The Equipment Guys

men.

Chapter One

Dexter Jameson Stadium. Orlando, Florida. 2002.

Three pairs of sneakers slapped against concrete, echoing through the stadium's cavernous bowels. Silent, hushed and reverent, the boys wormed their way through a moving, fluid ecosystem of trainers, medics, assistants and laborers, each fulfilling a specific task in the machinery of a thriving, popular and victorious American football franchise. The boys bobbed and weaved, careful to avoid impact with the seemingly important Bucs staffers taking space and making ready within corridors leading from the locker room facilities out onto the field. Three pairs of sneakers, two sets smaller than the third —— separated by a concrete ceiling and an equally impenetrable, intangible social barrier dividing a line between them and the teeming, sweaty, regular hordes of Buccaneers fans —— moving and shuffling through Dexter Jameson as if they owned the place.

Jim wore his VIP pass on a string, loosely dangling it from his neck, flashing it at anyone who cared to spare a glance and wonder why a handful of thirteen-year-olds stalked halls generally reserved for players, coaches, agents and celebrities. Seth and Kyle, gaping like a pair of wide-mouthed bass, trailed along and periodically fingered passes of their own, making sure they still had the precious bits of plastic lifeline that granted them access to a private and mysterious football underworld. The VIP passes had come from the Bucs front office, gifts from a grateful executive to Jim's father, James Owen Sr., a successful attorney with a mid-sized (but growing) practice in St. Petersburg, Florida. James Senior handed the passes down to his son, having little time — or interest — in football or anything remotely associated with it.

James Junior, however, loved football.

Jim and his pals didn't simply follow the Bucs: they lived, breathed and ate red and white, flying the colors on their bedroom walls and flipping Topps football cards for quarters, hoping to pick up a Ronde Barber or doubles of A Train Alstott. They tried out for freshman ball, but of the three of them only Jim had a chance. Kyle didn't possess Jim's sure-footedness and Seth...well, to be frank, Seth was a bit of a momma's boy. Jim hoped to play wide receiver, like Bucs stalwart Kevin House, but he'd fallen short by several yards at tryouts and left the school field with a handshake and healthy, sincere encouragement to come back next year and try again.

All that paled in comparison to the encouragement Jim felt while walking the Buccaneer halls, following footsteps and feeling history, being part of the living, breathing beast that was the Buccaneer franchise...tasting the energy of a winning season and preparing to (hopefully) watch them soundly defeat the Detroit Lions. The playoffs were weeks away, and all three boys felt lucky enough to be in the stadium, even without all the bells, whistles and VIP treatment.

Then they turned a corner, ducked around two agents hollering into their cell phones, and gazed out onto the field.

Seth whistled low and long, exhaling in a way he had with a slightly tinny nasal pop at the end. Kyle grinned like an idiot, pointing out players and ogling the scantily clad cheerleaders.

But Jim only had eyes for the field, for the action and excitement happening at the forty, then the thirty, under the cheers and jeers of millions of screaming, cheering, adoring Buccaneers fans. Dimly aware that he'd stopped breathing, Jim unhitched his chest and inhaled, taking in the brisk, biting December air.

Frozen, the three of them, overwhelmed and amazed to be standing at that place, in that moment, at that time. And then Kyle, goon and clown, broke the effect and they were once again three assholes with plastic cards dangling from their necks, watching a football game from a crowded tunnel.

Hol-ee shit. Hol-ee shit, Owen, Kyle said, tongue lolling against the corner of his lower lip, I will never be able to thank your Dad enough for getting me this close to real, live, professional cheerleader tits.

Shut up, Kyle. Seth glanced behind them, casting a nervous, unsure look over his shoulder at the jabbering agents. Someone's gonna hear.

And do what? Kyle held his pass out, displaying it to his friend, stretching the cord until he'd pulled it taut. You, me, Owen—we're Vee. Eye. Pees, you know? Very Important Penises. Penises?

Kyle dropped the pass and rubbed his wispy chin, pondering for a moment to the consternation of his friends. I think it's penises. Weigh in here, Owen.

No. Jim ignored them, used to tuning out his hyperactive friends' ridiculous tangents and asides. He wanted to stay focused on football, on the close game and injured quarterback Brad Johnson, being looked at by professional league medics. He wanted to envelop himself inside the world of football, find a way to be part of it, never have to leave its warm, inviting embrace.

Earth to Jim. Hey, Owen. Kyle waved his hand in front of Jim's face, waggling it up and down to get attention. We're talking tits here, man.

