Chapter 1
I sat on my bed, my hair still wet from the shower, staring at the decade old snapshot I'd nabbed from my trophy shelf. There I was, Jonathan Moxon -- Mox to most folks -- aged seven or eight, grinning in an oversized blue-on-blue football jersey. My hair, which is now light brown and wavy, was still blond. My strong-jawed, square face was softer in childhood. My buds grinned out at me from the photo, too. Lance Harbor, Tweeder, Billy Bob -- already busting the seams of his peewee league uniform. Our faces were streaked with dirt. We squinted into the camera in the bright Texas sun. We looked like we were having fun.
Off camera, on the sidelines, our fathers would have been coaching our practice. They wouldn't have been wearing our carefree smiles. They knew. We didn't. Yet.
See, in America, we have laws against killing and stealing and it's just accepted that as a member of American society, you will live by these laws. In West Canaan, Texas, there is another society that has its own laws and we just accept them with no consent. Football is a way of life. Mind you, this is Texas where people still sell God door-to-door, but the phenomenon of high-school football is absolutely sacred. As a boy growing up in West Canaan, Texas, you never questioned the sanctity of high-school football. You just listened to what the coaches said and tried as best you could to win. Win at all costs.
"Think you'll play tonight?" My little trip down memory lane was intercepted by my eleven-year-old brother, Kyle. I glanced over at him. He had a huge wooden cross strapped to his back, and his hands were tied to the crossbeam at the wrists. A brown-haired, crew-cut, smurf-faced Jesus Christ right in my very own bedroom. I didn't blink. I was used to my kid brother's little peculiarities.
"Do I ever play?" I asked him.
"No, but -- "
"Lance is the best quarterback in three counties," I said. "Why would we want anyone but him to play?" It was a fact. I wasn't feeling sorry for myself. Football was about winning. End of sentence. I was the second-string quarterback. I was good. At least, I thought so. But Lance was West Canaan High's starting Q.B. Lance was the man. Lance could win.
"Well, maybe if you guys are running up the score..." Kyle said, half-heartedly.
I left the old photo on my bed and started walking out of the room. It wasn't gonna happen. I wasn't gonna see any playing time. No matter what the score.
"Or if Lance gets hurt and -- "
I turned and tackled Kyle to the ground. Strapped to that cross, he crashed to the carpet like a dead man. "Don't even think about Lance going down," I ordered him. I felt the fear even saying it. "That'd be a disaster." I wasn't sure which thought was scarier -- that West Canaan would lose without Lance, or that they'd lose with me as the substitute quarterback. Besides, Lance Harbor was my best friend. I eased up on Kyle. "As a man of the cross, or, in your situation, a man on the cross, I ask you to pray for the health of Lance Harbor."
I left Kyle crucified on the floor, and headed downstairs to breakfast.
I had to zigzag like I was scrambling on the football field to avoid Mom as she flew around the kitchen pouring and mixing and frying everything in target range. She was a breakfast warrior in a helmet of curlers, waiting on her general -- that general being Dad, sitting in his designated spot at the table, eating eggs and home fries and reading the sports section. His navy tie with the light blue footballs was thrown over one shoulder to avoid damage from the sunnyside ups. He looked up at me as I grabbed a biscuit off the table.
"Son, did you pray for playing time?" he asked.
"I just spoke to Jesus upstairs," I answered.
"Who?"
"The crucified eleven-year-old living in my room."
Mom stopped frying for a second. "Is Kyle strapped to that cross again?" she said, shaking her head slightly.
"Yup," I said. I grabbed a fork and scarfed a few bites of egg directly from the pan on the stove.
"Kyle!" Dad roared. "Why is he so difficult?" he said to Mom, sounding as if maybe it was somehow her fault.
Kyle came into the kitchen, turning sideways to get through the doorframe. He went straight for the biscuits, too, but with that cross on, he had to tilt his whole body and do this wriggle-fingered deal to snag one. Dad glared at him.
"Kyle! What is it with the cross?"
I could see Kyle trying to figure out how he was going to get that biscuit into his mouth, when he couldn't bend his arm. "I am preparing to die for all of man's sins," he recited.
Mom flashed Dad a feeble little what-can-you-do smile. "That's sweet, honey," she said to Kyle. She went back to her frying.
