{"product_id":"dont-know-tough-isbn-9781641294560","title":"Don't Know Tough","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eWINNER OF THE EDGAR AWARD\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWINNER OF THE PETER LOVESEY FIRST CRIME NOVEL CONTEST\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eFriday Night Lights\u003c\/i\u003e gone dark with Southern Gothic; Eli Cranor delivers a powerful noir that will appeal to fans of Wiley Cash and Megan Abbott.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eIn Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of Edgar Award for Best First Novel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the Peter Lovesey First Crime Novel Contest\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eFinalist for the Anthony Award for Best First Novel \u003cbr\u003eFinalist for the 2022 Dashiell Hammett Award\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNominated for the Lefty Award for Best Debut Mystery Novel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNominated for the 2023 Strand Magazine Award for Best Debut\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNominated for the Barry Award for Best Debut Mystery or Crime Novel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Review Best Crime Novel of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of 2022\u003cbr\u003eA CrimeReads Best Crime Novel of 2022\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCrimeReads The Best Noir Fiction of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn Amazon Editors' Pick\u003cbr\u003eCrimeReads Most Anticipated Books of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e Top Reads for the Week\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCrimeReads Best New Crime Fiction of March\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e An Arkansas Center for the Book \"Arkansas Gems\" Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Eli Cranor’s top-shelf debut, \u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e, is Southern noir at its finest, a cauldron of terrible choices and even more terrible outcomes . . . There is a raw ferocity to Cranor’s prose, perfectly in keeping with the novel’s examination of curdling masculinity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sarah Weinman, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Readers may think they know what happened, but Cranor has some twists in store—in a plot that calls to mind Megan Abbott’s depictions of claustrophobic competitive cultures. A former quarterback who coached for five years at an Arkansas high school, Cranor brings an insider’s understanding of the game, the region and human nature.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Paula Woods, \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling . . . \u003ci\u003eDon't Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e leads to an astounding, perfectly noir finale as Cranor shows that sometimes good intentions are thwarted by reality. Cranor is an author to watch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Oline Cogdil, \u003ci\u003eThe South Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] brilliant debut . . . which is less\u003ci\u003e Friday Night Lights\u003c\/i\u003e and more a Daniel Woodrell Ozark gothic noir . . . \u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e takes the adage of 'Faith, Family, and Football' and reveals it to be a vicious canard, or at least a decent cover for the common failings of god and men, the violence on the field an acceptable proxy for the violence that exists behind closed doors. A major work from a bright, young talent.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e, **** out of **** stars\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“At once a crime novel packed with violence and desperation, a modern Southern Gothic tale drenched in darkness, and a touching, brutally honest take on football as religion.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Gabino Iglesias, \u003ci\u003eSouthwest Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vivid . . . [Cranor] draws the major characters with depth, and an empathetic but simultaneously clear eye. And his startlingly original prose often causes the reader to pause and revel at its wisdom.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Free Lance-Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e is love, ambition, survival, football—and much more.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jackson Clarion-Ledger\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Imagine a noir \u003ci\u003eFriday Night Lights\u003c\/i\u003e written by a cross between Megan Abbott and Harry Crews, and you'll get close to what Eli Cranor's pulled off in \u003ci\u003eDon't Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e. It's propulsive, twisty, and unputdownable. Cranor cracks open the complex world of high school football in small town Arkansas, giving us characters who are at once savage and tender and tragic, who are capable of acts of great bravery and betrayal. This is a book that shocks us into a new way of seeing. It's lean, muscled up, no-holds-barred noir. I feel lucky to have read it.