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more fingers aim at me and Ronnie like daggers.
    â€œPick the midget pussies, pick the midget pussies,” one of the players shouts, meaning either me or Ronnie.
    â€œTwin needledicks. Give ’em one of the twin needledicks.” Someone guffaws. I feel abandoned, feel like no one in the world exists for me, feel like I did the day Dad told me Mom died. More than I hate all those football players, more than I hate Ronnie Gunderson, I hate Coach Nelson for putting me through this. I trusted him and he does this to me?
    â€œThat one,” Scott sneers, his finger casually aiming somewhere between Ronnie and me as if either choice is a guaranteed victory for his side, so who cares?
    â€œDanny,” Coach barks. “You’re up. Let’s go.”
    I hope Coach feels my eyes burning into him, hope he feels my hatred boiling into his lungs, giving him tuberculosis as we speak. Teammates push me forward with that better-you-than-me sorry backslap until I’m almost pressing into Jankowski’s sweaty, fat belly. The angry breath coming out of his nostrils streams down on me like hot stank.
    â€œOkay, let’s see, here. We pick the exercise,” Coach Nelson says, steepling his hands together as if in great concentration. “Hmmm. . . .” He scans the large weight room before pausing for dramatic effect. The football players and my teammates quiet down with anticipation, waiting expectantly for the challenge.
    â€œI’ve got it!” Coach Nelson snaps his fingers. “That one over there. That’s it.” All eyes follow where he’s looking and we’re staring at a pull-up bar bolted into the wall ten feet off the ground. “Hanging leg lifts,” Coach says. “ That’s the challenge.”
    The football players just stand there, blinking, not exactly sure what hanging leg lifts are. No one does them except gymnasts. That’s when I hear a lone laugh.
    â€œBeautiful, Coach,” Vance Fisher says, and keeps laughing. “Freakin’ beautiful.”
    Vance Fisher laughs because he knows I’m going to win this contest easy. Humiliation simmering into anger, I plan on stuffing all their faces with a crushing loss. But that still won’t make right what Coach has done to me.
    â€œWhat’s a leg lift?” Jankowski asks. Coach explains it’s an exercise for your abdominals. You hang from a bar and—keeping your arms and legs straight—lift your toes straight up until they meet your hands. You can do all the sit-ups and crunches in the world but unless you work this specific exercise, you won’t be able to do it. You also need good flexibility in your hamstrings or you end up fighting your own muscles. With Tom’s gut and, I’m guessing, zero flexibility he’ll be lucky to even do one. Tom jumps up to hang from the bar. He tries and tries and rests and tries again. Once his legs hit ninety degrees, he has to bend his knees to bring them any higher. The closest he comes is doing a single rep with totally bent legs. His teammates try. Coach gives all of them a chance, anyone who wants to can step right up to the bar. Only Terrence, their running back, and Sweeney, their wide receiver, can muscle out two reps and three reps each.
    â€œOkay, Danny,” Coach calls me over. “Get up here and put these wimps out of their misery.” He winks at me but I’m still not happy with him. For a second, I think about faking that I can’t do it, either. That would make the football players happy ... or at least less angry, and it would teach Coach never to take me for granted and think it’s okay to get everyone laughing at me. I step on the perch and grab the bar and hang from it. Bruce and Vance are nodding at me, smiling. So is Ronnie. I look away from him. All my teammates are counting on me. Then I look up and see Tom, Mike, and Scott watching me, their eyebrows pinching together in confusion,