Genre Fiction
![Eli Cranor - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B08H5NG49M.jpg)
Don't Know Tough
Friday Night Lights gone dark with Southern Gothic; Eli Cranor delivers a powerful noir that will appeal to fans of Wiley Cash and Megan Abbott.
In 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 unstable mother's abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
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.
Then 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.
WINNER OF THE PETER LOVESEY FIRST CRIME NOVEL CONTEST
In 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 unstable mother's abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
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.
Then 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.
WINNER OF THE PETER LOVESEY FIRST CRIME NOVEL CONTEST
Editorial Reviews
1.
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.
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.
This my favorite drill.
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.
"Who want next?" holler Bull. Bull ain't the head coach. Bull coach the defense. He as mean as they come.
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.
Coach blow his whistle.
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.
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.
The other boys cheer.
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?
Disrespecting me?
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.
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 cig...
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.
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.
This my favorite drill.
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.
"Who want next?" holler Bull. Bull ain't the head coach. Bull coach the defense. He as mean as they come.
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.
Coach blow his whistle.
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.
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.
The other boys cheer.
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?
Disrespecting me?
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.
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 cig...
Short Excerpt Teaser
1.
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.
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.
This my favorite drill.
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.
"Who want next?" holler Bull. Bull ain't the head coach. Bull coach the defense. He as mean as they come.
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.
Coach blow his whistle.
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.
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.
The other boys cheer.
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?
Disrespecting me?
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.
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.
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.
"Bill," say Coach. "What happened out there?"
Bill my daddy's name. Nobody call me Bill except Coach and my brother Jesse.
"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."
Feel my jaw flexing, like if I could, I just grind my teeth down to the gums.
"You hear us talking, boy?" say Principal.
I raise one eyebrow, slow.
"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."
I nod. Know bullshit when I hear it. Then Coach say, "But he's not going to do that."
Principal grunt.
"Listen, Bill," say Coach. "I'm going to sit you for the game tomorrow night. Principal Bradshaw thinks that's best. Okay?"
I hear Coach but I don't. My ears ringing. That burn on my neck turn to fire.
"Call the cops then."
Principal laugh. Coach don't.
"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."
"Senior Night," I say.
Coach breathe in deep through his nose. He ain't got no ...
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.
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.
This my favorite drill.
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.
"Who want next?" holler Bull. Bull ain't the head coach. Bull coach the defense. He as mean as they come.
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.
Coach blow his whistle.
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.
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.
The other boys cheer.
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?
Disrespecting me?
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.
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.
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.
"Bill," say Coach. "What happened out there?"
Bill my daddy's name. Nobody call me Bill except Coach and my brother Jesse.
"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."
Feel my jaw flexing, like if I could, I just grind my teeth down to the gums.
"You hear us talking, boy?" say Principal.
I raise one eyebrow, slow.
"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."
I nod. Know bullshit when I hear it. Then Coach say, "But he's not going to do that."
Principal grunt.
"Listen, Bill," say Coach. "I'm going to sit you for the game tomorrow night. Principal Bradshaw thinks that's best. Okay?"
I hear Coach but I don't. My ears ringing. That burn on my neck turn to fire.
"Call the cops then."
Principal laugh. Coach don't.
"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."
"Senior Night," I say.
Coach breathe in deep through his nose. He ain't got no ...