\" \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—William Boyle, author of \u003ci\u003eGravesend\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Lonely Witness\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eA Friend Is a Gift You Give\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003eYourself\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eCity of Margins\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eDon't Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e really packs a punch. I enjoyed reading between the lines, dreading the trouble Billy was bringing on himself and his fragile life-chances. At the heart of the book is the pull of loyalties—the football team, the family and religion. The characters involved in all the stresses and strains are well drawn and convincing. It’s tough reading, but the humanity shines through.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Peter Lovesey, author of the Peter Diamond mysteries, in his adjudication of the Peter Lovesey First Crime Novel Contest\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\"Eli Cranor knows the underbelly of Friday night lights in this stunning  debut that bleeds authenticity and raw emotion. This young author is a  new voice of the South to watch.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Ace Atkins, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Fallen\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Sinners\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eDon't Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e is a searing and  stunningly poignant  study in what makes us and what breaks us and  ultimately what brings us  to a place of peace. Eli Cranor is that rare  writer who can make you  gasp, cry and cheer often in the same  paragraph.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—S.A. Cosby, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e best selling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eRazorblade Tears\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBlacktop Wasteland\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDon't Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e is a powerful and moving debut. Eli Cranor's writing is honest and unflinching. But what ultimately elevates this novel is its surprising tenderness. I read it in one sitting, and it'll stay with me.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—James Kestrel, author of \u003ci\u003eFive Decembers\u003c\/i\u003e, Edgar Award Finalist for Best Novel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e is a gripping novel about rage and trauma, redemption and damnation, football and family and brutality in close quarters. Cranor’s characters bristle with desperation and frustrated masculinity, a volatile cauldron of emotion that brings tension to every page.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Steph Cha, author of \u003ci\u003eYour House Will Pay\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I loved this book. Cranor blends noir and football masterfully, with the deft touch of Megan Abbott and the hardboiled punch of Ace Atkins. This is the sports crime novel I’ve been desperate to read, and I’m now unable to shake from my mind. Eli Cranor’s debut crackles with voice and power. Don’t miss this one.”  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Alex Segura, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eSecret Identity, Star Wars Poe Dameron: Free Fall\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eMiami Midnight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Eli Cranor rockets to the top of the writer-to-watch lists with this debut. Gritty, emotional writing and a deep knowledge of the pain and pride that play out beneath Friday night lights make \u003ci\u003eDon't Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e a gripping, memorable read. I can't wait to see what Cranor does next.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Michael Koryta, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eNever Far Away\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Debut novels as good as this are a rare and special thing. Eli Cranor’s electrifying prose has me wanting more, and more, and more.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Adam Christopher, author of Made to Kill\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Artistically ambitious . . . Cranor has a great ear and empathy enough to make us care about these characters, no matter how repellent, duplicitous or self-defeating their actions are. In that regard, he puts me in mind of Larry Brown, the great Mississippi writer who never condescended to the flawed and sometimes pathological characters he wrote about.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Arkansas Democrat-Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Complex and compelling . . . It's as though young Southern Noir kingpins Ace Atkins and S.A. Cosby decided they needed a third badass to complete a supergroup of Deep South crime fiction beyond measure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Day\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the tradition of the greatest 'sports' books of all time (think DeLillo’s \u003ci\u003eEnd Zone\u003c\/i\u003e, Lardner’s Y\u003ci\u003eou Know Me Al\u003c\/i\u003e, etc.), \u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e is hardly about football, really. It’s about family, expectations, love, growing up, abuse, addiction, and small-town American society; football is merely the means through which author Eli Cranor talks about these issues. That isn’t to say a true football fanatic wouldn’t get a kick out of this book; if you have any in your family, this is the perfect novel to get them over the hump until September.