over there,” Donovan’s face lit up with recognition. “He be barking at the white folks running around the park. BRPD be beating his ass every other week. Fuck ass pigs.”
Malik pointed to Royce and Dru. “Not the kind of pigs you two country ass niggas used to, though.”
“You seen where I grew up,” Royce shot back. “Wasn’t a farm animal in sight.”
“I might’ve seen a chicken or two,” Malik said, laughing.
“Nigga, they got chickens hanging right over there next to the fucking food truck,” Royce said, pointing to where a row of chickens hung from a line.
Donovan nodded. “He do got a point that all hoods got someone with chickens.”
“Y’all don’t let nothing get in the way of that narrative, huh?” Dru shook his head. “Brusly ain’t but on the other side of the river from here.”
“How long it take to get there?” Justin asked, his tone filled with mirth.
Dru threw his hands up then pointed to the Mississippi River Bridge, known to the residents as the “New Bridge,” rising over the skyline. “It’d be 30 minutes if motherfuckers didn’t get in wrecks on that bitch like they don’t know how to drive in a fucking straight line.”
“Speaking of BFE,” Donovan said, looking at his phone. He dapped up Justin. “I gotta go. They’re setting a flight for me to go to West Virginia this weekend.”
“Where at?” Royce asked.
“Morgantown. WVU. They selling a nigga hard on playing up there, talking about I’m gonna start as a freshman and shit, but I don’t know about it because you not making no money out in them sticks.”
“They gonna be rolling this boy out for the local Klan supermarket to show they got diversity out there and paying him in purple Kool-Aid,” Malik laughed.
Donovan faked a laugh as he dapped up Malik, Royce and Dru. “Says the dude who got scholarships from what? Motherfuckers in middle of nowhere Texas, Arkansas and Mississippi? Make sure you don’t be out after dark out there.”
“This why I’m only going to a school in a city,” Justin said to Royce and Dru.
As the group started to go their separate ways, Malik turned to Royce.
“You wanna run up to North BR with me? I gotta bring something by my grandma’s house. She always cooking so you might get some neckbones or some shit out of it,” he said, walking around to the driver’s seat of his car.
“Yeah, but I’ll tell you now. My mawmaw throws down in the kitchen so your grandma gotta come with that heat,” Royce said, getting into the passenger seat.
Malik shook his head. “Tell her that and she’s going to come with that heat alright. That fie.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Boy, you skin and bones. Malik, where you find him at? Under the interstate?” Malik’s grandmother, known as Miss Bea to the neighborhood, said as she greeted Malik. He towered over her making her look more frail than her seventy years. Her silver hair was pulled back to meet at a bun at the nape of her neck, not a single strand out of place.
Even though she was a small woman, Royce could tell that she didn’t take any lip from anyone just from the look in her eyes, an attitude formed by years growing up in a city with shifting demographics and shifting attitudes over the decades. One only had to look at the stark contrast between the neighborhood she lived in, north of Florida Boulevard, and the neighborhoods directly to the south of the city’s economic divider to know she’d seen some things over the years.
Malik wrapped his arm around his grandmother’s shoulder, a smile on his face. “This my potna, Royce. I told him I was coming up here to get something to eat and he said he don’t like nothing too spicy so he probably won’t eat.”
“Now, why you lying?” Royce sucked his teeth. He held his hand out to Miss Bea. “Nice to meet you, but he’s lying. I’m from down the bayou. It’s no thing as not being pepper enough.”
Miss Bea swatted at Malik, pointing a finger at him and then to the scripture over the door. “Don’t be coming in my house lying under the Lord’s word, child.” She turned back to Royce. “I’m gonna go fix you a plate. You like collards? Don’t even worry about it. You gonna eat collards today if you don’t.”
Before Royce could answer or offer his thanks, she’d already shuffled back into the kitchen where the scent of the latest meal wafted through the house. She sang a gospel song as she went.
“You ain’t right, you know that?” Royce said to Malik. “Why you trying to have that sweet lady thinking I’m some Carlton Banks ass nigga?”
Malik laughed, shrugging. “I ain’t even say that. You did. Sounds like you got a guilty conscience on some shit. We’re gonna have to keep bringing you to SSB and the Top so you get back to your roots.”
