Top Prospect

by Paul Volponi

  Coach G. raised his head and then shoved the phone back at the player who’d given it to him. “This is our publicity department’s fault, not anyone’s here. I’ll take care of this. Meanwhile, I don’t need to see or hear any more from my players on it. Shake hands and bury it right now. And if the press gets word of this little spat, you’ll all have to deal with me.”

  Then Coach G. marched into his office to make a phone call.

  After I finally read the tweet, I understood what all the fuss had been about. But a few minutes later, without Travis doing a thing, that tweet had magically changed to something more positive.

  When everything had calmed down, I made sure that Travis apologized to Billy one-on-one. Because if somebody around our squad had tweeted that first message about me, I would have wanted to confront him too.

  Later on, I told Travis, “You better learn what it means to be a good teammate. How not to point that finger of blame.”

  “Why? I face it all the time as a quarterback,” he said.

  “Believe me, Trav. You may not see it, but more people have your back than you realize.”

  Chapter 26

  All day Sunday, I put up with pain in my elbow. On top of that, my stomach ached. I felt nauseous, probably from all the Tylenol.

  NFL games were on at one, four, and 8:30 p.m., but I didn’t turn on the TV or check any of the scores. I used to watch every play of every game religiously with Carter and my friends. We’d polish off big bags of Doritos and down a few gallons of Sunny D. During halftime, we’d go outside and toss a football, reenacting the game highlights. That was some of the most fun I ever had. But things had changed. I lived and breathed football 24/7.

  Dad called me around nine. I remembered what Carter had said about not believing in fairy tales. So I decided to cut Dad some slack over staying in Los Angeles. But as soon as I did, his latest update slapped me in the face.

  “Here’s the new plan. I’m very excited about it,” Dad said. “I’m moving down to San Diego next month. There are a lot more opportunities there in the insurance field. The weather’s absolutely beautiful. It’s always—”

  “Wait, let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re changing cities. You’re starting your business over from nothing. But you’re not coming back to Florida to do it?”

  “I thought we’d been through this already, Travis.”

  “We have. And you know what? Don’t come back,” I said. “Living in Cali, there are fewer chances for you to disappoint me.”

  “Travis, I can hear how—”

  I didn’t let him finish.

  Dad called me back within five minutes. Only, I wouldn’t pick up, and I wouldn’t listen to the voice mail he left either.

  * * *

  On Monday, I got to the cafeteria a minute before the changing bell rang. As kids in the lunch period ahead of mine got ready to leave, I grabbed a seat at Lyn’s usual table, shoving aside a dirty lunch tray.

  “Mr. Gardner, every student at Beauchamp is responsible for his or her own garbage. Please dispose of that tray properly.”

  It was Mrs. Harper. I guess she had agreed to do lunch duty for an absent teacher, because I’d never seen her patrolling the student cafeteria before.

  She stood next to my chair, looking down at me.

  “It’s not mine,” I said. “I just got here.”

  “I saw you touch it, Mr. Gardner,” she said. “That makes it yours.”

  When Mrs. Harper’s fingers landed on the edge of the table, I pushed the tray against them.

  “There, now you touched it,” I said. “It must be yours. Throw it out.”

  “That will earn you a detention slip.”

  “I figured Wolverine’s grandma would like going through the garbage.”

  I was so mad I hadn’t even noticed that Lyn showed up.

  “Travis, calm down. Before you get suspended,” Lyn said, getting between me and Mrs. Harper. “I’ll throw out the stupid tray.”

  Mrs. Harper finally walked away, and I figured that was that. But a few minutes later, Ms. Orsini came and took me to her guidance office.

  “Travis, what happened?” Ms. Orsini asked. “Did you really do what Mrs. Harper’s claiming?”

  I explained the whole situation. But the more I talked, the more she looked disappointed in me.

  “You’re going to need to apologize to Mrs. Harper,” she said.

  “For what? Not letting her push me around?” I stormed out of Ms. Orsini’s office, kicking a chair outside her door.

  The school called Mom, and when I got home, she scolded me for a half-hour straight. I’d calmed down a lot by then, and just let her go off on me.

