Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ These Pads Don't Fit ❯ These Pads Don't Fit ( One-Shot )

David watched the hands of the shiny new grandfather clock continue to twirl all too hastily towards six o'clock while he sat on the dining room chair closest to the windows that spanned the wall beside him. His eyes, obscured by his shaggy brown hair that hung beneath the bill of his Reds cap, darted fretfully between that echoing countdown to his daily torment and his perfect view of the paved driveway just outside.

Outside was a much more pleasant sight than that dreary clock. Leaves fluttered along the verdant lawn, their bright shades of red and yellow distracting from the unkempt patches of crabgrass that spotted the lawn like islands at sea. Last year, David probably would have loved the view; he probably would have ridden his bike down the street to find someone to goof around with, or just rolled around in the leaves while his dad raked them into piles. Today, though, he would have given anything to see a thunderstorm, with lots and lots of lightning for insurance. That way, Coach would have to cancel football practice. God, how he'd kill to have that happen. David imagined being able to tell his dad that he didn't go to practice that day, and that it wasn't due to a sick stomach or random headache. As David lost himself in his thoughts of dodging the bullet of his dad's nightly disappointed smile and halfhearted pat on the back, a cherry red van pulled up and honked its horn.

With all the grace and fortitude of a toddler not getting his way, David stood from his spot, reaching to the table to get his sweating water bottle and to the floor to grab his football equipment and lug it out. He made his way to the foyer, his cleats clicking and clacking along the hardwood floor while his helmet and shoulder pads made his just-under five foot frame lean in its direction. He gripped the water bottle's tip with his teeth to free his left hand, opened the front door, and walked slowly out into a rush of a cool autumn breeze.

* * *

“Hey, Dave,” Coach's voice boomed as usual, echoing in the locker room tunnel like a bombshell an empty cave. He was sporting his standard khaki shorts, school spirit windbreaker and a matching ball cap to cover his prematurely balding head. He stood tall over David with a beaming smile before patting him on the back with enough force to nearly make him stumble. “You ready to work today?”

“Yeah, coach,” was David's reply. Not much else, just the standard response with as little amount of enthusiasm as needed. He continued his trek down the tunnel to the open locker room door, almost limping with the weight of his equipment in hand.

“Jason,” that same voice exploded, “ready to block someone?”

“Course, Coach!” said Jason, David's longtime buddy and ride to practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was a lot more enthusiastic for practice than David was, as his lively answer would imply. Of course, that's to be expected when you're one of the tallest kids on the team and a starting receiver.

“Good. You let another corner blitz through and you'll be doing monster laps.”

Jason assured his coach he'd knock someone on his back just for him, then followed right behind David into the already half-filled locker room. Inside were kids of various sizes changing into their pads, telling `your mom' jokes and carrying on loudly. The entering pair made their way to the lockers on the left, each already in his football pants and cleats; only Jason greeted anyone.

The locker room was old, dank and beaten up. David's locker door was heavily dented, probably from an old high schooler's helmet or something. Ten years had passed since this building last served as the town's high school, the one his dad had attended. Heck, it could've been his dad's helmet that broke the door. It wouldn't surprise him, seeing as to how Dad would casually throw things around the living room if his Bengals were losing on TV. Sports just brought out a different side of him.

“Try not to get clobbered today, Clark.” David felt a strong pat on his back, much like the one from his coach minutes before. He simply rolled his eyes and didn't turn to give whomever said it the satisfaction of seeing his irritated look.

“Don't let him get to ya,” Jason said, knowing the guy was just a jerk on and off the field.

“Well, he's right,” David returned just above a whisper.

Jason was about to say something else, but he was suddenly cut off by the assistant coach's squeaky demand: “Alright, boys, time for warm-ups. Get your butts out here, on the double!” The man's voice had nothing like the commanding tone the head coach's had, but the boys responded hastily nonetheless. David took this as his cue to avoid whatever pep talk Jason had planned for him and began walking with helmet in hand, his shoulder pads still unstrapped and dangling atop his small frame as he walked.