At that moment the front door bust open and three little boys came tearing through the house, heading for the back. Only seconds later, they returned with a football.
“Stop running in my damn house!” Miss Bea shouted from the kitchen.
The three boys slid to a stop, muttering apologies before noticing Malik and Royce standing off to the side of the small living room.
“Malik! Malik!” one of them shouted, no older than seven. “We need you to play quarterback. Derrick did yesterday but he sucks.”
Malik took the ball from him and spun it in his hands. “Why don’t y’all learn how to throw the fucking ball so y’all can play without needing some old head to do it for you?”
“Dooda thinks he can throw it, but he sucks, too. Can you just play for a while?”
“Yeah, how many y’all got?” Malik asked, slapping the ball in Royce’s chest. “My boy got the other team if y’all got enough.”
“How you sign me up for some shit?” Royce held the ball out to one of the boys.
Malik only shrugged as the boys excitedly ran out of the door to round up their friends.
…
What started as a quick errand turned into a full-blown neighborhood game, kids seemingly materializing from every direction until they had even numbers, appearing from behind houses and between parked cars like magic.
While Royce had initially not wanted to participate, his competition side took over thanks to the trash talk from Malik. The two of them threw passes to their excited receivers, who celebrated every catch like it was a Super Bowl winning touchdown. They both drew up plays for the boys, backyard bullshit that would only work on a neighborhood street between parked cars with mailboxes serving as endzones.
One of the boys on Royce’s team, a serious-faced boy named Julius, caught an interception when Malik threw the ball too hard to one of his receivers. Up two scores, that gave his team the chance to go up 21 and end the game.
Royce walked over to Julius, holding the ball out in front of him. “Do this.” On the ball, he drew a comeback and go. “When you stop and turn around, put your hands up like you’re going to catch it. Got it?”
Julius nodded.
Royce walked back to the middle of the street. “Hit!”
Julius ran down the street, the kid defending him clearly holding onto his shirt as he went. Malik yelled for his team to watch the short pass as Julius pulled off the sloppiest comeback in football history. He put his hands up as Royce had instructed. Royce pump faked in his direction and the other kid jumped in front of him.
Royce waved his left hand up the street and Julius turned around and ran. Flicking the ball, Royce dropped it just behind Julius who spun around to catch it before running in for the score to win the game.
…
As the younger boys ran it back, Royce and Malik sat the next game out as Miss Bea brought out two paper plates overflowing with food.
They sat on the tailgate of Malik’s grandfather’s truck, just watching the game going on in front of them. It reminded Royce of hundreds of street football games with Romeo when they were growing up, filled with plays like the one he’d drawn up for Julius. Like he and Romeo, some of the kids running up and down the street right now would one day play in high school and, potentially, at higher levels.
But as he looked around at the neighborhood, the houses close together, paint weathered, yards barely giving the residents backyards, he knew that at least one of them would have the same fate as Romeo – or be the ones on the other side of the barrel.
A newer BMW rolled down the street, rap music rattling sheet metal, drawing Royce and Malik’s attention as the kids got out of the street to let the car through.
It pulled into the driveway of a house a few doors down, a green single-story with freshly painted window frames. Poochie emerged from the driver’s seat, turning around as a pretty, mocha-skinned girl got out of the other side. Poochie acknowledged with a wave the kids in the street as they called out his name.
He looked at Royce and Malik, giving them a slight nod, his eyes lingering on Malik for a moment before he turned toward the house, following behind the girl.
“Fuck you, nigga!” Malik shouted at Poochie’s retreating back.
Royce lowered the plate he’d hardly made a dent in, pointing at the house. “That nigga grew up on the same block as you and y’all beefing?”
“That’s where his mama stay. He ain’t live down here since we were like 13. He lives with some white folks or some shit off Nicholson,” Malik said, sucking his teeth. He gestured to the car. “Catholic probably kicked them some money for that, and UHigh wonder why niggas be running over there if they call.”
“Shit, they give me a car and I’m going there, too,” Royce said, picking his fork back up. “I ain’t gonna hold you, but on the face of it, it sound like some hating ass shit.”
“Nah, look where we at. Up here? Niggas will kill you over last place so I’m the least of anybody worries. Me and him fell out over some shit and you know how niggas is. You can’t be the one to dead it so it don’t get deaded. You can’t tell me his ass not a pussy bitch, though. I got plenty reasons to not like his ass these days.”
