by Kara Bietz
Camille sits up super straight in the booth. “When? Just now? Ooh, tell me tell me! Wait. Don’t say anything until I’m properly hydrated.” She takes a massive sip of her cherry Coke and makes a big show of dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin and then folding her hands in front of her.
I can’t stop laughing. She clearly gets a kick out of giving Julian the business.
“Okay. I am ready. Lay it on me,” she says.
“I have decided to do nothing,” he says.
“Wait. What?” Camille’s face drops.
“Yep. You heard me. See, Figg told me that my dad actually wanted to do nothing when it was his senior year. He even tried to get a petition signed to bring down the entire thing! So, in his memory, I’m. Doing. Nothing.” Julian leans back in the booth and folds his hands behind his head, smiling. He shuffles his feet beneath the table, and he’s no longer touching my ankle.
Camille looks at me, and I can see what she’s thinking. This is probably not going to end well for Julian. Not at all. The team will be pissed; the alumni will be pissed. The only one who won’t be pissed is Julian.
“Think about it, though!” He sits up in the booth again and puts both fists on the table. “Taylor will be so distracted at the game, wondering why we haven’t made a move yet and worrying that something big will be coming in the middle of the game, that they’ll be completely psyched out! Only we will know that a prank isn’t going to happen. It’s an ingenious plan, actually.” He leans back, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “The prank is that there is no prank! I’m pretty proud of it.”
“I don’t think that’s how it’s going to go down,” Camille says, suddenly very serious.
“Well, I’ve already made up my mind. The town’s insistence on stupid traditions that mean absolutely nothing is not worth me getting in trouble. Or getting anyone else in trouble, for that matter. I’m noping out of it. The end.” He grabs another fry.
Camille and I share another look.
“So, when do you plan on telling the team about your grand idea?” Camille asks.
“Before the game tomorrow,” Julian says. “I want to make sure our heads are in the right place. We need to think about what it’s going to take to beat Stephens City, not worry about the Taylor Titans and whether or not they’re going to fill our weight room with Ping-Pong balls or something.”
“Uh… I’m going to ask you to please, please not tell the team before the game,” Camille says.
I nod my head in agreement. All that’s going to do is paint a great big target on Julian’s back.
“Why are you so against all of this? I mean, I get it, it really pulls focus from playing football, but why are you so adamant about breaking this tradition?” I ask Julian.
“I’ve been doing some reading,” he says.
“Reading?” Camille raises her eyebrows.
“Twenty years ago, the big brawl resulted in us forfeiting the game. Ten years ago, the Crenshaw quarterback slips in the parking lot after spraying shaving cream all over the Taylor bleachers and breaks his arm the night before Crenshaw’s first game. He’s out for the season. Loses his scholarship. Five years ago, six seniors get suspended for stealing the bronze statue in front of Taylor. One of them got arrested. Boom, scholarship gone. Are you noticing a pattern here?” Julian says.
“Oh, good lord, Juls,” Camille says. “You don’t have to do anything that serious! Filling a locker room with Ping-Pong balls is not exactly the same as stealing a statue! Look, this is something the guys have been looking forward to since freshman year. Please rethink it.”
“I’m serious. This prank crap ends here,” he says. “I’ll tell them after the game, but this is the end of it.”
Camille looks at me and raises her eyebrows.
This is absolutely not the end of it.
· nineteen ·
JULIAN
The Stephens City bus pulls up outside of our field house just after ten. We’ve been out on the field for over an hour already, doing some light passing drills and just getting the feel of the grass under our feet. We all pause to watch the players file off the bus and into the visiting locker room. I don’t see any surprise monster-sized players, and my stomach starts to settle.