“Hey, David, hold up.” Well, that didn't work anyway. He turned to face the taller boy, his lanky body quickly covering the distance between them in stride. “You didn't strap your pads, doofus.” Both gave a small chuckle while Jason quickly buckled the straps to hold them in place. Once done, he smacked David's chest, trying to get him pumped. “C'mon man, if you`re ever gonna enjoy this game, you need to get out there and really give it to someone, got it? Don't be scared. Hit Jennings for all I care, just take someone out. I'm telling you, you can do it.”

David cracked a smile at the mention of Jennings, the only kid on the team smaller than he was. Why he even played, David hadn't a clue. His dad must've wanted him to play as well. “I know. I got it, Jay.”

“Good. Now let's go before Coach gets mad.”

* * *

His legs were burning. His gut was imploding. His side was splitting. His safe haven, the crowd of water bottles, was in sight and so close, but he still felt like they were so far away. In these last few yards of the day's second monster lap- a full lap around the school building- each step was harder than the last, despite the fact that David was merely jogging now, if that. He'd never been a horrible runner, but this equipment was going to be the death of him. His shoulder pads, a full size too big, rocked around with his body's movement. They had run out of his size on sign-up day- the peewee players took them all- so he was stuck with these. He'd hoped they would make him appear bigger and more powerful, but instead they just dwarfed the rest of his body when he put them on. His dad had told him that he would grow into them with time, but David silently hoped he wouldn't be in the sport long enough to do so.

At long last, his feet reached grass. No more running. Had it not been for the team doing terribly at the fumbling drill- himself included- they wouldn't have had to do those monster laps in the first place. He still preferred those over up-downs, where he would have to run in place and drop to a pushup in full padding at the sound of a whistle until Coach got bored with watching the team do them. What he really hated laps for, though, was the way Jason would always be back and gulping down his water before he even got there; sometimes the taller boy would be back out on the field and ready to go before David got to take off his helmet. Once again one of the last kids in, David walked with lead in his shoes to Jason's side, ripped off his helmet and bent over, coughing some before lashing out for his water bottle.

“Ah, yes. The out of shape cough,” Jason jeered.

“Shut… up…” said David between gasps for air. His face was pink and coated with a thin layer of sweat, not unlike Jason's or the rest of the team's. The group of boys didn't have too long to catch a break- David and the few stragglers behind him had it worst- as Coach roared for them to get back out on the field.

“Hamburgers. Now. Line up, two lines. Let's go, or you're doing laps again!”

Hamburgers. David hated- no, “hate” wasn't strong enough of a word- he loathed this drill with every fiber of his being. It embarrassed him to the max, particularly the way Coach conducted it. Normally, he'd told them, a hamburger drill was done by only lineman lining up against one another. But he had a better idea to get everyone involved, a wonderful idea that David just absolutely loved. Instead of just lineman, why not have everyone on the team do the drill? Two lines parallel to one another, and on the whistle the front two turn and charge head-on screaming like wild banshees. One survives, one gets leveled, disgraced, disoriented and more. It was sheer luck who one would get paired up with; David prayed to God that he'd get a good pick today.

“Jennings… Jennings…” he whispered to himself as he jogged back out onto the practice field, following suit with everyone else. He slapped his helmet back on while Coach continued barking orders.

“Two lines, people! What's so hard about two lines? Even them out. Get them even or we're doing up-downs!”

David got in line two spots behind Jason, glad to see that Jennings was in the opposite line, along with some other kids about his size. He began chewing on his bright blue mouthpiece, anxious to see who he was up against so he could plan to either try to “hit him with all he's got” or avoid losing any teeth. The thought of his dad's usual phrase made David think of those times in the front yard when Dad would make him hit an old pad he'd hold up with one, powerful arm. David would lunge into it again and again at his father's bidding, only to get knocked on his butt when he would push back.

