by Tim Green
7
Up close, Coach McMahan was kind of scary. His smile was still bright, as were his blue eyes, but something in those eyes seemed to look right through Cory. He put an arm around Cory’s shoulder pads and looked at Coach Mellon. “Mind if I borrow him for a few minutes so we can talk?”
“Whatever you need, Coach,” Coach Mellon said obediently, reminding Cory of Liam’s mutt, Alice. She was the sweetest dog Cory had ever seen, and when Liam got home from school, he’d croon to her like a baby and scratch her ears. Alice would tremble and wag and piddle right down her leg. Cory looked for a wet mark on Coach Mellon’s pants and bit back a smile. Scolding himself for thinking silly things when he was on the edge of a whole new life, Cory followed the HBS coach.
“Sit down, Cory.” Coach McMahan pointed to the end of the bench, out of listening range of the entire team. Cory sat and Coach McMahan took the spot next to him. “Being admitted to HBS isn’t just about sports—despite what people say. It’s about academics and character, too. Those are every bit as important as athletic performance. Howard Bissinger was a philanthropist who stood for the complete man.”
Coach McMahan gave Cory a look that dared him to think otherwise.
“Yes, sir,” Cory said, nodding. Now it was starting to make sense. Cory was one of the top students in his school, and he had a reputation not only for following the rules but for kindness to others. His teammates were pretending not to notice that he was sitting there with the HBS coach, but he knew they couldn’t keep their eyes off him. Pride crept through him, and he had to smile.
“Good.” The coach clapped Cory on the back. “That’s why I need you to be totally honest with me. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.” Cory felt he might burst.
“About Liam.”
Cory blinked at those blue eyes, trying to read them, but coming up with a blank page. “Sir?”
“Liam.” Coach McMahan nodded out toward the middle of the field where Liam was winning some sort of tag game. “Your coaches say no one knows him better than you.”
Cory heard a tremendous sucking sound in his brain, like the flush of the toilets at school where the water roared through the pipes from the pressure. Through the noise, he heard his own crumbling voice. “Yeah, Liam is great. He’s the best.”
“He’s got a brother who’s a bad egg, though?” Coach McMahan raised an eyebrow. “Gets rough with him sometimes, I hear.”
Cory nodded without thinking. His brain was pudding right now. “Yes, sir.”
“See, that’s good.” Coach McMahan gave Cory’s shoulder a little shake. He was terribly strong. “You’re not just feeding me gumdrops and candy canes. Does he do his homework and things like that?”
“Uh . . .” Cory didn’t want to out his friend, but he felt it would be even worse to lie to this man. “He’s not much on homework, but when he comes to my house after school, I have to do it, and he definitely does it with me.”
Coach McMahan rubbed his chin. “Hmm, well we’ve got tutors for that sort of thing. As long as he’s a good kid, no trouble, right?”
“No, sir.” Cory shook his head violently, glad to be off the subject of studying. “Last week Liam found a pair of shorts at the pool with five dollars in the pocket and he brought it to the lifeguard. That’s Liam.”
Coach McMahan beamed at him. “You can make up for a lot of other character flaws with some good old-fashioned honesty, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And no girlfriends or any of that kind of nonsense yet, huh?”
“No.” Cory smiled. He and Liam had a rule—no girls before the NFL.
“No smoking, drinking, or drugs?”
“No.” Cory shook his head so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised to see his ears take off like flying saucers.
“Excellent!” Coach McMahan stood up and so did Cory. “Say, why do they call you Flapjack?”
Cory sighed and looked away before he answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I guess sometimes I eat a little more than I should.” He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d been more embarrassed.
“Don’t we all?” Coach McMahan patted his iron stomach and grinned. “Hey, good luck out there today. Go get ’em.”
“Thanks, Coach.” There was nothing else Cory could do besides jog off toward the gang of teammates now swarming around Coach Mellon in the end zone.