  In the end, I had to apologize to Mrs. Harper, in person and in writing, to not be suspended. I wound up apologizing to Ms. Orsini too, because I wanted to.

  “My temper just ran away with me,” I told her. “I’m really sorry. You’re my favorite teacher.”

  “Thank you,” Ms. Orsini said. “We all lose it sometimes. Now you have to look in the mirror and ask yourself, why?”

  I thought it could be my elbow pain or the pressure of playing losing football. But that wasn’t about to come out of my mouth.

  “I’m not sure. I was having an okay day up until then,” I said.

  “Well, when you figure it out, I’m always here to listen,” she said.

  I should have told her about Dad staying in California. At least I could have gotten that off my chest.

  Chapter 27

  Pain didn’t matter to me anymore. I needed a win in the worst way. Another loss and I’d be three and three as a high school quarterback, nothing but average. The rest of our guys were feeling the pressure too. But I had a special kind of stress to deal with, since Aiden Conroy had become the starting quarterback for our next opponent, Citrus High.

  “We’ll use our normal audibles—tango, bravo, and Omaha,” Pisano explained at practice. “But each one will mean something different now. Whatever Aiden told the Citrus coaching staff about our offensive keys will come back to bite them.”

  “Then we can change those audibles back and really mess with their minds,” I said.

  “You’re beginning to learn how the game works,” said Pisano. “Just make sure it doesn’t work you. Don’t let your emotions take over your judgment out there.”

  “I’m definitely hyped to outplay him,” I said.

  “Remember, you have a whole team behind you. Everyone needs to carry part of the load. Your shoulders aren’t that wide, not even in pads.”

  On Thursday, I took three Tylenol just to practice. Before warm-up exercises, Cortez and a few other guys on our defense came up to me.

  “Everything’s buried from last week, all the arguing and bad feelings,” Cortez said, with his brothers on D agreeing. “This is one team with one goal: win tomorrow night. We’re going to carry you there if we have to.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll use my own two legs,” I said, giving each guy a pound. “But if you’re going to give me an extra push, I’ll take it.”

  Mom sat shotgun as I did my homework that night. I had a science quiz the next day on the periodic table of elements. I almost got a migraine headache trying to memorize all of the symbols. To me, it looked like an uneven football field, with the table’s boxes being the yard markers. There was even a red zone at one end of it.

  “You really look out of it,” Mom said. “Why don’t you take some aspirin?”

  I shook my head. The periodic table’s symbols were way more complicated than my wristband of football plays. And I went to bed cursing whoever invented such a stupid thing.

  Lying between my sheets, I couldn’t get comfortable. I was concentrating on keeping my weight off my left arm. Then, the thought of losing to Aiden started creeping in. I imaged having to shake his hand at midfield after the game. But every time my hand was about to touch his, I scrubbed the image from my mind.

  I eventually lay flat on my back, with my elbow on
a pillow. The blanket began to feel heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe. So I tossed it. I’m not sure when I finally fell asleep. I remember sweating a lot. I woke up almost an hour before my alarm went off, with my mouth feeling drier than a desert. Only, I was too exhausted to get up for a glass of water. And I spent the rest of the time staring at the clock, watching the lighted numbers change.

  * * *

  School that Friday was mostly a blur to me. Everybody wanted to talk about the game. I’d just smile and shut out their words. On my science exam, I knew to write Te when I saw tellurium because Carter was a tight end—TE. And I knew to write Fe when I saw iron, because Alex played ball at Santa Fe High. I wished the periodic table had a QB element, but there wasn’t one. During math, I kept my eyes glued to my notebook. I doodled at the top of the page, refusing to even look at Mrs. Harper.

  I sat on the side during Pisano’s PE class with my face buried inside our playbook, even though half the time my eyes were shut trying to catch up on lost sleep.

  Mom came home early from work that day and made sandwiches for dinner. She put a fresh-cut roll on my plate and then laid out sliced turkey, ham, olive loaf, and cheese in the middle of the table so I could make my own hero.

