by Paul Volponi
I nodded my head, going back and forth between his eyes and Carter’s.
“Big responsibility,” Carter said to me.
“I’ve got it,” I said, with the jersey already feeling a few ounces heavier.
Right before the Gators left their locker room, Coach G. gave his pre-game speech.
“I don’t know what’s waiting for us on the other side of life,” he said, laying a hand to the front of Alex’s jersey. His voice filled more of the room with each word. “Maybe the answer to that is different for every one of us. I can only tell you this much for sure. If Alex had one more opportunity to put on this uniform and play football for the Gators, he’d devour it. You have that opportunity, each one of you. Appreciate it. Be thankful. Don’t squander it. Alex’s mother will be in the stands. Play for her. Play for Alex’s memory. Play for the family that surrounds you right now—this team.”
Carter rushed his hand forward to touch Alex’s jersey. A frenzy of other arms reached out for it after that.
Harkey shouted, “Everybody, on three! One team! One family! . . . One, two, three—”
“One team! One family!” we shouted together.
The Gators steamrolled Furman that night, taking a 28–0 lead after the first quarter. But as the game wore on, Alex’s jersey got heavier and heavier to hold.
Carter caught six passes. He hauled one in at the five-yard line before dragging three Furman defenders on his back into the end zone. Rather than spiking the ball, though, Carter walked it over to the first row of the stands and gave it to Alex’s mother.
By the fourth quarter, my arms were aching. Even my legs felt the strain. Twice, the jersey almost slipped out of my hands and touched the ground. But I was able to steady myself both times. With less than a minute to go in the game, Carter took the jersey from me. He held it high over his head for the crowd to see. A thunderstorm of applause came in return. Only, I was too exhausted to even clap.
* * *
That next week at practice, I had my mind fixed on football. I was completely zoned in, refusing to let anything else wreck my concentration. After my miserable second half against Eastside, I had dropped out of the ten top-ranked passers in the state. But I was still undefeated as a high school quarterback and I had picked up a ton more Twitter followers.
Beauchamp’s student store started selling black-and-gold jerseys with GARDNER printed across the back. I was hyped to see kids wearing them around school. I even autographed a few.
While I was signing one for a girl in the cafeteria, I noticed Lyn had spotted me.
“You really enjoy that?” Lyn asked afterward, once I’d parked myself next to her with my tray.
“Just giving my fans what they want, being a gentleman,” I answered, shaking my container of chocolate milk. “I am the varsity quarterback.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” said Lyn. “Did you know Damon’s thinking about quitting the football team?”
“That’s crazy. We could be state champs. Is it because he’s not getting enough playing time?”
“No. He wants to train for some bodybuilding competitions. He’s getting pretty serious about being in shape.”
“I need to talk to him more, find out what he’s thinking,” I told her. “I’ve been too distracted lately. I’ll take care of it.”
Then I finally got down to the reason I’d sat next to Lyn.
“So you want to get together soon? Catch a movie?” I asked.
“You’re so busy being a gentleman, I’m surprised you’d have the time. Anyway, I have a full schedule coming up—school and social.”
“Whatever,” I said, absorbing that minor hit.
Anyway, I figured I wouldn’t have to look too hard to find another female fan.
* * *
Later that week, in Mrs. Harper’s math class, we were doing conversion charts. One question from the book read like someone had written it especially for me: An NFL quarterback throws a football 60 yards. How many feet does the football travel?
I raised my hand up high. It was the most excited I’d ever been in her class, with the answer sitting on the tip of my tongue. But Mrs. Harper didn’t pick me, probably on purpose. Instead, she chose some girl who got it wrong.
A few minutes later, she passed me up again. I was really annoyed. She must have seen on my face how bad I wanted to be called on.
As the next kid gave the right answer, I said, in a voice just beneath his, “One hundred and eighty feet.”
I sulked in my seat for the rest of the period. On the way out, I walked past Mrs. Harper’s desk as slow as I could, almost staring her down.
“I understood that you knew the answer, Travis. I’d have been greatly disappointed if you didn’t,” Mrs. Harper said. “I’m more interested in seeing you learn something new this semester.”
“It’d be nice to get some credit for what I already know,” I said, leaving without softening the look on my face.
Chapter 20
I sent Dad one of the Beauchamp High jerseys with my name on it. Only, his reaction wasn’t anything like I thought it would be.
“I think we need to be careful with your name,” Dad said. “I’ve researched it a bit. Amateur athletes can’t make money endorsing products. But that doesn’t mean we can’t begin to shape your public image. Then when you’re finished playing in college, corporations will be lining up for you to represent them.”
“Do we really have to worry about this now?” I asked.
“Travis, the average NFL playing career is just over three years. And that’s if you make it.”
“If?” I said. “I don’t know any other high school freshman with jersey sales.”
“There are no guarantees in life. That’s why you take advantage of these opportunities and market yourself while you’re hot.”
“Last time I checked, Coach G. did give me a guarantee. At least to make the team and be a Gator.”
“It doesn’t bind him to anything, Travis. Remember that. So we’ve got to be smart.”
