The Rookie Bookie

by L. Jon Wertheim

  “What do you mean ‘use it’?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m writing a book about our, um, adventure,” she said. “It started when I was suspended and then grounded, too. I started to write down everything that had happened and the words kept coming out.”

  “It is a pretty good story.”

  “You’re telling me. Who knows? I may even write it in your voice.”

  “What are you calling it?”

  “I’m thinking about The Rookie Bookie.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Just do us both one favor: Don’t leave that notebook hanging around where people can find it.”

  CHAPTER 16

  PART OF THE TEAM

  After Jamie had to leave, I was collecting our notes and empty ginger ale cans when Dad poked his head into the room. “What are you up to?” he said, so I explained about my brilliant plan to help Jonasburg beat Clarksville.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Sounds like surreptitious skullduggery.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said, changing the subject. “Your mother and I are going out tonight. Kevin is babysitting.”

  “No, he’s not,” I corrected him. “Unless you and Mom have a third child I don’t know about, there are no babies who need sitting. Kevin and I both happen to be home alone tonight and he just happens to be older. That’s all.”

  “Whatever,” Dad said, making fun of me. “And don’t be so concerned with titles. It makes you seem like you’re a part of Corporate America, working for The Man.”

  “What-EV-er. Where are you guys going to tonight, anyway?” I asked.

  “It’s that PTA benefit for the school,” he said. “Mom made a huge statue of a whale, for the Jonasburg Whales, that they’re going to auction off.”

  They left about a half hour later, and boy, did they look different. Dad was wearing a shirt that had a collar and no writing on it, a belt around his waist, pants that weren’t jeans, and shoes that weren’t made of canvas. Mom’s hair was all neat, she was wearing a dress, and she had on lipstick.

  So it was just me and Kevin. (Or Kevin and me.)

  When people ask me, “Do you get along with your brother?” I roll my eyes and wrinkle up my nose. I suspect Kevin does the same thing when he gets asked about me. But the truth is, deep down, I actually… well, put it this way: It could be a lot worse. And I especially like Kevin (there, I said it) when we’re home alone.

  I couldn’t wait to show him some of the “nuggets” about his team that Jamie and I had dug up. “Look,” I said. “Your team has been called for only one holding penalty all year! Tell the guys on the offensive line they need to be more aggressive! And, look here: Clarksville has been called for seventeen offside penalties this season. Seventeen!”

  Kevin didn’t share my enthusiasm.

  “Maybe you don’t understand this because you don’t play football,” he said. “But when another guy is trying to tackle you and grind you into the ground, you’re not thinking about the ‘percentage of this’ and ‘number of times that’ and all the other nerd stuff. No offense.”

  But I wasn’t done. “Kevin, if I told you that saying a certain word, or wearing a certain color shirt, or wearing a certain kind of cologne, would give you a better chance of impressing a pretty girl, would you do it? It wouldn’t guarantee anything, but it would give you a better chance.”

  “Probably,” he said, shrugging. “Yeah, sure.”

  “But you’re not thinking about statistics and numbers and ‘nerd stuff’ when you talk to girls, are you?”

  “Okay,” he sighed. “I get your point.”

  I showed him the sheets I had printed and we started “geeking out” (that’s what Kevin called it) over the nuggets.

  “I’m telling you, Mitch, this is almost like cheating,” he said.

  “But it’s not,” I assured him. “All this information is floating around out there, available to anyone.”

  “If,” said Kevin arching his eyebrow and grinning, “they know where to look.”

  We gave each other a high five.

  Mom and Dad hadn’t looked much like Mom and Dad when they’d left home. But when they got back, I barely recognized them.

  I was awake in bed, but even if I had been asleep, they would have woken me up. They barged in and were almost yelling with excitement.

  “Mitch, we did it!” said Dad. “We listened to your advice and we did it!”

  “Huh? Did what? Listened how?”