“Come on, son. Hit me. Dontcha wanna be a starter?”

“Dad, I can't… I can't do this-”

“Yes you can! You got your daddy's blood in ya. Now hit me again, all you've got.”

After a few more moments, Coach explained the rules again, got the team riled up, then blew his whistle. The first two went, one slamming into the other, then both went to the ground with a hard thud from a good tackle. Some “Ooooo!”s and catcalls emerged from the lines. Coach's whistle blew again to signal the drill's end and the assistant coach hollered for them to get back in line. The show captivated David for a only a moment, then he quickly turned his attention back to figuring out whom he'd be facing.

With his index and middle fingers pointed outwards, he began counting down his line by twos. Two, four, six, eight… he was the eleventh person in his line. He repeated the process for the next line over to find his match, and when he did, his eyes shot open. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Maybe today was his day. Jennings!

Sure enough, eleven spots down the line stood the four foot wonder, rocking from side to side and trying to watch the action from his spot behind a lineman three times his weight. David gawked at the undersized kid like a birthday present and eyed him up and down like his first crush. Today, he'd clobber someone. Today, he'd show the coach and everyone around him that he can hit somebody. Today, he'd go home to his dad, face beaming and tell him how he'd hit someone with all he had. Today was his day.

One more sound of the whistle passed. And another. Then another. Slowly but surely, he and Jennings were advancing through the line. David's heart was racing now, his entire body feeling jittery from this godsend of a chance. He was hopping up and down now, anxious to hear the voices of his teammates calling his name, cheering for him. Sure, it wouldn't really happen that way, but he played it out in his head, imagining every embellished moment like a victory parade in his honor.

Another whistle, another bone-crushing hit and the sound of shoulder pads slamming against one another. This one, however, brought about some laughs and caused Coach to drop the whistle from his lips. “Brubaker! What in Sam hell was that? Get back there, do it again.” Alan lowered his head in embarrassment as he jogged back to the front spot in the line. The guy that had knocked him down, Scott, was smiling as he did the same. “Shockmann, not you. You already knocked him back into yesterday. Gast, you're up.”

That victory parade David had been picturing was now being rained on. No, it was more like ripped through by a hurricane, flooded, then frozen over by the next ice age. He watched Scott walk purposefully to the back of the line, slapping hands with the other starting linebacker of the team, Andy Banks. Their nickname was the Twin Towers, something they'd donned themselves since Scott moved in, replacing Andy's old nickname, “Goliath”, from last year. David's expression, meanwhile, switched from gleeful to terrified as he glanced up and down Andy's huge frame, one spot behind Jennings.

Jason seemed to have taken notice, as well, as he was now trying to get David's attention. David gave his head a sudden jerk, snapping back from the horrible image of getting run over by a truck that he was playing out in his head. He locked eyes with Jason, who was turned around to look at him. “You can do this,” he mouthed. David immediately and violently shook his head no. Jason nodded. “Knock. Him. On. His. Ass,” he mouthed again.

“Depew!” Coach yelled, causing Jason's entire body to jerk into attention. “Stop chitchatting and pay attention.” The whistle was blown, but David hardly took notice of what the outcome was. He was completely focused on Andy now and the impending doom he represented. Why? Why did he have to get paired up with him? Now he'd have to go home to his dad and try to explain what happened in the best terms possible, something like, “Well, I didn't cry that much.” He'd have to deal with the jeers of his teammates in school tomorrow when they bring up how he'd been ripped through like a wet piece of paper. His imagination was running wild now, jumping between the oncoming rocking of his world and the look of disappointment his dad was sure to display after hearing of it. This was it. He was doomed. Once again he'd lose what respect his teammates had for him, and once again he'd have to take that walk of shame to the end of the line as he adjusted his twisted helmet.