I didn’t expect my quarterbacking skills to cool off anytime soon. So after that, I just answered, “Sure. Sure,” to all of Dad’s concerns.
* * *
The next game on the Beauchamp schedule put us on the road, against Chiles, one of the weakest teams in our division. On paper, their defense looked like Swiss cheese. I was drooling at the idea of going up against them, to really pad my passing stats.
Lots of kids from Beauchamp made the bus trip to see us play, and there were plenty of Gardner jerseys in the stands. In the visitors’ locker room, I drew #88 on my cleats, like Carter and his teammates had. This way, I’d be carrying part of Alex’s memory with me, instead of fighting myself to block it out. Before kickoff, I went to find Cortez.
“I’m going to give sixty minutes today. Count on it,” I told him. “I figure my offense is good for at least forty points. All your D has to do is hold them to less than that.”
Cortez grinned so wide, the dark hairs over his upper lip spread apart.
“That’s what I like, a quarterback with confidence,” he said. “I hope you’re talking that way two weeks from now, when we play Lincoln. I want to see your face after you get a look at those monsters.”
“I’m not scared of any defense,” I said, spinning a ball in my left hand. “They should all be scared of me.”
“Hang on tight to that ego. You’re going to need it,” Cortez said, spreading his helmet at the earflaps to fit it over his head. “Just make sure it doesn’t get too big for you to carry.”
* * *
The Chiles defense played five or six yards off every one of our receivers. That extra cushion was like buttercream frosting on a red velvet cake with my name on it.
I put every ball I threw right on the numbers. Even if those defenders had been glued to my receivers at the hip, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was so hot, I would have delivered the football into any window, no matter how small.
Every tim
e Pisano sent in a running play, I groaned. I called an audible on a few of them, changing the plays to passes. All I wanted to do was throw the football against a defense that didn’t want to step up.
I’d connected on my first twelve passes when the equipment manager told me the Beauchamp High record for consecutive completions stood at thirteen. We were already ahead 21–0. So I focused on getting my name into the record book.
“Soon as we get the ball back, I want to try that deep crossing route we’ve been working on in practice,” Pisano told me on the sideline, while our defense was on the field. “Let’s work on the timing in a game situation, so we have it down on a day we really need it.”
The deep cross involved a risky pass and a route our receivers hadn’t run a lot. But I couldn’t tell Pisano I wanted that record without sounding selfish.
When the time came for Chiles to punt the ball back to us, I peeked at my wristband for a more high-percentage pass. I called Pisano’s play in the huddle—but I already knew I was going to audible out of it.
At the line of scrimmage, I looked over the Chiles defense. Their D was still giving our receivers plenty of cushion, playing back on its heels. A short pass would be almost an automatic completion.
“Tango! Tango!” I barked, letting my offense know I was changing the play call. “Sightline! Sightline!”
I followed that with some numbers and code words that had no meaning. My receivers knew sightline meant the ball was coming to one of them right away.
I took the snap and immediately pivoted to my left. A kid named Marshall, who had a thick unibrow that stood out beneath his helmet, didn’t have a defender within seven yards of him. He was basically all alone. As the throw left my hand, I could tell it might have been a half-foot too high and a bit too far out in front. But it was still a ball that Marshall should have had for lunch. Instead, the pass bounced off his hands.
I felt my heart sink as the football fell to the ground.
Pisano stared at me from the sideline, his arms out at his sides, mystified at why I hadn’t thrown deep.
I pointed at my eyes, to let him know I’d seen something.
Maybe it was my adrenaline pumping, or maybe I was just angry at myself. But when Marshall returned to the huddle, I couldn’t hold back.
“Come on, man. You should have caught that ball easy. We’re trying to accomplish something here.”
“My bad,” he muttered.
I completed my next two passes but couldn’t ditch the image of the dropped ball. Marshall had cost me a record that should have been mine.
Later, I found Marshall wide open. His defender had tripped. So he streaked straight downfield, waving at me, a good ten yards behind the rest of the defense. I lofted the ball up high into the lights and stars, like it might never come down.
When it did, it landed right in his arms for a score.
I ran full-speed to the end zone to celebrate.
“So you do have a pair of hands!” I hollered, slapping Marshall on the helmet.
He smiled and said, “I owed you one.”
I wanted to tell him that he hadn’t owed me anything. That my incomplete pass to him was a dud. But I just slapped the side of his helmet again and said, “Debt paid.”
* * *
Early in the fourth quarter, we were destroying Chiles 49–12. Pisano wanted to take me out of the game and let my new backup get some playing time. But I already had four touchdown passes, and a fifth would improve my state ranking big-time.
“Just one more series,” I pleaded with Pisano. “I want to work on my timing with some of our second-stringers.”
Pisano swallowed that line and let me back onto the field. On our next pass play, I had a receiver about to break open on a slant route. Holding the ball for an extra beat, I could sense the pocket starting to collapse around me and Chiles’s D-line closing in quick. So I stepped forward to throw.
I released the ball clean. But on my follow-through, my elbow slammed against somebody’s helmet.
