Whatever It Takes

He limps into the kitchen, casting me a long, hard glance from the island he leans over with a grunt. I hate that. It's like I'm supposed to say something to him when he looks at me like that, like he's expecting me to tell him something that he needs to hear. That's what I reckon the look on his face is saying to me. He always makes it dark with his lowly cough and the deep breaths he takes to shake his hangover.

Our house smells of cigar smoke. It's an upgrade from the Virginia Slim's he loved so much, I reckon. I sit in the living room, smelling his rich cigar smoke every morning, running through my playbook and lifting when I can. Every morning I do that. Every morning I listen to him wander through the halls and into the kitchen for another beer to simmer his headache before work. Every single morning.

"What do you figure, boy?" His deep voice broke the silence that had long since become the status-quo of our kitchen.“You gonna to take state?”

Point blank. Just like that. Are you going to take state? Sometimes I don't understand what these people expect me to say. Does anyone really expect a Mojo return to tell them anything but the 'yes' we all know they want to hear? Does anyone really expect me to look them in the eye and tell them that I'm uncertain about what we need to get it done this year?

Hell no. That's not what anyone expects. I wager it's one of those rhetorical questions: Are you going to state? It actually mean, 'when should I start packing for the drive out to the Astrodome?'

"Yeah." I pressed the weights together with a harsh breath, letting them push against my resistance as I worked out the chest press. "We'll get it done."

State is what you have to think about when your arms get this burn in them; it's what you have to keep telling yourself over and over and over again, no matter how much lifting kills. You have to tell yourself about State, about Nationals and those rings that Ector County needs.

You have to tell yourself about the touchdowns, the rally girls, the cheerleaders and the school that's behind you with every win, but you can't forget about the town you'll come back to after a loss. Go on and bask in the good times, but keep in mind the bad to keep you away from the ugly. That way you remember that losing isn't an option; not here it isn't.

We don't lose.

I looked up from my chest presses, nodding at his impeding gaze. “Yes sir.”

I never look at him though. I never bother looking at him. I just keep lifting in the living room and let his drunk ass talk all the shit that it needs to. It would be different if the Boosters were around, that's for sure. If the boosters were here, none of this shit would go down; they'd be throwing down some serious cash on my state prediction, calling scouts and breaking deals for the team.

"Can't even look me in the eye and say it, boy?" He nudges.

I won't sugar coat it like I don't think it's coming. I'm not going to sugar coat this for you and I don't care how much you need it. You don't think I needed some of that sugar coating when I was a kid? You don't think I needed that too? Hell, I've lived with my dad for seventeen years, so I reckon I know better than anyone else when it's coming around. First he'll press me for something. He'll taunt me, dangle the idea in my face and then snap it back in seconds.

“You’re going to do it?” My dad mused from the island, clearing his throat. “You’re going to state?”

I didn’t look him in the eye because I never look him in the eye. Why would I fuck with something that don't need to be disturbed? Maybe I win on the field, but I don't win here. I do not win here.

“Yes sir.”

It's this simple: weights together, pull out, arms down, push back. That's all it takes to fight yourself; it's all it takes to avoid him. You see what I'm saying? Run your passes, run the ball, pitch it to the running back and get the down for the game; win the game, win state, win nationals and maybe - then and only then- I can win him over too.

“You’re going to take state with those damned butter fingers that can’t even hold on to the dang football, right there, Dan?” He knocked the weights from my hands, sliding on a blazer before heading to the door. “That’s what’s going to take Mojo to state this year? You want to play like a leader, you're gonna have to fight like one, boy. ”

Sometimes you just have to let it go.



It's different' when you're running. Your feet just beat the pavement like it's nothing, that's the greatest part. Over and over and over again; It don't say anything and it don't do nothing back to you, but you don't need it to do anything for it to mean something.

It's like all I know is that I'm breathing. That’s why I like running. It’s not about what happens before you reach the moment- before you reach that burn in your legs or that ache in the pit of your stomach. It’s only a moment. That’s all it’s about when you’re tearing down the pavement- it’s just about the moment and how you work with it.

It doesn’t matter that your father lead his high school football team to the state championships back in ’91 and it don’t matter that his competitive edge is a constant drill that’s more so a threat than much else. It doesn’t matter that life is measured by the road to a full scholarship- the road to state; a national championship.

You see this road? It's like it's endless. There's gravel for miles and that's all you see. You keep running, and running, and running, but it doesn't turn into something unless you make it turn into something; unless you keep running and make it worth something. This road I'm running right now is the road to state.

"Nice layout on the green, Sparks." The restaurant owner called, sweeping his deck as the morning set in. "Keep pitching 'em off like that and I wager you're a sure in for college ball."

