Leverage Read Free

too many guys trapped in a windowless gas chamber. Add to this the guys who peel wet gym clothes off still-dripping bodies and stuff them directly into a dark, barely ventilated locker to ferment for a few days before unleashing them on the rest of us. Once weaponized, these T-shirts, jockstraps, socks, and shorts may cause bleeding from the ears, nose, and eyes. They get batted around like dead plague rats until they’re either tossed in the garbage, rammed into a clogged toilet, or tied around the face of a small underclassman.
    Vital facts: Of the three boys’ sports programs in the fall season, football controlls most of the real estate. The varsity football team has its very own smelly locker room but the players enjoy slumming in the general locker room so they can terrorize the rest of us. The general team locker room is reserved for the junior varsity and JJV football teams. There are also two small, one-bench locker rooms off to the sides. The first is reserved for gymnastics. The second is reserved for cross-country runners. Those poor cross-country runners. Being a gymnast in a lair full of football players is rough, but not nearly as bad as what the cross-country runners suffer. Nervous as deer, they change hurriedly before scampering off in hopes of avoiding the alligator eye of a lurking JV football player angry he didn’t make the varsity squad. The cross-country runners don’t stick together in a pack like the gymnasts do—this is their biggest mistake.
    I enter the main locker room just in time to spot a freshman cross-country runner, tiny as me, getting pinballed pretty good between three varsity football players. Distracted by their prey, the three miss me sneaking into the gymnastics team room to change. It’s the same three varsity members who have stalked our lockers all week: Scott Miller, the Knights’ starting quarterback; Tom Jankowski, his offensive tackle; and Mike Studblatz, a defensive linebacker.
    In the gymnasts’ locker room, Bruce Nguyen, our captain, sits on the bench, winding tape around his wrist while frowning. Already changed, he wears gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He’s a specialist on rings, which takes muscle. Bruce’s biceps and shoulders look like someone’s stuffed oranges and grapefruits under his skin. He could pose on the cover of one of those bodybuilding magazines, except he’s only five foot two. As captain, Bruce normally offers a friendly greeting to all of us, but today he keeps to himself. I nod to the other guys and change fast, embarrassed by my nakedness. None of us can help overhearing what’s going on just outside the team room.
    â€œHey, runt, if you’re such a fast runner, how come Studblatz caught you so easy?” It’s Scott Miller’s voice. “You think a little runt like you should be able to represent our school?”
    â€œPlease . . . I’m going to be late for practice,” comes the faltering voice.
    â€œThink I give a crap? Think we care about whether you’re late for your little jack-off session with all your pansy-ass teammates?”
    â€œPlease . . .”
    The clank of metal tells me they just smashed him into the lockers. I know the sound well from personal experience.
    â€œPlease . . . let me go . . .” I hear sniffling now and know that sound equally well, know how crappy the bullying feels. But all I can do is be thankful it’s him and not me.
    â€œLookit his skinny little butt in those shorts. Looks like a little girl. Lookit him shake. Tom, yank down his shorts. Yeah. Lookit. The runt thought he had a pubic hair until he pissed out of it. What kinda sport takes a boy without any hair on him?”
    â€œPl-please . . .” Little cries replace everything else. I make sure the drawstring on my own sweatpants is double-knotted. No one’s going to do that to me. Bruce is still winding a roll of white athletic tape