  “Sorry we don’t have everything here to make an official Travis G. Gator,” Mom said, still wearing her green hygienist’s outfit.

  “That’s all right,” I said, as Mom sat down across from me. “I’ve had my fill of those. I don’t really like provolone.”

  I picked out every olive inside the olive loaf and piled them on a napkin.

  Mom shook her head. “I don’t know why you ask me to buy that, Travis. Without the olives, it’s the same as bologna, only more expensive.”

  “I like the taste they leave behind,” I said, putting potato chips on top of the meat. Then I closed the bread and listened for the crunch before deciding which flavor Gatorade I wanted.

  “How’s your elbow feeling?”

  “Fine,” I answered, making sure to twist off the cap with my left arm. “Not even tender anymore.”

  “Think you’re going to win tonight?” she asked, spreading mayo over her bread and not the turkey.

  “Think?” I said. “I know I’m going to win.”

  “Well, win or lose, you’re still my son.”

  “Yeah, I know that too. That’s cool for birthday cards,” I said. “Not for talk before a football game. Besides, wouldn’t you rather have a son who’s a winner?”

  “Yes. But to me, that’s determined by the decisions you make off the football field.”

  All I could do was nod my head. Before I left the house, I went to my underwear drawer and swallowed some Tylenol. Just two pills, though. I put another two into my pocket. My plan was to take them in a couple of hours, right before kickoff.

  * * *

  During the warm-ups, Aiden got booed by the Beauchamp student body. On the field, he kept his mouth shut and acted like our guys didn’t exist. But plenty of Bobcats had something to say to him. Guys on our offensive line called him a traitor. And before the game, some guys on the Bobcat defense put a bounty on Aiden. They’d kicked in twenty bucks each, ready to give the whole pot to whoever laid the hardest lick on him.

  Citrus High won the coin toss and took the football first. For the moment, the pressure was off me. It was on Aiden to try and score, and on our defense to stop him. On Aiden’s first pass attempt, our D-line chased him out of the pocket, running him down from behind. I started clapping. The crowd let out an extra cheer when Aiden got off the ground with a big clod of dirt and grass dangling from his face mask.

  Our defense forced Citrus to punt, going three-and-out. Once the Bobcats had possession, I took a deep breath and jogged onto the field.

  Pisano called for a screen pass to one of our running backs. I floated him the football without any real pain. Next came a short pass to a receiver in the flat, just five or six yards downfield. I connected on that too, giving us a first down. After that, our fullback exploded up the middle for a fifteen-yard run. The crowd was completely stoked.

  I started barking out our normal audibles at the line of scrimmage, the ones Aiden must have told their coaching staff about.

  “Bravo! Three fifty-four!” I hollered.

  Citrus had been in a good defensive set to begin with. But their players started shifting all over the place, expecting something different. Then we ran the exact same play I’d called in the huddle, leading to another solid gain. The Citrus defense was spinning in circles over those new audibles, and Pisano had a grin on his face a mile wide.

  I connected on another safe pass. Only, this time, Citrus had shifted its coverage off our receiver, turning a short gain into a long one. My elbow felt good enough. I’d found myself a groove. And most importantly, I was moving the chains, getting first down after first down, keeping Aiden on his bench.

  A few plays later, we had reached the Citrus eighteen-yard line. I spotted a receiver turning open in the end zone, between a pair of defenders. The window wasn’t big, so I knew I had to put some gas on the throw. I reared back and let the football fly, harder than I had in nearly a month. I felt that sharp twinge—but seeing the tight spiral speeding through the air made the pain worth it. Then I heard the thhht of the ball sticking in my receiver’s hands.

  “Touchdown!” I screamed, raising my arms up over my head.

  I was starving for more. Two offensive series later, I had a good chance at tasting it again. I’d just sent the Citrus D into scramble mode with another audible. My protection was great, so I stood tall in the pocket waiting for a Beauchamp receiver to come free.

  Suddenly, I spotted one of my receivers almost forty yards downfield, all alone. His defender must have fallen. My heart jumped—but a second later, I wished my teammate was ten yards closer. I reared back and prepared for the shock to my elbow, putting all of my weight behind the throw. Airing that ball out was like sticking a finger into an electric socket—zap.

