Chapter two of new book: first draft
Two
After that, When I was at Gilman park, climbing on stuff or goofing around in the wading ppool I saw Hunter with his add now and again at the park. Started out the same way always the same way. Hunter’s dad supervised him while he did pushups, situps, pullups, running. Then Hunter would throw the ball. I don’t mean they played catch. This was serious throwing, like lessons. Hunter never smiled. He’d just throw the ball, his father giving him tips or ripping into him.
I’d tossed a football around at school and a little with my older brother Jonathan, though he doesn’t have much to do with me anymore. The ball we used was smaller and lighter than the one Hunter used, but neither of us could throw it nearly as far or as straight as Hunter did. Not even Jonathan could, and he was three years older than me and two years older than Hunter and a pretty good athlete.
After they’d thrown for a while, Mr. Gates would seek me out. “We need you for a little bit, Trevor” he said. The McCavitt twins and the other guys got used to it, too. I’d nod to them and spend fifteen minutes or so catching passes from Hunter.
Two things. It was a little strange. We weren’t friends,hunter and I. Hunter Gates and I never friends. I was workout partner, or sparring partner, or robot, never friend. Catch passes, throw them back, while his father watches.
Okay for me. No big deal, nothing else to do. The McCavitts could wait. And it was flattering too. Didn’t ask anybody but me. I was the one with the hands. What he wanted from me. I knew it then, and it never changed. Speed and hands. Tool, like a blocking dummy.
Reason was my speed, and maybe even more my quickness. He could throw the ball back and forth with Hunter but he couldn’t run pass routes. That’s what I was doing. Giving Hunter practice with his timing on passes.
Brother Jonathan saw me one day. He was walking home with his buddies. I waved to him, but he acted like I didn’t exist. That night at dinner, though, he asked me that Mr. Gates was the head football coach at Wilson. “He played in college, too. I think he was drafted by the Detroit Lions, but he got cut. He was good, but not quite good enough. “That’s why he works with his son all the time. He’s grooming him for the NFL. Justin Barkley leaves next door to them. According to him, the kid lives and breathes football. Studies video, knows defenses, all that stuff. Totally his life.”
“Sounds sad,” my dad said.
Jonathan shrugged. “If he makes millions in the NFL>
“I don’t want you playing football,” my mom said, looking at me. It’s too dangerous
“I don’t play football. All I do is catch the ball. And I only do it for fifteen minutes.”
“No tackling,” she said.
“No,” I answered. “Don’t worry.”
We ate in silence for a while. Finally my dad spoke. So is he any good?
“Is he any good, this Hunter boy?”
“He’s pretty good,” I said.
He’s way more than pretty good, Jonathan said. “Truth is he could throw the ball a long way and with more zip on it than high school guys, and what is he, going into 7th grade? He’s already got an arm as strong as any of the guys on our Wilson’s varsity==though that’s not saying much. Mr. Gates can hardly to get him on the team. Everybody says he’s a totally jerk, though.”
“Is he a jerk to you?” my dad asked
He hardly talks to me.
See, he’s a jerk, Jonathan said.
“Im not sure I like this,” my mom said.
“Mom, I just play catch with him. What is the big deal?”
Jonathan smiled, happy to see me squirm.
“so long as it’s just catch, My cad said.
After that, When I was at Gilman park, climbing on stuff or goofing around in the wading ppool I saw Hunter with his add now and again at the park. Started out the same way always the same way. Hunter’s dad supervised him while he did pushups, situps, pullups, running. Then Hunter would throw the ball. I don’t mean they played catch. This was serious throwing, like lessons. Hunter never smiled. He’d just throw the ball, his father giving him tips or ripping into him.
I’d tossed a football around at school and a little with my older brother Jonathan, though he doesn’t have much to do with me anymore. The ball we used was smaller and lighter than the one Hunter used, but neither of us could throw it nearly as far or as straight as Hunter did. Not even Jonathan could, and he was three years older than me and two years older than Hunter and a pretty good athlete.
After they’d thrown for a while, Mr. Gates would seek me out. “We need you for a little bit, Trevor” he said. The McCavitt twins and the other guys got used to it, too. I’d nod to them and spend fifteen minutes or so catching passes from Hunter.
Two things. It was a little strange. We weren’t friends,hunter and I. Hunter Gates and I never friends. I was workout partner, or sparring partner, or robot, never friend. Catch passes, throw them back, while his father watches.
Okay for me. No big deal, nothing else to do. The McCavitts could wait. And it was flattering too. Didn’t ask anybody but me. I was the one with the hands. What he wanted from me. I knew it then, and it never changed. Speed and hands. Tool, like a blocking dummy.
Reason was my speed, and maybe even more my quickness. He could throw the ball back and forth with Hunter but he couldn’t run pass routes. That’s what I was doing. Giving Hunter practice with his timing on passes.
Brother Jonathan saw me one day. He was walking home with his buddies. I waved to him, but he acted like I didn’t exist. That night at dinner, though, he asked me that Mr. Gates was the head football coach at Wilson. “He played in college, too. I think he was drafted by the Detroit Lions, but he got cut. He was good, but not quite good enough. “That’s why he works with his son all the time. He’s grooming him for the NFL. Justin Barkley leaves next door to them. According to him, the kid lives and breathes football. Studies video, knows defenses, all that stuff. Totally his life.”
“Sounds sad,” my dad said.
Jonathan shrugged. “If he makes millions in the NFL>
“I don’t want you playing football,” my mom said, looking at me. It’s too dangerous
“I don’t play football. All I do is catch the ball. And I only do it for fifteen minutes.”
“No tackling,” she said.
“No,” I answered. “Don’t worry.”
We ate in silence for a while. Finally my dad spoke. So is he any good?
“Is he any good, this Hunter boy?”
“He’s pretty good,” I said.
He’s way more than pretty good, Jonathan said. “Truth is he could throw the ball a long way and with more zip on it than high school guys, and what is he, going into 7th grade? He’s already got an arm as strong as any of the guys on our Wilson’s varsity==though that’s not saying much. Mr. Gates can hardly to get him on the team. Everybody says he’s a totally jerk, though.”
“Is he a jerk to you?” my dad asked
He hardly talks to me.
See, he’s a jerk, Jonathan said.
“Im not sure I like this,” my mom said.
“Mom, I just play catch with him. What is the big deal?”
Jonathan smiled, happy to see me squirm.
“so long as it’s just catch, My cad said.
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