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now.
    â€œStarting tomorrow, I want everybody in the weight room an hour before school four days a week,” Stahl says. “I’ll post a schedule with stations and reps. We’ll see who’s serious. It’s simple. If you don’t lift, you won’t play.”
    I know I should lift more, but weight lifting doesn’t determine how hard you hit or how smart you play. It doesn’t matter what I think, though. There’s one way now: Stahl’s way.
    Later, when we break into first defense, Coach Stahl comes down to talk to us. “Men, there are two types of football players,” he says. “Thinking players and reacting players.”
    Stahl points to his head. “Thinking players observe, analyze, and make correct decisions. These are the players best suited for offense.”
    What’s his point?
    â€œReacting players don’t think; they react. A play happens. Boom. They’re on it. These are the players best suited for defense.”
    Thinking and reacting aren’t separate. You need to do both in football.
    â€œNow, men, as defensive players, you react. When you see movement, you pursue. You’re lions ready to kill. Don’t think. React.”
    This is stupid. Dad always says good players are smart players.
    â€œThe coaches will prepare the defense. React properly, and you will be champions. React poorly, you’ll be first losers.” He looks at me. “Is that clear?”
    Of course not. How do you not think? But nobody, including me, has the guts to say it.
    I go to the library because the book I requested is in. The Middle Passage: White Ships, Black Cargo has a picture on the cover of black men with ropes around their necks being guarded by a white soldier. In the distance, a ship waits to take them across the ocean.
    I sit down in a chair by the window and open the book. After the introductions, it’s all black-and-white illustrations, one horrible picture after another. The ghostly image of a sailor rips a mother away from her child. Rats gnaw on the bodies of slaves in chains. A diagram of a tightly packed slave ship is imposed on a black man’s body.
    But the most disturbing picture is one of people jumping overboard to kill themselves. Sharks swirl around the bodies, and at the bottom of the ocean is a trail of skeletons. I can’t get this image out of my mind, and rather than take notes, I stare out the window and imagine the horror.

chapter sixteen
    â€œPain is weakness leaving the body.” Stahl’s pacing around the weight room. He’s wearing shorts and a blue muscle shirt with B T T R in huge letters.
    I’m finishing ten reps of 110 pounds on the bench. Lifting first thing in the morning isn’t my idea of fun.
    â€œPush it, Manning. Push it.” I strain on the last lift. “You’ve got to do better than that,” Stahl says. “We need strong corners.”
    On the next bench, Zach whips off twelve reps of 150. Do the steroids make it that easy? Would I be lifting like that if I were taking them? “That’s the way, Zach.” Stahl claps. “Lookin’ good.”
    When we finish, Stahl hands out muscle shirts. “B T T R, men, stands for ‘better than the rest.’ You’ve made a commitment to football, a commitment to weight lifting, a commitment to excellence. You are superior to other students. You bleed and sweat for the glory of the school. You are better than the rest.”
    I can’t believe he’s saying this.
    â€œWear these shirts with pride. You know what B T T R means, but don’t tell other kids. They wouldn’tunderstand.” Stahl chomps his gum. “Men, you are members of an elite fraternity. Head off to first period.”
    Last year, I remember how proud I felt when I wore my varsity jersey. Everybody in school could see that I was on the team. Now, after chanting yesterday and B T T R today, I feel like I’m in some