((Brandon Baxter - Continued from Offended?))
On Aurora's home field, during early afternoon, two groups of men were lining up for war. Jerseys flashed with numbers and names, coaches grunting out commands to their teams, words of encouragement and abuse. The crowd roared as the punter of the opposing side booted the ball into the air, spiralling and wobbling with momentum, both teams racing after it. The sun beat down on the assembled players and fans, glinting off of the uprights and making the yard markers gleam against the green.
Brandon Baxter was oblivious to it all.
No one man should have all that power
The clocks tickin' I just count the hours
Stop trippin' I'm tripping off the power
Kill that, fuck that, the world's ours.
He sat on the bench, accompanied solely by his music pulsing in his ears, his gloved hands clasped between his knees as he throbbed, his body moving slowly, easily to the music. Sometimes the guys made fun of him for the way he got himself settled for a play; joking that he looked like a schizophrenic man on a park bench. Any other time before a play, he'd have laughed it off, waving it away with good humour.
But not before a play.
Before a play, before a game, he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed himself to relax the barrier of control he had on his emotions, his anger, his violence. Before a game, he rocked back and forth to ear busting hip hop and rock and roll, turning the volume up on his little white iPod, dwarfed by his hand and pristine next to his scars, and allowed himself to hear nothing but the music and the voices from his past.
He envisioned his father driving a red pickup when he was five years old; chuckling and swearing, asking him pointed questions about his mother. How was she doing? Does she miss me? She got a boyfriend, yet? When did she buy that new television?
He saw his aunt on her deathbed, the way a woman who was so buoyant and filled with life was emancipated, rail thin and weak, barely strong enough to smile.
He experienced the sinking feeling of anger when his mother walked down the aisle, Dave standing at the end of it in a suit, his fists clenching inside the sleeves of his tux and toes curling in the fancy, shiny shoes he wore.
They were all flashes, gusts of wind that fanned and fueled the fire. As the music pulsed, as Kanye shouted about his power, as he rocked back and forth, his fingers entwined, knuckles squeezing. His eyes were still screwed shut as the images flashed further and further through his mind. Punching Timothy in the fifth grade. A facebook message from Dad about not being able to come this weekend. Dave offhandedly insulting a penalty he received. The Seahawks losing. Not being able to take the car this weekend because his brother called dibs. A C on a math test.
Each and every incident was blown up, blown out of proportion, transformed into hideous, ugly crimes against him. He rocked faster, the music pulsed louder, his hands squeezed tighter. The death of his bird. Detention last week. Fighting with Dave about going to a party. Extra homework assignments.
Rocking, pulsing, squeezing. Over and over and over, the images came and went, making his teeth grit, shoulders shake, knees bounce lightly with the eagerness to find, search, destroy. His gloves shook with the force of the pressure he was exerting, imagining it was an opposing jersey, rending it. Tearing it. Needing to release the rage before he -
Something came down hard on his pad, and the earbuds were ripped from his ears.
"Defense, you're up!" hollered the coach.
Like a shot, Baxter's helmet was jammed on his head, the mouth guard wrapped around the bars of his cage was popped into his mouth, chewed at until it fit properly. He sprinted onto the field, pulse throbbing, anger a sharp ache at the front of his brain, eyes wild, searching.
When the opposing team came out of their huddle, lined up at the ball, Baxter stood at his full height, raised a finger, and pointed towards the quarterback, waited until the kid raised his head and noticed him.
With all the menace in his face, anger in his heart, and the revving of his pulse, Baxter grinned around his mouth guard. He envisioned Dave's face on the other youth's, his father's face, his mother's face. Cancer, teachers, other kids. He felt his biceps jump at the thought of getting his arms around the teenager, tossing him to the floor, running him over. Still holding the smaller boy's gaze, he mouthed the words that he felt down to his core.
Your ass is mine.
