by Carl Deuker
He went silent for a moment when I told him. "Can you get him?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe."
My mom came home about an hour later. She kissed me on the forehead and told me how happy she was for me. "Did you call your dad?"
"Yeah."
"I'm glad you did," she said.
5
Every day that summer Drew and I were on the field at Shilshole High by nine in the morning. Coach Downs couldn't supervise practices—that was against league rules—but he left equipment on the practice field. We'd hit the blocking sleds, run through tires—all the regular stuff. After that, Drew would practice his passing. I couldn't sprint nonstop for hours, but we figured out ways to work on his timing. Then it was my turn. We'd practice handoffs and pitchouts, screen passes and passes into the flat. Two hours—that was our goal, and most days we made it. DeShawn came about half the time, and other guys would show for a week or two and then not return.
From eleven until three, we hung out together—his house, my house, along Market Street, on the beach by Golden Gardens—it didn't matter. We'd eat lunch, play some foosball or video games, and then head over to Crown Hill Park. Almost every day there were enough guys to get a flag football game going. The only thing we let slide was weightlifting. The weight room at Shilshole was closed down. The community center had a weight room, but it cost two dollars a visit and all the guys in there were old men. We tried it once in mid-July. It was a hot day, and most of the old guys had their shirts off. They looked saggy and disgusting. We never went back.
***
"How good do you think Drager really is?" I asked Drew one day while we were walking to my house from Shilshole.
"Pretty damn good," he said. "He's big and strong and fast. He's like a man, too. I bet he shaves every day."
"Do you think he's better than I am?"
He tilted his head back and forth. "You're quicker and you've got great hands, but he's tough to bring down. There's something scary about the guy. All in all I'd say you're almost even." He paused. "What about me with Clark?"
"Pretty much the same thing."
We walked for a while, both of us thinking.
Drew spoke first. "The thing is, both of them have got lousy attitudes. Downs doesn't like either one."
"Yeah, but Downs isn't going to make us starters just because he likes us."
***
I got my driver's permit in late June. I was embarrassed to get it, because Drew and DeShawn were both a year away. But once I saw how jealous they were, it was okay. A couple of times a week, my mom would take me out in her Honda and we'd drive around the neighborhood. That was fun in the beginning, but by August it was boring. I wanted to drive the Jeep, but my dad insisted I get really good with the Honda first. "When your mom says you're ready, then I'll teach you how to work a clutch."
6
That week we were allowed to start official practices. Downs had us doing two-a-days right from the start: a morning session in full pads with full contact, and an afternoon session in shorts and helmet. Drager and Clark were both on the first team; Drew and I were the backups. Not bad, considering how far down we'd started, but not where either one of us wanted to end up.
Taking the starting spot from Drager was going to be hard. The guy was a tough inside runner. I never saw him knocked backwards, not even by blitzing linebackers. He always delivered at least as good a hit as he received, and when he went down he got the extra yards that come with falling forward.
That wasn't true of me. Lots of times I got stopped right in my tracks and was unable to fall forward. So he had me on that. But on the sweep plays and on swing passes, I was able to get off and running just a split second faster. That split second meant that I could make the corner more often, and it meant that I had the better chance to break the big one.
That's exactly what I did one Friday on the last play of practice. We were running a seven-on-seven game. Drager had pulled himself off the field, claiming some sort of injury, so I was working with the first team. Everybody else was dragging, waiting for practice to end, but the adrenaline was flowing for me. I took a pitchout from Aaron Clark and flat-out beat everybody to the corner. Once I was around it, I was off to the races. There's no feeling in the world like looking up and seeing green in front of you—green and green and more green. I streaked all the way into the end zone, untouched.
I trotted back, breathing heavily. Downs called for the ball and I flipped it to him. "Good effort, Johnson," he said. Then he turned on Drager. "Did you see how he got around the corner? No hesitancy. None. That's what I've been trying to get you to do for two years now." Drager didn't blink. But when Downs turned away from him, his eyes went straight to me. He stared me down for a while, and then he spit.