  “At the auction!” he said. I swear he was almost hyperventilating.

  “What?”

  Mom cut Dad off. “Before the auction started, they asked us what the statue was worth. Where should they start the bidding? I was going to give them a number, but then I remembered what you always said: Something is worth what another person is willing to pay for it.”

  “So we didn’t say anything,” Dad explained. “We just told them to start taking bids.”

  “And then it got interesting,” Mom said. “They showed a photo of the statue on the screen and everyone gasped. One man with slicked-back hair and these fancy eyeglasses said, ‘Ten thousand dollars!’ People got really excited, and the auctioneer started banging his gavel. Before he did the whole ‘going once, going twice’ thing, a woman in the fanciest dress I’ve ever seen shouted, ‘Fifteen thousand dollars!’ ”

  “Whoa,” said Kevin, who had entered the room. “You could buy a car for that much money.”

  Dad kept going. “This man and this woman were on opposite sides of the room and they were going back and forth, driving up the price. The whole audience was cheering, like they were watching a football game.”

  “Finally the two bidders made an agreement,” Mom said, taking over again. “They would both buy it, put both their names on it, and donate it to the school. So from now on, everyone walking through the front door will walk past the King-Montgomery whale statue, created by yours truly, Janet Sloan.”

  “Cool!” Kevin and I said together.

  “How much did it finally go for?” I asked.

  “Art has no price,” Mom said, sticking her nose up in the air. “But they said that my whale statue alone raised enough money to meet their goal for the whole year!”

  “Wait,” Dad said. “Tell them the best part.”

  “Oh, right,” Mom said, still lighting up the room with her smile. “When everyone had calmed down, the woman who bid so high—Mrs. Montgomery—came up to me, introduced herself, and asked if I could make her a smaller version that she could have for her home. Of course I said yes, and she actually hugged me! Then she told someone else, who told someone else, who told someone else. And suddenly I have eight appointments tomorrow at the store to sell miniature whale sculptures!”

  “It’s like what Mitch always says: ‘Word of mouth is really powerful’! Right?” Dad added.

  “Well, I may have said something like that once or twice,” I said. “Oh, and when you make the little whales, guys, don’t make too many.”

  “We know,” Dad said proudly. “We already talked about that. If we make so many that they’re not rare, the price will go down.”

  “Supply and demand,” Mom added.

  The next morning, I wasn’t sure if I’d just fallen asleep again after that—or if I’d totally passed out.

  For weeks I had been looking forward to the season-ending football game between Jonasburg and Clarksville. It was a day away, which meant this would be the last football practice of the season. Which meant this would be my last day cleaning up the locker rooms.

  Honestly, it never really felt like that much of a punishment (as long as I could stay away from Clint Grayson). I mean, if I never had to pick up a Gatorade bottle again, that would be fine with me. But I kind of liked feeling like I was a part of the team—even if I never put on a uniform or a helmet. I liked talking with Coach Williams. And I liked talking with Mr. Eads, too.

  On this day, Mr. Eads was already folding uniforms when
I arrived. And he was wearing a Jonasburg football sweatshirt that said EADS on the back, with a number 55.

  “Cool jersey!” I said.

  “Yeah, I wear it every year before the Clarksville game. Not sure if it’s good luck or bad luck, but I figure at least the kids know I’m supporting them.”

  “Why did you choose number fifty-five?” I asked.

  “I didn’t,” he said. “Coach Williams gave it to me a few years back when I turned fifty-five. I don’t even know how he found out it was my birthday. That’s the kind of guy he is.”

  The thought hung in the air. Then Mr. Eads shook his head. “Be a shame to lose a guy like that.”

  “You heard, too, huh?” I said.

  “Whole town is talking about it—” Mr. Eads stopped abruptly and looked over my shoulder. “Speak of the devil!”

