Chapter Text
Growing up, Darry was always playing football. If he wasn’t palling around with his baby brothers or some of the gang, he was usually in the lot or their backyard. He was drawn to it like a great big magnet.
Their backyard was never neat, even when spring cleaning came a callin’, and they spent all afternoon cleaning up.
There’d be forlorn pieces of lumber from when Dad tried and gave up on makin’ a shed. Bricks from an ol’ summer project that never saw fruition.
Like many things on the East Side, they were only ever good as ideas. Never went much further than that.
To most on this side of the tracks, football was a game. A hobby, some casual pastime to kill time before their mama called them in for supper. (If they were lucky enough to have a mama at all.)
But to Darry, football was no hobby. It wasn’t some casual pastime he occasionally considered in the back of his head. He didn’t just think ‘bout it every so often, no.
It was all the time. Like a little fluttery sensation right in the corner of your forehead. He loves football. It gave him a thrill, the chase of runnin’ down a ball.
Soon after learning to walk (and stayin’ up right after), Darry had gotten his hands on a football. And he’d never gone and given it up afterwards, either.
It’d been Dad’s from school. Older than all hell, missing half the stitches you were supposed to count on when knowin’ where the grip the ball. Two at the top, one from the bottom of the white line.
It looked sorta like Pony’s well-loved teddy bear. Maybe it was like that on purpose, a lot of time dedicated to using it.
Or maybe because they didn’t have the extra cash to replace things that still worked.
If it’d been the porch light or a leg on one of the kitchen chairs, well, that was a priority. Darry was a smart kid; he could dig it.
Mom always praised how mature he was. So he didn’t mind too much. As long as the thing spun in the sky when he threw it, that was good enough.
The gang they got now sorta came together when Darry was in high school. Dally’d blown in from New York, surfin’ couches and causin’ a ruckus wherever he went.
Steve and Sodapop had been attached to each other's hip since grade school.
Johnny was in their grade, too. Two-Bit was just behind Darry a bit, and Ponyboy made seven.
Mama called them her lucky boys, on account of seven bein’ generally a good number to have around. It made teams a bit uneven when they played football.
They’d often play well into their summer vacation. Early mornings before breakfast, after lunch, and after dinner.
Darry was on a team with Ponyboy and Johnny, whereas Two, Steve, and Soda were on the other side.
Dally was never one for team sports or cooperation. He’d usually watch with half-interest or chain-smoke (if they were at the lot).
Whenever Darry’s side won, and it was usually the outcome, he’d get Ponyboy on his shoulders, and they’d boast all day long.
So much so that Two’d say their heads were gonna get so big they’d float off into space. Hell, Darry’d even get them to play at night. Maybe not his brightest idea.
They called it Night Ball, and it was just as dangerous as you might think. They’d play as early as possible in those hot summer days, even if it meant gettin’ soaked in sweat in a couple of minutes.
By the time it got dark, all bets were off. Hell, half the time one of the boys ended up running into a tree after mistaking it for a guy on the opposing team.
Sodapop still bore the faint white scar from a head-on collision with a pine tree nearly five years ago.
It only made sense to try out for the school team as soon as he got into high school.
Playin’ for their team was the first time Darry’d ever played under field lights. They were so bright it was blinding, and hotter than anything else.
Even a sunny day in July didn’t have nothing on advanced technology.
Things had been nothing but tense as of late. (Because of Darry being a so-called Fake-Soc, Dally’s words.)
Two-Bit had caught on, started callin' ‘em “Faux-So,” and Darry felt like he’d never hear the end of it.
Even Ponyboy didn’t care so much about what he thought no more. Didn’t spend as much time beggin’ Darry to read his essays or look at the newest thing he’d gone and drawn.
Bein’ on the outs with those you’re supposed to be in with was no joke. Bein’ on thin ice with the new guys he was now supposed to be in with wasn’t any funnier.
Like an invisible game of tug of war. Gettin’ yanked every which way.
He couldn’t even ask his dad for advice. He knew which side of the tracks Dad had grown up on, the very same he lived on now.
Despite roofin’ on the other side, Dad knew where he belonged.
Darry was all confused as of late. Sure, he was living on the East Side. (Though, it felt like he lived on the West Side with all the dang time he spent sleepin’ over at Paul’s house.)
These last few months were meant to be Senioritis kickin’ in, and him checkin’ out of his studies, a smooth final push to graduation.