Anything less is unacceptable- you need to understand that right now and don't forget it: Mojo needs to go to state. It's not an aspiration around these parts. It ain't no hope, no dream or wish. It's expectation: You go to state, you keep the spirit alive and going and you rep Mojo with broken ribs if that's what it takes. You get that? Whatever it takes to win.

“Run it Sparks!” Passersby would nod my way, flashing their State rings if they had them. “Taking us to state this year, boy?”

But running is only really about breathing. I can do that. It’s about running until your muscles can’t take another step and forcing yourself to do it. If you can force yourself to take that step, you can force yourself into just about anything, I reckon. And do you know what happens when I reach that point?

"State, Sparks!" Football veterans would call, proudly flashing their state rings as I rounded the corner. "You take it this year, son."

I keep on running.

"Daniel Sparks, I reckon you're my favourite QB1." The kids would sing my praises, trailing behind on their bikes or on foot for as long as I pace allowed them to. They wore my jerseys, came to every game, asked for autographs, idolized my stats and found themselves caught up in the spirit of it all.

I knew they were following me. Whether or not they were following me with their eyes or whether or not they were kids, trailing behind on foot or on bicycle. They'll trail behind and toss out stats and State questions, ask what it's like to be QB1, which Cheerleaders I like, what my favourite play is, how much I bench.

"Boy's gonna take us straight to nationals like Case did back in the day."

It's like they want to be me; and you know the worst part of that? I know it's true. I know they look at me and think 'Daniel Sparks, QB1; just like his dad.' They think like that, cut out my stats and paste them to their walls and they work; they work that much harder to earn the spot I've got when they get the chance.

Ignoring them is the only way to escape the possibility of disappointing each and every single one of them.


“You want one of these, Dan?” My father would laugh, knocking back a shot of tequila from the kitchen table. “You want one of these rings, boy?”

You don't say anything to that. You don't say anything to any one of the questions these people ask you. All you do is play. You play, you win games, you take state and you bring home a national title with a record season. You don't answer questions; you work. That's all you can do, I wager.

"You want the ring, Sparks?" He jeered, tossing my weights aside angrily. "Is that what you want? You want the ring, boy? You've got to earn the goddamned ring! You've got to earn it! You think your pussy ass can earn this royalty on my finger? Not a chance, boy. Not a goddamned chance if you don't do my name some justice out there!"

I hate the shit talking. All of the bullshit he’d spit out whenever he was feeling like a cocky asshole. I hate that he earned his championship ring- that he’d earned it for everyone else on his team and that, this time, it was my turn to do the same for mine.

“You’ve got to hold on to the ball.” He chucked the bottle at me, red in the face as it smashed against the counter behind me. “No, Dan, you’ve got to catch the football. Can you do that, son? Can you catch a fucking football?” He pushed my silence for a fight, nudging my shoulder. “Fuck you, Dan.” He slapped my face, forcing my averted eyes to turn on him as he chided me with the football. “Be a man and catch the goddamned football.”

“Catch the football at these tryouts and make the team. Make my team.” He wiped at the stubble on his chin with a smirk, grabbing for a wife beater before turning his eye on me once more. “Butterfingers aren’t going to cut it for the Panthers.”

It was a warning above all else, I wager.

“Don't you dare embarrass me at these tryouts.” He warns, slamming the door behind him with one last warning.

He'll always have his state title on me.

“Let’s go Mojo!” I heard, looping past the corner store on 42nd .

They sported my number with a grin, waving as I passed them by. Cars honked, veteran footballers grilled me about state in the two seconds they had and children trailed behind me again.

Sometimes I handle it well. Sometimes I’ll joke with the kids and run at a pace that they can keep up with. I’ll talk to them about football and what it feels like to run the scoreboard, but today I just blast my Ipod so I don’t have to acknowledge their expectations anymore. Today I run past, breathe it out and keep moving until a red light halts my space.

"I wager any of those drivers would've let you fly right on by. I never used to listen to traffic lights back in my day." Another veteran grinned: Jarred Case, national championship quarterback of 1989. He clapped me on the shoulder with a friendly grin as the line of cars stopped to let me pass. "Love to see you around the restaurant sometime, you hear? And tell that mother of yours she needs to stop by sometime!"

I just want one of those rings.

We only have one chance to win State. You get eighteen years to want it- to work for it- but you only get one shot to make it happen. That’s what the guys talk about at the gym. It’s what we’ve been thinking about since pre-k. This is the last year- the last season we have to get those rings; to get our rings.

This town's been throwing around some mean predictions on our guys too.

