Trust no one, I thought. I thought. f.u.c.k 'em all. f.u.c.k 'em all.

My knee felt light. My whole being felt light, in fact. The anger ran in me like a fever, and I absolutely dominated. I got three sacks in the first half.

"Killing!" Coach Meyer exclaimed at halftime, shaking his fist joyously. "That's cold-blooded Coach Meyer exclaimed at halftime, shaking his fist joyously. "That's cold-blooded killing, killing, son!" son!"

It was true. I was out there murdering everybody. The second half began, and we continued to destroy them. All the life and enthusiasm drained out of the Long Beach City College football team like a warm, gentle p.i.s.s. Can't stop me, Can't stop me, I thought, deeply vindicated. I thought, deeply vindicated. You might as well go home . . . You might as well go home . . .

"Killing!" Josh Paxton screamed, as we ran up the score on them, ran their hopes and dreams into the muck. Josh Paxton screamed, as we ran up the score on them, ran their hopes and dreams into the muck.

With four minutes remaining in the fourth quarter, I sacked the quarterback for a final time. Standing up, I raised my arms up to celebrate. It was the best I'd felt on a football field since arriving at Riverside Community s.h.i.thole. No adversity could stop me. Not poverty, not drunks in my dorm, not Rhonda, not my deadbeat dad.

Meanwhile, the hugest lineman on the Long Beach team sped toward me.

I am Jesse James, I thought with satisfaction, my helmet tipped down over my eyes. I thought with satisfaction, my helmet tipped down over my eyes. And I am headed for greatness! And I am headed for greatness!

Just then, the lineman drilled me right in the knee. My pain was so immediate and so intense that I puked in my helmet even before I hit the ground.

"FUGGGHHH!" I wailed, vomit spraying out of my mouth and coating my chin. I wailed, vomit spraying out of my mouth and coating my chin.

It was a crippling hit. The force of impact folded my leg up completely, until my ankle touched my hip. In a single instant, I realized what had happened. Staring at my leg in disbelief, the adrenaline took over, and I went crazy with rage. I was well beyond livid: I needed instant revenge. But unfortunately, I couldn't stand up. My knee was totally shattered.

"YOU MOTHERf.u.c.kERS MOTHERf.u.c.kERS!" I screamed, trying to hobble my way toward anyone on their team. Unable to move, in desperation, I heaved my vomit-smeared helmet toward the other coach. "YOU CHEAP f.u.c.kING b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Emergency attendants dashed onto the field and strapped me to a stretcher, dodging my blows as I swung at them. I strained against the taut nylon restraints of the stretcher, tears involuntarily streaming from my eyes. "No. No."

I was rushed to the hospital, and they performed surgery that night. I don't remember much of the operation. They knocked me out pretty good for most of it.

But when I woke up that night, I was more afraid than I had ever been in my whole life.

I lay in my hospital bed in a white gown, sweating and staring up at the ceiling. My heart was trip-hammering a million beats a minute.

I have to get out of here, I thought. I thought. I have to leave here. I have to leave here.

I tried to propel myself out of my bed but, to my dismay, found I couldn't move. My leg, packed into a huge fabric splint, felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

I cannot be here, I thought. I looked straight up above me, into the faintly glowing fluorescent light fixture. An industrial hospital aroma, part antiseptic, part flower-scented air freshener, surrounded me. The faint yet constant noise of beeping machines emanated from all corners. I thought. I looked straight up above me, into the faintly glowing fluorescent light fixture. An industrial hospital aroma, part antiseptic, part flower-scented air freshener, surrounded me. The faint yet constant noise of beeping machines emanated from all corners.

Terror gripped me full force, and with a start, I wrenched myself out of my bed and hopped to the floor. Horrible pain stabbed through my knee. I opened the door, and pulling my hospital gown around me, began to inch my way down the hallway.

An hour later, I awoke on the floor of the men's bathroom, covered in p.i.s.s. As I struggled to get to my feet, an orderly opened the door and found me.

"Come on, son," he said kindly. "Let's get you back to your bed."

