by Mike Lupica
He’d never heard her talk about this stuff before, not like this. She turned to face him now. She had finished her ice cream and the last of Charlie’s and had her legs crossed underneath her and a Bulldogs cap on her head, hair spilling out of the opening in the back.
“Oh, Gramps knows how much I love football and how much I know about football. But he can’t help himself, he still sees me as his little baby girl.”
“Well, technically, aren’t you a little girl to him?”
“This isn’t a debate, Gaines.”
Putting some snap into her voice.
“Got it.”
She shook her head. “He looks at me and still sees the four-year-old who used to sit on his lap while he explained everything that was happening in the game.”
“Amazing!” Charlie said. “That’s exactly the way I see you, except I don’t want you to sit in my lap!”
“When I’m being serious you’d better be serious, mister. Or we’re going to have a problem. Even after ice cream.”
“I wasn’t not being serious,” he said. “I was just trying to be funny for a second. And that was funny right there.”
“Was it?”
“Little bit?” Charlie said.
“Whatever,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.
“Can we get back to what we were talking about before your attempt at humor?”
“Proceed.”
“Anyway, I’m just saying that it’s not surprising that Gramps would rather hang with you at practice than with me.”
“So . . . are we good, you and me?” Charlie suddenly feeling as uncomfortable as he did earlier with Matt Warren.
“Good as Cold Stone,” Anna said, yet still with an edge to her voice.
Charlie had a feeling he’d be smart to change the subject.
“It was weird being in the middle of your grandfather and uncle like that.”
“That’s sounds like the most amazing part of the whole day,” she said. “That Uncle Matt couldn’t even stop himself from acting stressed in front of you.”
“It got a little awkward there.”
“Sounds like. I’ve seen it happen with them before.”
“It wasn’t that bad, I just sort of wanted to not be there.”
“Uncle Matt probably didn’t want to be there, with you, either. He’s been wrong about so many players and now you turn out to be right about his new quarterback.”
“I felt bad for him,” Charlie said. “I mean, put yourself in his position. If this were happening to you, you’d feel a little defensive, wouldn’t you?”
“No doubt,” she said. “I’ll give you that. But you’ve got to admit something: As bad as you say you felt, you felt really good being right about Tom Pinkett.”
“Not at that moment, I didn’t.”
“You admit right now you at least liked it a little,” she said, poking him with a finger to his chest.
He smiled. “Okay, maybe a tiny bit.”
“Ha! I knew I was right.”
“Happy now?”
“I’m always happy when I’m right,” she said.
“No wonder you’re so happy all the time.”
“Exactly,” she said.
They sat and watched people walk their dogs. And toss footballs. And Frisbees. It was what Charlie always thought of as a magical time of the day in Southern California, when a special light came over the place and it wasn’t day anymore yet not quite night.
“You know what probably made Uncle Matt even madder?” she said. “Seeing Gramps with you in that golf cart later, the two of you chatting away.”
“Why would he care about that?”
“Because he wants to be the only extra set of eyes that Gramps needs. That’s why.”
Fourteen
THE CULVER CITY CARDINALS’ NEXT game was against the Redondo Beach Lions, at Redondo Beach’s field, the day before the Bulldogs would play the Ravens in Baltimore.
When Coach Dayley gathered the players around him before the kickoff, he told them what he knew about the Lions. He’d talked to his friend who coached Palos Verdes—the Palos Verdes Vikings had faced Redondo Beach in their opener—and found out the Lions were big and physical and loved running the ball so much they might not throw ten passes the whole game.
“Might be one of those low-scoring deals today,” Coach Dayley said. “But I’m good with that, long as we’re the ones who did the most scoring at the end.”
Not only was it a low-scoring game into the third quarter, it was a no-scoring game. Both teams had had one good chance in the first half. But Jarrod Benedict had fumbled on Redondo Beach’s five-yard line when he’d try to keep it himself and score on an option play.
When it looked as if the Lions might take the lead right before halftime, having driven the ball from their own twenty, about half the Cardinals’ defense—Charlie included, in there for a big moment—stuffed their fullback on a fourth-and-goal from the two.
So it stayed 0–0 into the third quarter. It had started to rain by then, Charlie not even able to remember the last time he’d played football in the rain. Sometimes he couldn’t even remember playing football when it was cloudy. The rain didn’t affect the Vikings too much, since they didn’t want to throw anyway. But mostly the Cardinals’ offense had become Jarrod either pitching it to Kevin Fallon or keeping it himself, Coach Dayley constantly reminding them to hold on to the ball. If anything was going to decide this game—provided anybody scored—it was probably going to be a turnover.
Charlie had spent most of the third quarter standing next to Coach Dayley, studying the Redondo Beach quarterback, wondering why his coach didn’t let him throw the ball more. The guy seemed to have a good arm, even with a slippery ball.
But as it rained harder, the Lions’ coach seemed to shut down his passing game completely. Like he thought the same thing that Coach Dayley did, that the game might be decided by a turnover, and putting a slick ball in the air only increased the risk.