Before he knew it, David was at the front of the line. He didn't really notice Jennings getting obliterated right in front of him by another player, only to get up, adjust his helmet and jog to the end of the line. In fact, he'd hardly noticed he was already up until he heard Andy's thick Kentucky accent calling to Coach, “Awww, c'mon! I gotta go against him? Coach, gimme Funk, right behind him.”

The coach seemed to contemplate doing just that to save David some grief, knowing this was a terrible, terrible match up. He dropped his whistle from his lips, waiting a moment before saying anything. “Well, if Dave's fine with that…”

“Oh, course he's fine with that! He doesn't wanna lose his head in practice. `Sides, I need someone to get me my water on Saturday. He ain't no good injured.” The players laughed. Even the assistant laughed. Coach stayed silent, looking David in the eye, waiting for a response. What he got, however, was something far different than he'd expected.

David's eyes were concentrated on Andy with an ice cold glare. His hands clenched into fists. His nostrils flared like a bull in the ring. Something must have snapped, because, for the first time since practices had started, he looked like he was about to hit somebody, and hard. After a moment, with laughter still ringing in the boy's ears, he locked eyes with the coach, exchanging a look of determination with Coach's look of utter surprise.

“Clark,” Coach said in possibly his quietest voice all season, “you wanna let Funk take your spot?” An instant, violent shake of the boy's head brought a grin to the man's face. “Alright, then. Get ready.”

David didn't know where this came from, this sudden urge to prove everybody wrong, this burning, erupting fire that he'd never had before on the field. He should've taken the offer. He wanted to take the offer. But he could do this. He could. He believed it. He felt strong. He wanted to prove to the team, to his dad, to the coach- to himself- that he wasn't a wimp; he wasn't just a water boy. His dad was a starter, so he could be a starter. This sudden rush of adrenaline was brand new to him, a high that he'd never experienced. This was his moment, Jennings or Andy or Brian Urlacher, it didn't matter. No one, but no one, was going to get in his way.

The whistle blew. David wasn't even sure if he'd heard it; he just gunned it. He ran headfirst towards the behemoth before him, every step slamming into the ground with all the force of a sledgehammer. This was his moment, his day. If he only had this one shot to prove himself, he was going to take it. He was going to take down Andy Banks.

A crash of padding filled David's ears. In an instant, however, he no longer felt the ground beneath his feet. He was up in the air, helpless and flailing. One more instant, and he felt the painful combination of the hard ground slamming into his back and the full body weight of the team's starting linebacker atop him. Then, the hoots and hollers began.

For a moment, David hardly knew where he was. He heard his teammates, but he couldn't quite determine where they were. His head was spinning. His body was in pain, lots of it. He struggled to push himself up with his arms as they shook beneath his own weight, combined with those blasted pads. His eyes were wide open, yet he hardly saw a thing besides the shaky image of Andy stepping away from him, pointing at him and yelling something his ears couldn't register. He tried to get up more quickly, gradually realizing that he'd been smothered, that he'd failed and really gotten his clock cleaned. He couldn't stay down. He had to get to his feet and prove it didn't hurt. He wasn't a wimp. He wasn't a loser. He could get up after a hit like that, because he was tough, just like Dad.

After the long, painful struggle to his feet, David did just what he'd thought he would do earlier: he adjusted his helmet, stumbled a bit, and made his way to the end of the line. The world was still spinning around him, but he trudged forward while his shoulder pads jiggled with his walk. It was possible he'd never grow enough to fit these pads, even if his dad signed him up for football until his senior year.

He didn't win; he didn't even get so much as a pat on the butt from the coach or anyone on the team but Jason. He heard the whistle blow as the practice resumed without missing a beat. He hadn't changed anything. He was still small, they were still big, and he still hated football. But, despite the pain rushing from parts of his body he didn't even remember getting hit, David smiled a weak smile. As he took his spot in line and waited, he pictured telling his dad that he'd hit Andy Banks with all he had, and he'd gotten up. He'd gotten up, and then he'd hit someone else just the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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