Moses, Chapter 2

“Have you ever done this shit before?” the boney ninth grader asked his coach.

“Of course, kid,” the coach replied. “How do you think I got to where I am today?”

The kid balked at that. He frowned openly. What the fuck did he mean “got to where I am today.” Fuck. He’s a God damn high school assistant football coach. Yeah, he played at Florida State. But no one knows who the fuck he is. Hell, he could be lying about that shit if it wasn’t for that picture of him and Coach Bobby B. on the wall in the office.

“I don’t know coach,” the kid finally said. “I can’t be sticking needles in me all the time. My momma will notice them holes.”

“What? Is your momma still washing your back for you?”

The kid balled his fists and wanted to hit the coach in the mouth so badly. But he knew better. He’d get kicked off the team. Maybe even arrested. That’s what happened with black kids hit white men. He knew that.

“I’m gonna hold off, coach,” he said as confidently as he could. “I’m gonna do it on my own. Work hard. Train hard. Go hard.” He’d read that slogan on a shoe ad once. Figured it might get him out of this situation.

“Well, kid, it’s your decision. But don’t blame me when you end up at a community college in Kansas instead of Gainesville.”

Those words didn’t bother the kid. His dad went to community college in Texas. Then ended up playing for the Longhorns for a season before he blew out his knee in practice his senior year. Still signed on with the Cowboys after he graduated – “the best damn thing I ever did was get that degree,” his dad always said when talking about football. Three years he toiled on the “tax squad” he called it. “It ain’t the taxi squad, it’s the tax squad,” he said. “Because it’s fucking taxing.”

Finally, in game 15 of his third season, the coaching staff called his dad into the office. “You’re gonna play this week,” they said. It was against the Redskins. At Cowboys Stadium. ESPN. Prime time. His dad called all his friends and family. Got 44 tickets to give to the “important ones.” That included the kid. He was 3 years old, but has a faint memory of being there. It was the noise, his momma always said. “I think you liked it when the crowd roared. You weren’t scared at all.”

His dad got in during the second quarter. Took a handoff from the quarterback and broke into the open. He dashed and shaked his way to a 17-yard gain, tackled by the strong safety by a shoestring. If he’d gotten past him, “It would have been touchdown city!” dad always said.

He didn’t get back in the game. Why? Well, on the next carry the starter burst into the open the same way, and scampered all the way for that touchdown. 55 yards. The next possession, the guy did it again. This time 76 yards. By the end of the quarter, he had 199 yards. They kept feeding him the ball. He kept churning out yards. At the end of the third, he had 254 yards. The score was 33-28 Redskins. He ran for 111 yards in the fourth quarter, scored two more times and the Cowboys beat the Skins, made the playoffs and went to the Super Bowl. There, his dad watched on the sidelines as Dallas topped the Broncos for the title. He got a Super Bowl ring for being on the roster at the time. He was cut the month after. Tried out for three more teams, was cut by them all.

His dad’s final career numbers – 1 game, 1 carry, 17 yards. And a Super Bowl ring.

“One more than Marino!” he’d say to all his boys when he moved back to his parent’s neighborhood in Miami. In a trailer on their property. He got a job and makes a good living. That ring is the only thing he hasn’t sold or pawned at some time. He gave it to his mom so he couldn’t.

The kid is thankful for that. When he was real little, it fit around his whole fist and on his arm. He’d walk around with it on – but only when grandma was asleep.

His dad went to all his Pop Warner football games. “He’s got my moves, but he’s a little slow,” he’d tell his friends.

When he got to middle school, pops told his coaches to move him to defense. “He’s got my moves, but he’s a little slow,” he’d tell the coaches.

They listened, because his dad was an NFL player. He wore the ring that day to tell the coaches and they saw it, shining and full of stones.

The kid at first didn’t like defense. He was used to running away from hits, not delivering them. But, on the last practice before the first game, he leveled the kid who took his job. The “star” running back – Nathan Johns. Johns went down in a heap. Started to cry after the kid tackled him.

“Good hit!” “Fucking awesome!” He heard the coaches scream.