Downs blew his whistle, his assistants blew theirs, and two minutes later we were all on one knee, looking at him. "Monday morning, you'll find depth charts posted on the gym door. If you were a starter last year, you might want to check. I suspect some of you will be surprised. You give me effort, I'll reward you. You don't, I won't."
As I headed toward the locker room, Downs's eyes caught mine and he gave me a nod. Was he telling me that I'd moved past Drager, that I was first team?
Back home, I took a long shower and ate, and then Drew came over. He'd seen my run for a touchdown and he'd heard Downs. "He was talking to you, Mick. No doubt about it. You wait. You'll be first team on Monday."
"I don't know," I said.
"Bet?"
I shook my head. "I don't want to jinx myself." We watched an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie and played some Madden NFL, and then he went home. Just after he left, my dad came in the door. Seeing him got my juices going again.
"How'd the week go?" he asked.
"Good," I said.
"Meaning?"
I couldn't keep it in. "Meaning I think I'm first team."
My dad's face broke into a huge grin. "That's it, Mick. That's the prize. Being a four-year letterman is good; being a four-year starter is ten times better."
***
When Drew and I neared the field Monday morning, a bunch of the guys were already grouped around the depth charts. I tried to act casual, and so did Drew. We walked up as if we were checking on the library schedule. I found the running back list and read the names: "1. Matt Drager, 2. Mick Johnson, 3. Curt Belfair."
"I'm still number two," Drew said to me, his voice low. "How about you?"
"Same," I said, my throat tight.
I felt somebody leaning on me. I turned: it was Drager.
"You're clueless, aren't you?"
"What are you talking about?" I said.
"What am I talking about? All that ass kissing you did last week, paying attention to every little thing Downs says and going full speed in every little drill he runs—it's a waste of time."
"Oh, yeah?" I said. "Why's that?"
He pushed his face right in to mine. "Downs doesn't start freshmen. Freshmen do the dirty work—punt returns and kick returns, all that special teams crap. It's his way of breaking you in. So stop looking at the board—your name is never going to be above mine. Number two you are, and number two you will remain."
I looked around. Brad Middleton had heard, and he nodded. "He's right, Mick. Unless Drager blows out his knee or something, you'll be lucky to get ten carries all year."
Drager grinned. "And I ain't getting hurt, Mick. So stop with all the rah-rah stuff. It makes everybody want to puke."
I wouldn't let myself believe it. All through the second week I outplayed Drager: I outhustled him, I outhit him. All through the second week Drager smirked at me. It drove me crazy, that smirk. He couldn't be right. He just couldn't.
But the next Monday, when Drew and I checked the depth charts, nothing had changed. "1. Matt Drager, 2. Mick Johnson."
"Let it go, Mick," Drew said to me at the end of the day.
"Let what go?" I said.
"Downs won't start us," he said. "W
e're going to have to wait our turn."
I looked at him. "Wait our turn? Drager's a junior, Drew. So is Clark. You're talking about waiting for two years."
He opened his hands in front of him. "There's nothing we can do." He was right and I knew it. But just thinking about telling my dad made my palms go cold.
That night I slipped downstairs once I heard the Jeep pull into the driveway. It was almost midnight. "Dad," I said as he opened the door.
He jumped. "Damn it, Mick, you startled me."
"I'm sorry. It's just that—"
"Give me a second, all right?" He put his briefcase down and went into the kitchen. I followed. He opened the refrigerator and got himself a beer. "All right," he said, once he'd opened it. "What's up?"
I took a deep breath and then explained Downs's policy and how he'd stuck to it for years. "I'll play on all the special teams, though. Kickoffs, punts, extra points, and field goals—I'm on every unit. It's not like I won't be out there."
He took a swig of his beer. "What about alternating? Any chance you and this Drager will do that?"