The Cicero Falcons arrived at the field, and after brief warm-ups, eleven of Glenwood Cougars’ finest took the field to battle them. While Cory stewed in shame for thinking Coach McMahan might actually have had a place for him, Liam ran wild out on the field. Cory didn’t know if it was because Liam knew Coach McMahan was watching, or if it was just that his stars were all lined up perfectly, but by halftime Liam had run 126 yards and scored two touchdowns. The only reason he didn’t have more was because the Cougars quarterback had a serious case of the fumbles. Three times he lost the snap in the red zone before being yanked from the game and replaced by the backup quarterback late in the second quarter.
The fumbles, along with a dozen penalties, cost the team the lead. They were down 28–14, and during halftime, with the boys all sitting cross-legged on the grass in the end zone sucking on orange wedges, Coach Mellon stomped among them like an ogre. Cory wondered how much was a show for Coach McMahan’s benefit—Mellon wanting to impress the HBS coach with his intensity and toughness. Real or not, three kids got clunked on the head by Coach Mellon’s clipboard.
Whether it was the clipboard or the yelling, the Cougars began the second half like a house on fire. Their defense forced the Falcons to punt after three plays, and then Liam led the march right back down the field. They were on the goal line ready to score when Liam ran a toss sweep to the strong side, where the defense was waiting for him.
And then it happened—almost like in a movie—all slow motion. Cory saw the hits from the defense on Liam—one high and one low—and then Liam’s shriek pierced the air.
Everyone in the stands gasped at the same time, then went strangely quiet. Players from both teams backed away from the mess that had been Liam’s knee only moments ago. Liam paused only to snatch a breath of his own before screaming again. Coach Mellon came unstuck from his spot on the sideline and dashed out with the other two coaches flanking him. Liam’s ferocious brother vaulted the chain-link fence and beat everyone to his brother’s twisted shape.
Cory swallowed to keep his Cocoa Puffs breakfast down. He knew every dream Liam had ever dreamed had just come to a quick and painful end.
8
The ambulance came within minutes and Liam was put on a board with his ruined leg strapped down to keep it from moving. He was loaded into the back of the ambulance that took off, siren blaring, as his teammates stood by, silent and watching helplessly.
Cory’s mom always said you could never look back.
It was a saying Cory had grown tired of. Still, there it was in the front of his mind, exactly what she said you couldn’t do. The moment he couldn’t help looking back at was when he’d taken Liam’s place outside the Shamrock Club. Had he simply gone to practice instead of Liam, as Liam suggested, things would be different. Liam would have been late and Coach Mellon might not have started him in the game as a punishment. He might even have called a different play on the goal line, something less flashy than a toss sweep to show off his speed. Maybe a run up the gut, banging and battering through a bunch of big linemen to make him really work for the touchdown.
Whatever else, even if Liam had ended up getting hurt, Cory wouldn’t have been late and he wouldn’t be buried in the depth chart beneath Reggie Mann. Was it wrong to think of himself? Right or wrong, he couldn’t help it. Liam wasn’t the only one with dreams.
Reggie Mann, now the second-string running back, took Liam’s place. On the second play, Reggie got stood up at the line and coughed up yet another Cougars fumble. Four plays later, during a Falcons punt, Reggie got laid out on a blindside hit t
hat left him teary eyed. Cory clenched his hands and tasted the rubbery flavor of his mouthpiece as Coach Mellon looked him over and walked away. Cory hovered around Reggie, who sat defeated on the bench while the Cougars defense made a stand. He wanted to tell Reggie to take it easy, that he’d be happy to go in . . .
But before he knew it, Coach Mellon appeared and barked something about needing to be tough. Reggie gave a nod, snapped up his helmet, and jogged out to the field to join the offensive huddle.
Cory’s insides clenched and twisted. That could have been him, with a chance to shine.
He turned around and saw that, yes, Coach McMahan still stood at the top of the bleachers with the brim of his cap pulled low, a pencil in one hand, and a notepad in the other. Even with Liam out of the action, the HBS coach had decided to stick around. The cruelty of missing such a chance crusted Cory’s heart with bitterness.
