Bleeds Bombs a Drop Kick

(http://chestofbooks.com/sports/football/Player-Spectator/Drop-Kick.html)       "Karma, what're you doing down here," calls Blaine with hands on hips and head shaking from side to side as his petite hippy friend strides over to the sideline. "What happened out there?" she asks, pulling a pencil and pad from an oversized cloth purse with a peace sign sewn on. "Part of the game," he says while taking her arm and turning her away from the team. "Now get off the field before you get in trouble." "Blaine, I'm a reporter for the Searchlight," she explains, glancing at the ambulance pulling up to the huddle of coaches, parents, and rescue squad personnel gathered around a downed Harrison player. "This injury is a story." "It's a tough sport," he mumbles, turning away to join the defense on the bench, but not before catching the disappointment in her striking hazel eyes. "You want the story, go

(from https://manville.wordpress.com/)           "Hey Bleeds, that's the first smile I've seen on that ugly mug all year," starts in Fas on the short bus ride to Manville for an important Mountain Valley Conference game with another neighboring town. "Back with Mickie and I don't even have to kick the shit out of Charchie," Blaine concedes. "That's two for the price of one," continues the hirsute noseguard leaning back over the bench seat. "Send Little Charch my way, would ya?" "Call her Karma and she's not mine to give, so clamp it and get ready for this game, asshole!" __________            On the night after the unexpected win over high scoring and previously undefeated Middlesex, Blaine had walked the three blocks from the Reed house on Hanken Road to Codrington Park. Half the team was standing around under the lights on the basketball courts in their red wool double B jackets with cream col

     "Cut the shit, Bleeds," calls out Fas in the Bound Brook field house before the game with undefeated crosstown rival Middlesex. "We saw you all over Little Charchie at the Park on Saturday night." The coaches stay out of the fragrant back room where each varsity player is assigned one of the tall red lockers for stashing sweaty uniforms, pads, clothes, and cleats. "Just talking, fuckhead," growls Blaine. "Now get your head out of your ass and into how to stop that Bluejay veer." "Just saying - you'd better talk to Mickie or I'm gonna," continues Fas as Blaine grabs his red helmet from the top compartment and stomps into the main locker room for the pregame meeting.      After the comeback win at Kenilworth the previous week, Blaine had moped around the rec room of the Reed house still not wanting to run into Mickie Voorhees or Mark Czarcinski. A college game was on the black and white TV, and Wiley was playing wit

     “Come on Blaine, do it for me!” pleads the one BBHS cheerleader he did not want to hear anything from on the cinder track behind the home team bench. “Bleeds, how can you ignore that?” asks Fas, turning to gape at the pompom-laden sophomore bouncing with encouragement for her guy. “Time to turn this game around,” he growls, hands on hips while watching the kickoff to start the second half with his team way behind the Brearley Bears by a score of 21-0.      Blaine had spent the week after the Bernards loss, which is what he considered a tie, blaming himself and steadfastly avoiding Mickie. He'd skipped the Saturday night party at Zab’s, made sure he'd gotten to school right as classes started, stayed away from the hallway where her locker was, ducked out the side door to eat lunch alone in his father’s sky blue Chevrolet Impala, and skipped last period study hall to go to LaMonte Field for practice.   “Blaine, it’s some chick calling,” chided Beat who&#

        “Hey Bleeds, did you hear that somebody saw Mickie in Charchie’s car last night?” taunts Joe Fassanello leaning over the back of the green plastic seat.   “Fuck that, we’ve got our first game to play,” growls Blaine Reed, the linebacker, fullback, and reluctant team captain of the Bound Brook High School football team. “I’ve got to focus on beating Bernardsville and so should you, asshole. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”   “Yeah, yeah, Bernards schmernards, let’s have some fun for our senior year,” laughs the compact noseguard as he slides back down into the bench seat of the yellow Romano’s school bus heading up interstate 287 into the Watchung Mountains.          Try as he might to focus before the game, a familiar fury was growing inside Blaine, this time fueled by the suspicion that his girlfriend was cheating on him. Bleeds wasn't just a portmanteau nickname and it certainly wasn’t a nod to the Crusader team colors, red and white. It wasn’t even t