He must have told a doctor, because I remember waking up several hours later with my attending surgeon shaking his head over me. "I hear you were up last night roaming around." He clucked his tongue. "Seems a little early for that, don't you think?"

I cleared my throat. "No, I'm fine, sir. Can I go home now?"

"You are most certainly not not fine, Mr. James," the doctor said. "You had a complex surgery last night, and you will be recuperating here for the rest of the week, is that clear?" fine, Mr. James," the doctor said. "You had a complex surgery last night, and you will be recuperating here for the rest of the week, is that clear?"

"No," I said, "I mean it, I'm good to leave. Seriously," I a.s.sured the surgeon, "the knee feels good. You did a great job."

"You are not listening, Mr. James. I am telling you, stay put, right here, in the hospital."

"You can't make me stay," I said, the panic gripping me again. I had to leave. It was the only thing I cared about. "You can advise advise me, but I know my rights. I can leave if I want to." me, but I know my rights. I can leave if I want to."

The doctor looked at me, annoyed. "All right, Mr. James," he said finally. "I'll tell you what: there's a flight of stairs at the end of this hallway. If you can go down those stairs all by yourself, I'll feel confident in letting you go. How's that?"

"Fine," I said.

By this time, the sedative they'd used in the operation had worn off completely. There were no painkillers left in my bloodstream, but I inched myself off the bed and, wobbling badly, tried to stand.

"How about some crutches?" I asked, wincing.

"Certainly," the doctor said, and he fetched me a pair. I braced them under my arms, and started off down the hallway. Each time I made an impact into the slick tile, my knee would jostle. It felt like knives twisting into my flesh. Slowly, I approached the stairs.

"Mr. James, this doesn't seem wise," the doctor said.

Stiffly, I jabbed the plastic tip of a crutch onto the first step, and pushed off with my standing foot. My body hovered over the wobbly padding. With great effort, I managed to straighten my body, and I came to rest one stair lower.

"All right, son, that's quite enough. Back to bed."

I ignored him. Sweating hard, the pain surging through my entire system, I jabbed again, this time using the opposite crutch. I pushed off. All my muscles seized, as I wobbled down another step safely.

I repeated my movements, over and over, the muscles of my neck and back clenching awfully, sweat pouring down my brow, the fabric of my flimsy hospital gown flapping behind me. After a h.e.l.lish, painful eternity, I arrived at the landing.

My shirt was soaked. Panting, I looked up at the doctor.

"So?" I gasped, my heart pounding. "Can I go?"

He looked at me with some sympathy. "Yes, son," he said quietly, after a moment. "I'll sign the release doc.u.ment."

I went to my dad's place. It was two weeks before I could get up and move around the house comfortably. Each day was a struggle with pain, a test of my will to even make it through the day. But it was worth it to be home. The hospital had frightened me badly, though I did not at the time fully understand why.

Slowly, things got a little easier. Over the next two months, I worked diligently to rehabilitate my shattered knee. The surgeon had done his job well. If I brought everything I had to the table, there was a good chance I would play again.

"Hey, look at this, you're alive alive!"

"Josh," I said, grinning. "What are you doing here?"

"My moms made you some cookies." The mammoth man held up a dinner plate in his hands. It was covered in aluminum foil. "I told her I had a friend who was a weak little b.i.t.c.h, he needed nourishment before he pa.s.sed away completely."

"Gee, that's nice of you." I laughed, taking the plate from him. "Tell your mom I'd like to thank her in person, okay?"

Josh walked slowly around my homemade gym, taking in the weights and straps I'd scattered around my backyard. "Nice little setup you got here."

"I want to get back on the field," I told him.

"Rhonda's been asking about you," Josh said.

I waved him off. "That's way over, man."

Josh shrugged. "Good for you," he said. He lowered himself to the ground and opened up the foil that covered the dinner plate to seize a chocolate chip cookie. He popped the entire cookie into his mouth, crumbs falling down the front of his shirt.

"I thought those were for me."

"I need something something to cheer me up as I watch your sad little comeback workout, don't I?" to cheer me up as I watch your sad little comeback workout, don't I?"

