things don’t die or remain damaged

but return: stumps grow back hands,

a head reconnects to a neck,

a whole corpse rises blushing and new elastic.

Later this vision is not True:

the grandmother remains dead

not hibernating in a wolf’s belly.


The bell rang as I jotted this down at the lower-right corner of my English worksheet. There are two things that I truly love: football and poetry. But I love them in different ways. I’m fascinated by the art of both – football’s my passion, and I memorize poetry … a lot. This one is from “In Childhood” by Kimiko Hahn. It really described how I felt right then. The day was over, and I didn’t want to go to practice. But I had to. If I didn’t, Coach would’ve killed me, and Dad would’ve killed me. Don’t get me wrong – I love football. It’s just that it’s too overwhelming. High school sucks (at least in the sense of football). I used to be so good, but now I’m a tiny freshman that can’t do anything. I’m usually not nostalgic, but middle school was a breeze – I was the best player on the team, and we won the championship. Those were fond memories. But now, football is dreadful. I was hoping to make friends because I was a – dare I say it? – loner.

I better stop complaining. It’s all I do these days. I’m just like my dad; he’s the only pessimistic psychiatrist I know.

I remember thinking, “Okay … I really have to stop.”

I got up and trotted out of the classroom. I was the last one left, but I didn’t even bother to say “good-bye” to Ms. Robinson.

I was in no rush to get to practice. What was Coach going to do? Yell at me? That’s happened a million times before.

As I walked into the hallway, I was pushed against a locker.

“Goin’ to practice, punk?” asked the nasty voice of my tormenter, Chris.

“Yeah,” I answered. “Just leave me alone.”

“Oh, look who thinks he can stand up to Chris.” I hate it when he talks in third person. “How’s Sam doin’?”

No one makes fun of Sam. I pushed him back. “I SAID JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” He looked surprised. “Sorry,” I added. I couldn’t help apologizing – I don’t know why – it’s just what I do.

I walked away and headed toward the locker room. Every time Chris harasses me, the rest of the day is horrible; I snap at Coach and Mom and Dad. When I got there, I took my time putting on my uniform, then went to the field.

I was the last one there. But I didn’t care. Everyone was already in a line, doing “out routes.” It’s the same drill every time: run ten yards forward, to where Coach is standing, then break “out” in a 90° angle away from the quarterback.

I saw everyone standing there. They were all gigantic – some of them two heads taller than I and a million times bulkier. The only one that didn’t tower over me was Tyler in the back – he and I are the only freshmen. As Michael started to run, I could see the sweat dripping down his temples. I heard his footsteps. Thump, thump, thump. He turned and caught the ball. I heard the sound of the ball hit his hands.

“Great job, Mike!” announced Coach Baker. Ugh! His voice.

I didn’t walk over just yet. I took the time to stare at the snow on the grass, admiring its look of a giant’s dandruff. I looked back up at my teammates. With the helmets, uniforms, and padding, they all looked the same. They looked like football players. That was their label. Everyone has a label. We’re football players – jocks. Kranthi Potheneni has the idea:




The world has labeled me

Labeled me with many labels

Each label is unique from other

No idea which label is right


I feel as though we all are right


One had labeled me as immature

One had labeled me as wacky

One had labeled me as a failure

One had labeled me as over-thinker

My birth had labeled me as a fool


It was perfectly repetitive.

Coach’s disgusting, raspy, cigarette-smelling voice woke me from my daze: “Where ya been, son?” He gave me the “hairy eyeball.”

I threw my stuff down. “Ninth period. Then I got changed.”

“Get in line!”

I slowly walked over and got to the back of the line. I was trying to make a statement – again, I was in no hurry. While I was waiting, I took the time to put my left glove on (not my right because I can’t throw with gloves on), and my mouthpiece in.

Then I was up. I didn’t want to look like an idiot, so I sprinted out towards Coach, who was texting. Moron. I broke right, and turned my head. My long-ish bangs swung in front of my eyes. I almost lost focus, but the ball was waiting there for me. I grabbed it with my hands, just like you’re supposed to, and brought it in towards my stomach. I kept running the route, then threw the ball back in to the quarterback, Austin.

I got to the back of the line, pleased with myself. And then I heard Coach Baker’s voice. Ugh. Can he just permanently shut up?

“Hey, Aiden! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Oh. My. God. I took a deep breath. “What’d I do now, Coach?”

Coach Baker’s face turned completely red. Inside, I giggled at the throbbing veins in his forehead. He pointed his finger at me. “You can’t catch a football for your life, boy! In order to succeed in all-things-life, you got to be able to master the ol’ pigskin!”

I tried to keep my cool, but I just … couldn’t. I lost it. I was pissed. The day couldn’t get worse. “I JUST CAUGHT IT! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Coach put his hand on his forehead. He spoke in a surprisingly calm manner: “Push-ups. Now. Thirty-five.”

