The Hard Count Read Online Free

that always takes the field, even though less than half of them will play—stands, each putting a hand on the back of everyone in front of them. Everyone does this except for my brother, because he’s in front.
    I sprint with my camera to the front, kneeling low and turning my focus onto my brother’s loud, clapping hands—the chalk dusting from them and the tape around his wrists tight against his skin, circulation choked just enough so pain is little and blood flow is maximized to his throwing arm. He’s chanting—“honor…win.”
    They all chant with him, and without a sign, they know when it’s time. The run through the tunnel is swift and loud, like inept thieves bursting through glass windows, and the thunderous sound of this year’s Tiger squad is undeniable. Heads turn at the edge of the bleachers, watching the line rush over the track and into the end zone, through satin banners held by beautiful girls who dream of one of these boys taking them away when our time here is all done.
    I set the camera on my tripod to capture the scene in focus, my father’s form passing through my frame as he jogs behind, along with his coaching staff. They all seem like heroes—bigger than life, and juiced with aggression and desire for victory. They’re made this way. My dad makes them this way.
    It’s beautiful.
    It’s also sad.
    My video runs for nineteen minutes, mostly capturing warm-ups and the kickoff before the sun finally sets and I shut my recording off. I wanted to capture the drama of the performance so I could fast-forward it in editing and layer it with music.
    I’m making a documentary on Cornwall. Mostly, it’s on my dad and brother. They only half know that part, but they both like the attention—Noah more than anyone. My film is about the legacy of this program, but also about the pressure it puts on people—on families.
    On my family.
    The storyline is epic, and the potential for a fairytale or tragic ending is equal. This documentary is also my ticket into the film school at Prestige, a private art institution in the Northeast. My family lives football. My mom is queen bee of the social circle that comes with being a major donor and booster; my father is the man four wins away from setting a state record for the most wins ever with a single program. My brother is being courted by The Big Ten, and he’s been interviewed by all of the big press that comes along with it.
    All of that is the fairytale side of the story.
    The dark side is the dysfunction we live with: my dad’s blind eye to the rules my brother breaks. He drove his car into the river last season with six of his teammates packed inside, along with empty bottles and cans that somehow disappeared before any authorities showed up. It’s also the pills my mom takes to keep the grin on her face, to stay in her marriage and not to sob herself to sleep when people write horrible things in chalk on our driveway about my dad losing his job.
    It’s the blood I know my father coughs up from ulcers.
    The price of winning is steep, and sometimes it doesn’t seem worth it. Yet, I adore my dad, and I root for my brother, and want to see my mom happy. I guess it’s like Nico said; people don’t make any decision unless they get some personal pleasure from the outcome. My family’s success gives me pleasure—even when it’s killing us.
    I pull my camera from the tripod and close the screen, my eyes watching the end zone where my brother has just leapt over the Mountain Crest High defensive line to score six. The band kicks in, the drums beating hard and fast, gaining speed with the chants the crowd yells every time we score. They count to six, and fireworks will soon mark the extra point. I smile, because this is the fairytale stuff.
    “Nice keeper,” I fumble the camera and nearly drop it with my startle, but a swift, warm hand covers mine and pushes everything back into a cradle against my chest. I recognize the voice, but the touch is