Captive

By Brendan J. O'Brien

We held hands in the dark basement, neither of us moving a muscle except for the squeeze and release of eager, inexperienced fingers. We did this every day without any discussion. We did this until the basement lit up, and my dad thundered down the stairs with the urgency of an ambushed Serengeti. He would pull his spandex nut-huggers from the dryer, hang his silver whistle around his neck, and drive us to practice. Three horrible hours spent sweating and tackling, my father screaming, and his assistants, a ruthless group of Skoal-chewing slave drivers, making us men by any means necessary.