I cursed under my breath. Screw this guy! Who does he think he is? Reluctantly, I bent down, got into perfect form, just like he “taught” us, and pushed down.


As soon as I finished, I thought about the power of hate. It can control so many things. That’s why dictators have such hatred – it gives them control, superiority, supremacy.


Hate has burned a gaping hole;

The rancid reek of charring flesh

Is dancing on my very soul.


And as the rising fumes enmesh

My crumpled heart, I play the role

Of crabby fart, gassing off


A diatribe, bleeding out a

Bitter part: an ugly twisted man.


I laughed at the fitting last name of Mark R. Slaughter, the poet of “Hate.”

I jumped up, and was about to leave before Coach called my name once again.

“Aiden, can I talk to you for a sec?”

I rolled my eyes. I answered, admittedly nastily, with my teeth clenched, “What?”

“Listen, kid. I’m sorry. I –“

“I don’t want to hear it!” I don’t know what made me talk like that to Coach; he’s older than me, and I don’t speak that way to my parents. Deep inside, and I mean deep, I feel bad for the guy. He’s old and cranky and spends his time with sweaty teenagers. But who cares? I mean actually, it’s his problem. How did I even feel remorseful or ashamed? He’s a miserable, pathetic old sod.

“Just hear me out, Woods.” He paused. What the hell?

“I’m listening!” I cried, louder than intended. The volume increased with the word “listening.”

“I’m just trying to toughen you up. You used to be the quiet one. Then when I started purposely getting on your nerves, you spoke up. You’re feisty and angsty. Why can’t you be mean to others? You say ‘sorry’ when you tackle somebody in a game. You better stop that! You’re a good kid, Aiden. Just – uh – toughen up. And get better. You’re not very good. And don’t be such a jerk anymore. And whatever you do, don’t turn into Sam.”

Don’t. Talk. About. Sam.

Coach contradicted everything. Was I a good kid or a jerk? I heard Zack snickering, and I’m pretty sure Josh mumbled something. Did I mention that I hate my team? ‘Cause I do.

After his lecture, I said, “Whatever. I’m out.”

I jogged over to the bleachers, picked up my bag, and started to walk home. I didn’t care about Coach, and I didn’t care about my team anymore. I was mad – just plain mad. My fire was begging to be fueled.

Anger is my friend, and my enemy. Apparently, Adam Owens feels the same way:


Anger is a form of fear

Anger is what I’m waiting to hear

Anger is deep down inside me

Anger drives me crazy

Anger is what turns me on

Anger is what turns me off

Anger is my enemy

Anger is my pal

Anger is gonna kill me

Anger is gonna save me

Anger might just help me

Find my true love

Maybe?



I arrived home, and ran upstairs. Dad was on the couch watching Modern Family, and Mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Neither of them stopped me. I knew Dad wouldn’t – he understands how much I hate practice. I was kind of surprised Mom didn’t call me in, or at least ask how it went. And neither of them asked me why I didn’t greet them, even with a mere “hello.”

I stomped into my brother’s room. Well, what used to be my brother’s room. Sam had been gone for a while now. He got depressed, called a “Suicide Hotline,” and checked himself into a mental institution. Now he’s in rehab. As much as I love him, I don’t visit him. And I usually don’t think about him or look at pictures of him anymore. It’s all too depressing. I used to go into his room every day and cry, but I stopped that a while ago. Dad visits Sam every day in rehab (it’s two blocks away from Dad’s psychiatric ward). He took anabolic steroids. And smoked weed. And was addicted to heroin. He had it bad.

Before Sam left, he told me about the box underneath his bed. That’s where he kept the “roids.” He told me that if I ever needed it, it was there waiting, and Mom and Dad didn’t know about it.

I had been contemplating it for a while, and I finally decided. I had to do it. I had to get better at football – it was that simple. When Sam started juicing, he got better at baseball. Well, at least I know it works. I was too small to really compete, and I had to bulk up. Fast. I thought about all the consequences, but I resolved that I wouldn’t get depressed like Sam. I wouldn’t smoke pot or become a fan of heroin like he was. In fact, I wasn’t fond of it all. I didn’t like drugs. I’d just take the steroids. No one would know I’d be on performance-enhancing drugs. It’d be my little secret.

I crawled underneath the bed. It smelled like old PB&J sandwiches. Mom hadn’t cleaned his room?


I searched for the box. I felt around. I didn’t even want to know what the squishy substances were, or what the hard balls were, or how the wet – what was it? – bread got there.

I finally found my hand stroke what felt like a rectangular, metal box. That had to be it. I pulled it out and opened it. A Ziploc bag held about twenty-five half-white, half-light-green pills. They were beauteous. I took out two pills. Was that the right dosage? Oh, what was I thinking? There is no “right dosage” – they’re freaking anabolic steroids!