Where college likely awaited with open arms. He finally had something to look forward to. And it was football that paved the way.
He had to make the most of it, surely. He was gonna be the first Greaser to really make it outta Tulsa. Go somewhere and really do somethin’ important with his life.
He could see it now, giftin’ his parents a paid mortgage and spoilin’ his baby brothers ridiculously.
He’d room with Paul come fall. A hundred miles away from anybody who knew what a Greaser or Soc actually meant.
It was freeing, and a sensation he’d never felt before. Maybe comparable to when he started wearing Paul’s Madras.
Or his loafers. Or started “forgetting” to grease his hair. Things hadn’t exactly been peachy keen.
He was surely walking the tightrope between the two like no other. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten what being a Grease meant.
Or where he’d come from. But slipping outta the persona was all too easy. He’d started dodging his brothers and the rest of the gang pretty soon after making the high school team.
First freshman on the varsity team! His parents had been so dang proud of ‘em, Mom had made a cake just for the occasion.
Sure, he felt the sting of neither one of his brothers makin’ eye contact.
But Mom pinched his cheeks (despite his groans), and he went to bed so damn pleased with himself he could hardly get a wink of sleep.
It’s been a helluva lot harder than he was anticipating. Sure, practice was hell. Early mornings before school and late evenings after.
He had the eyes of the entire team piercing into his back every time he stepped into the locker room.
The expectations, coupled with their prejudice, were a vice he wasn’t sure how to get out of.
But Darry’s mighty tough. Eldest son, the entirety of the Curtis family’s pride and hopes and dreams were just countin’ on him.
For a while, he really thought he was gonna make it outta there. Outta the wrong side of the tracks, hell, outta Tulsa.
Into bigger places for big thinking that weren’t too concerned about things like Grease.
He’d gone and out, just about put everything he had into these games. Head down, beatin’ against the current.
Trying to prove it to himself and anybody else who was doubting his place on the team.
You don’t become quarterback cause you’re gliding by like those Socs do. You wake up before anybody else does, head to school at ungodly hours, and run drills while it’s still dark out.
You study harder, socialize more. Do everything you gotta do so this dream doesn’t just stay a dream. Something in your head you might one day reminisce about.
He’d led them to more victories than anybody else before. More wins, more hoots and hollers, and wild house parties lifetimes away from his true place.
Even at his championship game, his senior year. Man, Darry was like a cat that had gotten its cream. Everything he’d worked so hard for was within his reach! And yet…
Darry couldn’t make heads or tails of why he was sweating so dang much. Maybe it was the lights, or maybe it was the nerves. Hell, it was probably both of them and then some.
Mom and Dad kept sayin’ nothing but reassurances all hours before he had to meet the team beforehand.
That it was just a game, to have fun, but even though it was just a game, it wasn’t just, just, one.
(Dad had added that one, albeit confusingly and rushed, after Mom had already departed with a hug.)
He knew they were trying to make him feel better. But he still nearly threw up after saying goodbye.
His knees kept lockin’ inwards, and his stomach wasn’t just full of butterflies but the whole dang ecosystem.
It didn't help that it seemed like just about everyone in Tulsa was present tonight. Maybe even in all of Oklahoma, Darry couldn’t be too sure.
It sure felt like it. The thing was, though, that it sure as hell wasn’t just a regular game.
It was the game. The big one. The championship game. His senior championship, against their rivals South Williams, game.
Like every bone was suddenly electrified, Darry’d never felt like this before.
Scouts, friends, family, and the entire student body. If anybody was anybody, they were here tonight, packed like sardines in the stands. Darry had wondered if any of the gang would bother showing up.
It felt like his tongue had lost its way somewhere in his mouth. He couldn’t get the words out to his team for a minute or two. Heads all shoved down together in a huddle.
He must’ve said something about sticking it to the other guys. Something probably a helluva lot more cliche than he’d meant.
But he was proud of his boys. Their smiling faces reassured him. He found great solace in Paul’s blue eyes.
Pictured again the room they’d share come fall.
They won.
The crowd was so loud it almost sounded silent. Darry’s mouth hurt so dang much from all his smiling. It felt like a dream. Impossible, yet it had come true.
It hadn’t even been close. They were three touchdowns up by the final whistle blow.
His team and Paul even hoisted him up on their shoulders. Cheerin’ and hooting and hollering as boys do.
He’d managed to score the winning touchdown. It was the highest point of his entire life.
His parents died a couple of months later.