So neither team had moved the ball past midfield as the game slogged through the mud to the fourth quarter, both punters probably getting more play than they would all season, both quarterbacks always seeming to start deep in their own territory. On the sideline, Charlie didn’t just feel as if he were watching a game played in the mud, he felt as if both offenses were playing the game uphill.
It was the Lions who finally got the ball past midfield, into Cardinals’ territory, barely, first down at the Cardinals’ forty-nine, with two minutes to go. It was then that Shota Matsumoto, one of the Cardinals’ best players at outside linebacker, twisted his ankle trying to cut in the mud.
Shota didn’t even wait for help, just pointed to himself as he hobbled off the field. As he did, Coach Dayley said, “Get in there, Charlie.”
Second game of the season, tie game, fourth quarter, the guy they called Brain in there trying to do what the starters on defense were trying to do in the mud:
Get the ball back, get the game.
The Lions’ quarterback kept it twice on runs, got four yards the first time, five yards the second. It was third-and-one for the Lions at the Cardinals’ forty-yard line. Charlie took his place as right outside linebacker, saw the Lions come out of the huddle.
And put his hands in the air to call the Cardinals’ second-to-last time-out. Just like he’d done in practice that day, after asking Coach Fallon if it was all right.
Dropping down and untying his shoelaces and retying them, like that was the reason he needed to stop play.
Charlie gave a quick look over at the Cardinals’ sideline, saw Coach Dayley with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side. Glaring at him. His look saying: What just happened here?
Sean Barkley, their fastest and best defensive back, playing safety today, loudest kid on the t
eam, came running up to Charlie.
“Brain,” he said, “you lost that mind of yours Coach is always talkin up? Like, you think we’re not gonna need that time-out later to win this game?”
Charlie kept his head down.
“Sean,” Charlie said, “you gotta trust me: They’re gonna throw deep. They’re going for the win on this play.”
“Okay, now you did up and lose your mind. You see that they don’t even have a whole yard to make another first down? You do see that, right?”
“Sean, you were at corner the one time they threw deep. But it’s the only time they’ve had two guys lined up behind the quarterback. The other times they’ve been back there, they split them. He’s gonna go play-action again to the tight end. He thinks we won’t think he’ll do that. But he’s gonna go for it all.”
“You’re really down with the coach-on-the-field stuff, aren’t you?” Sean said.
Charlie stood up. “I’m gonna blitz,” he said. “You stay with the tight end. That ball goes up, it’s gonna be yours.”
“You know the deal on this, right?” Sean said. “You better be right.”
“I sort of know that.”
Charlie thinking: I’ve got to be right, or I won’t make it off special teams the rest of the season.
The refs started the play clock. The Lions’ quarterback—Charlie was pretty sure he’d heard one of his teammates call him Nick in the first half—took the snap from under center, turned, and looked like he was executing a perfect reverse-pivot handoff to his fullback.
Charlie flying—well, as close as he came to flying—from the outside as Nick pulled the ball back.
He’d been right.
A play-action fake all the way.
Charlie coming hard as he could from the outside, trying not to slip down.
Trusting that Sean was somewhere behind him, running step-for-step with the Lions’ tight end.
Charlie wasn’t fast enough, even unblocked, to get to the quarterback, certainly not on a wet field. But what he could do was let out a yell, trying to sound as fierce as he felt in that moment, letting the kid know he was coming, getting him to give a quick turn of his head before he looked down the field and let the ball go.
It was enough, just barely enough, for the QB to rush his throw. Then Charlie went plowing into him, a legal hit, and they both went into the mud, Charlie getting a faceful of it before he rolled over, scrambled to his feet, and tried to see what was happening down the field.
Which was this:
Sean Barkley with the ball, cutting toward the sideline, being chased by a lot of dirty Redondo Beach uniforms that had looked very brand-spanking-new and very white at the start of the game. Sean had made the interception that gave the Cardinals the chance they needed.
Charlie tried to throw a block on one of their O-linemen, missed. The Lions’ quarterback, up on his feet now, managed to knock Sean out of bounds, but not until he had reached the Redondo Beach thirteen-yard line.
Cardinals’ ball, a minute and ten seconds to go. Sean Barkley and Charlie jogged all the way across the field together, Sean giving Charlie the first high five he’d ever given him.
“Brain and the blitz,” Sean Barkley said. “Love it.”
Charlie just kept his head down, kept running, Coach Dayley coming out to meet him, ten yards at least from the white line.
“Just tell me what you saw,” he said.
Charlie told him.
Coach was staring at Charlie in a different way now.
“They used that formation just the one time?”
Charlie nodded.
Coach shook his head, handed Charlie his clipboard, the pages on it soaking wet. All Charlie could see were ink stains running in all directions.
Coach Dayley said, “You need this more than I do.”
And Charlie said, “Just doing my job.”
“Calling a one-man blitz for yourself after you call your own time-out?”
