The Long Way Around (Touchdown Edition)

Chapter 1: Locked Up

"Step inside." An enormous prison guard grabbed me by the arm and pushed me through the heavy doors.

This can't be real, I thought. This can't actually be happening to me. I stared straight ahead, dressed in an orange jumpsuit with my hands locked in a pair of heavy metal cuffs.

"Put your hands out!" the guard bellowed.

I held my hands in front of me and he unlocked the cuffs. My right wrist was bright red and swollen. It hadn't hurt this badly since I sprained it during my junior year in the state championship game. I tried to shake off the pain and take in my surroundings, but it all seemed completely surreal.

I was a good kid, how in the heck did this happen to me? I mean, between competing in sports, my part-time job at the hardware store, schoolwork, and dating Amy, I was too busy to get into any trouble. I had a good life and a promising future. Some people even said that I was the best high school quarterback they'd ever seen. I'd gotten scholarship offers from every major college football program in the country. And now I was stuck in prison. All it took was one mistake to land me here, one lapse of judgement, one bad decision.

I marched down the center aisle of the prison while men of all sizes, shapes, and ages barked and screamed at me from behind the bars of their eight-by-ten-foot cells. Their angry voices bounced off the concrete walls and shot into my ears as if they were only inches away. They looked and sounded as hard as nails. I breathed in deeply, sucking back a few tears just before they fell down my cheeks. The last thing I wanted to do was let these convicts see me cry. I couldn't help wondering if I was going to make it out in one piece.

I did as I was told, following the guard up a staircase toward my cell. I was always a good listener. Every teacher and coach I'd ever had could attest to that. I learned how to listen early on from my strict, disciplinarian father. I don't remember much about him except that he liked to drink a lot and was never real nice to Mom or me. Dad left us when I was about six. I never saw or heard from him again.

I stepped into the tiny cell. The door slammed shut behind me and the automatic lock took hold with a deafening sound. That moment, reality shook me like an earthquake. I turned toward the back wall and stared at the tiny cracks leading up to a leaking ceiling. A constant drip formed a puddle in the corner of my room. Things quieted for a moment and I could barely hear the echoed voices shouting at me. In an instant, all of the fear that consumed me as I marched through the center of the jail disappeared and was replaced by a new emotion: sadness. This cell was my living room. This new life was the price I would pay for breaking the law.

I started to feel dizzy and unsnapped the top two buttons of my shirt. I wanted to be in my clothes, I didn't want to wear this uniform. I didn't want this to be real. I choked back the tears again, not allowing myself to panic or show any emotion. There would be plenty of time for that later, when the lights were out and I was under the safety of the standard issued gray prison blanket that I held neatly folded under my arms.

The depressingly stark and dimly lit cell was furnished with two beds, each pushed against opposite walls. Someone was rolled up in a blanket, sound asleep on one of them. There was only a toilet and a washbasin toward the back and a light with a metal screen overhead. I stood there holding my life's possessions: one gray woolen blanket, one light gray sheet, one pillow, a pillowcase, and a rusted tin cup that smelled like mildew.

I knew that this was going to be the greatest test of my life. Slowly and quietly I made my way over to my bed, and sat down with a loud creak. I ran my fingers through my hair with an unnatural force. I was facing the next seven years inside this tiny barren room--four years if I was lucky enough to get parole. How was I ever going to do this time? I had to lean back.

I closed my eyes and I was back on the football field, the place where everything was always perfect for me. I was throwing a deep corner out toward the sideline to my best friend, Billy. He was wide open. The sun was shining warmly on my face and the defense seemed to be moving in slow motion. I took a five-step drop, checked the safeties out and heaved a pass that I hoped would hit Billy in stride. Just as I released the ball I was startled by my cellmate's loud snore.

I snapped out of my trance and peeked over at him. The sunshine disappeared and the smell of the freshly cut green grass was replaced by prison's mutated locker-room stench, an unpleasant mixture of body odor and bad breath. My cellmate had salt and pepper colored gray hair, a thick moustache, and a scraggly beard. His complexion matched the charcoal gray blanket that I held in my lap.

When he rolled over on his bunk I saw that his eyes were open. My heart raced in my chest. The man didn't look up or even acknowledge that I was in the room. Instead, he snorted a few times and sighed deeply. Then he was back to sleep as if I wasn't there.

I sat down on the steel bed opposite him, leaning back on the thin cotton mattress. The metal wire beneath me cut into my hip. I tried to remember back to this morning. I couldn't bring myself to think any further back than that. I'd been transferred from the county jail, in Hobbs, to the New Mexico State Prison in Santa Fe. It was a long, horrible bus ride, all chained up. And I'll admit it, I was scared--as scared as I ever remember being. The county jail was bad enough, but now I was caged with the hardened criminals. The horrors of every prison movie I'd ever seen came to my mind. Some of the scenes were pretty gruesome. How did an eighteen-year-old kid like me end up in this place?

The ultimate humiliation for me was the number printed across my bright orange shirt. I was no longer Matt Devon, the senior in high school, the kid who loved football, his mother, rap music, and Corvettes. I was K763921. I was a number. I was used to wearing a number on the football field, number fifteen. But this was very different. I laid there on the bunk trying to get my mind off of my surroundings. I knew that I'd have plenty of time to think things over, so I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. I tried to focus my thoughts on my life before jail. Right away I thought of Amy.

