Al Wilson

April Pejic

Manuscript

Quod me nutrit me destruit

It starts early in the morning, just as you wake up. Butterflies on fire trying to beat their way out

of your chest. Today is game day. You get up, today’s routine no more different than every

other day, at least in the beginning. Wash your face, stare harder at yourself than most

mornings. You will be at war in hours, fans screaming for or against you, sometimes it’s hard to

tell the difference.

Most people just name them “game day” but yours is different. Quod me nutrit me destruit.

Definitely longer than the others but it means everything to you. It is your signature on the deal

with the devil, the phrase that sprints through your mind as you suffer through stadium runs,

back problems and 100 yard sprints in 100-degree heat.

Quod me nutrit me destruit

What nourishes me destroys me.

Football. The new gladiator sport, adored by millions and played by those maybe too foolish to

realize its lifelong impact.

You throw two cold PowerAde’s from your fridge into your bag, along with your good luck

snacks, beef jerky and Twix’s.

Join the rest of your teammates at the usual spot. 100 deep but it is so quiet. Check in with

coach, a nod is enough.

A typical game day routine: A team walk around the quad, the small army silently ingesting the

day before the battle begins. The weather is great; a breeze us cool in the all black jump-suit.

Break into your position groups after the walk, filing like soldiers over to coach as he iterates

the game plan. You walk through the motions, refreshing everything that has been hammered

into your head throughout the week - Pierce the armor of your opponent and destroy them.

Pregame meal: any small talk among the team disappears as the time approaches. Sitting with

position mates, your offensive line brothers. You have grown to know exact movements from

them, synchronized diving but with the intent to kill. You drink water and watery PowerAde,

down two salt pills to insure no cramping. The meal always the same, baked chicken with no

taste, mashed potatoes and bread.

You finish quickly, get a head start on the hour nap before time to go to the facility. You barely

sleep, bumping songs of murder and agony for a lullaby. Visualize the task. How you will

dominate your opponent? Be more of a man than him. Take his spirit and crush it. Remove his

will.
Feel your teammates moving but you already felt it in your stomach. It’s almost here. Rise.

Watch the highlight video. Remind yourself this is a new week. The enemy would love to make

a highlight of you. Coach calls captains and flag holders. He gives final warnings. Expect trash

talking. Expect cheap shots. Fight for 60 minutes. No mistakes. Make them earn everything. He

dismisses you. 100 fired up soldiers leaving their base. Start your car. Turn the speakers on

high. “Backseat Freestyle” by Kendrick Lamar blares out.

Martin had a dream

Martin had a dream

Kendrick have a dream

All my life I want money and power

Respect my mind or die from lead shower

Leave the parking lot, follow the caravan to the field. Park. Step out of the car and breath in.

Enter the building, Dap to the people in the halls. Enter the locker room and head to yours.

Uniform hung in the locker, gloves and braces, your weapons. Perfect.

Undress, placing clothes neatly in the corner. Reapply deodorant. First layer of pads on,

skintight under armor with the sleeves cut off, half because you want your arms free, half to

show them off. Padded leg pant next, girdles as they are called, protection for the thighs and

hips.
Walk to the training room. Find a spot in line. Follow routine. The strangest combination of

music blares around you. Linkin Park, Boosie, Sam Hunt. Ankles wrapped tight. Fist bump the

trainer.

Reenter the locker room. Fist bump and nod as you head back to your locker. Second layer of

pads on, knee braces and pants on strung up tights. Back to the training room, wrist taped

tightly but smooth. Back to the locker room. Grab the sharpie from your bag. Left wrist first,

hand in fist.

Write on the top side.

Quod me nutrit me destruit.

Flip your wrist over hand to the ceiling.

Relentless

Your creed’s, your calling card.

Right wrist now.

Three simple letters.

F.O.E.

Family Over Everything.

It’s time to warm up, the battle is almost here. Shoulder pads on, and tighted. Helmet on.

Gloves, so tight that you can feel the blood move through your fingers. Armor on. Time to fight.

Follow your teammates to the warmup area. Coaches blare music and slap hands as you

stretch. The sky dims. Sun in the perfect position for a Louisiana Saturday night.

