3WW for July 28

the word prompts are: abuse, cramp, hatred

It was Hell Week and the abuse was coming strong, heaped on by that bastard Coach Johnston in those oh-so-out-of-style gray nylon shorts, Pierson Pirates T-shirt and his goddamn whistle.

25 up-downs. 30 sit ups. 20 push ups.

"Not fast enough, ladies," the coach screamed. "On your faces, sweethearts. Let's do it again and get it right. We can do this all night.

"Jesus H. Christ, Franklin, that's pathetic," Coach Johnston screamed. "Your granddaddy's right over there. You want me to have him come over and show you how to do a proper up-down? Shit, he's 85 years old and I'll be he could give me a better set than you just did."

"No, coach," screamed Taylor Franklin, a 6-foot-7, 285 pound junior right tackle hoping to get the starting nod this season and looks from more schools than Iowa State.

"Steve, bring me some water," the coach called mockingly to his assistant, Steve Neylor. "My mouth's getting dry from blowing my whistle so much. This is wearing me out."

"Not good enough," Coach Johnston yelled. "Again."

A collective groan, soft enough to not be traceable to any one player, but loud enough to be audible, rose from the turf.

"Fuck this shit," Steve Crawford, last year's second-string tailback, muttered under his breath as the whistle blew, marking the start of the second set of push ups.

"This is child abuse," thought Johnny Stevenson, the stereotypical fat kid always languishing in the back row. A cramp, a side-stitch made him vomit next to the space he was doing up-downs. He'd hated the first three years of football and openly questioned why he was back for a fourth.

But he knew the answer. Hell Week was a rite of passing in Pierson, Iowa, a pissant community not unlike the many one-stoplight towns many dotting the fabric of rural America. Make it through Hell Week and you were golden. You were on the team, free to run the school, chase all the pussy you could and, of course, play some football.

It's what your brothers did, what your dad and granddad did and what you were expected to do.

Drop from the team during Hell Week and you may as well pull off your red and black jersey off, pop the shoulder pads over your head, drop your girdle and walk naked down Main Street to Maryanne's Fabric Shop -- to buy the material your mom would need to make your skirt. Drop from Hell Week and you were no longer John or Jim or Shane; you were "Little Bitch." Through the years, only a handful of kids became "Little Bitch." It was a Scarlet Letter and a name openly used, even among polite company.

A Little Bitch was ridiculed, tormented and punked. It was one of the deepest shames you could bring on your family, short of becoming one of "them-there emo-faggots."

No, you didn't dare drop during Hell Week. Football was, after all, the lifeblood of the community. It was the dawn of the year, as if everyone in town went into a deep sleep from December to July, awakening in the heat of the summer for Hell Week's two-a-days.

Generations lined the fences lining Reardon Field that first day of practice, a muggy afternoon with the hint of thunderstorms off to the east, to catch a glimpse of this year's town.
The town was so interested in the football team that you probably could rob the bank, grocery store, mini mart, the one of the outskirts of town, and get a two-hour head start on the sheriff if practice was in session. Hell, they probably wouldn't care either, as long as Tim Reynolds, the senior linebacker who flattened fools like a steamroller, had his on straight and had mended the fence with Wes Slight, the start running back a mere 988 yards from becoming the fourth back from Pierson in the past 35 years to break the state rushing mark.

Reynolds and Slight spent all spring and most of the summer fighting for the affection of Tiffani Prowl, a lithe junior blond dick tease who craved attention and got her jollies off playing both boys. She knew neither boy was getting a piece of ass, and until they figured that out, she was content to play both sides of the line of scrimmage.

Tiffany knew she was a tease, but didn't care. She knew many in town disapproved of her antics. Hell, even her brother, Spencer, the latest quarterback to lead Pierson to a state title four years ago, despised Tiffany and her bullshit. He knew Tim and Wes, and knew they were the ones who could help bring home another banner for Pierson. If his bitch of a sister didn't ruin things. Coach Johnston had confided in Spencer and his dad, Henry, that Tiffany would be the undoing of a team poised for state unless. The three had concocted a plan, but would wait until Hell Week was over to see if things corrected themselves naturally.

And as the sweat dripped off the nose of the players, lined neatly in those goddamn rows, so straight and perfect, Coach Johnston wondered what was greater, the hatred of him or the hatred of Hell Week itself.

Paul Johnston, Coach Johnston to his players, both past and present, knew he was a bastard. He knew that fatass in the back row probably wanted to walk up and kick him in the nuts -- that is if tubby could lift his foot that high, but he didn't care.

There was a method to the madness. When you win 10 small school state titles in 20 years, you can do what you want, be as big a dick as you care to.

"That's better," the coach said smugly. "And it only took us four tries. Shit, we might just make football players out of you yet."