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I woke up to the sound of my screen opening in my room and knew it was Geneva.
“Wake your ass up Ramesses,” she said quietly, as she smacked my literal ass.
She was a morning person. I was not. I checked my phone to see the time. 4:46 AM.
“Ramesses, let’s gooo,” Geneva said urgently, shaking me.
I rolled out of bed, threw some shorts on, grabbed my football and followed Geneva back out of my window, down the fire escape, and through the streets of Harlem to her dad’s garage about a half-mile away. We arrived at 4:52, which was “on time” since it was at least 5 minutes before 5 AM.
Geneva’s dad was a tall, brolic, bald-headed light-skinned dude. He used to box pro, and had Geneva following in his footsteps. Even though I was a football guy, the strengthening, conditioning, and discipline of boxing translated well to the football field.
For as long as I can remember, every morning started off like that. Geneva would climb through my window, we’d run over to her garage, Gerald, her dad, would work us out for about an hour, I’d run home, shower, then head to school.
Me and Geneva had been friends since a young age. Like true ghetto s with nothing better to do, a bunch of friends and I were playing a game called the Carrier on the concrete with no regard for our safety. The way the game works is like a combination of tag and football; one person gets the ball and has to run around for as long as possible while everybody else tries to tackle them. Once you are tackled, you toss the ball up for the next person to grab and run around with. No pads, no grass, no crying. If you couldn’t handle it, the basketball court was on the other side of the fence.
While we were playing, a skinny light-skinned girl with curly brown hair came up to us.
“Can I play?” she asked.
We all kinda looked around at each other, wondering who was gonna break it to her that football wasn’t for girls. But my friend Eric wasn’t phased by it.
“Yeah, you can play,” he said. ”But don’t start cryin’ when you get hit.”
And with that, she played. She didn’t cry; in fact, she actually did well. She made hits like the rest of us, evaded defenders, and even took hits and got up like it was nothing. I admired the grit in her even back then, and we’d become best friends since her time playing with us. Evidently, as we got older, she couldn’t play organized football with us, but she did take up boxing with her dad.
In Little League football, I always played quarterback, just like my older brother, Hermes. Growing up, we’d take turns in the street launching the ball to each other, seeing who could throw it the furthest. Obviously, Hermes, who was two years older, would always win. But that gave us uncanny arm strength that allowed us to throw the ball further and harder than anybody else on our teams, and land us the quarterback spot every year.
As a result of her boxing, Geneva developed beautifully toned and thick thighs, a flat stomach, and a firm butt behind her by the time we entered high school. Her astonishing figure matched with her skin the color of cocoa butter, curly brown hair, and light brown eyes made her drop-dead gorgeous.
Geneva was my first kiss when we were younger, but growing up we never officially dated each other or got involved romantically at all. She was just my friend, and she would date other guys just like I would date other girls. But like I mentioned before, the attraction was definitely there, at least for me.
So it was nothing new for me on a summer morning going into my freshman year of high school to wake up before she got there, pull my raging morning wood out of my underwear, and start visualizing myself pushing apart her sexy thick thighs as I stroked my dick. I Envisioned what her pussy looked like. Did she shave? Were her lips thick? I tried to imagine what she smelled like. I imagined what she tasted like. I wanted to hear her moan for the first time while I teased her clit with my tongue.
What was new was hearing the screen for a split second, then a foreign gasp, snapping me out of my fantasy. By the time I opened my eyes and looked, her head whirled around and she was facing away.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It--it’s time to go.”
A feeling of dread and embarrassment engulfed me.
She really just caught me beating my dick. She is never gonna be able to look at me again, I thought to myself.
Not a word was spoken to each other on the run to her garage, during, or after the workout as expected. However, she did text me that night.
“Hey Ramesses, I’m sorry about what happened this morning” she sent.
“It’s all good. I shouldntve been doing that anyway -_-”
“Loll. tbh, i usually masturbate in the morning before i come there. So i get it”
Just reading that text started to get me horny. I desperately wanted to see what she looked like fingering her pussy in the morning.