“Who was that girl with him?
Malik shrugged. “Natalie. They be on and off. She stuck up though. Plenty of us tried to fuck. Grew up around here, too, but she think she better than us.”
Royce picked up the can of Crush next to him. “I knew someone like that. Back in the day.”
“You fuck?”
“Nah,” Royce said, shaking his head, his voice quieter than expected.
Malik nodded, Royce’s tone suggesting not to prod further.
Royce pointed to Julius with his fork, changing the subject. “That little dude is going to be a problem on the field when he get older.”
“How you gonna say that about him but not my little cousins? They got it in the DNA!” Malik said.
“Because you fucking suck so they got some shit to overcome,” Royce said, laughing.
Royce sat on the trunk of Malik’s car as the two of them along with Donovan, Justin and Dru sat outside in a random parking lot, partaking in food from a food truck specializing in Salvadorean food.
Royce picked up his second of three baleadas as Donovan retold a story from him and Justin’s childhood growing up in the area.
“Man, the craziest shit is I’m coming out the fucking store with a bag of flour and some Mike and Ikes and I see these three niggas creeping through the alley, Dracs and all, barefaced. His goofy ass,” Donovan said, pointing to Justin. “Come out the story behind me and wanna ask me if them guns were real. Like, yeah nigga! Let’s go! The fuck?!”
Justin put his hand on Donovan’s chest and pushed him back to plead his case. “Bruh, I ain’t seen nothing like that before that night. I thought that shit was just on Call of Duty and GTA or on rap videos.”
“And your dumbass was about to have us on GTA with the shit coming up talking about ‘wasted’ and everything turning gray. Fuck is you asking questions for when someone ‘bout to get gunned down?”
“We were nine.”
“Yeah, and we were about to catch a nine or fifty, nigga.”
“Shit, you were fat back then. I would’ve just pushed you in the way if we keeping it a buck,” Justin said, shrugging. “Nigga looked like Fat Albert. Hey, hey, hey head ass.”
Donovan sucked his teeth as Royce, Dru and Malik laughed along with Justin.
Royce glanced around at where they were as the conversation shifted to something else. It felt surreal. They were only a few miles away from UHigh and LSU’s campus, but it looked like a completely different world on this side of the campus.
Where on the southern side of it, stately oaks lined streets with older, but fancier, homes with well-kept lawns and manicured gardens, the northern side of the campus looked like something out of a rapper’s music video. Houses with robber bars on the windows sat in less-than-ideal lawns with the occasional broken down jalopy sitting on the sidewalk.
He hadn’t known what to expect when Donovan and Justin said they were from Old South Baton Rouge, but it wasn’t something that reminded him of home – albeit in a much bigger city and on a much larger scale.
Malik hit Royce on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “See this the real South Baton Rouge. When we be going to them parties and shit off Highland? Might as well call that Prairieville.”
“So, why you always going out there?” Royce asked, brushing his hands together over the tray in his lap.
“Because he scared,” Justin said, laughing. He turned to Donovan. “You remember when we used to walk to the barbershop over on Eddie Robinson and they’d have that clucker under the interstate trying to get money from us?”
“That motherfucker still over there,” Donovan’s face lit up with recognition. “He be barking at the white folks running around the park. BRPD be beating his ass every other week. Fuck ass pigs.”
Malik pointed to Royce and Dru. “Not the kind of pigs you two country ass niggas used to, though.”
“You seen where I grew up,” Royce shot back. “Wasn’t a farm animal in sight.”
“I might’ve seen a chicken or two,” Malik said, laughing.
“Nigga, they got chickens hanging right over there next to the fucking food truck,” Royce said, pointing to where a row of chickens hung from a line.
Donovan nodded. “He do got a point that all hoods got someone with chickens.”
“Y’all don’t let nothing get in the way of that narrative, huh?” Dru shook his head. “Brusly ain’t but on the other side of the river from here.”
“How long it take to get there?” Justin asked, his tone filled with mirth.
Dru threw his hands up then pointed to the Mississippi River Bridge, known to the residents as the “New Bridge,” rising over the skyline. “It’d be 30 minutes if motherfuckers didn’t get in wrecks on that bitch like they don’t know how to drive in a fucking straight line.”
