I joined the lacrosse team cause deep down I'd always admired the Indian. Not the pacifist, bean-eating, cow worshiper, but the feather-wearing, face painted, tomahawk throwing, killer Indian. Who hasn't dreamed of taking a tomahawk to their enemy's head? Hurling it and watching it whistle through the forest til it strikes the exposed back of the trapper who dares to tread in your wood. Your squaw raping days are over white man!
During games reveries such as these made me somewhat of an ineffectual player, but I cared not. I would sometimes flip up my helmet mid game in order to expose my war painted face, daring an opponent to challenge me, so that I could destroy him.
I was relegated to the bench for much of the season, but a rash of injuries in the final game led to my insertion. The clouds were black and a downpour rendered the field sodden, but still we played. It was a big moment, but how was I to concentrate when the cheerleaders too were sodden, and their jumpers were drenched, and they were so spry. So very spry and sopping wet. I got so hungry on the field sometimes.
It was the dark haired one who inspired me. Her legs were spattered with mud under her skirt, though raindrops ran down her thighs. I imagined she was a maiden who would await for me after battle in our tee pee, hoping I would bring her home a fresh white man's scalp to garnish her meal of roast fox. Could she cook a fox well I wondered?
Perhaps my visions helped me to ignore the weather and wet ground. While the other players were slipping and struggling to move about in the slop, I was impervious to it. It helped too perhaps that I chose to find a quiet corner of the field to wait and think. Standing still and looking at the cheerleaders. They got so wet out there! I wondered if they were very cold.
They made me want to win more than the other boys I think. I bet the other boys regarded the contest as simply a game, and not the death struggle with a continent at stake as I did. I convinced myself that were our side to lose we would all be slaughtered and our women raped. Such thoughts made me play harder than the other boys.
Did I want to be disemboweled on the field and left to rot, my bleached bones eventually being carved into lacrosse sticks by those crafty white men who had murdered me? Did I want our pom pom wielding cheering squaws raped?
With but seconds remaining and the scored tied I finally took action, leaving my quiet spot and, with the driving rain impairing the vision of the officials, I speared an opponent in his groin with my stick unseen. His cowardly collapse allowed me to break free and score the winning tally. Heroism always did come naturally to me.
Later, in the warm confines of the locker room, the editor of the school paper approached to congratulate me. I cut off her putrid praise.
"Don't talk, your thoughts aren't worth listening to. I want you to note in your little paper that Jesus had nothing to do with my victory. That fucker is the god of the white man who oppresses my people. This war does not end with this victory. Not until i jam my lacrosse stick up Jesus' dainty ass and scalp his hippie fucking head will I truly consider myself a champion!"
Before she could respond with what would have been an undoubtedly insipid follow up question I began a war whoop, "Death to the white man and his oppressive god!"
She looked at me, seemingly puzzled. "Aren't you white?"
I nodded, but then called her a racist.
She slapped me.
I held my cheek with one hand and handed her a note with the other. "Another thing. I've written a little sonnet, like Hiawatha's song, to that cheerleader...you know the one...dark haired and mud on her thighs...I want you to put it in your little paper. Front page maybe. So she'll know I like her."
She took the note, crumpled it, and threw it in my face.
"That's pretty rude." I said.
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