Once more, my day past English seemed to have flown by in a damp haze, leaving me to feel as though I’ve missed something terrible. I didn’t mind it much though, it also made each day go by at a slightly bearable speed.

Walking out the front doors of the high school, I felt a rush of anticipation fire through my system; I might have even been looking forward to the game. Only because Bob said “White-boy wasted”, and, truthfully, because I really just wanted an excuse to let the alcoholic inside of me out.
Unfortunately as I walked through the doors to my house my phone buzzed to the tune of a disappointing text message from my best friend:

no luck on th booze. mary jane good enuf?

If I was being honest, I would have declined – I didn’t care much for the green drug – but I couldn’t force myself to be honest with Bob in that instance; I felt as though I had already let him down enough this week. (Wow, had it only been a week since school had started up again?) I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that what he was offering me wasn’t going to satisfy me, he was doing what he could.

Sure thing, Bobert.

**

Go Buccaneers! Or fuck off, that works too. It wasn't the fact that I was "too punk rock", as Frank had put it, to enjoy a nice high school football game, it was just that I had better things to do with my time than sit outside in crowded bleachers with a bunch of drunk teenagers and pretend to give a shit about which team has the most points according to the red L.E.D lights that shone on the oversized black board. The only reason that Bob had a desire to torture himself was because Frank, his godforsaken cousin, was the first-string quarterback, and even though my friend would never openly admit it, I knew that he had a soft spot for Frank; the relatives had a secret closeness that they tried not to show in public for some unknown reason. It wasn't any of my business though, my business consisted of being a good friend and getting over myself long enough to accompany my best friend to a football game. Thank the dead Palestinian that Bob and I had a bowl before we entered the stadium.

"We should shit in the student sex- I mean section" Bob called out to me, despite my being less than two feet away from him. Man was he baked.

"Bob," I said letting myself giggle effeminately, "we can’t shit in the student section. They would fucking kill us!" My companion was roaring with laughter at his horrible speech impediment; Bob always mixed his words up when he was high.

"That, or all the students would think we were Punk Gods."

"They already think I'm a Punk God." I said, dramatically placing my hand over my heart.

"Well how do I get them to think that I'm a Punk God?" The sandy-haired boy said with a look on his face that reminded me of a child who was told she couldn't have a tootsie roll.

I replied immediately, "You go and shit in the student section."

"Motherfucker, I forgot!" He shouted and began laughing boisterously once more and I accompanied his deep laughter with another high-pitched giggle. We stumbled up the bleachers, all the way to the row where the nerds were huddled together trading something I assumed to be Yu-Gi-Oh cards, and we turned to face the field, still riddled with uncontrollable laughter.

After some time I looked to the scoreboard, vaguely interested in what it said. Somehow two and a half quarters had already gone by and the Buccaneers were winning, a fact which I did not find the least bit interesting. It was a wonder I cared enough to look up at the board in the first place. I turned to face Bob, only to see him undoing his belt buckle as he jumped down the bleachers, bench by bench. That dude was actually going to shit in the student section. I fell against the fence that served as a backboard to the top row of the stands, consumed my hysterical laughter. I watched him intently, or as intently as I could while stoned off of my ass, as the he, dressed in all black, began to shimmy his pants past his waist.

The scene froze as a sickening blow was delivered on the field and the occupants of both sets of bleachers collectively gasped or screamed. Bob threw his head back in laughter, thinking it was his upcoming stunt that was causing the commotion, but my squinted eyes focused on the field, in a desperate attempt to figure out what had happened and who had gotten hurt. Various pairs of eyes, too many for my foggy brain to count, settled on Bob, but not because his hands were beckoning his pants further south; they were looking at him because lying on the field, possibly broken and definitely unconscious, was his beloved cousin, Frank Iero.

The sight, as soon as it fully registered in my intoxicated mind, was more than enough to shock me into a sudden sobriety. As much as I hated Frank, I loved Bob, and Bob needed me to do something, whether he knew it or not.

"Bob!" I screamed desperately. He turned toward me still smiling; I couldn't believe that he was so high he didn't know what was going on yet. "Pull your pants up, you asshole! Frank is hurt!" The words spilled out of my mouth as I was in motion, heading toward the field, forcing my legs to go faster than I thought they could. The coach was yelling out for family to come to the field, and until Bob got himself together, Frank would have to settle for me.

I ran onto the plush green field that molded to my weight as soon as my gray chucks hit the soil, hoping that Bob was following closely. The eyes of the entire stadium looked at my figure sprinting out to the middle of the field where the antagonist of my life was lying helplessly. I was feeling self-conscious because I was on display, doing something so completely out of my character, but the dominant feeling that was burning through my body was fear, fear for Frank. With each frantic stride, I cared less about helping the quarterback for Bob's sake, and more about helping the small boy because I, too, had an extremely soft spot for him, or maybe it was just a guilty conscience chiding me for leaving him in the bathroom the other day.

I practically slid down next to his unconscious body, with tears brimming in my eyes. Promptly, I shoved the heels of my hand at my eyes to wipe the weakness away and I picked Frank's head up off of the soft earth.

"Sir, you need to back up," a paramedic said, but his voice was more like a faint, annoying buzz in the back of my head.

"Is an ambulance on its way?" I asked, looking up at a circle of older faces that had a sad look etched into their faces.

"No, but -" I didn't see the origin of the face, but I didn't need to. I knew Frank needed to go to the hospital; just by the looks of it, the poor kid was far too injured for any fucking paramedic to do him good. I scooped my friend's cousin up into my arms and began to stalk off of the field toward where my car was parked, ignoring the angry shouting that was directed at my actions. I was too punk rock to care.

"Gerard! Wait!" Bob's voice yelled just as I was nearing my car. I could hear his heavy breathing and the depressed scuffling of his shoes against the gravel surface of the parking lot. Funny how such an abstract sound can convey such a tangible emotion as depression. I continued to my car, not letting Bob catch up to me yet; it didn't matter if he met me here or at the silver Buick, it's not like I was planning on leaving without him.

"Help me get him in the back, Bryar." I commanding, my voice hard with contemplation - I was trying to think of the fastest way to get to the emergency room.

With Bob's shaky help, Frank was loaded into the back seat in a horizontal position with his head on his loving cousin's lap.

"Oh, God," Bob moaned. His voice was full of broken misery, a quality which I had never heard before, a quality that let me know he was extremely close to his athletic cousin.

"It's going to be fine, Bob," I tried to comfort my friend, but my voice sounded clenched and very vacant. Bob, probably didn't know, but I was holding back a heavy stream of tears as my tires squealed out of the full parking lot. I wanted to cry; I wanted to cry for Bob's pain, for Frank's life - further than just his injury - and for my confusion, but mostly I wanted to cry for the fact that after the paramedic calmed down and the second-string quarterback was briefed, the game would continue as though nothing had happened, as though Frank Iero wasn't direly injured.

Notes

Hey Guys! sorry it took so long for me to update this (I'm working on a new story plus I've been quite busy recently).

Anyway, Here is is, the inevitable chapter.

The chapter title is from the song Flowers and Football Tops by Glasvegas (AN AMAZING BAND). I suggest you listen to the song as you read the chapter.

much much love (too much to handle),

Bunny