FICTION: DAYTONA TEDDY RIGGS BY DREW BUXTON

1.

The dopey offensive tackle is shaking and has the yips. He can get it any way he wants. I got so many tools in my bag—swim, spin, rip, anything. I get down in a three-point stance and smile at him, but he won’t look at me. The ball gets snapped, and I move my inside arm like I’m trying to hook him and get around the edge. His feet move sideways then I drive right into him—bullrush—and put him on his ass. I step over him, and I’m on the QB’s blindside. He sees me at the last second, but it’s too late, and I explode through him. The ball comes out. It’s worth the risk of a flag when you’re trying to knock the ball out and change the game. That’s what Coach Gregory always said. That’s what it means to be a playmaker.

I’m basically Charles Haley from the Cowboys. You can double-team him, throw three guys at him, but he’s still gonna find a way to be disruptive. The only difference is he’s playing on Sundays at Texas Stadium, and I’m down here in Corpus. Imagine the two of us together, one on each side.

The QB still hasn’t gotten up, and everyone is crowding around him. He’s athletic and has a good arm, but he’s soft. I tell him to get up. He’s in full pads, and I’ve just got on sweats and a t-shirt. Someone starts yelling Daytona from the other side of the field, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s Coach Juarez. I knew it wouldn’t be long. He’s had it out for me since seventh grade, since I first stepped onto this field. Then he tried sabotaging me with Coach Gregory at Tuloso. I know he told him I’m a bad kid.

Now Coach Juarez is saying he’s calling the police, that he’s not bluffing this time. He starts walking inside. He’s probably not gonna call anyone, but it’s not worth the risk. I tell him I’m leaving. I walk off the field and onto the sidewalk along the guardrail by the road that goes up to Granny’s neighborhood, Cactus Basin. If Juarez was a man he would’ve done something about it himself instead of calling the cops. He’s mad because he knows the kids really listen to me and respect me. They know he’s just some old burnout. The game has passed him by. I walk past where the trees start and get out of sight. I can see them, but they can’t see me. Juarez doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything.

I could play in the NFL if I wanted to, but it’s not my calling. The thing with football is you could be the best player God ever put on Earth, but if the man next to you doesn’t do his job, you could still lose. The running back could fumble. The receiver could drop the ball. I don’t wanna rely on anyone but myself.

He still hasn’t gotten up, and I can’t tell if he’s moving because there’s too many kids around him. Maybe it’s what he needed. We need tests in life. Pat Dupree says life is constantly testing our commitment to what we say we want. How bad does he want to be a great QB? This might show him that the game isn’t for him or it could light a fire under his ass to learn how to move up in the pocket, to grow eyes on the back of his head.

I can’t worry about this now. I gotta get home and check on Granny. She could be dead on the recliner, just slipped away. She could’ve fallen and broken her hip. Stop, I say in my head. Stop. Stop. It’s on me to stop the thoughts. Thoughts are real things, and they’re energy you’re putting into the universe. I counter them with thoughts of her smiling, moving around, being healthy. I start walking that way through the trees and start running when I get to the sidewalk. The gate ends where the trees start so anyone could get into the neighborhood if they really wanted. I gotta see her, and I keep these counter-thoughts running in my head. I gotta slow down for a second and walk. It’s true I’ve had to sacrifice some stamina with the added muscle mass. Anyone who’s serious about strongman has to. I walk as fast as I can. Only about three blocks.

There’s sirens—Corpus Christi PD, and I gotta laugh. I guess Coach Juarez really did call this time. They’re in the distance, but they sneak up on you quick. Everybody in the neighborhood has their backyard fenced in, but Marty, a few houses from us, never has a lock on his gate. I open the latch, go into his yard, and crouch in the corner behind this big cactus he has for some reason. He thinks it looks good. He’s a hick from Beaumont who struck gold with oil, but he’s still a hick. People don’t just change when they get money, like when Granny married Granddad. She’s still from Angleton.

The sirens get really loud, then stop. I hear their car doors open and close. They sent two cars at least. I listen for Granny to open the door, but then someone comes out on Marty’s back porch. Goddamnit. Someone’s home. I try to be totally still behind the cactus.

“You think I can’t see you behind that cactus, you big son of a bitch?” It’s Larry, Marty’s son. He’s fifteen or sixteen, and he’s a little punk. “Come out,” he says and pumps his shotgun. The kid is obsessed with guns, always going hunting and trying to shoot birds and squirrels in the neighborhood with his pellet gun.

I put my finger to my lips and point out front. “Cops,” I say as quiet as I can, and he looks at me confused and motions with the gun for me to leave. I step out from behind the cactus and keep my head crouched so they can’t see me poking out over the fences. It’s hard to hide when you’re 6’6”.

“Go on,” Larry says. I swear. If he didn’t have that gun and Marty wasn’t my buddy, I’d smack the hell out of him. He’s one of these people that prays for someone to break into their house one day so they have an excuse to shoot somebody. I walk through the gate and move into our next door neighbor’s side yard and creep along the house until I can just peek around the corner. A neighbor across the street comes out of her front door. Christ. I move back a little. People in Cactus Basin aren’t used to the cops coming around. I stay glued to the side of the house and don’t move an inch. She doesn’t see me, and she gets bored and goes back inside.

I look around the corner again, and there’s two cop cars. I move up a little further and see all the way around. I can’t see Granny, but I can see the officers talking to her through the door frame. She’s okay. There’s three cops. I recognize John Wells but not the other two. John knows Granny well, and he’s the one talking.

She lets them inside, and I gotta stay put. I hear them go out into our backyard, and Granny’s saying something about how I just miss playing football. John says, “Boy, could Daytona play.” He was a junior when I was a freshman, I think. He wasn’t much of a cornerback, but everybody loved him in the locker room.

They talk for a few more minutes about nothing then go back inside then back into the front yard. Granny says she’ll tell me to go straight to the station when I get home. The car doors open and close, and I hug the side of the neighbor’s house when they drive past. I wait a minute then go inside through the front door. Granny doesn’t look up from the stove. 

“I figured you were close by,” she says.

“What’d they want?”

“They said you hurt some boy at the middle school,” she says. “What the hell were you down there messing with them for?”

“I was just showing them some stuff,” I say. “Coach Juarez needs help.”

“I don’t think he wants your help.” She turns to me and pinches my arm. “You’re too big a boy to be playing with those kids.”

“I wouldn’t be doing them any favors taking it easy on them.”

“You don’t need to be messing with them,” she says again and looks me right in the eye.

“You need to worry about yourself. You got too much time on your hands when you should be busy working.”

They said the kid was hurt, and I start worrying it’s bad. Maybe he couldn’t move and they had to cart him off. He could be paralyzed or maybe his leg is broken. 

“Did they say how bad he was hurt?” 

She shakes her head. I could call the hospitals and check if he’s in there. He’s probably fine. Just got the wind knocked out of him.

Granny’s right. It’s not worth my time. Football isn’t my game anymore. Strongman is.

~

Drew Buxton is a writer from Texas. His short story collection So Much Heart won the Texas Institute of Letters’ 2024 Sergio Troncoso Award for Best First Book of Fiction. His work has been featured or is forthcoming in The Drift, SARKA, Joyland, Archway Editions Journal, Electric Literature, and Vice among other publications. Find him at drewbuxton.com. His debut novel Daytona Teddy Riggs will be coming out from Hub City Press in Fall 2026! Want to read more? A full excerpt of Daytona Teddy Riggs is published in EXCERPT Magazine - No 3