When aren't we talking tits?

Kyle shrugged and unapologetically held out his hands. Don't know, brother. Don't know. Don't care.

Seth tugged at Jim's sleeve. Hey, come on. Let's go out onto the field. I don't want to stay here — someone's gonna kick us out or something.

No, they won't, Seth. You've got to relax.

Yeah, dickpuncher. Kyle flicked Seth's pass. Like I said, Very Important Penii. Let's go show ‘em to that truly amazing pair of knockers waiting for me out on the sidelines, ready to come back to my place and let me motorboat them ‘til the Bucs win it all.

Now the agents looked over, frowning at the commotion. One of them waved a hand at the boys, gesturing at them to move on, move away, so they could deal and scheme in peace. Kyle gestured as well, and this time the agents waved their hands at a pair of security guards, so Jim decided it was probably time to head out on to the field before they left through a completely different exit.

Jim moved out into the passageway, letting the cold air skim through his hair and settle into his bones. Sneakers slapped on concrete, as before, but in moments the concrete would give to dirt and he would be right there on the field, where the action was, where the players come to play, and Jim could not wait. and at that very moment, when the Voice of Destiny took him by the ear and changed his life, he first realized that he'd been saying all those things out loud and, for the first time in his life, despite the annoyed replies handed down (like plastic leave-me-alone VIP passes) by his father on a daily basis, he felt a little embarrassed about the way he felt about football.

They ain't so great, The Voice of Destiny said, the players. Half of them, I gotta tell you, can't even tie their shoes without a playbook.

They turned to the right, to a group of boxes and crates scattered along the wall, filled with water bottles and windbreakers. Some of the boxes rested on a tricked-out golf cart—like the kind of vehicle you see porters drive at the airport, but this one had gold rims and flames painted along the side, with a modified drinks caddy where half the back seat would be, the other half filled with boxes and plastic garbage bags. The front seat, meanwhile, was presently filled by a grizzled man in his mid-forties, easy bulk resting against the steering wheel, and folded, muscled forearms crossed over the dash. The man's hair and beard had already given to gray, and he wore Dockers and a black golf shirt bearing the Bucs logo emblazoned over his left breast. Beneath the logo, stitched in white, Jim could read the name Phil.

Let me guess, Phil began. You boys want to be football stars?

Kyle snorted. What's it to you, Sanford and Son?

Phil slid from the driver's seat, easy smile switching to a sneer, and the boys cautiously stepped away.

I'm no janitor. And you're no fool, though you look the part. I'm just asking your friend here, he said, gesturing towards Jim, why he's got a hard-on for putting on a helmet and letting some three-hundred-pounder smack his brains out his ass?

Jim rolled his eyes. Come on, man. It's not like that. I don't want to be a lineman.

Oho...so the boy wants to be run? Phil moved towards them and pointed at Jim's legs. You got the speed for it? The hands? You ready to give up snacks and soda and all your free time to gain that extra yard, that extra dexterity, that little bit more to be one step ahead of the next guys? And then you break a knee and where you at?

He turned, jabbed a finger at Kyle. You're him, sellin' fries and a Coke to your old friends when they hit the drive-thru on the way to Miami-Dade. He rolled his eyes, then glanced aside, at Seth, who had become quiet and invisible since the moment Phil had left his seat.

Or him, maybe. Pushin' paper at a desk up a ladder you'll never climb because you ain't got the skills; the looks, the desire to become what you always should have been because all you really wanna do, at day's end, is catch a stupid ball thrown by the whitest men I know.

Seth stammered under his breath. I...I don't want to play football. Or push paper. I just...I just wanna watch the game—

Well, that's good. Phil said, his hand clapping Seth on the shoulder, nearly sending the smaller boy into the wall. Watching's fine. But playing? You couldn't be more of a fool?

Are you crazy? Kyle said, pointing out onto the field. Those guys have everything! Fame, money, pussy——

——contusions, concussions, broken bones and limited careers, Phil finished. Unless you're a superstar or land an endorsement bonanza, life in the NFL means having one hell of a financial advisor...or one fucker of a backup plan.

Jim rolled his eyes. So, what? It's better to be the Bucs janitor, picking up trash and handing out water?

