17
Posted by Bob McGovern (with a special thanks to Ben Myers for the idea)
“I’m going for your ankles again Boucher,” coach Borgetti said, cradling the lacrosse ball like a pompous ass. He loved calling me Boucher, because of Bobby Boucher, from that damn movie.
“Go ahead fatty,” I replied, knees bent, ready for action.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I yelled, “Fatty,” I whispered.
He wound up and side-armed a shot, right at my feet. I dropped to my knees and stopped the bastard howitzer with my leg. He missed my fucking ankle. A small victory, practice was almost over.
I did my sprints with the team and couldn’t take my mind off of the massive chest protector that caused my body heat to rise. My stupid throat guard kept hitting my Adam’s Apple. I needed some pot, I needed some pussy.
There was talk of states, or something. Some yelling, some ass slapping, some quotes from the local paper. Some shit about our game in two days. I kept looking away. I knew where my friends were and, on a sunny Florida Friday, they were not sweating with swollen ankles.
I limped to my Jeep and threw all my smelly crap in the back. I smiled in the rearview mirror, gave a quick flex in the small rectangle, “fuck yea baby,” and hit the road back home.
Windows down. Punk rock turned way up. A 17-year-old dumbass, sniffing the Florida sunset.
I drove down the main street in my neighborhood and stopped at the boardwalk, otherwise known as, “The Hut.” Sure enough, the whole crew was there: John, Frank, Alex, Emily, and Sarah. All very stoned and sunburned.
“What’s up McGovern,” Frank said, drawing out the “Uuuuuuh,” from my last name. He was the oldest one up there. Just another 21-year-old surfer that never left Vero Beach, high with a bunch of minors, slowly taking a drag off of his Kamel, and completely content with being shirtless and wasted.
“Nothing man, just got out of practice, got anything burning up here?” I said, figuring the comment was a good enough hello for everyone else.
He handed me a roach and tossed me a lighter, John looked on eagerly. I took a couple of hits and could feel my body relaxing. Time sloooowed down and Friday night gave me its first kiss. I handed John the rest, I was sick of him staring at me.
Emily and Sarah were gossiping about some girls in school, Alex chimed in, only to give them a hard time. Sarah looked at him with a flirtatious glance, the two had been dating forever and loved getting under each other’s skin.
Another joint was rolled and we smoked and talked and watched the red ocean slowly turn dark. We slapped mosquitoes, and played it cool when regular beach-goers walked by. We needed booze and I needed a shower since I smelled like ass.
We sent Frank to 7-11, I sent myself home, everyone else stayed. They always did.
I took my shower, put on some surfing shirt that made my arms look big, and put on my Quicksilver visor. A spritz of cologne and mouth wash, and I stared at myself for a solid five minutes, part stoned, part vain.
Back in my room I found the remainder of my stash and stuffed it in the cargo pocket of my shorts. I walked downstairs and told my parents I was leaving.
“Be careful Bobby”
“Always.”
Down at the beach, things were still rolling and people were drinking. Julia, my girlfriend, called me and asked where I was. I told her and she said, “figures.” I hung up.
We smoked on the beach and threw beer cans in the bushes. I walked down to the main road to meet Julia.
“You’re stoned.”
“Yup.”
“Figures.”
Later that night, Julia and I disappeared while everyone drank. We got in my Jeep, parked in a vacant lot, and hooked up with the windows down and the car off. Mosquitoes bit the hell out of us, but it was nothing youthful passion couldn’t ignore.
We came back, disheveled, and everyone knowingly asked where we were. The drinking continued and eventually I stumbled my way back home, alone.
I woke up sweaty and confused. The clock said it was noon, I had practice in 30 minutes. I brushed my teeth and took a real fucking cold shower.
I got to practice and pulled the stinky crap out of the back of my Jeep. I slid into it, walked out to the field, and talked with teammates. Coach Borgetti told me to get in goal and I trotted over like an asshole.
“Big game tomorrow Boucher. Here’s one at your ankles!” Borgetti said as he whipped a shot at me.
Right off the ankle, a kick-save no less.
I winced and didn’t rub it, because you weren’t allowed to. You’re not a man if you rub it.
So I scratched my mosquito bites instead.