"Make yourself useful, dude," I said. "Throw on some tunes."

He reached around in his pocket, and with some effort, managed to pull out a ca.s.sette tape. "Time for some Joey s.h.i.thead!"

Music blasting, we sweated in my backyard.

"YOU CAN'T DO IT!" Josh screamed, as I lifted up a thirty-pound weight with my left ankle. My knee shook with the effort. "Too weak!!" "Too weak!!"

"QUIET, BLACK PUNK-ROCK MAN!" I shouted, trembling with the effort. "No one can crush me!"

It took immense effort, but finally, I was ready to head back to school. My rehabilitation had been so thorough that my hurt knee had actually become stronger than the good one. My crutches were a thing of the past. I walked almost completely without a limp.

I got my bag ready excitedly. It was like summer vacation in reverse: I was returning to the one place I felt at home.

"Heading back today?" my dad asked.

"Yep," I said. I checked myself out in the mirror. I'd probably lost some weight, looked a little gaunt around the face, but overall I was still looking all right. I cracked a grin at the old man. "Hope you won't miss me too badly around here."

"Nope," he said.

I didn't let his s.h.i.tty mood deflate me. Nothing could touch me, today.

"Can't wait to get back to that team, huh?" he asked.

I looked at him. "I'm excited, yes."

"You just remember something, Jesse." He nodded his head at me, seriously. "You're nothing but another body to those people. Much as you think you're using them, they are using you. you."

We stared at each other for a second.

"You know," I said slowly. "You're just an old, p.i.s.sed-off man who hates the world. You always have been."

He snorted. "But am I wrong wrong?"

"Yeah," I said. "You are wrong, okay? The whole way you see the world is totally skewed."

My dad waved me off. "Go on. Time to get back to your fantasy world. I'll be here when they use you up and spit you out."

I pushed past him and stomped out the door.

I was returning just in time to catch the tail end of our season. Our schedule was nearly completed: we had a single remaining regular season game, and then the playoffs. Steadily, I walked through the campus, down toward the stadium.

Coach Meyer and Coach Brown, our defensive coordinator, were waiting on the steps to greet me when I arrived.

"Well, if it isn't Jesse James," Coach Meyer said. He stuck out his hand for me to shake. "How goes it?"

"Really great," I said.

"That's what I've been hearing," he said. "Paxton said he's been visiting you at home, supervising your progress. He says you're ready to rock."

"Josh has been a terrible distraction, sir."

"That's what I figured," Coach Brown said, laughing. "You look good to me, son! Stand up, so we can take a look at you."

I stood up for them.

"Take a deep-knee bend for me?" said Coach Brown. I did it. "No pain?"

"None," I said, breathing deep.

"You got hit hard as h.e.l.l."

"This is one tough kid," Coach Meyer said, looping an elbow around my neck. "My sense is, he's ready to play."

They both looked at me, waiting for me to speak.

"That'd be a quick d.a.m.n rehab, Barry."

"Let's leave it to the boy to make the decision," Coach Meyer said. "He knows what his body can do." He turned to look at me. "How does that knee feel for you?"

"Nice," I said, flexing it. "It feels pretty strong."

"You see?" Coach Meyer said. "He's ready. I tell you what, Jesse, those four sacks you got against Long Beach were un-f.u.c.king-real. We could use some more of that in the playoffs, I'll tell you that much."

I said nothing, just sitting there, looking at the ground.

"Well?" Coach Meyer prodded me. "Everybody says you're ready to play. Do Do you want to play?" you want to play?"

It was a beautiful fall day. The sun shone down on our faces, and you could smell the cut gra.s.s on the field. I was an athlete. This was what I had been born to do.

I looked up at my coaches and told them, "No, I'm done."

Both of them looked shocked.

"Excuse me?" Coach Meyer asked quietly.

I shook my head firmly, feeling more sure of my decision. I had never liked to side with my father, but in this case, I couldn't help it. He was right. I was a commodity to these people. I'd been broken, but now I was fixed. They'd changed my flat. Now they wanted me to head out, full throttle.