"No," I said. "I might get some carries in the fourth quarter of blowouts, but that's it."
He scowled. "That's stupid. It makes you sit there and hope your teammate breaks his neck."
"I know, but there's nothing I can do."
He put his beer down. "Mick, here's what I say: Keep outworking that Drager kid. Outwork him every damn day in every damn drill. Make that son of a bitch coach play you."
7
I ended up practicing hard every single day, just like my dad wanted, but I wasn't doing it because I thought I had a chance to start. I was doing it because I didn't know how else to play. If the ball was in my hands, I was going to take it as far upfield as I could, and it didn't matter that it was only practice. Football was in my blood.
During the games, I was on the field only for kickoffs, punts, and extra points. But on those few downs, I played like a crazy man, flying down the field, breaking through blockers, and laying big hits on guys on the other team. In the opener, I blocked a field goal. And in the next three games I forced two fumbles, both of which led to touchdowns.
After those big plays, I automatically looked up into the stands toward the fifty-yard line to where my dad always sat. But he skipped those games; if I wasn't going to carry the ball, he wasn't going to show up.
***
After a Monday practice halfway through the season, Downs asked me to stop by his office. "Don't worry," he said. "It's all good."
Drew had overheard. "What's up?" he said.
I shrugged. "No idea."
I dressed quickly and then went to the coaches' office and knocked. He looked through the glass window and waved me in. "Sit down," he said, pointing to the chair.
He picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk blotter. "I've noticed, Mick. From the first practice last spring to today, your hustle, your attitude—fantastic. Like no other kid I've ever coached. Ever. I've never had a freshman as a captain, not in ten years of coaching, but starting with our next game, there will be a 'C' on your helmet and a 'C' stitched on the right shoulder of your jersey." He stood and reached his hand across the desk. "Congratulations."
My face reddened with pleasure. "Thanks, Coach," I said. "Thanks a lot."
He smiled, his eyes alive. "It's not a gift. You earned it."
When I returned to the locker room, Drew came over. "So?"
I couldn't hide the smile taking over my face. "Downs made me special teams captain."
Drew didn't hold back. "Captain," he said, and then he pounded me a couple of times on the shoulder. "Good for you! Good for you!" He grabbed DeShawn Free. "Mick's just been made captain." DeShawn high-fived me, and then Drew went and grabbed another guy and another guy and another guy.
I told my mom when she came home from work. "Way to go." she said. "That is some honor." She paused. "Call your dad."
"I'll tell him when he comes home," I said.
"You'll be asleep when he comes home. Call and tell him now."
I dialed the station. "Your dad's on the air right now," a woman said. "But we break for a commercial in two minutes. Can you wait?"
Two minutes later his voice was on the line. "What's up?"
I took a deep breath. "Coach named me captain of the special teams. I'm the only freshman he's ever made captain, and he's been coaching for ten years. I get a 'C' on my helmet and the shoulder of my jersey."
"Hey, hey, hey," he said.
"Next game I make the call on the coin toss, and if there's any argument about penalties or anything like that on a kickoff or punt, I'm the one who goes to the ref."
"Wonderful." There was a pause. "How about playing time at running back? Now that you're captain, is that coach finally going to let you have some carries?"
His words sucked everything good out of me.
"You know how that works," I said. "Nothing's changed."
"What do you mean, nothing has changed? You're a captain now. Did you tell him you want to start?"
"I don't have to tell him, Dad. He knows."
"Mick, the 'C' on the uniform and on the helmet, that's all nice. But you're not going to make a name for yourself calling heads or tails." He paused. "Look, the commercial break is ending. I've got to get back to work. But go to your coach tomorrow. Tell him that if you're good enough to be captain, you're good enough to carry the ball."
I swallowed. "Dad—"
"Do it, Mick. You've got nothing to lose."