  I turned around, and there was Coach Williams. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept since summer vacation. His face was covered with the beginning of a beard and looked like a field that needed mowing. His hair spiked out in different directions. The bags around his eyes looked like doughnuts.

  Still, he was cheerful, the way a real leader is supposed to be. “Hey, guys! Great work on the uniforms all season. We may not win every game—well, far from it—but thanks to you, Eads, we always look better than the other guys!”

  Mr. Eads just nodded, but I could tell that Coach Williams had made his day. “Mitch,” the coach went on. “Come see me one second, if you could.”

  I followed him into his office. It reminded me of walking into the office of Assistant Principal Allegra. On the wall there was a picture of Coach Williams from when he played football at Indiana University. He looked a lot happier then. There was also a picture of his family, his wife and their two kids, who looked to be about eight and six. It made me sad to think that if Jonasburg lost to Clarksville, their dad was going to get fired and they would probably have to move to a different school. Sort of like I had.

  “You got any football advice for an old man?” he asked.

  I sure did.

  I asked Coach Williams if he remembered this situation from the game against Bloomington High School North: Jonasburg had the ball past midfield, near the 35-yard line. It was fourth down and three yards to go. It was out of reach for the Jonasburg kicker to attempt a field goal, so Coach Williams decided to punt. The punt landed in the end zone, a touchback, and Bloomington North started with the ball back at their own twenty-yard line.

  “Yes, I remember,” he said. “Why do you bring it up?”

  “Well, why did you decide to punt?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” he said, shrugging. “I guess that’s what my gut said to do.”

  “But why did your gut say to punt?”

  “Because it was fourth down,” he said flatly. “That’s what you do, last time I checked.”

  Check again, I thought to myself.

  “You decided not to kick a field goal, which was smart. And you decided not to go for it on fourth down and you punted instead. The Cougars got the ball back on the twenty-yard line.”

  “Right…”

  “So look at it this way. If you go for it on fourth-and-three, the chances of making it are around fifty percent. A coin flip. So you either succeed, stay on offense, and maybe score a touchdown. Or you fail. But what happens when you fail? The other team gets the ball at the thirty-five-yard line. Only fifteen yards better off than they would be if you had punted. Does that make sense?”

  “Sort of,” he said.

  “For fifteen lousy yards, wouldn’t you take a fifty-fifty chance that you’ll keep the ball and let your offense stay on the field?”

  “Well, yeah,” Coach Williams said. “If you had explained it to me that way at the time, I definitely would have gone for it on fourth down.”

  “And that would have been the right move,” I added, to make sure he got the point.

  Coach Williams looked out, like he was staring at a point on the horizon only he could see. I could tell that he was deep in thought.

  “But let me ask you this, then,” he said. “In most cases, wouldn’t you be better off going for it on fourth down and not punting? I mean, if you want to hang on to the ball as much as possible, and you’re successful going for it on fourth half the time, and even when you fail you’re not giving up that many yards, shouldn’t you avoid punting just about every time?”

  “Just about,” I responded.

  “Interesting. Very interesting,” he said. “Must make sense sometimes to not attempt a field goal either, right?”

  “Yep,” I agreed. “You’re often better off keeping the ball and going for a touchdown than attempting the field goal. I know the three points are tempting, but if you keep the ball longer you might score a touchdown and you can always kick a field goal later if the drive stalls then.”

  Coach Williams whistled. “I know one kid who won’t be happy to hear that idea.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Clint Grayson. You know him?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, he and his dad are already talking about how he’s going to be the star kicker when he comes in next year as a freshman. Probably be the first freshman to start for the team in a decade. If he expects to be a star, and we don’t punt or kick field goals much, that could be a problem. Maybe he’ll need to learn to play another position.”

  I tried my hardest to hold back a smile. I had just gotten revenge on the biggest bully in school, and I hadn’t even planned it that way. I couldn’t wait to tell Jamie!

