Sons of the Mesa.

[Soapy]

Season 2, Episode 9
The phone was face down on his thigh and the screen was lit against the denim.

Micah kept his eyes on the desk. The teacher was at the board working through a problem about rates of change and the marker was squeaking and the room was warm and the air conditioning unit in the window was making the sound it always made.

Seventeen.

He’d opened the email as soon as it reached his inbox. Seventeen composite. Twelve the first time.

Seventeen.

The marker stopped squeaking. The teacher turned from the board and looked at the room and said something about the next problem. Micah opened his notebook and wrote the date at the top of the page. He didn’t write anything else. The teacher started talking again and the marker started again and the air conditioning hummed and the number sat in his head.

Three points short.

He picked up his pencil. He set it down. The teacher was walking the aisle now, checking notebooks, and Micah turned his page to a blank one and wrote the problem number at the top. He didn’t solve it. He wrote the numbers from the board and then he stopped and looked at them and they didn’t mean anything.

Seventeen.

The PA system clicked on. The sound was loud in the room and the teacher stopped talking and the marker went still and the air conditioning hummed through the silence.

“Micah Namoki,” the voice said. “Please report to the men’s varsity locker room.”

The click went off. The room stayed quiet for a second. Then the marker started again and the teacher was talking and the air conditioning hummed and Micah was already standing.

He grunted and he grabbed his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. The teacher was at the desk now, pulling a slip from the drawer, and Micah walked to the front and the teacher handed it to him without looking up from whatever he was writing. Micah took it and folded it once and put it in his back pocket and pushed through the door.

The hallway was empty. His shoes were loud on the tile and the sound bounced off the lockers and came back at him. He passed the water fountain and the bulletin board and the door to the gym and the hallway turned and the locker room was at the end of it, the door propped open with a chair.

He expected Coach Sau. He expected the whiteboard and the roster notations and the two chairs and the conversation about the seventeen and the twenty and the three points in between. He expected the same speech he’d gotten in the weight room in July, the one about resources and programs and exhausting all of them. He expected to stand in front of the desk and say yes sir and no sir and thank you and walk out and go back to class.

He pushed the door open.

Coach Sau was behind the desk. There was a man in the other chair, turned sideways. The man stopped talking when the door opened. He turned around.

He stood up.

He was tall. Not as tall as Micah but tall enough. He had a polo shirt on, dark red, with a logo on the chest that Micah didn’t recognize. His hand was already out.

“Micah,” the man said. “I’m Coach Mazzone. Tight ends coach at New Mexico State.”

Jace sat in the second row with his folder open on the desk and his pencil behind his ear. The projector was on and the screen at the front was showing a slide about cardiac tamponade and the instructor was talking about Beck’s triad and Jace was writing it down and not writing it down at the same time. His hand moved but the words didn’t land.

He looked around the room. Carlos was two seats to his left. Terrence was in the back row with his arms crossed. A girl he didn’t know well was on the far side of the room, her pen moving fast. Marissa was in the front row, her back straight, her notebook open.

That was it. Five people. The room that had started with twenty-something in August was down to five and the walls felt wider because of it.

He leaned toward Carlos.

“Last of the Mohicans in here,” he said.

Carlos laughed. The girl across the room laughed too. Terrence shook his head and smiled. The instructor looked up from his notes and the corner of his mouth moved.

Marissa didn’t turn around. She shook her head once, slow, and kept writing.

"Can one of you fucking block him?! Fuck!"

The Alchesay offensive line coach had his hat off and his face was red under the stadium lights.

“Every single play!" he said. “Every single fucking play he’s in the backfield. What the fuck are we doing?!"

The linemen stood with their helmets off and their heads down and their chests heaving. The left tackle had a cut above his eye that had reopened and the blood was running down the side of his face and he wasn’t wiping it.

“You,” the coach said, pointing the clipboard at the left guard. “You’re supposed to chip him on the way to the second level. Where’s the chip? I don’t see a chip. I see you running past him like you don’t know your dick from your asshole."

The left guard didn’t look up.