A sudden grunt and Phil's hand darted out, faster than any of the boys could imagine. His thick, grubby paw clutched Jim's shirt and pulled him close, bringing him within the acrid cloud of sweat and toilet water that seemed to surround the older man. Phil's eyes drooped, the lids falling to half-mast, and he looked at Jim with an expression that curdled the boy's blood, made him instantly regret half the things he'd said since arriving at the stadium, half the things he'd said since he left the house. Phil placed his free hand at the back of Jim's head, as if planning to caress his hair, and Jim wanted to scream for help but no one seemed to be around. His friends just stood there, dumbfounded, because it all happened too fast, so he closed his gaping mouth and waited for whatever was about to come.

Phil exhaled, patiently and slowly, and broke into a tired, dangerous, practiced smile. I'm not a janitor, kid. I'm the motherfucking equipment guy.

He released the grip, letting Jim free, and ambled back to the souped-up electric cart. The boys followed, jeering at his back despite the man having recently lifted Jim off his feet with a single, beefy hand. Kyle, as usual, opened his trap before the others could begin.

Big fuckin' deal. ‘The Equipment Guy.' That just means you're the guy that handles the balls, right?

Phil turned back as he lowered himself back into his seat. Yeah, balls. Some guys don't know how to handle those, kid, and it's those guys that end up flipping burgers for petty cash so they can take out some horseface who's probably fuckin' their paper pushing friend behind their back. He nodded at Seth. Amirite, Pushy?

Kyle shot a vicious glance at his friend, and Seth raised his hands, warding off his pal with a look filled with innocence and regret all at once.

Phil laughed, and turned back towards Jim. Look, man, all I'm saying is that these guys in the pads and colors... they ain't all that. You carry their cleats and make sure their names are spelled right on their jerseys, you get to know them a bit...and there's some control in it. A way to find the fortune, the good life, without the fractured skulls and broken bones.

The older man lifted himself up, nearly standing in the driver's seat, and shouted across to Brad Johnson, still being attended to by the medics.

Ain't that right, Johnson? Phil shouted, voice caroming off the concrete and steel. I'm still waitin' on that case.

Weakened and distracted, Johnson waved his free hand as best he could over the crowd of probing, prodding doctors. It's comin', it's comin'.

Oh, yeah? More than I hear ‘bout your girl.

Johnson winced, whether from the injury or the barb Jim couldn't say, but the fact that the quarterback was taking shit from a nobody twice his age struck deep, limited the man in the boy's measure.

I swear, Phil. Case of Dom, case of brew. Tomorrow. Then the medics moved him on, mothering Johnson away from Phil and the boys, back into the Buccaneers' training facility.

Better be tomorrow. Or he's gonna need those docs for his balls, time I'm through.

Kyle's mouth, agape, snapped shut and he began to sputter in amazement. How...how come they...they just let you talk to them like that? That was Brad Johnson. He's the freakin' quarterback!

Phil settled back into his seat. Yeah, and like I said, I'm the motherfuckin' Equipment Guy. And you don't lose bets to the EQG.

He turned, letting his gaze rest on Jim. Good luck on that extra yard, runner. Just be careful, you come running back through my house one day, and don't make any stupid decisions or bets. He winked, and started the cart. Or I'll be collecting my Dom from your punk ass.

With that, Phil drove off, steering the cart down past the yammering agents—taking special care to drive so close they had to leap out of the way—and into the dark bowels of the stadium.

Jim, glum and slightly upset, the encounter having ruined what had been, until then, a perfect day, gestured with his chin out onto the field. Come on, let's go.

He started walking, sneakers slapping concrete, but this time only a single pair—Jim's own—echoed down the corridor. He stopped, looked back over his shoulder, only to find his pals immobile and dumbfounded, still watching for signs of Phil and his long-gone rock-and-roll equipment cart, hoping he might come back and impart the kind of wisdom that neither one had ever heard directly from the mouth of an adult

Hey, guys, Jim pleaded, pointing out at the action on the field. We're missing the whole game.

Kyle whistled long and low, a stupid grin breaking out across his face. Did you see that? he said, voice barely above a whisper. Seth nodded, silent — as usual — and solemn.

Kyle turned, clapping a hand on Jim's shoulder. Hol-ee shit. Hol-ee shit, Owen, he said, tongue lolling against the corner of his lower lip in a way that was all at once sexual and predatory, but also reverent and honest.

I swear, I will never—never!—be able to thank your Dad.

Yeah, why's that? For tits again?

Kyle shook his head, eyes closed. Uh uh. For the first time...and I think the last. I honest to fuck know what I want to do with my life.

Jim's eyes darted back down the passageway, towards the retreating golf cart. Wait, are you serious?

"Serious as a shit. You and me, maybe Seth, if it's the last thing we ever do...we're going to be the motherfucking