"You run it, Sparks!" David called, sweeping the patio of Hal's with a smile. "Looking forward to your perfect season this year. Free meal for Mojo if you survive Allman's camp and show us that skill of yours, boy!"

It’s not just skill though. That’s not football at all. It’s concentration, power, drive and luck, wrapped in bright lights and crowded stands. Football is what this county does best and if we fuck this up, it won’t just reflect on Permian High. If I fuck up, it'll all reflect on Ector County. Those rings we get- when we win state, I mean- those rings are for Ector County.

We'd damned better make sure we get 'em.

I don’t know when I noticed her. Whenever I noticed her it struck me how caught up I’d been. The cityscape of the county had long since disappeared, tree lines and vacant lots littering the road in front of me.

“An open field and a whole lot of nothing for me in this damned hick town.” She muttered, flipping dark, brown locks over the top of her head. A city girl accent. “How many people would I run into on this dirty path? Honestly.”

But there wasn’t anyone else around...

“One?” Her tone dripped with sarcasm as she arranged the garbage bags. “Two if I found a gas station.”

I reckon that means she's talking to her garbage bins.

I’d already started slowing down, listening to her talk to the garbage cans so angrily. And then, murmuring another strand of incoherent words, she turned her gaze up to my approaching footsteps. She paused for a moment to pull a tuft of long hair over her shoulder, letting her fingers loop through the ends before green eyes smiled.

And then I stopped thinking about football. I just stopped. I stopped thinking about football and I stopped thinking about state. I stopped thinking about my father and his shit talking and I stopped thinking about the kids that had long since given up on keeping with my pace. I just stared at her. I don’t know what I was looking at, what I was waiting for, but that's what I did. It was nice.

Her wide-eyes looked as if I had caught her red-handed, as if I had caught her in the middle of murder. She tossed the lid on top of the neat garbage pile, stepping towards me with a tedious nerve that disappeared with the slow smile I felt spreading over my lips. She was cute with her wide, green eyes; her wandering, wide, green eyes that spent a moment or two lingering up to mine.

“Sparks!” Allman’s sharp call hollered from the front porch. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, boy?”

I stared from her to my fast approaching coach, biting back whatever it was I hadn’t worked out to say. “Sorry, Coach.”

I should've remembered the house.

“I reckon I don't need my QB1 cutting his run time to look at pretty girls. I tell you what, that just ain't right.” He crossed his arms with a solid gaze. “Are we clear?”

Without a moments hesitation the words came to me, "Yes sir."

You follow Coach Allman. That's just what you do. You follow that man to the ends of the earth no matter what he goes and says, no matter what he does. He makes this team. He runs this team; he drills us, he tames us and he brings out the best in us, so regardless of whatever it is he asks you to do, you do it.

You do it for the team. You do it for yourself. You do it for Mojo and for that state title.

"What do you reckon?" He turns an eye to me, coming to a stop beside the pretty girl. "You going to take state this season?"

Her furrowed brows scream confusion, but I like that she doesn't understand. I like that she doesn't understand Mojoball and the pressure of game season, because that means she didn't smile at Daniel Sparks, starting Quarterback of the Permian Panthers.

No. If she knows nothing about Mojo or how we play football down here, it means she was smiling at me; not my reputation.

“Yes sir. Yes we will.” I nod back into the moment, jogging on the spot to warm up. “Whatever it takes.”

A small smile played across her lips, her eyes subtly glancing into mine. But I couldn't look over. I couldn't acknowledge anything but football as Allman stood before me. No matter how much I wanted to look at her again. With that, and his approving nod, I took off again- already knowing I’d have to double up my distance to make up for the lost workout time.

The second my eyes left hers I forced my mind back into the rigorous drills and plays of the team. It was easier when someone's critical gaze didn't pick me apart the way she did. I like that she knows nothing of Mojo, but I wager it's also intimidating. She can't know about Mojoball: I haven't seen her before and going from the look on her face, her confusion, she hasn't even heard of the Panthers. So what was she picking apart with eyes like that?

If she wasn't picking apart my plays or my stats or my run time, what was she thinking about? Me?

But even then I shook my head, shaking all distractions from my mind as I continued down the long, empty road. Sometimes I think this is all it's ever going to be for me: One long, empty road. I wager whining about it like some little bitch does shit all though, so I keep running.

I'll always keep running. I'm going to keep running, keep pitching TD's and earn my spot until it kills my dad and that state ring of his.

A horn honks, followed by light calls of encouragement as a group of cars pass on by.

My name is Daniel Sparks and when we win state, I’ll be ten times the man my father thinks he is.