“And you.” The clipboard moved to the right tackle. "We’ve got Doobie on front side lead. What the fuck is so hard about that? Stick your fucking right foot across his body and you two drive him out the fucking hole!"

The right tackle stared at the ground too.

“We’ve tried chip blocks. We’ve tried double teams. We’ve tried sliding the protection. We’ve tried everything in the goddamn playbook and he’s still getting through. So what’s the answer? Huh? What’s the answer?”

Nobody answered.

“Somebody fucking block eighty-seven. That’s the answer. That’s the fucking answer!"

The coach put his hat back on. He pulled it down hard over his forehead. He looked at the five of them and his mouth opened to say something else and then the PA system cut in over the stadium noise.

“Touchdown Hopi. Number eighty-seven. Micah Namoki.”

“And can someone fucking tackle him!”

The stool scraped against the floor and the weight settled next to him before he heard the voice.

“Let me get you one.”

Delvin studied the glass in his hand. The ice had melted to a thin layer and the whiskey was the color of weak tea. He turned his head.

The man was older, maybe early sixties. Gray at the temples, a denim shirt buttoned to the collar, hands flat on the bar. The man wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the shelf behind the bartender.

Delvin looked down at his own hand, the cut along his knuckle just beginning to close, then he twisted the glass a quarter turn on the bar top. The ring it left on the wood faded as he watched, leaving only a grainy patch of clean in the dust. He set the glass down gently, careful not to let it clink.

Delvin nodded.

The older man lifted two fingers, flicked them at the bartender.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender said, wiping his hands on a rag that looked like it had seen better weeks.

“Two of whatever he’s drinking,” the man said.

The bartender glanced at Delvin, then at the glass. “Same thing?"

Delvin grunted.

The bartender poured out two more, the bottle glugging in a slow rhythm as the whiskey met the ice. He set them in front of the two men, the whiskeys catching the glow from the bar sign and turning it copper. The man slid across a twenty dollar bill towards the bartender and the bartender took it with a slight nod.

Delvin picked it up. The glass was cold and the whiskey was fresh and the first sip went down the way it always went down, warm and then nothing.

Delvin kept his eyes on the glass, letting the quiet fill up between them. Delvin took another sip, this one slower, and nodded once to the man beside him.

[redsox907]

Delvin going broke back mountain on us?

Micah really is Hulking out there eh

[Caesar]

@Delvin

@Micah, Time to find a bitch named Micah to take his ACT for him

[Captain Canada]

I don't even gotta comment because Sox and Caesar covered it for me

[Soapy]

Delvin going broke back mountain on us?

Micah really is Hulking out there eh

@Delvin

@Micah, Time to find a bitch named Micah to take his ACT for him

I don't even gotta comment because Sox and Caesar covered it for me

this chise exposing the lack of maturity among my readers

sad, really sad

[Soapy]

Season 2, Episode 10
The bodies came off him one at a time.

First the linebacker, rolling to the side. Then the safety, pushing himself up with both hands on Micah’s shoulder. Then the defensive end, who’d been the first one to the party.

Micah laid there. The turf was cool through his jersey and the stadium lights were white above him and the sound of the crowd was a wall on both sides. His left shoulder pad had ridden up under his jersey and the edge of it was digging into his collarbone.

Kele’s hand appeared. It reached down and found the strap on the left side and pulled it back into place. The pad settled against his shoulder and the pressure eased. Kele’s other hand went to the right side, adjusting the buckle, cinching it one notch tighter.

Micah got to his feet. His legs carried him and he didn’t think about how. Kele was already walking toward the line and Micah fell in behind him and they looked to the sideline together.

Coach Sau’s hand was up.

Micah nodded. Kele nodded. They turned and went back to the huddle.

The play was the same play. Counter tag. Kele pulling. Micah following.

They lined up. The ball came. Kele pulled and kicked the defensive end out and the hole opened and Micah hit it and went four yards before the linebacker filled and wrapped him up and they went down together.

Second and six.