"I want it off, now!" Dad thundered. "How do you expect your brother to concentrate on football with you running around with this whole deal strapped to your back?"
Kyle took a backwards step, retreating from Dad's anger. I felt bad for him. "Dad, he's just..." Just what? Just not your average red-blooded, football-playing eleven-year-old. And power to you, little dude, I thought. That wasn't so easy around West Canaan.
"Enough!" Dad said tightly. "I'm serious. We all need to concentrate on tonight's game." I felt the Pre-game Lecture coming on.
I was saved by the doorbell. "Might be Billy Bob," I said, taking my cue to exit.
I pulled open the door to find a strange man in a blue polyester suit and blue tie, smiling beatifically at me. In one hand he held a Bible.
"Hey, good morning, I'd love to tell you the good news about my best friend, Jesus Christ!" The smile never left his face as he talked.
Speaking of Jesus, Jesus, was I surrounded by nut jobs.
"Kyle! Someone for you!" I shouted.
The nasal blare of a car horn playing "Yellow Rose of Texas" distracted me from our born-again visitor. Billy Bob's beat-up blue pickup, his jersey number -- 69 -- painted on the cab door, idled at the end of my driveway in the wan, early morning light.
Kyle appeared next to me, his outstretched arms filling the doorway. Our visitor's smile slipped only for a moment. "Uh, I'd love to tell you the good news about my best friend, Jesus Christ," he repeated for my brother's benefit.
"Well, it's not working for me," Kyle said somberly. "The dude got stapled to a stick in his underwear. I just don't think I can back him anymore." He managed to shrug a wrist loose from bondage. Then he yanked free the other. The cross went crashing to the floor behind him.
I heard Dad coming up in back of us. "Am I the only one who cares about football in this house?"
I stepped out the door, edging around the smiling man in blue. Kyle slammed the door behind me, in our visitor's face. Like I said, nut jobs. I was glad to be outta there this morning. I crossed the lawn to Billy Bob's truck. Billy Bob, all three hundred something balloon-shaped pounds of him, was wedged into the driver's seat, howling like a Coyote. That's us. The West Canaan Coyotes. Billy Bob's plug-shaped head was crowned by a dark brown fade. In the flatbed of the truck, Wendell McReady was studying from his bio textbook. Wendell is 185 lean, muscle-bound pounds of ebony-skinned power, the fastest, strongest high-school running back this side of the Rio Grande. West Canaan kinda made him a deal he couldn't refuse, moving his family from a modest house in the next town over to a much sweeter deal here. Of course, that kind of thing's not really legit. It's supposed to be some kind of Coyotes's secret, but Wendell's a critical part of our team, and my pal besides, so I'm glad we got him.
I had my hand raised to greet him, when all of a sudden, Billy Bob was taking off -- backing out of the driveway, passenger door wide open, before I'd even reached the truck. "Mox! " he yelled, laughing insanely. "You skinny ass bitch! Let's roll!" And he rolled. Right over the hedges that separated our driveway from the Morris's next door. I turned it on, sprinting to catch up to the moving truck. Billy Bob floored the gas. I gave it everything I had. I felt the burn in my legs.
"C'mon, Mox, earn it!" Billy Bob guffawed. Damn that fat porker, I thought, as I took a flying leap at the open door and managed to get a handhold. I pulled myself into the passenger seat and came face-to-face with...a fat porker. A real fat porker. And I'm not talking names for Billy Bob, either. A pink and brown, full-grown pig shared the passenger side of the cab with me. I panted, catching my breath. The pig snorted back at me.
"Bacon, hop in the flatbed," Billy Bob said.
The pig obediently hustled his huge, blubbery self through the rear window of the cab and into the flatbed with Wendell.
Through the window, I watched Wendell jump to his feet and away from Bacon. He brushed an imaginary smudge from his blue and snow-white Reebok sweatpants. To match his Reebok sneakers. And his Reebok warm-up jacket that he wore over his Coyotes jersey. And his Reebok reading glasses. "I'm tellin' you, Billy Bob. This swine fucks up my new suit and he's road ham."
"Sorry, Wendell. Just kick him off," Billy Bob said.
"I'm serious. I'll toss your pig ass on the street," Wendell told Bacon.
