Hail Mary

Liam

The first few training sessions go pretty well. Horan is a hard worker just like I guessed. And even the sessions scheduled just a couple hours after practice get his full attention and effort. If everybody on the team took it as seriously as him, there'd be no way we wouldn't get a seat in the top four. I'm still a little blown away by what he told me. Watching him move, seeing the way he pivots and cuts across the field, sprints and breaks away from defenders, there's no way I would've ever guessed he suffered an injury that bad. And yeah, I'll admit I had to look it up. It's not that I didn't believe him. The guy seems trustworthy. I just wanted to see if it made the news back in his hometown. What I found was pretty fucking chilling. Horan is from a small town in Texas. He's said it's exactly like Austin, except everybody is stuck in the same ass backward mindset, and the music totally sucks. Oh, and there are a few thousand less people, and three times the churches per square mile. The article I found online was published in 2010. He played as a receiver for the Brighton Bobcats, and wasn't far off from being considered as an All-American. If he would've been able to complete his senior year, it seems like he would've been a shoe in. But while his stats are impressive, it's the details of his injury that catch my attention. The article said that it was an accident, but the video that accompanies it says otherwise. It's grainy as hell, and shot from somewhere high up in the stands. The first time I watched it, I heard the contact more than saw it. Hell, I felt it, deep down in my bones. My own back started to ache as I saw Horan just lying there on the ground, not moving. But the second time I watched, I noticed something more than an overly aggressive tackle. Horan's blocker slowed down. He was keeping time with him, but as soon as the safety started to put on speed, he slowed down. Didn't even try to get the block. And the tackle wasn't just a case of getting a bad angle. That guy had every chance in the world to line it up, but he chose to go for the hit that would make the biggest impact. He chose to grab Horan low, crushing his helmet into His back. Just watching it made me grind my teeth, and the more I played it back, the more pissed off I got. If it was intentional, though, that's one more reason for me to admire him. He's getting out there. Coming back from one of the worst things that could happen in high school football, and even though I can tell he's about one step away from shitting bricks, he seems to trust me enough to let me help. I researched the topic online, and ran my plan by Coach Garvey. My goal was to set up a controlled environment in which Horan could take a tackle on his terms. Coach was impressed, and so far, it seems to be working out. I've had a few friends help me. Mills, West, and Carter. They're all pretty big guys, and definitely imposing. We've worked on the field, with me setting up passes and the other guys running interference. The first time, they just got close and put pressure on him. Even then, I could see him go pale. His legs locked up and he dropped like a stone. One thing I can say in his favor, though—he made sure to protect the ball. The guys gave him hell, getting up in his face, trying to bat it away from him, but he never let go. Gradually he got more comfortable with that, and after a while we started doing contact. I told the guys to take it easy, but Mills got a little enthusiastic. By the time we were through, Horan had more grass stains on his practice jersey than a peewee player with untied shoes. None of the guys did a full tackle, but everybody was definitely winded by the end of the session. The five of us grab a table at the Den, along with a couple pitchers and two large pizzas. West and Carter pull up extra chairs, and it's almost comical how small Horan and I look next to the linebackers. It's Friday night, and Coach is laying off the practice for the weekend. Even I'm grateful for a little break. The other guys must be, too, because those pitchers are disappearing fast, and so is the pizza. "Okay, best quarterback of all time?" It's just the next in a long line of opinion questions Mills has asked, and just like the rest, there's no way it's going to end well. "And if you say Brady, I swear to God I will kick your ass." "What's wrong with Brady?" West takes the bait. I cringe. "Don't ask, man." "Marino," Carter says, raising his glass to his lips. Wrong answer. I can already tell by the way Mills leans over the table. "Are you fucking kidding me? Marino doesn't even have a ring." "Still has the most completions," Horan says. "Dude, don't encourage him." Mills leans across the table and punches Horan in the arm. For some reason it feels good to see Him getting along with the guys. Taking and giving shit. I guess it feels like hope. If he can survive typical locker room bullshit, he can survive out on the field. "And yards and TDs." The debate continues for a while, with Mills rejecting everything but his own pick. I give my input—Montana, of course, which Mills says is predictable, even if Horan agrees with me—and we finish off our beers. It's pretty crowded at the Den tonight, and for once we're not surrounded by other football players. The guys who don't have a place to stay around town have probably already gone home for the weekend. Around midnight or so, West and Carter get into a heated battle at the air hockey table. Mills, lightweight that he is, checks out. It's just me and Horan left, and I'm starting to feel a serious need to ditch this place. "You heading home for the weekend?" I ask. "Planned on it, but my gran's playing in a bridge tournament in Kissimmee. Apparently she's hot shit," he says with a smile that shows off his dimples. "Won't be home all weekend, so it would just be me, stuck in the middle of a retirement community." "And spending the weekend being asked to clean out gutters and lift heavy boxes isn't your idea of fun?" "You got it," he says, lifting his glass up. "Shit, have you been driving all the way back to Kissimmee every day?" That's got to be at least a four-hour drive round trip. "Nah, staying in a motel." I must make a face or something, because he continues. "It's not that bad. Makes me grateful the bank practically begged me to sign up for a credit card as a freshman." "Why don't you come stay at my place this weekend?" The offer comes out before I even really think about making it, but... I'm okay with it. I haven't had anybody over since high school, and that was back in Michigan, but I'm sure Dad won't mind. He loves football players. Especially other guys who play offense. And I've told him about Horan, so he already knows his story. "What, like a training thing?" I shrug. "Like a hanging out thing." It's been a while since I've taken a weekend to kick back. At least since the end of last season, if I had to guess. Dad will be all over me Monday morning, but I think he'll understand. And it's not like I'm a kid anymore. "Yeah. Sure. If your Dad's cool with it." "He'll be fine. Let me finish this up and we'll get outta here." Ten minutes later, we head out. Usually it makes me anxious to even think about spending a weekend not working on my form or at least putting in some serious time at the gym, but this time I'm actually looking forward to it.