They lined up again. Same play. Kele pulled and drove the linebacker two yards off the ball and Micah cut behind him and kept his legs moving and the pile came and he went down for three.

Third and three.

They lined up. The defense had shifted. The linebacker was cheating toward the gap. The ball came and Kele pulled and the linebacker came hard and Kele met him in the hole and drove him back a step and Micah cut inside and the safety came down and Micah lowered his shoulder and popped him and kept his feet and went down for four.

First down.

The chains moved. The referee’s arm pointed toward the end zone. Micah got up and Kele was there and they walked to the huddle together and didn’t say anything.

Another carry. Iso, right up into the gut of the defense.

Fifth carry. Duo. Micah thought about bouncing it outside but his legs didn’t let him so he just leaned on his own linemen, pushing the pile forward.

Sixth carry. Third and two. The defense had brought the safety down into the box. Micah saw him there, crouched behind the linebacker, waiting. The ball came.

First down.

The chains moved again. The clock was under two minutes. Micah got up, looked to the sideline. Again.

Seventh carry. The entire defense was practically within three yards of the line of scrimmage. The corners shaded in and were within arm’s length of the linebacker, leaving the receivers completely open. Micah never looked their way.

First and goal at the four.

The sideline was loud. The crowd was loud. Micah got up and his legs carried him and he walked to the huddle, not that there was a need to.

They lined up. The defense was in a goal-line front, the linemen low, the linebackers stacked behind them. The ball came. Kele pulled and drove the defensive end out and the hole opened and Micah hit it and the linebacker filled and Micah lowered his shoulder and drove through him and the safety came from the side and Micah kept his legs moving and the safety went down and Micah kept going and the goal line came up under his feet and he crossed it and went down.

The whistle blew.

The sound came from everywhere at once. The sideline and the stands and the field and the bodies that were already on top of him, piling on, the weight of them pressing him into the turf and he let it press.

He didn’t move.

Delvin had one hand on the chain link and his other hand was checking the time on his phone. Jace stood beside him with his arms crossed and his eyes on the field.

Fifteen seconds. The ball sat at the thirty. Red Mesa’s offense was breaking the huddle, moving to the line with hurry even though the clock had stopped.

Micah was on the left side. He wasn’t in a stance. He was standing straight up, his arms hanging at his sides, swaying a little with each breath. His helmet was tilted forward and the facemask pointed at the ground.

Delvin watched him.

The ball moved.

Micah went. His first step was slow and his second was slower. No rip, no swim, no move at all. He just put his helmet under the offensive tackle’s chin and drove. The tackle’s feet went back and his hips went back and his shoulders went back and he was in the quarterback’s lap before the quarterback had finished his drop.

The quarterback rolled right. Micah’s feet were still moving. He came off the block and turned and the quarterback was scrambling toward the sideline with the ball tucked and Micah was closing. The quarterback threw a stiff arm. It caught Micah in the shoulder and Micah’s head snapped to the side but his legs didn’t stop. He grabbed the quarterback’s jersey with both hands and pulled and the quarterback’s feet came off the ground and he went down hard.

Micah went down with him.

He didn’t get up. He was on his hands and knees and his head was down and his shoulders were heaving.

Delvin’s mouth moved.

“Kikte.”

Micah’s head came up. He got to his feet. He looked at the line and started moving toward it, his steps short and quick, his arms pumping at his sides like he was trying to convince his legs to keep going.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Jace said.

Red Mesa was scrambling. The receivers were sprinting back from downfield. The quarterback was on his feet and running toward the line and the center was bent over the ball and the clock was running.

Five.

The quarterback got to the line. He was shouting something. The center’s hand was on the ball.

Four.

The receivers weren’t set. One of them was still five yards from the line, hurrying back.

Three.

The quarterback’s hands went under the center.

Two.

The whistle blew.

The clock hit zero.

The field erupted. Bodies came from the sideline and they found Micah where he was standing and he went down under them.

Delvin watched. His arms were still crossed and his eyes were still on the field and the noise moved around him and through him and he didn’t move with it.

He looked at the field for another moment. Then he turned his head toward the parking lot and nodded once.