“Moses! Come here son,” he heard his dad yell after the practice.

Moses ran over.

“What do ya want pops?”  he asked.

“Just wanted to tell ya, that was one great motherfucking hit, son.” He hugged Moses. That made Moses feel awesome.

“But you need to get bigger,” pops said. “Because them boys you’re hitting, they’re gonna get bigger too.”

Six years later those words echoed in Moses’ brain as he was re-habbing from a knee injury in Gainesville. It was the same injury that felled his pops – torn ACL. He had to come back. He’d worked his tail off – “The right way” – for so many years. He couldn’t quit now. He was the top-rated linebacker in the nation coming back next season – according to Mel Kiper Jr., some douchebag with a really bad haircut on ESPN.

But after six months of rehab, the speed wasn’t there. The strength wasn’t there. So he went to his old high school. Found his old coach.

“Hey there Moses,” the coach said. “What brings you ‘round here?”

The coach had hated Moses for not using back then. As good as Moses was, the coach believed, he could have been 10 times better with “a little help.” Well, now Moses was here, against everything he believed in, to get that help.

“Um, coach, I need some help,” he said meekly. The coach wasn’t used to Moses talking like that, he was confused.

“Sure, Moses, anything you need.” The coach was expecting him to ask for a little bit of money. And since he was an FSU guy and not a Gator guy, it wouldn’t be an NCAA violation at all. Which seemed weird to him. As long as you’re not a booster, it’s ok to give money. But if you are, it’s not.

The coach already had his wallet out when Moses said it.

“Coach, I need some juice.”

The coach was floored. Here was a kid that had made it without, but now wanted it.

“Why Moses?” he asked sheepishly.

“Because, coach, my knee. I can’t get the old Moses back.”

Three days later, Moses was in that old office, staring at Bobby Bowden and the coach. The picture had faded over the years, but was still the centerpiece of the coach’s office.

Moses winced when the needle went into his buttocks. He didn’t cry, not in front of coach. But he did when he got back to Gainesville. Sitting in his dorm, looking at the welt on his ass cheek.

Six weeks later, Moses was at fall practice. His strength was back. That wasn’t a surprise to anyone. Everyone, scouts, coaches, fans, they all knew about Moses’ legendary work ethic. But what surprised everyone was the speed. Moses was now so much faster than he was before.

“He’s a great player, but he lacks that burst,” the scouts always said.

Now, the scouts were writing something different.

“Great player. Great speed. Red flag for quick improvement after knee injury.”

His first game his junior year, Moses collected 15 tackles and three sacks as the Gators torched Louisiana Tech. His second game? Even better. 20 tackles and an interception returned 66 yards for a score as the Gators beat No. 2 Texas – daddy’s alma mater.

Soon, everyone was talking about Moses.

Which, he found out, wasn’t always a good thing.

Get Down Moses, Chapter 1

The young guy stared him down. They pulled into the parking lot almost simultaneously from opposite ends. A young parking lot attendant just stared at the both of them. He wasn’t about to interfere. It was one of the perks of the job. And there were few.

“Hey, asshole!” the young guy, driving an orange F-150 with flames down both sides yelled. “I was fucking here first!”

The old guy, who probably hadn’t shaved in 10 days or so, got out of his car, clicked his key to lock the door and walked up the monstrosity of a truck.

“Put your dick back in your pants,” he said. “This is a no-fucking zone.” And he walked away.

The young kid, angrier than he’d been in years, revved up his engine. It had a Hemi, so why the fuck not, he thought. However, just as he did this, his hand slipped from the gear shift and his foot slipped as well. His truck lurched forward slamming directly into the car in front of him. The old guy looked back, expecting his tiny Saturn to be destroyed. He laughed out loud when he saw that it wasn’t his car, but the one next to it. The one with the plates that said “Gator 8.” He knew exactly whose care it was.

The old guy moseyed over to the bar across the street, opened the door and peered inside. He found who he was looking for pretty quickly. He wasn’t hard to find. Anywhere.

“Hey Moses,” he said, “Some skinny kid just slammed into your car.”

