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weight of a foot. I jumped back, ready to run. We both looked around, but saw nothing. The silence was eerie.
    “What if we just came back and got it later, or tomorrow, or next practice or something?” I said, fear creeping into my voice.
    “Man, I like you pretty okay, but you’re sort of a pussy. Just go wait outside the canyon and yell the code words if you see Coach. You remember the words, right?”
    “My dog peed in the house yesterday,” I muttered.
    “Yeah.”
    As I walked out of the clearing, I was overwhelmed with shame. I had gone into the canyon to defeat my fears, but here I was, leaving the canyon because I was too afraid to stay. I stood there thinking, eyes downcast, till I heard Coach’s voice.
    “Justin. What are you doing?”
    I looked up and saw him standing at the top of the embankment.
    “I told you guys: Don’t spend all day down there.”
    I froze for a split second, but then recovered.
    “MY DOG PEED IN THE HOUSE!” I yelled.
    “What?” Coach said.
    Then, from behind me, I heard the rustle of bushes and the sound of heavy breathing. Oh no, it’s Michael, I thought.
    “MY DOG PEED IN THE HOUSE!” I yelled in that direction, terrified that Michael was about to walk out carrying a huge stack of pornography.
    “What are you talking—”
    Coach never got the chance to finish his sentence. In a flash, Michael burst through the bushes, running full speed ahead and clutching the porn to his chest like a woman holding her infant as she fled an explosion.
    “RUNNNNNNN!!!!” he screamed in terror.
    He ran right past me, and without giving it another thought I sprang into a full sprint, hot on his heels.
    “What in the heck is going on?!” Coach yelled as we rushed up the embankment toward him.
    I turned to look behind me.
    There, hightailing it out of the canyon, came two bearded homeless men, each of whom looked like Nick Nolte rendered in beef jerky. I had never seen homeless guys move so fast and with such a sense of purpose. The last thing I saw on Coach’s face as we blew past him was the look of a man who had no idea how the next fifteen seconds of his life were going to transpire.
    The other players on the field turned to watch, mouths agape, as Michael and I sprinted by them, followed by Coach and the two homeless guys. Michael slowed down just a touch so that I could catch up.
    “Take some!” he shouted, shoving a handful of pages at my chest. “Go right! I’ll go left. They can’t catch both of us,” he said between breaths, gearing back up to a full sprint.
    I could hear a chorus of shouts behind us. I’m guessing it was one of the homeless guys and not Coach who hollered “Gimmie back my titties!” but I was too scared to look back and confirm. When I reached third base, I took a hard right turn and ran off the field and across the street. I didn’t look back until one mile later, when I rounded the corner of my street and headed down the hill to my house. My legs were on fire and sweat poured down my face.
    There were no cars in the driveway, so I made my way to the side of the house, unlocked the gate to our backyard, entered, then slammed it behind me, and for the first time in about ten minutes I stopped moving. I took the stack of porn, some of it now stuck to my chest with sweat, and placed it on the ground. I leaned over, put my hands on my knees, and gasped for air. I looked down at the bounty that lay at my feet, but my joy was soon displaced by fear. What the heck am I going to do with all this? I thought.
    Then it hit me: like thousands of thieves before me, I would bury my loot. I ducked into my house, grabbed some newspaper, grabbed a shovel from our shed, and started digging in the corner of our backyard. After I’d dug a hole about a foot deep, I gathered every scrap of porn and placed the pile gently in the ground, as if I were planting a seed whose fruits I needed to feed my family. I placed newspaper over the pages and then filled in the