I grab a bag of footballs and jog over to the target, ready for some easy accuracy drills. I get into a smooth rhythm, being sure to match my inhale and exhale with the pull back and release of the ball. I visualize the waiting hands of my receivers as I drop ball after ball through the targets from twenty to thirty yards out. Before our warm-up ends, I back up to fifty yards out and continue to make easy, relatively accurate throws. My arm feels pretty good, and there’s just a little bit of stinging in my ribs. Elijah whipped up more cayenne pepper ointment before Birdie woke up this morning, and I’ve taped them up, too, just in case. I’m hoping my offensive line can do its job this afternoon and I don’t get sacked. Another couple of days of not getting punched in the ribs, and I can probably quit worrying about it at all.
Coach blows his whistle three times to signal us into the locker room to change and get ready for the game. By the time I clean up my passes and roll the target back toward the field house, the rest of the team is already in the locker room getting ready.
Elijah is sitting on a bench with his game jersey in his fists, looking positively green. His leg shakes up and down, and it looks like he’s trying to take deep breaths.
“You okay?” I ask him, throwing my practice clothes into my locker.
“Nervous,” he says.
“You know what to do,” I tell him. “You’ve got this.”
He tries to smile at me, but it looks like he’s going to throw up instead. “I haven’t played in a game in over three years.”
I sit down on the bench next to him. “Coach wouldn’t put you in if he didn’t think you could do this,” I tell him. “You know this new position. I know I’ve got great protection with you in front of me. You’ve got this.”
“Okay,” he says, the green look on his face not fading.
“Elijah,” I say.
He finally turns to look at me. “Yeah?”
“Just don’t think too much,” I tell him.
He nods and his shoulders relax just a tiny bit.
Pastor Ernie comes into the locker room, and we all take a knee and put a hand on the shoulder of the guy in front of us. Pastor Ernie talks about keeping the spirit of the brotherhood fresh in our minds, and I can feel the guy behind me squeeze my shoulder just a little bit. I pass it on and squeeze the shoulder in front of me, and Coach Andrews and Coach Marcus take over.
Their speeches are decidedly louder than Pastor Ernie’s, and we do our usual pregame chant. I catch Elijah’s eye when we’re on our way out of the locker room and nod at him.
He nods back. I can see his pulse pounding in his neck, and sweat is already forming above his lip, but he does look a little bit less green.
We run through the banner the cheerleaders made for us and out onto the field and get our first good look at the Stephens City Spartans. In green jerseys and silver pants, their uniforms are sharp, but they don’t look any bigger or tougher than we do. I take my place on the fifty-yard line and call the coin toss, shaking hands with the Stephens City captain. I know in less than five minutes that captain is going to be standing across from me, ready to tackle me to the ground, but we wish each other luck anyway.
As I run back to the sideline to watch the opening kickoff, I spot Birdie in the stands. Right on the fifty-yard line with her blue-and-white pom-poms and her glittery GUARDSMAN GRANDMA T-shirt. “Go, Julian!” she yells from the stands, waving frantically at me. I raise my hand and give her a quick wave to let her know I know she’s there.
The kickoff is a good one, and our receivers bring it up to the forty-yard line for me. I run out onto the field, pulling on my helmet. It’s the best feeling, pulling that helmet over my head. One minute I can hear the crowd cheering and chanting, coaches yelling, and
the announcer over the loudspeaker. The next, most of the sounds are muffled. My eyes are focused, and all I can see is the field, the goalposts, and my teammates beside me.
Coach calls for a simple running play, and I set up behind my center. Elijah is in front of me, just to the left. I watch him dig his cleats into the grass and face off against the Spartan defense. I hope my pep talk did him some good.
And then the game really begins.
“Green 16! Green 16! Hike!” I yell, and the center places the ball perfectly into my waiting hands. I back up a few steps, keeping on the balls of my feet, and hand the ball off to Will, my most reliable running back, and step out of the play. Elijah and Bucky and the rest of the o-line shut down the Spartan defense pretty effectively, and Will gains a good twelve yards before being taken down just past the fifty-yard line.
I settle into the game pretty easily after that first handoff, and I keep the momentum going with a few more running plays before Coach calls for a long passing play. I take a look at Nate and my freshman wide receiver. “I’m going to the right with this one,” I tell Nate.