I brought the pills into the bathroom. I turned my head one last time to make sure no one was there. I tossed them onto the granite countertop, took a Dixie cup out of the third drawer on my right, filled it up with water, picked up one of the pills, brought it to my mouth, and – hesitated.

I threw it down. I couldn’t do this.

Think about all the risks, Aiden! You can’t do this!

Oh, but I could. I knew what happened to Sam, but that wouldn’t happen to me. I’m nothing like my brother. It was just two pills. I wouldn’t take them on a regular basis, and I wouldn’t smoke weed or do heroin. Two pills wouldn’t do any harm. I would be okay.

But then I thought about Coach Baker. In the first ten minutes of the first practice of the year, he made a speech about PEDs. “No illegal substances!” he said. I listened because this was before I began to loathe him.

And anyway – Coach said he was trying to toughen me up. Well, he did a damn good job. A couple of months ago, I would’ve never had the nerve to even consider taking PEDs. But now I did. Thanks, Coach. I really do owe it to you; you’re my savior. And you told me to get better anyway. You were basically implying steroids.

I grabbed the first pill, stuck it on my tongue, and drank. Gulp.

I did the same for the second pill.

I took a sigh of relief and put my head down.

“AIDEN!” It was my father’s voice. Stay cool, Aiden. Stay cool.

I turned my head; he was holding the box.

I can’t even describe how many obscenities I was screaming in my head.

I put my right hand on my forehead, and started to rub.

“Look, Dad. It’s not what it looks like.” I tried to stay as calm as possible.

“YES! IT IS WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE! YOU TOOK SAM’S STEROIDS!”

He was furious, but I can understand why. I didn’t even know what to say. He was taking very heavy breaths. There was saliva dripping out of the corners of his mouth. Yuck. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and instantly closed it. Out of nowhere, he charged towards me, and THWACK!


*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*



I was kneeling on the stairs and saw Sam standing there. He had a black hoodie on. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was holding a small packet of grass in his hand.

I heard Dad’s voice from the kitchen: “WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF, SAMUEL?”

When Sam didn’t say anything, Dad launched towards Sam and smacked him across the face. His cheek was red, and he was rubbing it, his eyes tearing.

Dad looked shocked. It seemed as though he couldn’t believe that he brought himself to do that.

“I’m sorry, Sam…”

Sam ran towards the door and just – left. He stormed out and didn’t come back for a couple of weeks. God knows where he went. Dad told Mom he thought that he probably went to a “crack house.”

“What is all this stuff?” I said to myself.

I ran upstairs, jumped into bed, and started crying.


*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*



“Aiden! Aiden!”

I blinked a couple of times. I looked up. Dad was still infuriated.

My eyes were tearing, and I grabbed my face just like Sam did. But Dad wasn’t sorry this time. Not like he was four years ago – when he slapped Sam because he found his marijuana, when he thought Sam went to a crack house, when Dad was sorry. He was apologetic, shamefaced. I saw it with my own two eyes. I may have been ten, but I saw it. I followed in my brother’s footsteps. I should’ve been more responsible. I was the good kid. And I thought Dad understood that. But I guess not.

“Get out of my house!”

I was dumbfounded. “Wha– “

“NOW!”

My eyes were tearing more than they should have been. I thought I was strong. But I was wrong.

I ran right past him, downstairs, and out the door.

I started sprinting, sprinting, sprinting – as fast as I could. I didn’t know where to go. I was sorry.


Remorse is memory awake,

Her companies astir, --

A presence of departed acts

At window and at door.

Its past set down before the soul,

And lighted with a match,

Perusal to facilitate

Of its condensed dispatch.

Remorse is cureless, -- the disease

Not even God can heal;

For’t is His institution, --

The complement of hell.


Emily Dickinson, you’re like the prophet of my brain.

I knew where I had to go: Coach Baker’s.

I don’t know how it came to me or why, but he was right. He was right the whole time. I shouldn’t be such a jerk.

I dashed to his office adjacent to the field. He was sitting at his desk.

I told him everything. I told him I took steroids, but I was sorry. I told him Dad hit me, but he’s not abusive – I made that clear. I didn’t want Coach going to report him to child services or something. I told him about Sam. And I told him I was sorry – for everything.

Everything that I did was wrong. I was a miscreant for no reason. And I took PEDs ‘cause I was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. I was just a stupid teenager doing stupid things without a care in the world.

“Listen, Aiden.”

I was actually attentive now. “Yeah?”

“I forgive you.” Silence. “That is all.”

I smiled, and started to tear again.

He smiled back. I saw his eyes start to glisten. Aw, I made the old man cry. “It’s all gonna be okay. Just for right now, and for the next couple of months, focus on yourself. Don’t worry about the ol’ pigskin.”