I learned a lot on those fields in the early days, lessons that carried me through puberty and later, through high school in ways both good and bad. Football gave me a focus, a drive, and made me who I am. I hope for the same for those random boys.
A sentimental smile crosses my face, two in one day, which is probably a record for me. But it’s premature because in the next instant, I see two of the bigger boys tackle one of the smaller guys. He goes down hard, and it was definitely not a clean hit or a good fall. To add insult to injury, I see one of the tackling boys, a blonde-haired lanky kid, dig a toe into the other kid’s side.
Not just dirty but mean.
It shouldn’t be like that. Not at that age, not ever. If you’re not good enough to earn the win, take the L and do the work to deserve it next time.
I blink, and I’m pulling into the parking lot of the park, marching across the field. “Hey! You! What the hell are you doing?”
Who said that?
Well, shit. Guess that was my grumbling voice calling out Mr. Kicks-A-Lot. The kid looks like he’s about to piss himself, which would serve him right.
I lean over and set the smaller kid back on his feet. He’s got dark hair, which he shoves out of his face revealing big, frosty blue eyes that’ll serve him well with the ladies later in life.
“You all right, kid?” His lower lip trembles, and I realize belatedly that it might be partially from the tackle and partially because I’m a scary looking motherfucker. Especially to someone his size.
I bend down, taking a knee and pulling my shoulders in to round them. It’s as small and unimposing as I can get. I even smile to soften the fear factor I cause.
“It’s okay, you ain’t in trouble. But those shits might be.”
I throw an arched eyebrow to the other kid, who’s standing with his buddy-slash-partner in crime. While my attention was focused on the little guy, Kicks-A-Lot is digging down and finding his attitude, judging by the sneer on his face. He kinda reminds me of Brody in a four-foot-tall sort of way.
Little Guy sniffles once, but it turns into a sort of laugh. “You can’t say that.” I look at him questioningly. He shakes his head, the laughter blooming a little louder. “You can’t say the S word.”
I do honestly grin at that. Out of everything that just went down, getting tackled, kicked, and having some random guy step in to save his ass, he’s worried about my language.
Mama Louise would like this kid, I think to myself.
“Uh, sorry. Just wanted to make sure you were all right. Saw what happened, and that’s not all right.” I say the last bit over my shoulder, accompanying it with a glare at Kicks-A-Lot.
Little Guy nods like a bobblehead. “I’m good. Johnathan’s just mad that I can actually create a play, not just go where I’m told like a dog. Woof, woof!”
He smirks at Kicks-A-Lot, I mean Johnathan, like a badass. Little Guy’s got big brass ones, I’ll give him that. Something tells me it’s not because he’s got me for backup, either. If I had to guess, judging by the prepubescent testosterone floating through the air, Little Guy might’ve earned that tackle. Just a little bit.
And don’t that just change the whole situation.
“I’m Bruce. What’s your name?” I ask him, not sure what I plan to do with the information, but it seems like the proper thing to do.
“Cooper, but most folks call me Coop.” He shrugs like he kinda wishes he hadn’t said that part.
Johnathan’s buddy pipes up, “Because you’re a chicken, Coop. Bok, bok, bok.” Several of the kids laugh at that and Coop flushes. No, not Coop, because that ain’t right if they’re nicknaming him to be cruel.
I turn my full attention to the gaggle of boys, stroking my beard like I’m thinking mighty hard about something. “Seems to me that the only chickens here are you bunch. Cooper,” I say his full name with a bit of extra emphasis, “took a hit and got up swinging, verbally, at least. Took the whole lot of you to mob up on one little guy. That don’t seem much like the chicken you’re talking about.”
They look suitably chastised, a couple of them even rubbing their toes in the dirt. But I’m not done. “Besides, you wanna know a secret?”
Twelve sets of eyes look at me with curiosity and I swear a couple of them lean in. I lower my voice like I’m imparting great knowledge, rumbling, “Chickens are mean as hell. They’ll peck your hands even as you’re feeding them. Yep, mean little things.”
I nod sagely, pointing at some of the rough scars on my working hands. None of them are really from chickens, but these kids don’t know that.