Eugene and A.J. rolled into Sand Valley around midnight, having heard about a set of twins living in that small town who were wild and could not be satisfied. The boys weren’t equipped with names or addresses, but such is the nature of the decision-making process when optimism and testosterone are involved. They were apparently of the impression that these girls would be at the outskirts of town, holding a sign written in lipstick that read:
After they finished the bottle, A.J. stepped behind the depot for a moment to relieve himself. While he was indisposed, he began to hear strident conversation from the front of the depot. The discussions seemed urgent, but their raucous tone did not prepare him for the scene that greeted him when he returned to the Lover. There in the middle of the street was Eugene, engulfed by four of Sand Valley’s farm-raised, corn-fed finest.
The misunderstanding had occurred over remarks made by Eugene regarding the boys’ mamas and sisters. These comments had been good-natured jest, an icebreaker of sorts, but the boys took it all wrong and hostilities ensued. Eugene was briefly holding his own, but sheer weight of numbers was destined to bring his downfall. A.J. had to act quickly, so he reached into the Lover and removed Eugene’s old twelve-gauge pump shotgun from the back floorboard. He cocked and shot it in the air, twice. Then he aimed at the melee in the street. All was quiet in Sand Valley, Alabama.
“Let him up,” A.J. said. He was in deep water, but no better ideas had occurred to him, so he guessed he was stuck with the one he had. The largest of Eugene’s assailants disengaged himself from the pile and stood. He and A.J. recognized each other at the same moment.
“Longstreet,” he said, drawing the name out slowly like an incantation, his voice dark and full of menace. “You’re Longstreet.”
“Yeah, you big son of a bitch, I
He was on enemy turf facing Mayo Reese, who stood six-feet, six-inches tall and weighed about two-hundred eighty pounds on the hoof. They had encountered each other on one previous occasion, when Sequoyah met Sand Valley on the gridiron in a preseason exhibition arranged by their coaches. The match was semilegal since the teams were from different states, but Southern high school football coaches are entities unto themselves provided they posted winning seasons, and both coaches decided the game would be a good way to toughen the boys up.
They had squared off on a hot and humid August night. Sequoyah dressed out seventeen gladiators for the game including the three boys who never got to play, so it was another iron man night for A.J. and Eugene, offensive and defensive right guard and tackle. The Sequoyah Indians kicked off, and Sand Valley returned the ball to their own thirty-yard line. The trouble began on the first play from scrimmage. Big Mayo hit his stance about five yards behind the line, and when the ball snapped he lumbered straight for A.J. When he plowed into old number nine, A.J. knew he had been hit. To make matters worse, as he ran over A.J., he slugged him hard in the solar plexus. A.J. grabbed Mayo’s leg when he went by, and when the play was over he found himself under a pile of sweating, swearing country boys with Mayo on top of him biting his calf. A.J. knew he was in for a long game.
The first half was a study in pain, with A.J. doing everything he could think of to keep his opponent at bay. Even so, Mayo sacked the Sequoyah quarterback five times during the first half and spent most of the rest of his time chasing the beleaguered general all over the backfield.
“A.J., you’ve got to stop that motherfucker,” Booger Brown told him during one huddle. “He’s gettin’ here faster than the ball is.” Booger was the quarterback. Luckily, he was a fast one or he would have already been killed.
“I could shoot him,” A.J. growled, “but I’m afraid it would just piss him off.” He was in sad shape and not receptive to criticism.
Sequoyah was down twenty-eight points at halftime, and Coach Crider was not happy with the way the first two quarters had gone. “I don’t know what you pussies think you’re doing out there, but you’re damn sure not playing football! Hell, I could dress your