“Speaking of BFE,” Donovan said, looking at his phone. He dapped up Justin. “I gotta go. They’re setting a flight for me to go to West Virginia this weekend.”
“Where at?” Royce asked.
“Morgantown. WVU. They selling a nigga hard on playing up there, talking about I’m gonna start as a freshman and shit, but I don’t know about it because you not making no money out in them sticks.”
“They gonna be rolling this boy out for the local Klan supermarket to show they got diversity out there and paying him in purple Kool-Aid,” Malik laughed.
Donovan faked a laugh as he dapped up Malik, Royce and Dru. “Says the dude who got scholarships from what? Motherfuckers in middle of nowhere Texas, Arkansas and Mississippi? Make sure you don’t be out after dark out there.”
“This why I’m only going to a school in a city,” Justin said to Royce and Dru.
As the group started to go their separate ways, Malik turned to Royce.
“You wanna run up to North BR with me? I gotta bring something by my grandma’s house. She always cooking so you might get some neckbones or some shit out of it,” he said, walking around to the driver’s seat of his car.
“Yeah, but I’ll tell you now. My mawmaw throws down in the kitchen so your grandma gotta come with that heat,” Royce said, getting into the passenger seat.
Malik shook his head. “Tell her that and she’s going to come with that heat alright. That fie.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Boy, you skin and bones. Malik, where you find him at? Under the interstate?” Malik’s grandmother, known as Miss Bea to the neighborhood, said as she greeted Malik. He towered over her making her look more frail than her seventy years. Her silver hair was pulled back to meet at a bun at the nape of her neck, not a single strand out of place.
Even though she was a small woman, Royce could tell that she didn’t take any lip from anyone just from the look in her eyes, an attitude formed by years growing up in a city with shifting demographics and shifting attitudes over the decades. One only had to look at the stark contrast between the neighborhood she lived in, north of Florida Boulevard, and the neighborhoods directly to the south of the city’s economic divider to know she’d seen some things over the years.
Malik wrapped his arm around his grandmother’s shoulder, a smile on his face. “This my potna, Royce. I told him I was coming up here to get something to eat and he said he don’t like nothing too spicy so he probably won’t eat.”
“Now, why you lying?” Royce sucked his teeth. He held his hand out to Miss Bea. “Nice to meet you, but he’s lying. I’m from down the bayou. It’s no thing as not being pepper enough.”
Miss Bea swatted at Malik, pointing a finger at him and then to the scripture over the door. “Don’t be coming in my house lying under the Lord’s word, child.” She turned back to Royce. “I’m gonna go fix you a plate. You like collards? Don’t even worry about it. You gonna eat collards today if you don’t.”
Before Royce could answer or offer his thanks, she’d already shuffled back into the kitchen where the scent of the latest meal wafted through the house. She sang a gospel song as she went.
“You ain’t right, you know that?” Royce said to Malik. “Why you trying to have that sweet lady thinking I’m some Carlton Banks ass nigga?”
Malik laughed, shrugging. “I ain’t even say that. You did. Sounds like you got a guilty conscience on some shit. We’re gonna have to keep bringing you to SSB and the Top so you get back to your roots.”
At that moment the front door bust open and three little boys came tearing through the house, heading for the back. Only seconds later, they returned with a football.
“Stop running in my damn house!” Miss Bea shouted from the kitchen.
The three boys slid to a stop, muttering apologies before noticing Malik and Royce standing off to the side of the small living room.
“Malik! Malik!” one of them shouted, no older than seven. “We need you to play quarterback. Derrick did yesterday but he sucks.”
Malik took the ball from him and spun it in his hands. “Why don’t y’all learn how to throw the fucking ball so y’all can play without needing some old head to do it for you?”
“Dooda thinks he can throw it, but he sucks, too. Can you just play for a while?”
“Yeah, how many y’all got?” Malik asked, slapping the ball in Royce’s chest. “My boy got the other team if y’all got enough.”
“How you sign me up for some shit?” Royce held the ball out to one of the boys.
Malik only shrugged as the boys excitedly ran out of the door to round up their friends.
