Id begun breaching the subject of my anality during this time. Aside from the occasional peeled vegetable, my main utensil was a toy maraca no longer than a marker with a blue bulb and black handle.

During the second week of two-a-days, when by then Id been conditioned to them enough to indulge in the off time, I pushed the maraca up too far in an especially adventurous session and it got swallowed and lost inside me. The round bottom of the handle slipped past the seal and I couldnt get a hold of its polymer surface with my greasy fingers––only brush the end. I tried to push it out like I would a stool, but the shape of it was such that it kept involuntarily getting pulled back in. I felt the grit shaking as I walked to the bathroom. I couldnt shit it out on the toilet either. I had to get to practice. I left for campus with it still inside.

Coach L, the offensive line coach, had us doing a drill that focused on keeping our feet moving during pass protection. We each partnered up with another lineman and took turns being the pass rusher. The idea was, if you moved your feet quickly enough while keeping a low center of gravity, it was harder to get around or bull rush through your blocking.

“Move your feet, [X]!

My partner shoved me onto my back.

“Damn it, [X], whatd I just say?! Get low and move your feet or hes gonna put you on roller skates like that every time. Lets reset and go again.

Coach L blew his whistle.

“Chop those feet!

The maracas sand jiggled in rhythm. Coach Ls command worked––I was doing a better job holding off the pass rush.

I heard the whistle again.

“The hell is that noise? Whats goinon––is one of yall beinfunny?

The linemen looked at one another in merry perplexity and I joined them. My sphincter fastened. The maraca rose through my guts to my throat, then floated above my head like a siren of sin. Coach L grabbed the collar of my shoulder pads and pulled me toward him.

“What the fuck is this, [X]?He snatched the levitating icon.

“Its a maraca, sir. Its a percussion instrument.

“A what-ka? Howd it get out here? You tryinout for jazz ensemble?

“No sir––I was using it to stimulate my prostate.

He released his grip on my collar, took a step back.

“Ah, uh––well, [X], thats very resourceful of you.

He put the maracas bulb in his mouth and started sucking on it. He ruminated awhile, twirling the handle between his thumb and forefinger, the bulb rotating in his cheek.

“You know, [X], Ive never seen a guy your size move like you. Way I see it, theres no reason you shouldnt be dominating whoever you line up across from. Every play you gotta chop your feet like that.

“Yessir.

He yanked the maraca from his mouth while tensing his lips in a circle, making a wet popping sound.

“Youre gettinenough fiber I see.He winked.

The water break whistles blew.

Coach L slapped my buttock. The maraca shook. Attaboy, [X].

As I jogged to the tank, the maraca continued to shake.


Big Bruiser Dope Boy tweets @bigbruiserdopeb. Links to other writing archived here: bigbruiserdopeboy.tumblr.com