  I grimaced as the ball hung in the sky. My pass might have been five yards short. But my receiver made the adjustment, slowing down and coming back for it.

  Then I dropped to my knees when the shock wouldn’t subside.

  The ball landed in my receiver’s arms, and he streaked past the Citrus goal line, untouched. Even the intense satisfaction of a 14–0 lead couldn’t match the pain I was feeling.

  When I got to the sideline, I avoided everyone, including our trainer. I didn’t want anybody bumping my elbow by accident. Taking a spot at the end of our bench, I slowly bent it at the joint, testing it out.

  Out on the field, Aiden got lucky. Our defense had him under intense pressure in the pocket. One of our D-linemen even had an arm around his waist but couldn’t bring him to the ground. Aiden stepped forward and threw the ball up for grabs. Downfield, two of our defenders got their feet tangled together as they leaped for it. They knocked each other over as the Citrus receiver made the catch and walked in for the score.

  We had some luck run our way too. With less than a minute to go in the second quarter, I pitched the ball to our tailback, who swept wide to the right. The entire Citrus defense shifted outside to meet him, including whoever was supposed to stay at home in the middle of the field. That’s when our runner saw a huge open seam and cut the play back inside.

  There was nothing in front of him but eighty yards of green grass.

  Those last twenty-five yards or so, as he turned on the after-burners just for fun, I glanced down at the 88 on my cleats.

  No way he’ll ever be as fast as you, fam, I thought.

  At halftime, we had a 21–7 lead.

  “Somebody go ask Aiden Conroy which locker room he’d rather be in right now,” Pisano hollered.

  Right away, I put my left elbow in a bucket of ice water, resting my helmet beneath my armpit. I tried to relax as best as I could, enjoying the score.

  That’s when Pisano said to me, “Nothing’s really going their way on defense. Expe
ct them to start blitzing and sending everybody after you. If I was coaching Citrus, it would absolutely be my plan.”

  “I know it’s coming,” I said, submerging my elbow a little deeper.

  “Don’t take any chances with the ball,” Pisano continued. “We’ve got a nice margin. Just stay steady.”

  “I hear you,” I said.

  Pisano was right. The Citrus defense began blitzing me on nearly every play of the second half. Every time I dropped back to pass, I was under siege.

  Citrus brought extra pass rushers off the right and left edges or sent linebackers through the gaps on our O-line. I played smart football, throwing a couple of passes out of bounds. I wasn’t worried about stats or my QB ranking. It was all about winning, about beating Aiden Conroy and going 4-2, not 3-3.

  In the third quarter, Citrus sacked me three times. But I bounced back after each one to show them those hits weren’t anything, no matter how much they stung. Their D stopped responding to our audible keys. I guess their coaches had a new game plan—pummel the quarterback.

  Sometimes I could see the blitzes coming and identified my hot receiver, who’d be left in man-to-man coverage. But my elbow still hurt from the forty-yard heave I had uncorked on my last TD throw, and now my passes were suffering from it.

  Early in the fourth quarter, Aiden got another lucky break when one of our defenders missed a sure tackle on a short pass. The Citrus receiver went all the way for the score. Then, on the kickoff to us, our return man fumbled the football through the back of the end zone. That gave Citrus another gift—two more points on a safety.

  In less than twelve seconds of game clock, our lead had been cut by nine points, down to 21–16. Aiden Conroy was only a touchdown away from me.

  For a few seconds, every muscle in my body went super-tight, like they’d been stretched from goal line to goal line. So I picked up a ball and took some light practice throws. I didn’t care about the pain. I just needed to feel the football coming out of my hand.

  On the field, my passes were losing more and more steam, even when I put extra strain on my elbow. I concentrated on playing it safe, diffusing the Citrus blitzes with short swing passes and plenty of running plays. I was managing the offense and keeping us out of trouble. I hadn’t put up any scores yet in the fourth quarter. But I was moving the chains, eating up the clock, and, most importantly, not committing turnovers.