Jace looked at him. He looked at the field. He looked at the parking lot. He let go of the fence.

They walked.

The truck ran steady under them. The headlights cut a narrow path through the dark and the mesas sat out there on both sides, black shapes against a black sky, and the road stretched ahead flat and empty.

“I can’t believe they won,” Jace said. He had his arm on the door and his window was cracked and the air coming in was cool. “We never beat Red Mesa. I don’t think anybody I know has ever seen Hopi beat Red Mesa.”

Delvin didn’t answer. His hands were at ten and two and his eyes were on the road.

The road curved gently to the left and Delvin eased the wheel. The tires whispered on the asphalt.

“If he can get his grades together,” Jace said, “he might actually make it out of this shithole.”

Delvin’s jaw tightened.

"Malachi, you’ve had every opportunity presented to you. You’re just too fucking lazy to do anything with it. The moment something gets hard, you bail."

"Bullshit," Jace scoffed.

“You’re where you are because of you,” Delvin said. “Not this shithole.”

Jace shook his head.

“The coaches that came out for cross country. You never called them back. That wasn’t this shithole. That was you.”

Jace opened his mouth.

“Northland Pioneer. One semester. That wasn’t this shithole. That was you.”

“I’m just saying that-"

“Baseball. You started it. You quit. You came back. You quit again. That wasn’t this shithole. That was you.”

The truck ran. The road hummed under the tires.

“That’s life,” Jace said. “You have dreams. You fail. You try again. I’d rather keep trying than…"

Jace paused.

"End up like you."

The cab went quiet. The engine ran and the road ran and the peaks sat out there in the dark and didn’t move.

Jace shifted in his seat. His arm came off the door and he sat forward and his voice came out faster.

"You might be okay with this fucking life but it ain’t for me, alright? And that ain’t nobody’s fault by yours. You chose this shit. You’re the one okay with it. Shit money at a fucking shit job. Going home to nothing but a fucking six-pack and a meal your seventeen-year-old son cooked."

Delvin’s hands didn’t move on the wheel.

“I want a life,” Jace said. “A real one. EMT is the next step towards that. And if it’s not EMT, it’ll be something else. And if it’s not that, something else after that. Something else after that. Just not this. Not your life.”

The cab stayed quiet. The road kept going.

The truck ran for another twenty minutes. The road signs came and went. The speed limit dropped and Delvin eased off the gas and the truck slowed and he pulled onto the shoulder behind the line of ADOT vehicles. The brake lights came on and the engine idled and then he killed it.

The doors opened. The night air came in cold and dry and carried the smell of diesel and fresh asphalt. Jace got out and walked to the back of the truck. The tailgate came down and he pulled the rake out and the metal rang against the bed.

Delvin crossed the road. The machinery sat in a line along the edge of the site, dark shapes against the dark ground. The floodlights came on one by one, throwing white light across the fresh mat. The paver started up with a low diesel rumble that settled into a steady idle.

Jace fell in behind it. The rake moved in his hands, working the edge where the machine left it rough, smoothing the transition from mat to dirt. His steps were slow and even and the rake scraped against the asphalt in a rhythm that matched the paver’s.

Delvin climbed into the cab of the grader. The seat creaked under him. He checked the fuel gauge. The needle sat above the quarter mark. He turned the key and the engine turned over and caught and the vibration moved through the seat and into his legs.

He looked out the windshield. The mesas sat out in the dark beyond the edge of the site. Black against black. The stars above them and the floodlights below and the fresh asphalt cooling in the dark between.

He put the grader in gear and the tracks bit into the dirt and the machine moved forward and the blade dropped and the night began and ended.

[Captain Canada]

Jace talking big shit for having not much going on

If I'm Delvin, he's walking home

[Caesar]

"End up like you."

Micah gonna have Aaron Hernandez level CTE sooner rather than later.

[redsox907]

they gonna do a 30/30 after Micah retires about how he was abused in HS

like CC said. Jace talking big money like he done something. Boy needs to focus on EMT and not the pussy