Living with the hawk Read Free Page A

he never pounded me again and he never crossed my brother. Frankly, I think that Nickerson could’ve beaten up on Blake too, but he’d never done it before, and when Blake clobbered him with that broom, it knocked just enough doubt into that thick head of his that he didn’t want to risk taking a chance and finding out he might be wrong. Blake had a way of raising doubts in people’s minds, and for a long time I thought he’d stand up to anybody.
    In grade nine, though, I had to wonder.

    Although my brother was the quarterback, there wasn’t any doubt that Jordan Phelps was the best player on the team. I was standing on the sidelines, watching the offence and defence scrimmage. My equipment still felt awkward, especially the cup at my crotch. Otherwise, it was much like watching football games from the bleachers when my brother was in grade eleven, except now he was out there all the time, handing off the ball, dropping back to pass. All he had to do was get the ball somewhere in the vicinity of Jordan Phelps and it would be caught. Throw a long looper and Jordan would run under it. Drill it over the line and Jordan would snag the ball between defenders. Anything he touched he caught, and he was fast enough that he could touch almost anything that wasn’t knocked down.
    I watched a defensive tackle break through the line, forcing Blake to scramble out of the pocket. He was in trouble, running for the sidelines, his receivers covered, until Jordan charged back, giving him a perfect target for his throw.
    A hand fell on my shoulder. Hard. “Let’s see what you can do out there,” said Coach Ramsey. He had a smirk on his face. “Give Ackerman a rest.” Morris Ackerman was the cornerback trying to cover Jordan Phelps.
    â€œCoach says to take a break,” I told Morris when I trotted out to his position.
    â€œGood luck,” he said. “You’ll need it.”
    Blake must have noticed the substitution. The first play he ran was right at me, Jordan charging me as if he were a blocker, me back-pedalling as fast as I could, till he made his move, cutting so sharply that his feet almost went out from under him, the ball already in the air as he stumbled, and I was close enough to get a hand on it, knock it away.
    He caught up to the ball as it bounced over the grass, gave it a boot toward the line of scrimmage, then turned to me, a frown on his face. “You were lucky,” he said. “But watch out, I’ll be back.”
    I went with him again on the next play, my eyes on him and the quarterback too, but it was okay, the pass to the other side of the field, the ball beginning to wobble — and I was flat on my ass on the ground.
    â€œClumsy there, rookie,” said Jordan.
    â€œYou tripped me.”
    Jordan laughed, no humour in the sound. “Stumbled over your own feet.”
    On the next play, he came right for me, faked to the left, slammed his fist into my stomach, and went by me so fast I didn’t even know I was winded. While I was sucking for a breath of air, I saw the pass was a short one to the other slotback. Someone hauled him down before I could get started in his direction.
    I did no better on the next play. Jordan charged me once again, cut to the right when he was almost on me, came back fast, his shoulder in my chest, another fist in the stomach, and he was gone, the ball looping over my head and into his hands as I stumbled backwards, off balance, my feet moving, but not as fast as my body. Then I was on the ground, heaving for air. Bugger nailed me right in the breadbasket. Twice in a row.
    â€œHey,” shouted Blake, “that’s my brother.”
    â€œYou think I don’t know that?” Jordan trotted back, glaring him. “Pussy needs to lose some flab.”
    â€œScrew you,” I said, but I could barely whisper.
    The next time he ran at me, I saw his fist coming and chopped his arm away, hard — it had