American Outlaw Part 2

"No," Joanna agreed. "I'm happy with the way things are."

"But I don't have any clothes for school, school, Dad." Dad."

"I said no," my dad snapped.

I huffed angrily. "But that's not fair-I mean, I work for you and-"

My dad slammed his fist on the table. The plates jumped. "Shut the f.u.c.k up." He turned to look at me with deep, angry eyes. "And quit f.u.c.king asking."

"And eat your meat loaf," Joanna added, quietly.

By now, you might be wondering why I'm not in prison or dead. The answer is simple: football. If I didn't have football, I would have never made it. I am one hundred percent sure of this fact.

Ever since I started playing, I loved football more than anything else in my life. I was just primed for it: all the hurt and anger I felt growing up pulled me to the game, like a gravitational force. I was always a big kid-other kids' parents used to complain about me when I was eleven or twelve, because I had a goatee. More than once, I had to bring my birth certificate to prove my age.

Once, an opposing coach demanded, "Let me see those gloves!"

"Huh? Why?" I had been hitting kids so hard, they fell back, unable to breathe.

"Because I got a pretty good feeling they're filled with sand. sand."

He proceeded to produce a pocketknife and slash both of my gloves open-there was no sand, of course. All they contained was an oversized, angry f.u.c.ker.

Football attracts all the crazies, for some reason. Gil Lake, my coach when I was kid, was absolutely out of his tree. He was the guy who taught me how to be mean.

Gil's specialty was a drill called the Gauntlet, where all the kids on the team would line up about ten yards apart, and one by one, they'd run in and give one kid a hit. You always give the guy taking the hits a few moments between each knock, so he can recover-that's just the way you do the drill. But when I would get up there, it was different. run in and give one kid a hit. You always give the guy taking the hits a few moments between each knock, so he can recover-that's just the way you do the drill. But when I would get up there, it was different.

"GO, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!" Gil screamed. He was bombarding me with all the kids, not allowing them to give me a second between hits, even if they wanted to. It was like this crazy mosh pit, but with everyone in the pit trying to slam just one dude. He kept it going until I was on the ground. When one of the kids hesitated, Gil went nuts. "WHAT THE f.u.c.k ARE YOU DOING? YOU f.u.c.kING HIT HIM ANYWAY!!!" So the rest of the kids proceeded to run up and hit me after I was on the ground.

Pretty soon, that kind of treatment made me tough. That guy made me into a monster. Soon enough, during hitting drills, I began to notice kids changing places in line, so they didn't have to face me. That was when I knew I was good-when I realized people were scared of me.

Day of the big game. Gil went up to the other kids, all solemn and quiet and respectful. "I want you to have a good game, son, I need you to play tough for me . . ." You could see the encouraging effect of his voice. But then he came to me, last in line. He got up in my face, grabbed grabbed me. "YOU me. "YOU MOTHERf.u.c.kER MOTHERf.u.c.kER!" he growled. I looked up at him, terrified. His fingers dug into my shoulders. "YOU MOTHERf.u.c.kER MOTHERf.u.c.kER! YOU GET THE f.u.c.k OUT THERE AND I WANT YOU TO KILL SOMEONE ON EVERY PLAY! WHAT DID I JUST SAY TO YOU?!"

"Kill someone!"

"THAT'S RIGHT!! IF YOU DON'T KILL SOMEONE ON EVERY PLAY, I'M GONNA f.u.c.kING KILL YOU YOU!! WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THAT THAT??"

"I'LL KILL THEM!!"

"WELL G.o.dDAMMIT THEN, f.u.c.kER-LET ME HEAR YOU ROAR ROAR!!!"

"RAAAAAAAARRRR!" I roared like a f.u.c.king beast. I get I roared like a f.u.c.king beast. I get goose b.u.mps just remembering it, because he totally got inside my head. I was so malleable, I really would have killed for him. goose b.u.mps just remembering it, because he totally got inside my head. I was so malleable, I really would have killed for him.