For the rest of the night and the next day, I kept thinking about what my dad had said. Sometimes it seemed as if he were asking me to slit my own throat, but at other times I'd think he was right. If Downs could make me a captain, why couldn't he let me start? And what did I have to lose? If he said no ... so what?
After Tuesday's practice I walked down the long hallway and knocked on Coach Downs's office door. He looked up, motioned me in, and then picked up my game jersey from his desktop. A big "C" was on the right shoulder. "I was just going to send for you. Pretty cool, isn't it?"
"It's great," I said, fingering it. "Coach," I said.
"What?"
"I was just wondering if maybe I could get some carries at running back. Not start, but maybe alternate. I think I—"
"Stop right there, Mick."
"It's just that—"
"I said stop." He stared at me for what seemed like an hour. "I decide who plays and who doesn't, just like I decide who is captain and who isn't. You got that?"
I nodded.
"Okay, then. Now take your jersey and get out of here."
8
Little by little, the season slipped away. Eastlake had beaten us 28–16 in the opener, but after that we'd managed to sneak by everybody else we'd played. Some games we were the better team: Garfield and Franklin and Roosevelt had half the guys and half the talent. Some games we were lucky: Bothell fumbled five times in the first half. Woodinville's all-league quarterback was out with an injury, and his replacement threw three interceptions.
I was still playing hard on special teams, but I didn't even think about starting. After the whole captain thing, even my dad gave up. "Next year," I told myself. "Next year." And then I caught a break, and so did Drew. On the Sunday before the showdown with Foothill, the cops caught Drager and Clark drinking at Salmon Bay Park. They'd scuffled with the police and had ended up being handcuffed and dragged off to juvenile hall.
In school, kids talked about nothing else. Before Monday's practice began, Downs called the team together. He said the normal stuff about responsibility and maturity and then he told us that Drager and Clark had let the team down. "Look what a six-pack of beer cost them. They'll miss the Foothill game, the chance to win the KingCo title and move into the playoffs. Think hard before you act, because what you do carries consequences."
On the field, Downs moved Drew and me to the first team, which I expected. But since Drew had practiced more with DeShawn Free than he had w
ith any other receiver, Downs decided to make DeShawn a starter too. It was as if we'd won the lottery. The workout was light—helmets and shorts—and through it all the offense was completely out of sync. But not even a bad practice could bring the three of us down. We were starting on Friday against Foothill. That was all that mattered.
I thought about staying up to tell my dad I was going to start against Foothill, or maybe writing him a note, but in the end I didn't. I decided it was smarter to wait until I was dead sure. There was always the chance that Drager would somehow weasel his way back onto the team and back into the starting lineup.
Tuesday and Wednesday came and went with no change. Thursday Clark and Drager were back at school. I stood off to the side and listened as Nolan Brown asked them how they stood. "We're done for the year," Drager said, his dark eyes glowering. "Even if you guys somehow beat Foothill, we won't play in the regionals. It sucks."
That night I waited up for my dad. As soon as I heard him come in the door, I slipped downstairs. "Hey, what's up?" he said.
"Can you get tomorrow night off?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose. Why?"
"I'm starting," I said. "Against Foothill. The championship game."
9
Our game day practices weren't really practices at all. Friday after school we met in the gym, did some stretching, a little running, and some more stretching. It was all over in forty-five minutes.
When I got home, I forced myself to eat half of the ham and cheese sandwich my mom had made for my pregame meal. Once I'd finished, I went upstairs and lay down, trying to rest. I kept opening my eyes, looking at the clock, hoping it was time to go. Every minute seemed like ten. It was an away game, over in Bellevue, and Downs was requiring that we go as a team on a school bus. We were to be in the school parking lot by six; Drew's dad was picking me up at five-fifty.
At last I heard a horn sound in the driveway. I grabbed my duffel, hustled down the stairs, and got in Drew's car. Forty-five minutes later I was stepping down off the school bus and heading to the locker room at Foothill High.