Moses, who played linebacker for the University of Florida three years ago before being kicked off the team for steroid abuse, looked up from his newspaper.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, folding the paper up and placing it down on the table in front of him. “I’ll be right back,” he said to the two ladies sitting at the table with him. One was Dynasty, a former stripper who was known to get around with the Gators’ players back in the day. The other was Sheena, a local barfly – just 22 years old, but already half way to the grave.

“Who’d you say hit my car,” Moses asked the old guy politely. The old guy walked outside with Moses and pointed across the street. There the kid was nervously looking at his bumper and the smashed up back bumper of the car he’d hit.

“That guy,” the old guy said. “He’s a real charmer too.”

“Thanks,” Moses said, patting the old guy on the back. “I owe ya a beer.”

Moses walked across the street. Not even looking to see if any traffic was coming. He never looked. Figured if anyone was coming, they’d see ol’ Moses parting the sea and stop. They always did.

“You. Me. Discussion. Now!” Moses said, pointing to himself, the kid and the dirt in front of him. The kid looked scared now. He didn’t know who Moses was, but he was about to find out.

“Did you hit my car?” Moses asked politely, but sternly.

The kid looked at Moses. Then his car.  Then Moses’ car. He swallowed hard. The next words out of his mouth were going to determine the path of the rest of his life, he thought.

“Um, uh,” he could only manage.

“Listen kid, it’s a simple yes or no question. You either hit my car with your truck. Or you just so happened to park an inch away from my car, with a big dent in your car that corresponds to the dent in my car. Orange and blue paint swapped. So…Did. You. Hit. My. Motherfucking car or not?” He added the pauses between most of the words. Mostly to keep himself from getting angry. The last time he got angry it cost him his scholarship, and as a result, his NFL career.

“Sir, um, I,” the kid once again sputtered.

“OK. We now know you don’t understand the English language. A lot of folks used to think that about me. They’d say ‘That Moses, he can’t speak.’ Or ‘That Moses, he real dumb.’ Well, kid, I think you know I’m not dumb. And I’m pretty sure from the looks of you that you’re just playing dumb. So, let’s have an answer in the next five words.”

“Um.”

“One.”

“What?”

“Two.”

“Shit.”

“Three.”

The old guy watched from across the street, now with a pint glass of Guinness in his hand. He figured the kid would have either started crying or bleeding by now. It was sort of disappointing.

“Yes,” the kid finally said.

“Thank you,” Moses replied. He reached into his jacket pocket, causing the kid to recoil. Moses pulled out a piece of paper from his notepad, the one he kept at all time to write down the moments of his life. He’d done it since he was 12 years old and a teacher said to him “One day Moses, they’re gonna want to know about your life. You should write it all down.” And Moses did.

He licked the tip of his pencil and wrote down some words. Then he handed them to the kid.

“Kid, this is my insurance information. If you could kindly reach into your car, and write down yours we can be done with this.”

The kid scrambled to the truck, opened up his glove box and paused. There was his grey 9mm pistol. Moses saw it to.

“Kid,” Moses said. “Don’t even think about it.”

The kid heard the clicking of the hammer of a gun. He looked in the side view mirror of his car and saw Moses holding a 45. It was cocked, and most definitely loaded. He reached for his insurance card and pulled it out.

After closing the door, he handed it to Moses.

“Thank you kid,” he said, uncocking the hammer and putting the gun back under his belt. “I always like to be civilized about such things. Let’s go inside my establishment across the street and wait for the police to get here. And don’t worry, I ain’t saying nothing about your little German friend in the glove box.”

“Um, uh, thanks,” the kid said, following Moses into the bar.

The old guy watched as the two went inside. He smiled at the kid. The kid just stared. The same stare he’d given the old guy before. He raised his hand to the old guy’s face, pointing one at him and pretending it was a gun.

“Bang,” Moses said.

Everyone laughed.

Ten minutes later, the cops were there. They always showed up at Moses’ pretty fast. It was either something bad, or something good. Luckily, McGinty thought after he’d written up the accident and handed both sides their paper work, it was a good one this time.