When high school started, I was sent to La Sierra, the c.r.a.ppiest public school in Riverside. The city had three nice schools, but those were not for me. I had grown even more over the summer, and although my face was still covered in acne, I was feeling less awkward in my own frame. I was still pretty shy and nervous when I wasn't on the football field, but Bobby was right there by my side.

"James, we really hit the big time now. These high school girls are gonna s.h.i.+t when they see us."

"Yeah, right," I said. First days were the worst, when you walked through unfamiliar hallways, not knowing anyone.

"I'm dead serious, Jess. G.o.d, I look so d.a.m.n handsome, I'm gonna get laid a ton ton this year. That's all I'm saying. Tell you what, after I take the virginity of a few chicks, I'll pa.s.s 'em right over to you. How does that sound?" this year. That's all I'm saying. Tell you what, after I take the virginity of a few chicks, I'll pa.s.s 'em right over to you. How does that sound?"

I sighed. "I heard some guys on the football team want to kick our a.s.ses."

That whole summer, there had been some chatter about how me and Bobby thought we were too tough for our own good, how we were going to get taught a lesson once we got to school. No one wants a freshman stealing his thunder, so I could see why the guys on the team might not have dug us all that much.

"So?" Bobby asked. He seemed genuinely confused as to why I would give it a second thought. A cute girl in tight jeans walked by, and Bobby's eyes followed her down the hall hungrily.

"So, those guys want to kill us."

"f.u.c.k 'em," Bobby said, tearing his gaze away from the girl's perfect a.s.s for the briefest second. "It's not happening."

Bobby's att.i.tude toward life was simple: f.u.c.k you. f.u.c.k you. He was a tough kid who'd never been given anything by anyone. And you He was a tough kid who'd never been given anything by anyone. And you know, that's how I wanted to feel, too. But in my head, things were always much more tangled up . . . know, that's how I wanted to feel, too. But in my head, things were always much more tangled up . . .

The bell rang.

"Cla.s.s."

"You go ahead," he said. "I have pressing business to attend to." He strode off in pursuit of that a.s.s.

I walked down the hall slowly, watching the crowd part in front of me: permed-out cheerleaders and red-eyed stoners, math nerds and Mexicans, Dungeons-and-Dragons freaks in tight corduroys pressed up against gym rats walking the steroid swagger, Zeppelin dorks eyeing hair-metal chicks with h.o.r.n.y hostility. And then I saw Tom Dixon, the captain of the varsity football team, coming toward me.

Dixon was an eighties jock d.i.c.khead straight out of Central Casting: a chick magnet with tight, white pegged pants, who must have owned the best Conair blow-dryer money could buy. He used it skillfully, creating a blond feathered 'do that winged out majestically. Tom stood in front of me, blocking my way.

"Hey, f.a.g," he said pleasantly, "I know who you are. You're that Jesse James kid."

I didn't say anything.

"Didn't you hear hear me?" Tom's smile curled into a sneer. He looked at me and kind of snorted. "So, what's that you're wearing, kid?" me?" Tom's smile curled into a sneer. He looked at me and kind of snorted. "So, what's that you're wearing, kid?"

I looked down at the used b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt I'd bought for school, with my own money. The collar was frayed.

"Don't you have any f.u.c.king pride, kid? I mean, I wouldn't come to school wearing a piece of s.h.i.+t like that if you paid paid me." He laughed again. The two kids who flanked him, his football flunkies, laughed, too. me." He laughed again. The two kids who flanked him, his football flunkies, laughed, too.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n, kid, aren't you gonna say anything back to me?" His voice lowered menacingly. "I mean, I'm talking talking to you. Are you deaf, f.a.ggot?" to you. Are you deaf, f.a.ggot?"

Suddenly, BOOM! BOOM! He sucker-punched me in the stomach as hard as he could. It knocked all the breath out of me. I struggled for He sucker-punched me in the stomach as hard as he could. It knocked all the breath out of me. I struggled for a second, but I didn't fall. We stared at each other for a long second, motionless. A small crowd of kids had gathered around us, and they watched us now, breathing quietly. a second, but I didn't fall. We stared at each other for a long second, motionless. A small crowd of kids had gathered around us, and they watched us now, breathing quietly.