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Local Voice (Oxford, Mississippi)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A searing exploration of the toxic heart of Southern high school football culture, including the human price of winning at all costs; think Friday Night Lights with extra darkness. Readers of Daniel Woodrell and Allen Eskens will appreciate the visceral detail in this Ozarks noir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Searing Southern Gothic.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Neil Nyren, BookTrib\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDon’t Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e explores the nexus of class, race, language, and poverty in pushing ordinary teens to brutal acts, and ordinary coaches towards brutal commands. A star player is causing problems for his new coach, who’s got one last chance to make it back into his coaching star father-in-law’s good graces. The coach thinks he’s mentoring the kid. What he’s actually doing is far darker.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—CrimeReads\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The comparison to \u003ci\u003eFriday Night Lights\u003c\/i\u003e will jump out at readers of this hard-as-nails debut thriller, but, in fact, beyond the thematic link to high-school football, the two stories live in very different worlds. In the celebrated TV show, there is a sense of possibility; in Cranor's novel, as in the best genuine noirs, there is only inevitability.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A first novel bristling with dangerous energy . . . Friday Night Darks.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eEli  Cranor\u003c\/b\u003e played quarterback at every level: peewee to professional, and  then coached high school football for five years. These days, he’s  traded in the pigskin for a laptop, writing from Arkansas where he lives  with his wife and kids. His work has won \u003ci\u003eThe Greensboro Review\u003c\/i\u003e's Robert Watson Literary Prize and been featured in\u003ci\u003e Missouri Review\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eOxford American\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Ellery Queen\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Strand \u003c\/i\u003eand others. Eli also pens a weekly column, \"Where I'm Writing From\" for the \u003ci\u003eArkansas Democrat-Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e, and his craft column, \"Shop Talk,\" appears monthly at CrimeReads. He is the author of \u003ci\u003eDon't Know Tough\u003c\/i\u003e, which won the Peter Lovesey First Crime Novel Contest, and\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003eOzark Dogs\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003c\/i\u003eFor more information visit elicranor.com.\u003cb\u003e1.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still feel the burn on my neck. Told Coach it was a ringworm this morning when he pick me up, but it ain’t. It a cigarette, or at least what a lit cigarette do when it stuck in your neck. Just stared at Him when He did it. No way I’s gonna let Him see me hurt. No way. Bit a hole through the side of my cheek, swallowed blood, and just stared at Him. Tasted blood all day.\u003cbr\u003e      Tasted it while I sat in Ms. Miller’s class. Woke up in Algebra tasting it. Drank milk from a cardboard box at lunch and still, I tasted it. But now it eighth period football. Coach already got the boys lined up on either side of the fifty, a crease in between, a small space for running and tackling, for pain.\u003cbr\u003e      This my favorite drill.\u003cbr\u003e      I just been standing back here, watching the other boys go at it. The sound of pads popping like sheet metal flapping in a storm.\u003cbr\u003e       “Who want next?” holler Bull. Bull ain’t the head coach. Bull coach the defense. He as mean as they come.\u003cbr\u003e      I tongue the hole in my cheek, finger the cigarette burn on my neck, and step into the crease. Coach hand me the ball and smile. He know what kind a power I got. Senior year, too. They got that sophomore linebacker lined up across from me. The one with the rich daddy that always paying for everything.\u003cbr\u003e      Coach blow his whistle.\u003cbr\u003e      I can see Him smiling as He stuck the hot tip in my neck, smiling when He put Little Brother out in the pen. I grip the ball tight, duck my head, and run at sophomore linebacker, hoping to kill him.\u003cbr\u003e      When we hit, there real lightning, thunder explode across the field. The back of sophomore linebacker head the first thing to hit the ground, arms out like Jesus on the cross. I step on his neck and run past him.\u003cbr\u003e      The other boys cheer.\u003cbr\u003e      Coach blow his whistle and already the linebacker getting up like I ain’t nothing. He shaking his head, laughing, and standing again. Disrespecting me?\u003cbr\u003e      Disrespecting \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003cbr\u003e      This time I spear him with the top my helmet. Dive and go head to head. There’s a cracking sound—not thunder, not lightning, and damn sure not sheet metal—this the sound of my heart breaking, the sound of violence pouring out.\u003cbr\u003e      Coach blow his whistle like somebody drowning. Sophomore linebacker scream cause he don’t know what’s on him. This boy a poser. He don’t know tough. Don’t know nothing. Bet his momma woke him up this morning with some milk and cookies. I try to bite his cheek off, but the facemask, the mouthpiece. I see only red, then black—a cigarette, a dog pen.