…
What started as a quick errand turned into a full-blown neighborhood game, kids seemingly materializing from every direction until they had even numbers, appearing from behind houses and between parked cars like magic.
While Royce had initially not wanted to participate, his competition side took over thanks to the trash talk from Malik. The two of them threw passes to their excited receivers, who celebrated every catch like it was a Super Bowl winning touchdown. They both drew up plays for the boys, backyard bullshit that would only work on a neighborhood street between parked cars with mailboxes serving as endzones.
One of the boys on Royce’s team, a serious-faced boy named Julius, caught an interception when Malik threw the ball too hard to one of his receivers. Up two scores, that gave his team the chance to go up 21 and end the game.
Royce walked over to Julius, holding the ball out in front of him. “Do this.” On the ball, he drew a comeback and go. “When you stop and turn around, put your hands up like you’re going to catch it. Got it?”
Julius nodded.
Royce walked back to the middle of the street. “Hit!”
Julius ran down the street, the kid defending him clearly holding onto his shirt as he went. Malik yelled for his team to watch the short pass as Julius pulled off the sloppiest comeback in football history. He put his hands up as Royce had instructed. Royce pump faked in his direction and the other kid jumped in front of him.
Royce waved his left hand up the street and Julius turned around and ran. Flicking the ball, Royce dropped it just behind Julius who spun around to catch it before running in for the score to win the game.
…
As the younger boys ran it back, Royce and Malik sat the next game out as Miss Bea brought out two paper plates overflowing with food.
They sat on the tailgate of Malik’s grandfather’s truck, just watching the game going on in front of them. It reminded Royce of hundreds of street football games with Romeo when they were growing up, filled with plays like the one he’d drawn up for Julius. Like he and Romeo, some of the kids running up and down the street right now would one day play in high school and, potentially, at higher levels.
But as he looked around at the neighborhood, the houses close together, paint weathered, yards barely giving the residents backyards, he knew that at least one of them would have the same fate as Romeo – or be the ones on the other side of the barrel.
A newer BMW rolled down the street, rap music rattling sheet metal, drawing Royce and Malik’s attention as the kids got out of the street to let the car through.
It pulled into the driveway of a house a few doors down, a green single-story with freshly painted window frames. Poochie emerged from the driver’s seat, turning around as a pretty, mocha-skinned girl got out of the other side. Poochie acknowledged with a wave the kids in the street as they called out his name.
He looked at Royce and Malik, giving them a slight nod, his eyes lingering on Malik for a moment before he turned toward the house, following behind the girl.
“Fuck you, nigga!” Malik shouted at Poochie’s retreating back.
Royce lowered the plate he’d hardly made a dent in, pointing at the house. “That nigga grew up on the same block as you and y’all beefing?”
“That’s where his mama stay. He ain’t live down here since we were like 13. He lives with some white folks or some shit off Nicholson,” Malik said, sucking his teeth. He gestured to the car. “Catholic probably kicked them some money for that, and UHigh wonder why niggas be running over there if they call.”
“Shit, they give me a car and I’m going there, too,” Royce said, picking his fork back up. “I ain’t gonna hold you, but on the face of it, it sound like some hating ass shit.”
“Nah, look where we at. Up here? Niggas will kill you over last place so I’m the least of anybody worries. Me and him fell out over some shit and you know how niggas is. You can’t be the one to dead it so it don’t get deaded. You can’t tell me his ass not a pussy bitch, though. I got plenty reasons to not like his ass these days.”
“Who was that girl with him?
Malik shrugged. “Natalie. They be on and off. She stuck up though. Plenty of us tried to fuck. Grew up around here, too, but she think she better than us.”
Royce picked up the can of Crush next to him. “I knew someone like that. Back in the day.”
“You fuck?”
“Nah,” Royce said, shaking his head, his voice quieter than expected.
Malik nodded, Royce’s tone suggesting not to prod further.
Royce pointed to Julius with his fork, changing the subject. “That little dude is going to be a problem on the field when he get older.”
“How you gonna say that about him but not my little cousins? They got it in the DNA!” Malik said.
“Because you fucking suck so they got some shit to overcome,” Royce said, laughing.
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Soapy
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Dying to Live
if he can't break bread, he fake!
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Captain Canada
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The long-awaited return is on the horizon finally
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Caesar
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