We both stood there for a minute, eyef.u.c.king each other.

Then I pushed past him and kept walking.

"Exactly, d.i.c.k!" called one of Dixon's flunkies, laughing. "Go cry to your mommy! And don't even think think about coming to tryouts unless you want some more." about coming to tryouts unless you want some more."

I stomped off to cla.s.s. I was never too great in school in the first place-composition I was okay at, and metal shop was my specialty, but beyond that, I just never tried. Shop was a good opportunity to laugh at all the stoners in there, who all seemed to be making either bongs or silencers. I remember the day one kid got his long hair caught in a drill press. It was real high-speed s.h.i.+t: didn't even move his head, just scalped him. It was all b.l.o.o.d.y.

That afternoon, Bobby and I walked down to the football field together.

"So, we gonna rock this s.h.i.+t, James?"

"Of course," I answered. Inside, I wasn't so sure.

Uniforms were doled out. The returning varsity got theirs first, of course. They all seemed to know one another: cool kids with big muscles and giant shoulders, making jokes and cracking wise. From a short distance, I saw Tom pointing over at me. He said something to one of his flunkies, and the whole group of them laughed.

"Hey," Bobby said, curious, "did that f.u.c.ker just point you out?"

"Nah. Don't think so."

"He just f.u.c.king pointed pointed at you, man! Why are all of them laughing?" at you, man! Why are all of them laughing?"

"It's nothing," I said. "He just punched me in the stomach today, that's all."

"You're kidding, right?" Bobby said, aghast. "That kid punched punched you? What are you going to do?" you? What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. I'm gonna play football."

"Jesse James, I swear." Bobby's face grew dark. "If you go p.u.s.s.y on me, I will personally kick your a.s.s myself."

"All right, jerkoffs!" a coach called out. "Enough yapping! Come and get your rags." The JV kids swarmed around the coaches, trying to get uniforms. We were an ugly little crew. Tiny runts, fatsos with man-t.i.ts, white trash, mean losers, and punks with messed-up lives. As a whole, we were one big zit cl.u.s.ter, a dog pile of teenaged a.s.sholes hoping against hope to make the big squad. But even we knew that most of us didn't have a f.u.c.king chance.

Another coach blew his whistle. "Gentlemen! Line up! Let's toss, sweep, block!" Line up! Let's toss, sweep, block!"

Slowly, the varsity center, along with his quarterback, fullback, and tailback, all strutted up to the line together-they'd done this drill before. Tom, of course, was the quarterback. Big, imposing linebackers came to stand on either side of the formation.

"Oh, hey, it's the f.a.ggot, with the gay clothes," Tom called to me. "I thought I told you not to come down here today, didn't I?"

I said nothing.

"Let's get a defensive line!" the coach called, motioning over to the crew of JV kids. None of us moved. "Guys! Let's not be shy. I don't have all day."

I walked up to the outside linebacker position. Bobby came out and stood beside me. Another tenth grader, a chubby kid named Mike, walked up and joined us. Slowly, the defensive line filled.

The coach tossed the ball to the center. "All right, boys. Let's see what you got."

"Hut, hut!" Tom shouted. He looked both ways, put his hands down underneath his center's thighs, got ready to receive the ball. I stared at him, dead-eyed.

"Hut, hut, HIKE!"

As soon as the ball was snapped, I tore off the line, heading straight at him. Dixon looked to his left-no one there. He drifted back, looking for his tailback. I snuck around the end. The fullback tried to chop at my legs, but I straight-armed him and pushed him down. for his tailback. I snuck around the end. The fullback tried to chop at my legs, but I straight-armed him and pushed him down.

Dixon looked to his right-drifting back again. His tailback approached, and he was just about to sweep, when I arrived.

I tackled the f.u.c.ker hard, right around his ribs, and brought him down to the field violently. The ball flew loose, and all the air expelled from Tom Dixon's mighty lungs with a clumsy "OOOF!" "OOOF!"

"Nice hit, hit, Jess," Bobby hooted. "Show 'em how we do it!" Jess," Bobby hooted. "Show 'em how we do it!"