“I don’t believe you”, I texted back. “I think I’m gonna need video proof XD”. If she didn’t react well, I fully planned on insisting that it was a joke.
“Nice try ;)”, was her response.
And after that, things didn’t change much between her and me. We still got up in the morning-- although now she would just call me when she got there--we would still run together, work out together, hang out together. And it wasn’t awkward honestly. Everything was normal.
Growing up and playing Little League football, Hermes and I were never in the same age bracket as each other, so I never had to worry about competing with him for a starting spot. But when it came to high school, I was stuck as his understudy. He had started at quarterback since his freshman year, something my high school hadn’t seen in 20 years. And he deserved it, too. I was at a few games where he single-handedly took games over and willed the team to a win. That being said, the team was just too young and inexperienced to post a winning record and make it to the playoffs. The year going into my freshman year, though, was the year we were supposed to have it all together.
When we started camp in the summer, there was no question that I was an incredible athlete, just like my brother. I stood at about 5’10 and weighed 150 pounds, but I had run a 4.6 second 40-yard dash, which was blazing for a freshman with no high school experience whatsoever. Every drill they put us through, I weaved through with ease and poise. And I was naturally a very good learner, so it didn’t take a very long time for me to get familiar with the playbook. All of this took me from the freshman team all the way to a backup spot on varsity.
“Man, you’re bigger, faster, and your footwork is even better than his was,” my coach said to me in reference to Hermes. “If he gets hurt, they should be even more scared.” That was high praise, but I think he was just trying to make me feel better about being a backup.
Usually, 2nd-stringers don’t have to play JV, but Coach just wanted me to get some in-game experience against people older than me. In three games, I scored 10 touchdowns. And only got tackled 4 times. Needless to say, from there on out I didn’t have to play JV anymore, and got into Varsity games in garbage time.
Our team, led by Hermes, was a powerhouse that year. Hermes not only threw for a school record 2,300 yards, but rushed for an additional 1,000. We coasted into the playoffs undefeated, earned ourselves a first round bye, and were the favorites to win the State Championship. The first playoff game was against a team that barely made the playoffs, and managed to get an upset victory in the first round because their opponents’ star running back got suspended. This was our school’s first playoff game in 7 years. Everybody from school and from around the city came out to see.
In the locker room, you could feel the nervous energy in the air. Usually, you see guys dancing to the pounding music, looking in the mirror about 50 times to see if their gear looks good, and laughing and joking, ready to put a beating on the other team. Tonight, all you saw were guys sitting on the benches with their heads down. Then there was Hermes. PopTarts in his right hand, cell phone in his left hand, laughing hysterically at whatever was on there periodically. We weren’t supposed to be on our phones before games, unless your name was Hermes King. Coach tried to give him shit about it before our first game, then he went out and accounted for four touchdowns in the first half. Since then, Hermes does whatever the hell he wants before games.
On the first play after the opening kickoff, the opposing defense knew that Hermes was getting the ball and that he was the one to stop. Hermes didn’t give a fuck. He took the snap, shot through a tiny hole, broke two tackles, then made everybody else look like they were in slow motion with the speed he ran to the endzone with. Our crowd went fucking bananas. People ran along the fence, each mother did their own improvised little touchdown dance, other fans just put their hands on top of their heads wondering how he’s this dominant. Three more rushing touchdowns and two passing touchdowns from Hermes later, and we were 49-0 victors at the end of the game.
“Ramesses King! Another flawless game of standing on the sidelines,” chuckled Geneva after the game in the parking lot. I replied by playfully mushing my palm into her face, causing her to giggle more.
It was then that I was swept up and dropped on my back, knowing it was Hermes before I even looked up.
“Why you letting this scrub bully you, G?” Hermes asked Geneva. He was the only person that got to call her that.
“The poor sat on the sidelines all night,” she answered. “I had to let him feel like he did something.”
“True that,” Hermes said as he lifted me back to my feet. “Let me stop messin with him though, homie gonna snap my ankle in my sleep so he can get a sniff of some playing time.”
