Meat Grinder

By now the Meat Grinder has probably been banned, tossed on the dogpile of high school football history as a cruel and unproductive anachronism, a relic of the better-forgotten days when “walk it off” was a cautious, conservative concussion protocol.  But this was 1983.  Things weren’t as evolved.  

Rotolo expected the Meat Grinder at this practice, knowing they had played poorly on Friday, with Coach Norris especially piqued at their lack of aggression.  Rotolo didn’t really mind the Meat Grinder, not being halfway bad at the drill himself and as charmed as any other teenage boy at the prospect of mindless violence.  Ostensibly a drill to train linebackers in shedding would-be blockers, a lone man stood in a two-yard square, the rest of the team facing in a single-file queue.  At five yard increments, players rushed the solitary figure, taking their best shots until the guy was either knocked out of the square, or survived the entire team.  Puerile male pride motivated one to stand-in as long as possible, but according to Norris no one had ever bested the whole team.  It was similar to Kill the Guy, Sharks and Minnows, or Maul Ball: there were rules, but the real raison d'être was carefree, brotherly mayhem.

“Since you ladies refused to hit in the game,” Coach Norris growled.  “You’ll hit in practice.  Start the Meat Grinder!”

Frankie Otterbein was first in the box.  Frankie was a good-natured, 120 pound scrub wearing black-framed glasses that looked like Chemistry Lab goggles.  His main talent was cracking jokes, but he was also good at appearing busy and intense in the defensive backfield, pointing with alacrity at opposing team’s formations and scurrying around frenetically conveying meaningless, but heroic-sounding warnings like “be ready!”  Frankie’s other talent was getting his ass kicked, which he did with aplomb.  The team’s fullback, built like a wedge with squatty, tree-trunk thighs, dispatched him explosively from the box to a chorus of laughs.  Frankie joined the grind line ignominiously.

The next in line, Rotolo, took his stance in the box.  He felt light, tough, as he took on the first few, meeting the fury of their shoulders and forearms with grim resolve.  His confidence grew with each clash, and as they charged at him, he started to feel a curious impatience, a primal desire for them to come at him faster.  Churning through the line, colliding, conquering, time compressed and Rotolo’s movements came easier, the task becoming almost laughable.  Soon, the grind line was nearly emptied; the remaining few rushed in ferocious desperation, smashing into Rotolo with redoubled cruelty, no one wanting to see a record set.

Ignoring the required five-yard gap, Darrell Conley, their quarterback, took flight sooner than allowed, hitting Rotolo hard before he could re-set, sending him stumbling out of the box.  Coach Norris grinned at Conley, then helped Rotolo up, nodding with satisfaction.  “You beat thirty-six guys, Rotolo.  Next time try harder!” he chuckled, tweeting his whistle to re-start the Meat Grinder.

Rotolo retreated to the end of the line.  “G’job,” Frankie Otterbein shouted.

Seething at another injustice at the hands of Darrell Conley, Rotolo bit down hard on his mouthpiece.  Since kindergarten, he had known Conley as a guy who always enjoyed great success, but never seemed to work for it.  Conley was a star where Rotolo was a foot soldier, a plodder, third Wise Man in the Nativity play.  Rotolo worked hard, but seemed only to get tepid plaudits of “good effort!” while Darrell Conley just showed up, did a few lazy lat-twists, and made everything look easy.  As a pitcher, Conley had toyed with middling hitters like Rotolo since Little League, suckering him into awkward flails at junk down in the dirt, always with the smug little smile that said he knew it could be no other way.  It wasn’t hate he had for Conley, or even jealousy, just low-simmering resentment.  Rotolo had begun to wonder if simply filling out the ranks, shouldering inequity, and tasting only scraps would always be his destiny. 

Too slow to sprint, and without stamina for distances, Rotolo thought he had found his Track niche in the javelin.  If only briefly, Rotolo figured, attention had to turn to the infield, and with few competitors in the arcane discipline, he would shine at something.  But Darrell Conley saw the long spear one day, and became intrigued.  With no warmup, and without knowing proper technique, he hurled it five feet farther than Rotolo’s best.  One might have assumed they would become close, Conley making First Team All-League in the event, Rotolo Third Team, but they didn’t.

Rotolo took his anger out on a few hapless teammates in the box, rotating through the grind line several times.  He was expecting Norris’s whistle to end the drill when a strident buzz went through the queue.  Darrell Conley was in the box, and had survived almost the entire team.  Some began to cheer him on.  Rotolo counted ahead, realizing he would be the last one to face him.  The two players ahead of him both went soft, neither delivering a full shot, sacrificing themselves slavishly so that the quarterback could win again.

It was the smug little smile Rotolo saw behind Conley’s facemask upon recognizing him as his last opponent that changed things.  Rotolo’s legs were light as he dug cleats into the grass, his mind clear as he launched himself.

He heard the slap and ricochet of plastic pads crunching, then the communal gasp of his teammates, like they had just seen a train wreck.  And then, nothing.

“Looks like a broken bone,” Coach Norris grumbled, kneeling beside his squirming star quarterback.

The team kicked at the dirt, moving away from Rotolo, leaving him standing alone.

“This could cost us our season,” Frankie Otterbein moaned in bewilderment.

 “All I wanted,” Rotolo mumbled to himself, “was the javelin.”  

He remembered that he had beaten thirty-six in the Meat Grinder, and smiled.  

But then, Conley had gotten thirty-seven.  

Tim Jones is a fiction writer living in Northern California. His work has previously appeared in The First Line, Underwood, Into the Void (coming Oct. 2020), and has been featured on the Pendust Radio Literary Podcast. Originally from the Detroit area, he is a big fan of the Lions, Tigers, Pistons, and Wings, which means he knows a lot about faith, perseverance, and disappointment.