The feeling was part intense pain and part tingling at first. Then the tingling stopped, leaving nothing but pain shooting up and down my left arm. I bolted to the sideline.
“Looks like you hit your humerus, the funny bone,” our trainer said. “It’s beginning to swell a little. We’ll get an X-ray to be on the safe side.”
After the game, Mom and him took me to the emergency room.
“If you’re not crying, I don’t think it’s fractured,” Mom said.
“I don’t cry over anything,” I told her. “Not anymore.”
But I was paranoid, thinking the worst, like six weeks in a cast. I cursed myself for not letting Pisano take me out of the game. The only thing in my favor was that Beauchamp had a bye week coming up. Our next game wouldn’t be for another fourteen days.
The doctor diagnosed the injury right away, after putting my X-ray up to a bright light: “Just a bruise and a slight ligament strain to the ulna. As far as football’s concerned, you’re either going to have to rest it or deal with the discomfort until it fully heals.”
“Discomfort’s not a problem. Neither is playing in pain,” I said, with Mom giving me a look that told me a lecture was coming.
We got home just before midnight. Galaxy greeted us at the front door, jumping up for attention. I had to rub him under his neck using my right arm.
Mom tried to give me that your health is more important than football speech. But I let out a yawn and rubbed my eyes, using exhaustion as an excuse to duck it.
@TravisG_Gator Beauchamp Bobcats 3-0. I’m ranked in the Top-10 QBs in FL again. This is either heaven or a great dream. Nobody pinch me.
Carter’s Take
Travis showed up at the complex Saturday morning with his left arm in a sling, asking Coach Harkey the best way to heal a bruised elbow. Coach didn’t tell him anything I wouldn’t have—heat, ice, rest, and the whirlpool. But what he told Travis about his long-range plans for him sent up some red flags for me.
“What you really need is more muscle on those bones,” Harkey said. “That’s something you and I will work on over time. Pads don’t protect bones from breaking—flesh does. The more muscle tone you have, the healthier you’ll stay playing this game, especially at quarterback.”
“I get that just from lifting more?” Travis asked.
“That, and what you put into your body,” Harkey said.
“I’m developing some new, high-protein shakes. I’ve used them with several Gators already. Turn you right around, into a Mr. Universe type. But that’s way in the future for you.”
That comment made me think about how much time Harkey had spent with Alex, going beyond blood, sweat, and tears. I’d never witnessed Coach H. do anything that wasn’t on the up-and-up or even heard whispers from other players about it. But this was my baby brother, and I determined to keep my eyes wide open.
“Is that how you got those biceps to bulge?” Travis asked me.
“I wish it was that simple, bro. You’ve been through the workouts with us. You’ve seen what it takes.”
“Your brother’s a different animal, a different personality,” said Harkey. “His body gains that mass just by doing the work. Then again, you’ve got those same genes.”
“Yeah, but what about when you’re injured?” Travis asked.
“I think Coach had it right from the beginning,” I told Travis. “Stick with all the smart and simple things. You took that hit just last night. Your elbow will come around.”
“I’ve only got two weeks,” Travis said. “That’s when we play Lincoln.”
“You can’t think that way,” I told him. “Football shouldn’t dictate your life.”
Those words came out of my mouth real easily. But I understood exactly what Travis was feeling. I’d felt that way myself, maybe right up until the moment that Alex died.
The Gainesville Sentinel
Section D/Sports – Columnists
Gators Get Off Easy through Self-Scru
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Karen Wolfendale
The NCAA’s Committee on Infractions announced yesterday its plan to impose a series of penalties on the Gainesville University football program. This comes in response to a pair of incidents in which past players received illegal benefits from boosters. The penalties include the loss of eight scholarships and eight practices across the next three seasons, a total only slightly greater than the university’s proposed penalty of six scholarships and six practices. Other universities with similar problems, such as the University of Southern California, Ohio State, and Miami, had previously received stiffer punishments. The NCAA probe of the Gainesville football program began following reports that student-athletes had accepted cash payments from local boosters.
“We uncovered it, reported it, and addressed it. Now we’ll move on,” said Head Coach Elvis Goddard, who had already cut program ties with the boosters involved.
The university’s internal investigation began after the NCAA’s notice of an inquiry into charges made by several former players. NCAA members found insufficient evidence of payouts beyond one student-athlete accepting a discount on a flat-screen TV and a pair of student-athletes being overpaid for work as members of a restaurant waitstaff.
“I don’t know why those former players made those claims,” said Goddard. “Football is an extremely emotional game. There are hurt feelings everywhere. That will never change.”
The Gators football program did not receive an NCAA ban on participation in post-season bowl games, which would have cost the university millions of dollars in revenue.
Chapter 21
The night after I hurt my elbow, the Gators hosted the University of Mississippi Rebels. About an hour before the game, Coach Goddard tapped me hello on the left arm. It hurt like anything. But I wouldn’t even flinch, not wanting him to think I was the kind of quarterback who bellyached over every bump and bruise.
“Looking forward to another big win, Coach?” I asked.