Even I had to laugh at that one. The funniest part about that was: even if I did break his ankle in his sleep, he would probably still play. I remember one game when we were little, his ankle got rolled up in a tackle and you could hear the POP from the stands.
The coach tried to take him out, but Hermes’ response was “I got another one, don’t I? I’m gonna just play on that one.”
From then on he was just known as Juggernaut on the field, because that dude would take a beating, but he never once came out of or missed a game. If his heart was still beating, he would play.
This game was a tune-up game, but the semi-finals would be no such thing. The school from Brooklyn that we were going against had a very good defense. Their linebackers flew to the ball and punished with every hit, and they had a defensive tackle that committed to Syracuse that just couldn’t be blocked by anybody one-on-one. Hermes was going to be battle tested going against these guys.
On the Thursday night before the game, I woke up at 1 AM to Hermes opening my bedroom door. This wasn’t unusual.
“Ride with me to the store?” he asked.
Ever since he got his license and mom started letting him take the car, Hermes would get his pre-game jitters out by driving to the store, buying exactly 3 packs of PopTarts, eating one, giving one to me, then saving the last one for right before the game. I accompanied him every time.
“Man, when you get the starting spot,” he said to me on the ride to the store, “I hope you can handle this pressure better than me.”
“I mean, you seem to handle the pressure pretty well,” I answered.
“Man, you in a car with me at 1 AM because I can’t sleep. It’s not supposed to be like this. I shouldn’t lose sleep over this shit.”
It was so humorous to me that everybody would be shocked to see this side of him. Before and during games, he seems unfazed by everything. But behind closed doors, the dude’s a wreck.
“Be right back,” he said when we pulled up to the store and got out of the car.
I noticed the car across the street start up as soon as he started walking, but didn’t think anything of it. I looked away for a second before--
POP POP POP POP!
The car screeched away down the street before I even knew what was going on. I looked up to see my brother lying on the ground, unmoving. I hopped out of the car and sprinted over to him, seeing a pool of forming underneath him. It was dark, and I couldn’t see where he was shot, but he was not awake and he was losing fast. I hesitated to call 911, the police scared me more than anything. But in an instant of luck, somebody leaving the store had seen me panicking over Hermes’ body.
“We gotta get him in my car and to the hospital,” he said.
So we heaved him up and into the car together and sped our way over to the hospital where the doctors took him. It turned out that he had been shot four times, and he was in critical condition. My mother showed up a wreck shortly after, sobbing as if he were already dead. She had already lost enough in her life, including my father. My father ed himself when I was a baby as a result of the head trauma that he got from playing football over the years. The only reason my brother and I were allowed to even play football is because we played quarterback, and the position just isn’t as violent as the rest of them. Losing a son would leave me to believe that she would follow in his footsteps, as much as I hated to think about it.
But Hermes always got up, that’s just who he was. Whether he got injured in football, whether he was struggling to understand something in class, whether there was no food in the fridge or electricity in the house, he always met resistance with even more resistance of his own. These bullets might have been his biggest challenge yet, but he would fight them with everything he had.
I couldn’t have gotten more than an hour of sleep in the hospital that night, but sure enough, at 7 AM, I was on my way to school. Honestly, had there not been a game that day, I would have stayed in the hospital with my brother. But since you had to go to school to play in the game, I found myself walking the halls getting bombarded by people saying that they were sending prayers to my brother. I was nowhere to be found mentally, and couldn’t tell you any details of my day leading up to the game.
It hadn’t donned on me that I was going to be starting that night until pre-game warm-ups. To be completely honest with myself, I didn’t think I was ready at all. I was just being thrown into the wolves without an adequate amount of time to mentally prepare myself. The vibe of the locker room before we took the field didn’t help me earlier. Nobody talked. No music was playing. Nobody even seemed excited. An All-State quarterback was out of the game and being replaced by a 14-year-old . We were fucked.
We kicked the ball to start the game, I guess Coach wanted to give the defense a chance to kickstart some momentum for me to work with. But six plays, 72 yards, and 7 points from the opposing team later, I was set to take the field to a juiced up opposing defense.