Billy Bob grabbed a paper bag off the dash, riffled around in it and pulled out a pancake, a jar of peanut butter and a knife. Steering with his knees, he slathered the peanut butter on the rubbery pancake. He folded the whole thing in half and stuffed it into his mouth. I watched in awe. He made some exaggerated chewing motions, a gargantuan swallow, and managed to get the thing down in a few gulps. He pulled an industrial-sized bottle of maple syrup from between his oversized thighs, and washed his snack down. I guess it's a talent. Then he reached back and gave Bacon a light slap on the rear. "God, I love that dawg," he said, letting out an impressive belch.
"I think it's a pig," I said mildly.
"Yeah," Billy Bob agreed genially. He stepped on the gas and the truck powered forward. Back in the flatbed, Wendell held on to the side of the truck. Bacon just fell over with a loud, dull thud. Billy Bob let out another howl. You could see the sugar rush kicking in. Just another morning in West Canaan.
West Canaan, Texas. Population 9,379. Home of Kilmer's Coyotes. That's what the football-shaped sign out on Route 1 reads. Kilmer is Coach Kilmer. Coach Bud Kilmer, Sir. But I'm getting ahead of myself. You'll meet him soon enough. Can't get away from him in West Canaan.
Billy Bob roared past the sign. He steered with his elbows and knees, scarfing more p.b. pancake roll-ups, and swigging maple syrup like a cold Bud on a hot day. A dark green minivan coming in the opposite direction wove over the line, a tire crossing into our lane. Billy Bob jerked the steering wheel with his thigh and missed the van by an inch.
In the back of the truck, Wendell was unfazed. He was studying his textbook again while Bacon poked his head over the edge of the flatbed, lapping up air like a dog at his feeding bowl. Billy Bob took a turn off Route 1, and sped through a neighborhood of wide, tree-lined streets and sprawling houses. Some of them were painted blue with light blue trim, our team colors. The sun was just starting to brighten their roofs and glint off their big bay windows. A blue Coyote banner stretched across a street, from one telephone pole to another. Billy Bob zoomed under it, squealed around a corner, and came to an abrupt stop. I heard the loud, dull thud. Bacon was down again.
We were stopped in front of Lance Harbor's blue-on-blue three-story home. It was bigger than my house, with a flower bed in front of the neat porch and high hedges marking the property lines. But what really made it stand out was the huge sign on the manicured front lawn. No -- scratch that. It wasn't even a sign. It was a billboard. A mammoth, highway-sized billboard that blocked a major part of the house from view. Lance was immortalized on it, throwing a perfect pass, larger than life. HOME OF LANCE HARBOR, ALL TEXAS QUARTERBACK, the sign said.
And then Lance appeared in the flesh, the real, live, in-person Lance Harbor, emerging onto his doorstep, perfect biceps rippling under his football jersey, perfect, sun-kissed blond hair framing a chiseled face...you know, your basic Greek God -- or star Texas quarterback. Same thing, right?
Colette Harbor, his stepmother, came out behind him, stooping to retrieve the newspaper at their door. She stood again, smoothing her silk bathrobe with her free hand. The robe was barely there -- short enough to give us a look at her really hot body. Lance's stepmom had graduated from New Canaan High about ten years ago, and she still looked like the head cheerleader she'd been back then. Slender but curvy. Long, tawny legs. Cascades of blond hair. Okay, I was staring. Billy Bob was staring. Drooling.
Mrs. Harbor -- Colette -- looked over at us, tossed her mane of hair, and waved smoothly. She was joined by Lance's balding, not-nearly-so-perfeet Dad, who affixed his right hand to his wife's ass -- its permanent resting place in this world.
"'Member when Lance's stepmom...uh...Colette was a cheerleader..." Billy Bob said, still ogling.
"Yeah?" I said.
"And we used to crawl under the bleachers to look up...Colette's skirt and she was never wearing any -- "
"Billy Bob!" I shouted, startling him back down to Earth.
Billy Bob gave his head a shake, blinked, and looked over at Lance, who sauntered toward the truck. Billy Bob opened his door and hopped out, standing at attention as Lance approached. "You need anything, big guy, you let me know," he greeted Lance.
Lance grabbed Billy Bob in a rough hug. Lance does a lot of hugging. You know -- he loves life, loves his friends. Everything is sincerely sunny in Lance Harbor's universe. And why shouldn't it be? He's the star quarterback, and this is Texas.