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Sitting outside Principal office after practice when Coach call me in. Principal a big man, soft in places used to be hard. He look like a football coach, got a black mustache and everything. Coach look like he from California cause he is, hair all slick and parted. And skinny. Too damn skinny.\u003cbr\u003e      “Bill,” say Coach. “What happened out there?”\u003cbr\u003e      Bill my daddy’s name. Nobody call me Bill except Coach and my brother Jesse.\u003cbr\u003e      “You realize the kind a shit you in?” Principal say, cussing for me, trying to make me feel at home. “That boy you stomped? His daddy liable to sue the whole damn school.”\u003cbr\u003e      Feel my jaw flexing, like if I could, I just grind my teeth down to the gums.\u003cbr\u003e      “You hear us talking, boy?” say Principal.\u003cbr\u003e      I raise one eyebrow, slow.\u003cbr\u003e      “Swear to God,” say Principal. “Tell you what I ought to do. What I ought to do is call Sheriff Timmons. How about that? Let him charge your little ass with battery.”\u003cbr\u003e      I nod. Know bullshit when I hear it. Then Coach say, “But he’s not going to do that.”\u003cbr\u003e      Principal grunt.\u003cbr\u003e      “Listen, Bill,” say Coach. “I’m going to sit you for the game tomorrow night. Principal Bradshaw thinks that’s best. Okay?”\u003cbr\u003e      I hear Coach but I don’t. My ears ringing. That burn on my neck turn to fire.\u003cbr\u003e      “Call the cops then.”\u003cbr\u003e      Principal laugh. Coach don’t.\u003cbr\u003e      “We’ve already qualified for the playoffs,” say Coach. “You’ll be back next week, and then we’ll be going for the real goal—the state championship.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Senior Night,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e      Coach breathe in deep through his nose. He ain’t got no idea what it mean to my momma to walk across that field on Senior Night. What it mean to me. Have them call out my name, my momma name, and everybody in Denton ring them cowbells, stand and cheer? Something like that outside Momma’s mind. And now they trying to take that from her, from me?\u003cbr\u003e      Coach look to Principal, but he already turned away, looking at something on his computer. “Bill,” say Coach, “I think this is fair. It’s as good as I can do.”\u003cbr\u003e      I nod, waiting for Principal to say something, at least look up from that computer and see what he just took from me, but he don’t. Whatever on that screen bigger than Billy Lowe. I’m out the door before he ever turn back, running with blood in my mouth.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Aw, \u003ci\u003ehell\u003c\/i\u003e nah,” say Momma.\u003cbr\u003e      Little Brother dangle from her arm like a monkey. Tiny fingers, white at the knuckles, holding on to her shirt like he know how it feel to be dropped. And Coach wonder why I ain’t never fumbled, not once.\u003cbr\u003e      “Senior Night? And Coach Powers sitting you? For what, Billy? What’d you do?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Nothing.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Don’t lie.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Just a drill, at practice. Hit a boy hard, real hard. Just kept hitting him.”\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eFootball\u003c\/i\u003e practice?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Yeah.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Nah, hell nah,” say Momma.\u003cbr\u003e      Momma already got the phone out, already dialing Coach when He walk in, smelling like beer-sweat and gouch.\u003cbr\u003e      “Who she calling?” He say to me.\u003cbr\u003e      I just stare at Him. Don’t say nothing.\u003cbr\u003e      “Boy.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Coach.”\u003cbr\u003e      He make a jab for the phone. Momma jerk away. Little Brother hold strong.\u003cbr\u003e      “Calling Coach,” say Momma. “Done kicked Billy off the team.”\u003cbr\u003e      “He ain’t kicked me off. Just—”\u003cbr\u003e      “\u003ci\u003eNaw\u003c\/i\u003e,” He say, grabbing Momma by the shirt now, pawing for the phone. “No fucking way—”\u003cbr\u003e      “Yes, hello? Coach Powers?” Momma say, but it ain’t her voice. It the voice she use when she talk to the water company, DHS, teachers, and Coach. She talking fancy and slow. Don’t sound nothing like her. “This is Billy’s momma.”\u003cbr\u003e      The man who live in our trailer but ain’t my daddy start pacing. He got a bottle of NyQuil in His hand. Drink NyQuil most the time, save His whiskey up. He pull from the bottle and wipe His mouth with the back a His sleeve.\u003cbr\u003e      “Billy say he ain’t gonna play? On Senior Night?” Momma stop rocking Little Brother. Look at me. “Austin Murphy got a concussion? Was out cold for five minutes?”\u003cbr\u003e      He start to laugh. “Shit yeah. That’s my boy.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Alright,” say Momma. “I understand, Coach.”\u003cbr\u003e      She still got the phone to her ear when He take it. “Billy the only fucking chance you got. You hear me? Either let him play or we take his ass down the road to Taggard. How about that?”\u003cbr\u003e      He chug the NyQuil some more. Don’t even know how stupid He is. Cain’t change schools this late in the season.\u003cbr\u003e      “Yeah. That right, \u003ci\u003eCoach\u003c\/i\u003e. See you at the game, and if Billy don’t play—Billy don’t \u003ci\u003eplay\u003c\/i\u003e.” He jab the phone screen three time with His thumb then throw it at Momma. She try to get out the way. Little Brother hold tight, but the phone corner hit him in the back, a sad, hollow sound. Little Brother look like he about to cry, but he don’t.