Finish stretching. Body yearning for the feeling of the contact and the sound of cracking bones

and pads. They call you crazy, possessed, for loving, such a cruel sport but you do. Enjoy

physically taking another man and crushing him. You were born for this, larger than all. There is

no fear in your heart.

Coach leads you onto the battlefield. A hand keeping you at bay as you enter. The opposition

across the field increases the rage. To stand in your house with pride. To believe in victory.

Foolish. A lesson must be taught.

Take the field, one final stretch. You come together. Brothers. Echo them.

“I kill

Just for Fun

I am, number one

They say, Imma lie.

I tell them

Wartime

Wartime
 Wartime

Play 1. The first punch is paramount. Set the tone. Get down, muscles screaming blood. Time

to disgrace him. Right hand touches turf. Electricity in your veins. Left hand beside your face.

Ready to strike. Call your block, relaying to your brothers what you will do. Stare at him. The

way a wolf stares at sheep. Make him tap. Make him quit. Run and Hide. Humiliate him. The

cadence is called. Silence. The ball moved. Explode. Hands punch into his chest. A breath

escapes from his throat. It excites you. His feet flail and you run through him and lift him. His

neck slams into the turf, his body unable to stop him. Land on top of him, elbow to his ribs. He

now knows how tonight will be. A whistle. Stop. Push off his chest to get up. Tonight will be a

good night.

..

Play 46. He is quick. Agile. And smart. He has studied you. He is your polar. Hand back in the

ground. Sweat and blood mix on your forearm. Breathe. Heart is knocking against the walls of

your chest to escape. He has been felt out. Film can only show so much. Now is time to excel.

The chess match has begun. Stalemates will not cut it. Make a move. 3rd and 9. His speed could

be too much. Have to grab him. He can’t escape the grasp. Silence. Ball twitched. Move.

Extending arms to him, have to reach him. He slaps them away. Shit. You leaned too much. He

is side by side with you. Shit. He is going to get to the quarterback. Can’t let that happen. Better

a flag than a sack. Extend your left foot and feel it make contact with the right leg. Scrape his
shin, and take his leg from under him. Not this play, he won’t make this one. The ball sails over

you, deep downfield into the arms of a wide open teammate. Breathe. You gambled, and

should have lost. Lucky.

Halftime

Back to the locker room, tired and out of breath but satisfied. Up 2 TD’s. Trainers wade through

players, handing fruit, Gatorade, and Rice Krispy Treats to all. Clear the mind. Eyes closed,

ignoring everything around you and focusing. New plan. He is quick, but weak. How to beat his

speed? Wipe the sweat off while you question. Memory’s come forward, previous plans

remembered. Bingo. Make him run you over. His power verses yours.

...

Play 60. There is a lull in the game. Two teams who were firing shots all first half have stopped.

The game has slowed. The speed no longer surprises you. You anticipate it, reacting once

certain. He is so vulnerable to the run, his strengths useless to him in those moments. Hand

down, calls made to teammates without thought. Ready. Wait. An audible. A change, what is it?

The new play is relayed down to you. Perfect. A downhill run in your area. Coach is throwing a

bone. Time to show the dominance. Cadence. Silence. Attack. Right hand under his breastplate,

left gripping his wrist. Push. Drive. He leans into you, giving all his weight up. Too little. Push his

wrist to the sky and flip his breastplate up. The running back brushes against your hip, then past

you, then gone. You release with a push. Touchdown.

 ....

Play 85. He is tired. The speed you once feared is conquered. His hands on his hips, head

dipped. Bad body language. End it. Don’t play with your food. Finish him. The game is over, but

this is a message. Not in your house. Don’t come back. Hand down. His excitement is gone. He

slowly descends. Inhale. Silence. He moves quicker than you, exploding before you. Hands onto

your shoulders. A mistake for him. Push back into him. He loses his balance, slips. Pounce on

him. Time to kill. His spirit leaves him as you land on top of him. Game Over.

The aches are horrible. The pain in your feet like stepping on coal. A cramp through your legs as

sleep escapes you. Elbows burning, the exposed skin touching fabric. So much pain. So tired.

But happy.

Quod me nutrit me destruit