Tom Dixon squirmed under me uncomfortably. He looked dazed. "Get off, kid!"

He lay there, trapped under my knees.

"Nah, I don't think so," I whispered.

I wrenched his helmet off his blow-dried head and smashed him in the face with my fist. I hit him as hard as I could, my knuckles hammering the bone of his cheek, driving his head into the ground. I pulled him up by the collar of his jersey, punched him in the temple again, then socked him below his eye. I hit him in the face again and again, over and over, until blood was gus.h.i.+ng.

"He's crazy!" Dixon's buddy cried. "Get him off! f.u.c.k, this kid needs to be put in jail!"

They tried to rip me away, but I was locked on like a pit bull. I bashed his skull against the ground over and over again, filled with rage. Finally, Tom Dixon made a terrible, high-pitched squeal: an inhuman, pig-shriek sound. The sound of complete defeat. As soon as I heard that, I smiled and loosened my grip. I let the rest of the team peel me off him.

I staggered back over to Bobby and the JV kids, on shaky legs, feeling like I had to vomit.

"f.u.c.k, James, that was awesome, awesome," Bobby said, collapsing with laughter. He clapped me on the back. "You see that f.u.c.ker's face? Man, I had no idea you even had that in in you!" you!"

I was still shaking. I hadn't come close to depleting my rage. I wouldn't for a long, long time.

2.

"You gotta grow up," our head coach advised me, shaking his head. "You know, I think a year on the JV squad might be just the ticket for you."

I guess it was meant to be a lesson: you know, don't pulverize the quarterback, kid-can't do that and expect to advance in life . . .

But I was real b.u.t.t-hurt about being put on JV. To be sent down to the little-kid squad? Man, I couldn't even sleep, I was so p.i.s.sed off. I'm bigger and meaner and faster than I'm bigger and meaner and faster than any any of those varsity motherf.u.c.kers! of those varsity motherf.u.c.kers! I'd never felt so desperate or cheated. I'd never felt so desperate or cheated.

So when I suited up for that first JV game, I had a chip on my shoulder.

"You look a little crazy, Jess," Bobby said. "What's going on in that sweet li'l head of yours?"

"Shut up, motherf.u.c.ker."

They blew the whistle, and I just went completely haywire. I knocked out two of the opposing team's quarterbacks in the first quarter. One of them I laid out flat-cold with a hit, and the other one, I f.u.c.king broke his leg or something. After that, the ref called a quick meeting with my coach. knocked out two of the opposing team's quarterbacks in the first quarter. One of them I laid out flat-cold with a hit, and the other one, I f.u.c.king broke his leg or something. After that, the ref called a quick meeting with my coach.

"Look, you gotta get the nut job out of there," the ref said. "He shouldn't be playing with the tadpoles."

So they moved me to the varsity after that. Finally, I felt happy-vindicated, I guess. I was an outside linebacker, which meant my job was basically to kill the quarterback. And that's just what I did, over and over again. I was quicker and crazier than any of the kids out there, and I was out for blood. By my soph.o.m.ore year of high school, I was six foot three, weighed 220 pounds, and could run a forty-yard dash in 4.7 seconds. I was just a horrible person to have gunning for you.

Due to the fact that I could play ball, I was given an ident.i.ty at school: jock. I guess I looked the part, due to my build, and the fact that I was sporting a flattop back then. Not too many kids wore flattops in the mid-eighties in Southern California. It was more of a long-hair period. Inside, though, I didn't feel much like a jock. I loved football and lived for being on the field, but I didn't really like like other jocks. I wasn't going to jock parties or drinking jock beer. A glorious secret remained hidden in the sinew of my fifteen-year-old body: deep down inside, where no one could see it, I was a other jocks. I wasn't going to jock parties or drinking jock beer. A glorious secret remained hidden in the sinew of my fifteen-year-old body: deep down inside, where no one could see it, I was a punk punk.

"Are you you back again?" back again?"

"Sure am, back again," I mumbled to the clerk at Zed's, the best record store in Long Beach.