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Kept my mouth shut when I left the trailer the next morning. Didn’t say nothing to Him on my way out. Didn’t have to. The NyQuil bottle empty. Everything empty when I left Shady Grove.\u003cbr\u003e      Now it game time, and Coach still letting me run through the tunnel and the paper the cheerleaders spent all day coloring. Even say he gonna let me walk out on the field at halftime for Senior Night. But I ain’t told Momma. He’d wanna walk too, and I’ll be damned if He get to walk out there like He my daddy. I stay in the back. The band blow they horns, but they ain’t blowing them for me. Used to blow them loud and sing the fight song when Billy Lowe run across the goal line.\u003cbr\u003e      Sophomore linebacker here. In a wheelchair, God, a fucking \u003ci\u003ewheelchair\u003c\/i\u003e. Ain’t nothing wrong with his legs. Wearing sunglasses too. I walk up behind that wheelchair, just stand there, while our team getting beat by Lutherville. Lutherville sorry as hell, but the Pirates ain’t got shit without Billy Lowe. Still standing there behind that wheelchair, smelling sophomore linebacker hair—smell like girl hair—when I hear Him start hollering from the stands.\u003cbr\u003e      “Ain’t got shit without Billy Lowe!”\u003cbr\u003e      I go to gnawing my cheek.\u003cbr\u003e      “Bes play ma Billy!”\u003cbr\u003e      Now Momma too, and I can tell by her slur, she gone. I look back quick to the bleachers, time enough to see Little Brother dangling from her arms with his Billy Lowe jersey on: number thirty-five.\u003cbr\u003e      “Fuck this shit.”\u003cbr\u003e      “Yeah. Fuuuuck this shit.”\u003cbr\u003e      Ain’t no telling them apart now.\u003cbr\u003e      Coach a true believer, though. He out near the twenty, fighting for a holding call. Don’t see Principal wading through the stands like a linebacker on a backside blitz.\u003cbr\u003e      “Nah, hell nah. Don’t touch me.”\u003cbr\u003e      That’s Momma. She see Principal coming for her.\u003cbr\u003e      “Swear to God,” He say, like He the kind a man do something about it. He ain’t. He all talk and shit and empty bottles. “Swear to God, you touch her and—”\u003cbr\u003e      “Boy, you listen,” yell Principal at Him. “You touch me and I’ll have the sheriff up here faster than greased lightning. You hear me?”\u003cbr\u003e      Sophomore linebacker stand and push them sunglasses up in his shampoo hair. Probably thinking they about to fight, but I know He won’t do shit. Principal ain’t a kid like Little Brother. And He know Principal would get the sheriff up there, and the sheriff got Tasers and clubs, and He don’t want no part of that.\u003cbr\u003e      “We going, alright?” He say. “We gone.”\u003cbr\u003e      Lutherville got to punt. Coach turn to the sideline to holler for the offense, and he finally see. I still got my back to them, but I know it ugly, embarrassing too. Feel them hot on my neck. I look to Coach to save me. Just put me in the game, send me to the locker room, take me by the facemask and beat the hell out me, anything, but don’t leave me standing here on this sideline.\u003cbr\u003e      “Come on, Billy!”\u003cbr\u003e      It Momma.\u003cbr\u003e      “Take my boy down the road!” she holler. “Take Billy Lowe to run the ball at Taggard!”\u003cbr\u003e      Roll my neck. The burn cracks. Hot blood on my back. My mouth a open wound. I think about spitting on sophomore linebacker, covering his face with my crazy. But I’m watching him watch my people in the stands. Watching Momma and Little Brother just holding on. I look one more time to Coach, but it third and six and he got to call a play. Sophomore linebacker still watching Momma holler for me. Watching Him too. Everybody know they drunk now, and it embarrassing, fucking embarrassing.\u003cbr\u003e      Then sophomore linebacker save me. He elbow another sophomore in the ribs, kinda point up in the stands, point right over me like I ain’t nothing. And now he laughing and pointing at my momma, at Little Brother.\u003cbr\u003e      “Come on, \u003ci\u003eson\u003c\/i\u003e, fuck this place,” He yell, but He ain’t my daddy, and that does it.\u003cbr\u003e      This time there more blood. My blood. His blood. Little Brother blood. The blood that connect us. I feel Bull tugging at my jersey. I seen a cop try and pull a pit bull off a Lab once. Had to pry the jaws loose with a billy club. I’m head-buttin the boy now. Got his arms nailed down, head-buttin him when Bull finally pull me loose.\u003cbr\u003e      As he dragging me away, I see Coach over there, kneeling beside sophomore linebacker. Look like he whispering something in his ear. Bet he saying, “Billy didn’t mean it. Billy a good kid, heck of a running back too. Billy just got it tough. And his momma crazy and won’t stop fucking. And the other day he got a cigarette stuck in his neck, and he took it like a man, and that was after his momma boyfriend put his little brother out in a dog pen, and he had to take that baby boy scraps for lunch and dinner, then breakfast the next day. Billy didn’t mean nothing by it. He was just embarrassed, stuck on that sideline, right there close to them, close enough to feel the heat. Can you imagine? You imagine that, sophomore linebacker?”\u003cbr\u003e      No. You cain’t.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300340682981,"sku":"NP9781641294560","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641294560.jpg?v=1767725523","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/dont-know-tough-isbn-9781641294560","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}