  Then Mr. Williams brought me back down to earth. “Of course, if I get fired after this season, who knows what‘ll happen? For all we know, a new coach might come in who will want to kick on third down.”

  “Or maybe we’ll win tomorrow and it won’t come to that,” I said hopefully. Then it occurred to me that maybe it sounded weird to say we’ll win, since I wasn’t part of the team. “Or you’ll win.”

  “No, you were right the first time. We’ll win. You’re part of this team now.”

  When we lived in California, every year they held a foot race from the San Francisco Bay to the Pacific Ocean. Most of the runners would go dressed in crazy costumes—circus clowns and avocados and bank robbers and Marilyn Monroes. Lots of Marilyn Monroes. If you lived somewhere else, you would probably think it was weird. But if you were from San Francisco, the race was a tradition and it seemed perfectly normal.

  Same thing with the Jonasburg-Clarksville football game. If you weren’t living in the area, you might think it was weird that so many people would get so worked up over a bunch of teenagers playing a high school football game. But it seemed normal to us. It was our Super Bowl.

  Everyone from both towns dressed in the colors of the school they supported. Before the game, the only traffic jam of the year happened as cars lined State Route 11, leading to the football stadium. The newspaper had a special section called “The Game.” The local radio station, WRUB, had a pregame show that started three hours before.

  Mom, Dad, and I listened to the show in the car while we were stuck in traffic. During an interview with Coach Williams, the host said, “How are you handling the pressure of a make-or-break game like this?”

  “We treat it like any other game,” Coach said, sounding calm.

  “Any tricks up your sleeve?” the man asked.

  Coach Williams chuckled. “We may have a few secret weapons on the sidelines tonight.”

  I did a little fist pump in the backseat when I heard that.

  Finally, the traffic moved, and I quickly left Mom and Dad to meet Jamie in front of the concession stand. Each of us brought a clipboard containing the “nuggets” we had discovered. Wearing “Full Access” badges around our necks, we walked right onto the field.

  It was like everyone was making preparations before showtime. The band was warming up. The cheerleaders were practicing their routines. The officials were stretching their legs. We were
on the sidelines near midfield when a familiar voice sliced through the air.

  “Hey, Mitchy. You and your girlfriend can’t be on the field. It’s only for players. And if we know anything, it’s that you’re not a player.”

  It was Clint Grayson, the human rash. And he was coming right at me.

  CHAPTER 17

  SECRET WEAPON

  Before Jamie could say something—probably about his awful breath—I just smiled and pointed to our badges.

  He stopped in his tracks, shocked. “It’ll be different next year,” he managed to get out, “when I’m on the varsity team and you’ll be up in the bleachers cheering for me.”

  “That’s what you think,” Jamie muttered under her breath.

  We smiled at each other.

  At 6:30, the team ran onto the field. The cheerleaders held up some giant paper wall in the shape of a J. Kevin broke through and the rest of the team followed. On the Jonasburg side, the crowd went bananas, while the Clarksville side booed. When Clarksville ran out, it was the other way around.

  I watched as Coach Williams walked onto the field. He took an extra long look at the bleachers and the band and the whole crazy scene. Then he took a deep breath. When he saw us, he jogged right over. “My secret weapons!” he exclaimed, bumping our fists. “Don’t leave my side!”

  Two players from each team trotted to the middle of the field for the coin flip. Jonasburg won, and chose to receive the kickoff. Coach Williams turned to us. “Any last-minute advice?”

  “Let Kevin return the kick,” Jamie said, remembering our discovery: When Kevin had the ball in his hands, Jonasburg gained almost three times as many yards as they did otherwise.

  Without even looking over at us, Coach Williams yelled out to the team, “Let Sloan field it!” Sure enough, the ball spun through the air and came to Kevin, who was standing at the twenty-yard line. As soon as he cradled it, he started running. He wasn’t tackled until he was at midfield, which meant he’d run it back thirty yards—almost the exact average we had calculated.