After telling me the play, coach pulled me by my facemask. “Listen,” he started. “Your brother was the best freshman quarterback I had ever seen in my 15 years of coaching. And you’re better than he was, that’s why you’re out there now. Show them why they need to fear Ramesses King.”
Coach called back-to-back running plays that got shut down as soon as our running back looked up, and before I knew it, it was 3rd & 15. I guess Coach just wanted to get my feet wet, because he called a simple QB power. I took the snap and everything went into slow motion. The defense was all over the call, but before anybody could hit me, I noticed that the backside defenders had swarmed over to my side, and had lost contain. I planted my right foot and sprung back in the opposite direction, running with a vigor I never ran with before. My vision tunneled, and I could only see green ahead of me.
Touchdo-- was all I got a chance to think before-- THWACK! A linebacker sent me flying into the opposing bench. I popped right up ignoring the jeers of the sideline and the pain in my chest and ran over to my sideline.
Surprisingly, their offense was able to achieve much throughout the half. Unsurprisingly, neither could ours. Our defense was still stepping up despite our struggling offense, and their defense was feasting on the new freshman quarterback.
With 1:47 and running left in the first half on a 3rd & 5, coach made the perfect call. We feigned a screen to our flanker, and our inside receiver gunned up the field with nobody around him. My heart jumped as I flung the ball without a second thought to let the receiver just run under it. Then I saw which receiver I threw the ball to. The fucking tight end. The ball sailed miles over his head and the stadium gave a collective “awwwww” as the ball hit the ground. The punt team familiarly jogged onto the field as I jogged off with my head down.
“King!” I heard a girls’ voice from the sideline. I looked up.
“You can make that throw in your sleep,” said Geneva, leaning against the fence when I looked up. “You’ve been waiting for this. Don’t ruin it.” And she returned to the stands.
I didn’t know what to think during halftime. Geneva was right. Yes, the circumstances were by no means ideal, but I have been waiting for this. If not now, then when?
Coach started the second half giving me a chance to throw the ball, but again, my pass sailed over my receiver’s head. The second play was a running play that lost a yard. My season had one more play left. Coach called a pass designed to get us the first down. I dropped back and my primary read was covered. Their defensive end was screaming off the edge a split second away from driving me into the dirt, yet another punt. Then something happened. I got pissed off.
I squatted down when he threw himself toward me, sending him flying over top of me. I didn’t care who was open anymore. I wasn’t taking control. I ran with hate in my heart toward the first down marker. I saw a linebacker coming from his zone to stop me before I got their. I didn’t run away. I didn’t try to juke. I lowered my shoulder and rammed into him to see who wanted it more. Maybe he was surprised at my decision, but he didn’t give enough resistance to stop my progress. I dragged him past the line before finally going down. The crowd exploded, the loudest they’d been all night, upon my display of aggression, and it gave me everything I needed.
We sliced the defense down the field, and on a QB Power play, I dove over top of a pile of bodies to score my first varsity touchdown. I felt Godly after that series. Nobody was going to touch me for the rest of the game.
I ran for another touchdown and added one through the air. We took control of the game and went home victorious with a score of 27 - 14. If there was any doubt before the game, it was all but evaporated now. There was still hope at a championship, and there was a new aura of excitedness in the air.
I was ambushed by a hug through all the commotion on the field after the game.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” was all Geneva could manage to say as she squeezed me.
And because life is short, and I was learning that in the worst way possible, I faced Geneva, pulled her head toward mine, and gave her an assertive kiss on the lips. She did not resist at all, her perfect lips just kissed me back.
When we got into the locker room after the game, it took Coach a little bit longer than usual to come out and address us. When he finally came out of his office, he had taken his hat off and a somber expression on his face. My stomach clenched, knowing what was coming next.
“Fellas,” he addressed us, quieting everybody down. “I want nothing more than for you to enjoy this win like you all deserve to, but this is bigger than football. Our brother, Hermes,” his voice started to crack. “He didn’t make it.”
This website is for sale. If you're interested, contact us. Email ID: [email protected]. Starting price: $2,000