Charlie shrugged, grinned, and said, “Part of the job of being a player-coach, Coach.”
With all the momentum and positive energy on their side now, it took the Cardinals just three plays from there, Kevin Fallon doing all of the heavy lifting, being the star he was supposed to be.
The last carry was something to see, Kevin breaking a play that was supposed to take him up the middle off-tackle, getting to the sideline, and launching himself off the mud and over the goal line—like this sleek but very dirty bird—with the touchdown that made the final score 6–0 for the Cardinals.
• • •
Charlie found out at lunch on Monday that The Charlie Show had turned him into an instant celebrity at Culver City Middle, in a way that even being the king of his fantasy leagues never had.
“Did you get an agent yet?” Lizzie Hartong said when she came over to sit down with Charlie and Anna and Kevin.
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Next there’s probably going to be a billboard of me on Sunset Boulevard, all because of one podcast.”
“The billboard could be a problem,” Anna said.
“Why’s that?” Kevin said.
“How am I gonna climb up there and draw a mustache on Charlie’s face?” Anna said.
Lizzie said, “Oooh, can I black out his teeth?”
“Great,” Charlie said. “Suddenly I’m sitting at the mean-girl table.”
Anna and Lizzie high-fived each other. “And loving it,” Anna said.
When Lizzie went to put her tray back in the rack, Charlie said, “When did you and Lizzie become such funny friends?”
Anna said, “When it was time to make fun of you, of course.”
After that a bunch of guys came over to the table, telling Charlie they thought it was about ten stages of awesome that he was actually on a real L.A. sports talk show.
Brad Bates said Charlie was on his way to becoming an Internet sensation.
“I just got lucky with some picks, is all,” Charlie said.
“Lucky?” Brad said. “Dude, you’ve been crushing it ever since you told people to jump on Tom Pinkett.”
The Bulldogs were 1–1, having lost their second game to the Ravens in Baltimore on a late field goal. But Tom had played well again, had thrown three more touchdown passes, and seemed to be taking the Bulldogs down the field for another upset win when a perfect pass went right through tight end Mo Bettencourt’s hands—usually the surest hands on the team—and got intercepted, setting up the Ravens’ winning kick with twenty-two seconds left.
The Bulldogs that close to being 2–0 for the first time in their history.
Still: Last year they hadn’t won their first game until Week Five. They had played well in Baltimore against a playoff team, done it on the road. Charlie knew that a loss was a loss. But also knew enough about sports to know that there were actually good losses sometimes.
This was going to be a good day to talk about the Bulldogs on the latest installment of The Charlie Show. Anna also told him to remind the listeners about all the good picks he’d made the week before.
“I feel funny doing that,” he said when they were setting up in his room.
“That’s the whole point of being in the media, dummy, drawing as much attention to yourself as possible. It’s practically a law they passed. Besides, the more you’re right with your picks, the more people are going to talk up The Charlie Show even if some of that talk is just lips flapping. After you left the table today, Kevin said that he could be the one to do a show like this, that he knows almost as much about football as you do. But I set him straight on that one, don’t worry.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Finally you understand that.”
“It’s what my mom calls the path of least resistance.” Adding: “Boss.”
“Oh, now you’re being sarcastic?” Anna said. “Be
cause if you are, I will go home and you can try this yourself.”
“Yes, sir!” he said, but with a smile, so she’d know he was kidding.
“You keep going like this and the next stop is going to be Jimmy Kimmel.”
“How can I be on a show that I can’t stay up late enough to watch?”
She gave him a soft punch on the shoulder. “You’ll just need to grow up a little.”
They did the podcast then. Anna talked even more than usual this week, asking more questions, mostly about last week’s picks, making sure herself that the listeners were reminded about how well he’d done.
That night, Charlie’s picks were back on Mr. Fallon’s show.
It was right at the end of the show that Kevin’s dad said that not only was Charlie Gaines this kind of rock star at fantasy football, he was just as good at spotting talent in real football.
Meaning Bulldogs football.
It was then that Charlie heard what everybody listening to the show heard, Mr. Fallon saying that it was twelve-year-old Charlie Gaines who told Joe Warren to sign Tom Pinkett, over the objections of his son, Matt.
Fifteen
CHARLIE CALLED HER BEFORE SHE called him. Didn’t even say hello.
“How did he find out?” Charlie said. “Tell me you didn’t tell Kevin.”
She didn’t say anything at first.
Then: “I did. But I can explain.”
“You told Kevin,” Charlie said. “And he told his dad. Perfect.”
He reached over and shut off the radio, just as some other announcer was giving out baseball scores at the top of the hour.
“I’m so sorry,” Anna said, and sounded like she was, but Charlie didn’t care in that moment.
“You told Kevin?” he said. “Why didn’t you just put it out over the Internet? You’re the one who’s always saying it’s a good thing his heart is bigger than his big mouth.”
“Can I at least explain?”
“Before you do, let me ask you something,” Charlie said. “How big a deal is this going to be? Are people really going to care about a dumb story like this?”