He nods, and the freshman looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen anyone look. Including Elijah before the game. The freshman shoves his mouth guard in and bites down hard.
“Set!” I yell, and watch my team fall into their stances.
“Blue 42! Blue 42! Hike!” I yell over my mouth guard, and my center hits me with a perfect snap. I catch sight of Elijah fighting hard, and I know I have only a few seconds to set up and let the pass out before I’m taken down. The Spartan defense is catching on to our style of play, and they’re learning quickly how to get past Bucky and Elijah and the rest of the o-line.
But Elijah holds on.
Meanwhile, my freshman has taken off downfield and is nearing the ten-yard line when he pivots right and turns to look right at me. I let the ball go, and it falls perfectly into his waiting arms. He pivots again and runs as fast as I’ve ever seen him run right into the end zone. I end the first possession without even a tiny grass stain on my white pants.
I pound my fist on Elijah’s shoulder pads on our way off the field. “See? See? You got this, 87! You got this!” I shout in his face.
His smile is so wide I feel like it might crack his face right open.
Our defense does its job perfectly, and the Spartans never even gain enough yardage for a first down on their first possession. I barely have time to catch my breath before it’s time for us to take the field again.
Elijah is the last to set up, checking out the pattern of the defense before nodding at me and getting into position.
“Set!” he yells.
“Red 15! Red 15! Hike!” I yell, and Elijah goes to work, clearing the defense and giving me a nice deep pocket to work with. I see Nate hustling downfield. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the left tackle digging in and heading in my direction, and everything starts to happen in slow motion. Elijah is wrestling with the middle linebacker, and the rest of the o-line is fighting hard to keep the other defensive players at bay. With that tackle coming at me, I know I have to make a quick decision.
I wasn’t planning on letting a long bomb go so quickly after the last one, but I can see that Nate is a perfect option right now. Out of nowhere, Elijah flies in front of me and takes the tackle out at the knees just as he reaches out to grab my shins. I can feel the tackle’s glove brush my right leg right before Elijah pulls him down onto the turf.
I let the ball go just like my father taught me, fingers between the laces and pointer finger on the seam. The ball rolls off my fingers, and it’s one of those passes that I just know is going to look beautiful when I watch the playback later. Everything about it feels right as it spirals out of my hand and drops perfectly into Nate’s arms. He pivots and runs right into the end zone. Again.
There isn’t a green jersey anywhere near him. Nate spikes the ball, and the Crenshaw bleachers go absolutely wild. I can see Birdie on her feet, screaming and waving a glittery poster with the number eighty-seven, Elijah’s number, emblazoned on it.
Elijah catches me on our way off the field and gives my pads a hearty punch. “Yeah! Yeah! That’s how you do it,” he yells, his face full of pure joy.
The entire first half of the game goes like that. I feel like I’m on fire, and nothing can stop any of us from marching into the end zone over and over again. We head toward the fieldhouse with a score of 24–3 as the Guardettes and the band take the field behind us.
All the Guardsmen are whooping and hollering at the top of our lungs when we get into the privacy of our own locker room. Most of the players bump pads with Elijah or bump his knuckles when they walk by him.
“Nice work out there. You tired yet?” I ask him, sitting down next to him on the bench and pulling off my sweaty helmet.
“Heck, no,” he says. “I can do this all day long.”
“Let’s hear it for our Iron Man,” Coach Marcus calls, standing in the middle of the locker room and pointing at Elijah. The team yells so loud I know the Spartans can hear it in their locker room.
“Let’s keep our heads in the game. We all know how quickly things can go south in the second half,” Coach Marcus tells us.
He pulls Elijah aside as the rest of us run back out onto the field. I hesitate, wanting to wait for him, but in the end, I don’t. I take a deep breath and pull my helmet back on, ready to get back out on the field and score some more points. I pat the tape on my ribs to make sure it’s secure and take a deep breath. As long as I don’t get hit on my left side, I’m good. My ribs are only sore when I touch them, and the adrenaline is pumping so hard I can barely feel them when I’m on the field.
