Team Player

Before the game I asked my Girl to stop cheering for Doofus Danny, the roided out linebacker all the girls had a crush on and wanted to be crushed by. He had the school’s all-time sack record, I’ll give him that, the little glory hound, but this was because he was a sack hog, I tried to explain to my Girl, patiently, like the coach breaking down a complex play, while I was a hell of a pass rusher as an end, maybe one of the top ends in the state, but, and this is important, this is key, this is what distinguishes me from Doofus Danny—I was a team player, part of the team, went where I was supposed to go, where I was most needed, containing the sweep or taking out the fullback or leaping up to block a pass or kick while Danny only cared about fast sacks, sack, sack, sack, hounding the opposing team’s quarterback like a swarm of angry bees, like a swarm of attention-hogging, limelight-seeking, desperate doofus bees.
I told my Girl all this on the sideline at the start of the game but, near as I could tell and let me tell you I was listening, she cheered even more loudly for Doofus Danny than in any of the previous games, cheered with an extra special focus just for him, funneling her love and support and admiration directly into his stupid ears. I bore this offense as best I could until toward the end of the second quarter. He was about to make his first sack. As usual, I was about to assist him. But something inside of me snapped and I dove headfirst into Danny instead, driving him into the cleat-ravaged earth, allowing the opposing quarterback to connect with their speedy wide receiver for a 43-yard touchdown pass which wasn’t very team player of me.
But the weirdest thing was, weirder than my coach apoplectic at the sidelines, choking on curses, weirder than my friend J-Bird, the left tackle and heart of the d-line, open-hand slapping the side of my helmet with the force of a sledgehammer, weirder than suddenly being the focal point of both sides of bleachers, weirdest of all was the silence from the opposing team’s cheerleaders as they deferred to ours who clearly had nothing to cheer for and yet, by some secret cheerleader pact or telepathic understanding, our cheerleaders took over with my Girl’s voice loudest of all, the shrill tip of the squad’s spear, saying, demanding, “give me an
F
and I didn’t begrudge them that, one letter, so I gave it to them, I’m no cheapskate, then “give me a
U
and I started to wonder where this was going as the rest of the team stood in mourning and rage around me and my ears were still ringing with J-Bird’s slap but I gave them that u, what else could I do? and then, limber legs kicking high, all those matching socks, that uniform and agile disdain, “give me a
C
and I’m no genius but neither am I an idiot so I knew where this was going but I gave them the c, it was their due, and I graciously accepted the remaining four letters and the subsequent boos and the benching and the beatdown in the locker room and my ex Girl giving Danny blowjobs in his Bronco in the parking lot and advertising this fact to anyone who’d listen and the ensuing year of hostile ostracism because at heart I’m nothing if not a team player.