Amy Rogers was my girlfriend since I could remember. She had been my soul mate since we were eight years old. Amy and I grew up together. We did everything together. As I got more involved in football, she was my receiver in the backyard when I needed someone to throw to for practice. She wasn't a tomboy, but she wasn't like some of the girls who couldn't catch. (She was no Hall of Fame receiver either, but she got the job done.) The two of us had big plans. She was going to be the best defense lawyer in the country and I was going to be a superstar in the National Football League. We'd get married and have a couple of kids, maybe live in a big house in California or something. I punched down on my new mattress in frustration when I realized that all our plans were now over.

I couldn't ask her to wait for seven years, even if she wanted to. What could I offer her? I was a felon now. I knew it would be better for her if we broke it off. After all, I wanted to do what was best for Amy. I'd already caused her enough pain for a lifetime. She'd sat by my side through this entire ordeal. During the three weeks that I was in a coma in the hospital when no one knew if I would ever wake up, Amy was there whispering words of encouragement into my ears. Then at my trial, she was right by my side trying to figure out a way to make the judge sympathize with the special circumstances of my case. Even when the bailiff took me away in handcuffs, Amy was right there telling me that everything was going to be okay.

Yesterday, when the time came for me to move to the state prison, I looked her straight in the eyes and told her not to come see me anymore, not to write me any letters, not to think about me, or even remember that I exist. I asked her to get on with her life and forget me. The look on her face after I kissed her on the cheek and walked away will haunt me for the rest of my life. It was like she'd been betrayed. That was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

I was born and raised in Hobbs, New Mexico, which is located in the southeast corner of the state, right near the Texas border. We lived on the outskirts of town, sort of in the country, but not on a farm or anything. I lived with my mother, Mary Jane, and my seven-year-old nephew, Kenny. My older sister Katy had run away from home when she was seventeen and we only heard from her once, a year later, when she dropped by one night to leave a baby boy to live with us. Kenny was just two months old then. I was ten at the time, so Kenny always seemed more like a little brother than a nephew. I really tried to be there for him as much as I could. I had just turned eighteen when Mom died a year ago. Kenny and I were all that was left of our little family. That was when everything began to fall apart.

It seemed like I had been in my cell for hours but in fact it had only been about thirty minutes. I wanted to escape back to wonderful thoughts of Amy, Kenny, Mom, and football. Football had always been important to me. All I ever thought about from the time that I was five years old was playing football. The first time I put on those pads and helmet in our youth league, I just knew I didn't want anything else. Baseball and basketball were okay, but only to keep me busy until it was time to play football. I was born to throw the pigskin.

Most of the other youth football teams developed their game plans around the run, but with Billy Bryant as a receiver and me throwing the ball, we were all about the passing game. Billy was my other close friend in school, and we were always working on our game together. I remember a million snaps from Amy in my backyard and I can still picture Billy running slants, outs, and buttonhooks until the sun went down. We had a football with us everywhere we went. He was the fastest kid in school and had the softest hands you could imagine. We played together all the way through high school and were both named All-Americans last year. We never lost a game, not even when we played those big Texas high schools with all their hype and publicity.

A loud bell rang that jolted me back to where I was. My cellmate sat up, throwing off his gray blanket. He rubbed his face hard with his right hand. Our eyes met and he looked at me for what seemed like a long time before saying anything.

"Chow time," he finally spoke in a gruff voice without moving a muscle in his face. Then he stood up, folded his blanket neatly, and laid it at the foot of his bed. "Is this your first time in the joint?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

He gave me a strange look. "They told me I was getting a new roommate this week, a high school kid, some hotshot quarterback. I read all about you in the papers too."

"I was a quarterback, but I'm no hotshot, sir."

He looked at me funny again and shook his head. "Just mind your own business while you're here and don't accept any favors from anyone. You're a big guy so you should be okay. The less you say the better off you'll be."

"Thank you for the advice, sir." I spoke in a weak voice. He was right. At 6'3" and 215 pounds I was pretty well sized. I was in good shape, too. I mean, as good of shape as could be expected after a month in the hospital and a month in the county jail.

My first dinner in prison was a nerve-racking experience. In the movies, bad things always happened in the mess hall. That's when guys settled scores and the big guys took food from the smaller inmates. Luckily, nobody tried to steal my food. I did see two guys arguing, and although they nearly came to blows, a guard was on the scene quickly to break up the skirmish.

After moving through the food line and getting what was supposed to be a well-balanced meal, I went to a table and sat down, not speaking a word to the strangers surrounding me. The food was disgusting and I could barely swallow a bite of it. By pushing small mouthfuls down my throat and imagining a home-cooked meal from Mom, I was able to get it down. I left the cafeteria thirty minutes later, happy that I'd made it through my first day without an incident.

When I got back to my cell and they closed and locked the doors behind me, I felt safe and secure. My cellmate sat down on his bunk and looked at me for the longest time. He had a creepy habit of staring at me before he spoke. "So I read about you, but I'm not sure I believe what I read."

"Which part, sir?" I said trying to speak in a strong voice.

"Stop calling me sir, will ya?" He reached back and scratched his back. "My name's Al Pancano. You can call me Al."

"Yes, si--" I stopped myself, "Al, I mean." I reached my hand out to shake his. "My name's Matt, Matt Devon."

Al sat back down after hurriedly shaking my hand. He shook his head with a smile on his face. "So why would a kid like you--who has everything in the world going for him--rob a liquor store?"

I didn't know how to answer him. "It's complicated, Al," I said. "It's a long story."

He leaned back on his bed, "Well, you've come to the right place to tell long stories."