"I love you, my brother," Lance told Billy Bob. "I had a beautiful dream last night."
Billy Bob smiled as if he'd been blessed by the Pope, and hustled back into the driver's seat. Lance hopped into the flatbed with Wendell. "Wendell, I love you, my brother. I am a visionary," Lance added.
Up in the cab, I raised a silent eyebrow. Lance was my best friend. But a visionary? Well, in West Canaan, Lance Harbor can be whoever he wants...
Next stop was the humble home of Chardy Tweeder. And I do mean humble. It was the black sheep on the block, the lawn like a bad haircut, the two basement windows broken and boarded up with dirty sheets of plywood. No billboard at this casa humilde. Billy Bob didn't get out and stand at attention. He barely even slowed down as Tweeder ran howling through the deep grass in front of his house and dove headfirst into the flatbed. Billy Bob peeled away from the curb, visions of Colette Harbor still dancing in his head.
How did I know? Trust me. I've known Billy Bob forever. Besides, he couldn't stop talking about her.
"She's the perfect wife for me, Mox, I would love Colette," he said, stuffing his lovelorn face with another pancake and peanut butter. "I would," he mumbled, mouth full to bursting.
"That would make you Lance's stepdad," I reminded him.
Billy Bob chewed and swallowed. "I'd love him, too," he said. He already did.
Suddenly, through the rear window of the cab, the moon was rising -- as in the round, muscular ass that had pushed its way through the window and wedged itself between me and Billy Bob, like a third head joining our conversation. Tweeder's butt sported a blue tattoo of a West Canaan Coyote.
Billy Bob and I were silent for a moment. Then the ass disappeared. A second later, it was replaced by Tweeder's blue-eyed, strong-boned face, his mouth going a mile a minute as he singsonged at us. "Good mooning, boys! Good mooning. I've been up since the crack of dawn it and I had to ass you something..."
"Try to calm down, Tweeder," I said. "Did you take the right medication today?"
Tweeder didn't stop to take a breath. "What's up with Kira Anne Bailes?" he plowed on.
"Darcy's friend?" Billy Bob asked.
Tweeder's eyes gleamed. Definitely deranged. "She's got that look, like, I just fell out the I'm-gonna-suck-yer-dick tree and hit every branch on the way down!" Poor Tweetie was one small step away from foaming at the mouth.
"You got to relax, Tweet. Focus," I said gently.
But Tweeder just turned up the volume. "I can't! I gotta get some tonight. It's critical. This pig's lookin' good time right now. Hump, hump, hump! That's what I'm all about!"
Right, Tweeder. Meanwhile, I could hear Lance orating like a preacher back there.
"I drifted off to sleep, and I had a dream!" he proclaimed to Wendell, his voice swelling with mysticism and power.
"Oh yeah, brother, a dream. I hear you," Wendell echoed back. They faced each other, doing their call and response, solidarity forever and all that.
"Can I hug you?" Lance asked. As I said, Lance had this thing about hugging everyone.
I wondered what he'd dreamed about. Fame? Fortune? Winning tonight's game? Probably. I glanced through the cab window at him and Wendell. How had I wound up on this alien planet? The only thing that marked me as one of their species was the blue game jerseys we were all wearing, with our names and numbers on them.
Billy Bob finished his Herculean breakfast as we wheeled through town and peeled up the access road to West Canaan High. Billy Bob had to slow down as we neared the players' parking lot. Either that or take out some of our loyal fans who swarmed across the road on the way to the morning pep rally in the gym. It was a sea of light blue on blue. The fiercest fans had gone further than mere blue clothing. Blue nail polish, blue hair, even blue greasepaint all over some of their faces.
Tweeder hooted and hollered, calling attention to the truck so we could revel in our star status. Lance smiled down upon the little people, waving like the young JFK in his motorcade. A towering marquee on the lawn of school read COYOTES FRIDAY NIGHT -- HOME VS. BINGVILLE. Nearby stood a life-sized statue of the coach -- that's Coach, Sir, to you -- hands on hips, looking sternly out across his turf, capable of instilling fear and awe in the hearts of big, strong guys who oughta know better. But I'm getting ahead of myself again...
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