“I’m going for your ankles again Boucher,” coach Borgetti said, cradling the lacrosse ball like a pompous ass. He loved calling me Boucher, because of Bobby Boucher, from that damn movie.
“Go ahead fatty,” I replied, knees bent, ready for action.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I yelled, “Fatty,” I whispered.
He wound up and side-armed a shot, right at my feet. I dropped to my knees and stopped the bastard howitzer with my leg. He missed my fucking ankle. A small victory, practice was almost over.
I did my sprints with the team and couldn’t take my mind off of the massive chest protector that caused my body heat to rise. My stupid throat guard kept hitting my Adam’s Apple. I needed some pot, I needed some pussy.
There was talk of states, or something. Some yelling, some ass slapping, some quotes from the local paper. Some shit about our game in two days. I kept looking away. I knew where my friends were and, on a sunny Florida Friday, they were not sweating with swollen ankles.
I limped to my Jeep and threw all my smelly crap in the back. I smiled in the rearview mirror, gave a quick flex in the small rectangle, “fuck yea baby,” and hit the road back home.
Windows down. Punk rock turned way up. A 17-year-old dumbass, sniffing the Florida sunset.
I drove down the main street in my neighborhood and stopped at the boardwalk, otherwise known as, “The Hut.” Sure enough, the whole crew was there: John, Frank, Alex, Emily, and Sarah. All very stoned and sunburned.
“What’s up McGovern,” Frank said, drawing out the “Uuuuuuh,” from my last name. He was the oldest one up there. Just another 21-year-old surfer that never left Vero Beach, high with a bunch of minors, slowly taking a drag off of his Kamel, and completely content with being shirtless and wasted.
“Nothing man, just got out of practice, got anything burning up here?” I said, figuring the comment was a good enough hello for everyone else.
He handed me a roach and tossed me a lighter, John looked on eagerly. I took a couple of hits and could feel my body relaxing. Time sloooowed down and Friday night gave me its first kiss. I handed John the rest, I was sick of him staring at me.
Emily and Sarah were gossiping about some girls in school, Alex chimed in, only to give them a hard time. Sarah looked at him with a flirtatious glance, the two had been dating forever and loved getting under each other’s skin.
Another joint was rolled and we smoked and talked and watched the red ocean slowly turn dark. We slapped mosquitoes, and played it cool when regular beach-goers walked by. We needed booze and I needed a shower since I smelled like ass.
We sent Frank to 7-11, I sent myself home, everyone else stayed. They always did.
I took my shower, put on some surfing shirt that made my arms look big, and put on my Quicksilver visor. A spritz of cologne and mouth wash, and I stared at myself for a solid five minutes, part stoned, part vain.
Back in my room I found the remainder of my stash and stuffed it in the cargo pocket of my shorts. I walked downstairs and told my parents I was leaving.
“Be careful Bobby”
“Always.”
Down at the beach, things were still rolling and people were drinking. Julia, my girlfriend, called me and asked where I was. I told her and she said, “figures.” I hung up.
We smoked on the beach and threw beer cans in the bushes. I walked down to the main road to meet Julia.
“You’re stoned.”
“Yup.”
“Figures.”
Later that night, Julia and I disappeared while everyone drank. We got in my Jeep, parked in a vacant lot, and hooked up with the windows down and the car off. Mosquitoes bit the hell out of us, but it was nothing youthful passion couldn’t ignore.
We came back, disheveled, and everyone knowingly asked where we were. The drinking continued and eventually I stumbled my way back home, alone.
I woke up sweaty and confused. The clock said it was noon, I had practice in 30 minutes. I brushed my teeth and took a real fucking cold shower.
I got to practice and pulled the stinky crap out of the back of my Jeep. I slid into it, walked out to the field, and talked with teammates. Coach Borgetti told me to get in goal and I trotted over like an asshole.
“Big game tomorrow Boucher. Here’s one at your ankles!” Borgetti said as he whipped a shot at me.
Right off the ankle, a kick-save no less.
I winced and didn’t rub it, because you weren’t allowed to. You’re not a man if you rub it.
So I scratched my mosquito bites instead.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Monday, June 26, 2006.
You can leave your response.