And as long as I’ve got Elijah in front of me when I’m making plays, I know I’m not going to go down.
· twenty ·
ELIJAH
Iron Man. That’s what Coach Marcus called me at halftime. I feel like Iron Man, too, digging into the grass before every play and watching the eyeballs of every defensive player that’s in front of me. I know their moves before they do. I can feel my muscles tighten and pulse before every snap, and my body knows exactly where it needs to go before my brain does. I never figured protecting the quarterback would have come to me so easily, although I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that it’s Julian I’m taking care of back there.
The game ends with a score of 59–27 in favor of the Crenshaw County Guardsmen. We dump a full bucket of ice water on Coach Marcus before running back to the field house.
Bucky hooks his phone up to a speaker and plays our hype song as soon as we get into the locker room and keeps it going at full volume until the coaches get there. The atmosphere is electric, and guys keep coming up to me to congratulate me. They’re all calling me Iron Man.
I am soaking it up.
“Beach night, boys! Bring your tents and meet us at marker forty-eight!” Bucky yells to the full locker room while we’re all getting dressed.
I throw on my clothes as quickly as I can and meet Julian outside the locker room. I can’t wipe the smile off of my face.
“Feels good, right?” Julian smiles when he sees me.
“Aw, man…” is all I can manage to say.
Julian gives me a high five and claps me on the back. “That was an epic block you made at the end of the first quarter. I thought for sure I was going down.”
“I saw that tackle coming at you out of the corner of my eye, and I just dove for him. The only thing I was thinking about was your ribs.” I laugh. “Man, it felt good to take him down. How are you feeling? Hurting?”
“Not so bad right now,” he says, touching his side with his fingertips. “Can’t promise it’s not going to be sore from all of those long passes I let fly when all this adrenaline wears off.”
“Well, we know how to take care of that now, right?” I laugh a little.
He cocks his head to the side and gives me a shy smile.
We start walking toward home when Bucky yells from the gym doors. �
��Y’all need a ride tonight? I got room in the truck.”
“Yeah, that’d be good,” Julian tells him. “Just got to talk to Birdie and pack up some stuff. What time are you coming by?”
“I’ve got to grab Darien first, then we’ll swing by your house around five thirty,” Bucky says.
“You all right with that? Riding with Bucky down to Port A?” Julian asks as we turn out of the school driveway.
Port Aransas postgame camping nights. I heard about them when I was a freshman but never got the chance to go. To be honest, I’m more than a little excited to be included. I wonder, but only for a second, if they would’ve asked me even if I hadn’t made that great block. Little thoughts like that creep in when I least expect them.
“Hell yeah, I’m all right with it,” I say, shaking off the thought and falling in step next to Julian.
We hightail it home, and Ms. Birdie has a feast of sandwiches and chips and potato salad and sodas waiting for us. Pastor Ernie and Figg are there, too, both wearing Crenshaw Booster Club T-shirts.
“To the champions!” Pastor Ernie says as he pours ginger ale into a glass and holds it high in the air for a toast.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Julian laughs. “It’s only the first game of the season.”
“The two of you keep up the show you had going this afternoon, and we’re headed for quite a season,” Figg says, holding a ham-salad sandwich in one hand and a Coke in the other.
“Hey, Birdie, is it okay if we head out for the night? The team is going down to Port A for the postgame campout,” Julian asks.
“Oh, Port A campouts,” Figg says. “I remember those!”
Pastor Ernie laughs. “Way back in the Stone Age, Thomas?”
“Hey, it’s a tradition! If you camp out in Port A after your first victory of the season, you’re guaranteed another victory in your second game,” Figg says.
Julian rolls his eyes. “More tradition. More superstition. Does it ever end?”
Ms. Birdie tut-tuts. “Meridien is steeped in them, Julian. None more important than the Taylor game, though. You keep your eyes on that prize. It’s coming up sooner than you think. Oh, and yes, you and Elijah may go to Port Aransas. Is that sweet Brian Redd picking you up?”
