Forty-Two
MY WORKDAYS WITH Charlie Hall are about to get shorter now that all the crop has been planted, to the point where Charlie has started to joke that I better watch it, he might have to lay me off.
Lately we’ve mostly been working on weed control and herbicide application when it’s needed, inspecting the rows for signs of disease and nutrient deficiency. Fun stuff like that.
When I finish early today, Vince Tarplay drives over to work out with me, two ex–football players pushing themselves so hard it’s as if there’s still a season opener staring us in the face.
I allow Vince to pick the songs today, King Tuff’s “Hit and Run” blasting as we take turns spotting each other on what weights I have. We continue to yell over the music, almost like we’ve turned into each other’s strength and conditioning coaches.
When we take a quick water break, Vince says, “You looking to dial it down at some point this afternoon?”
EJ has already invited him to stay for dinner, before we’re scheduled to meet up with Abby Wells at Rowdy’s later.
“No shit, Silas, you’re hitting it today like you’re still playing,” Vince adds.
“In my mind, I still am,” I admit to him, grabbing another fresh towel to wipe more sweat off me. “Probably always will be.” I grin at him. “You know, when I have dreams about football, I can still wing it as well as I ever did.”
Vince is still fighting for breath now that we’ve finished our last set of the day.
“You sure that’s all this is?” he asks.
“Not sure what you mean,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I do.
The next song is “Fistful of Steel” from Rage Against the Machine. It starts to play now, as loud as the rest we’ve been listening to.
Steppin’ into the jam and I’m slammin’ like Shaquille…
“What I mean,” Vince says, raising his voice back up, “is that you look like you’re in training for something.”
I toss him a towel to let him know we really are done for today after this one last song. Time to shower and change and sit down to a feast of EJ’s beef stew, followed by the chocolate cream pie she’s promised.
“Maybe just in training for the Crocketts,” I say.
Then I’m singing along with Rage Against the Machine, like this has turned into karaoke night.
“‘Yeah,’” I sing at the top of my lungs, pumping my right hand at Vince Tarplay. “‘With a fistful of steel.’”