But still, hope—like summer weeds—sprang up in Cory’s chest, making him tense.
The Falcons defense must have smelled blood. When Reggie ran upright through the B gap, he got slammed by the middle linebacker. People doing yard work halfway across the city probably heard the hit. Reggie dropped to the ground. Cory trembled as the coaches went out to help Reggie off the field.
Cory’s fingers groped for his helmet resting beneath the bench. He fumbled with the chinstrap, buckling up, ready for action.
He took a deep breath and stepped right up to Coach Mellon, meeting his eyes.
What happened next was hard to believe.
9
“I’m here, Coach,” Cory said.
But Coach Mellon looked past him, searching the sideline until he saw Gunnar Miller. Gunnar was only a backup wide receiver, but he was one of the fastest kids on the team. Coach Mellon brushed right past Cory and put his hands on Gunnar’s shoulder pads.
“You can do this, Gunnar,” Coach Mellon said. “Just take the handoff and run through the hole we call in the huddle. Two, four, six to the right, one, three, five to the left. We’ll mostly run outside so you can use your speed, so seven and eight will be the big ones. Even is to the right, odd to the left.”
Even Cory could see the confusion—and maybe fear—in Gunnar’s eyes.
Cory tapped Coach Mellon’s arm. “Coach, I . . .”
Coach Mellon brushed Cory off like a mosquito. “Not now, Flapjack, not now!”
Cory watched Gunnar step onto the field, dipping his toe in the turf like it was a cold pool. Coach Mellon patted him on the butt. “You can do it, Gunnar! We can win this!”
Cory glanced back into the stands. Coach McMahan was still there, but he was talking with someone, not watching the game. Cory’s eyes went back out to the field, and he crept close to the coaches, standing directly in Coach Mellon’s shadow.
“Give me a forty-six sweep,” Coach Mellon barked at Coach Travis, who signaled the play to their quarterback.
On the snap of the ball, everyone went right, but Gunnar went left. The Cicero defense dropped him for a seven-yard loss. Coach Mellon cursed and slapped his own leg.
“He just doesn’t know,” Coach Travis said.
“Doesn’t know right from left? Odd from even?” Coach Mellon grabbed the hat off his own head and spun around, strangling it. “Try forty-five sweep.”
“You want me to just shout out to him to go left?” Coach Travis asked.
“You think the Cicero Falcons are deaf, Chuck?” Coach Mellon spun back toward the field and shook his head in disbelief.
“Right.” Coach Travis turned and signaled a forty-five sweep to the quarterback.
Gunnar ran the wrong way again, losing another four yards.
Cory glanced back at the stands. Coach McMahan was watching now. Cicero’s wild cheers for their defense had gotten his attention. Cory’s eyes found his mom, pretty and small and cheerful, standing to clap encouragement to the team. The woman next to her jumped up to shout, nearly knocking Cory’s mom over. Cory thought about the daisies his mom planted once. They were like her, sweet and delicate and pretty, surrounded by tough people from a rough neighborhood.
Pressure squeezed Cory’s chest, making it hard to breathe. He knew he was asking for trouble, but still, he tapped Coach Mellon on the back of his arm until he turned around. “Flapjack, what?”
“Coach, I know the plays. I can do this.”
Coach Mellon chewed on his lower lip, then glanced at Coach McMahan in the stands.
Coach Mellon sighed and wiped a hand over his face.
“Okay, Cory. Run a forty-two dive. Get in there.”
10
Cory dashed toward the huddle, yelling Gunnar’s name and waving for him to come off.
Too excited about his chance, he stumbled. Even from his perch at the top of the bleachers, Coach McMahan had to be able to hear the Falcons defensive players laughing. Cory dusted himself as he rose.
“Forty-two dive,” he told the quarterback.
“It’s third down,” complained one of the linemen. “Why don’t we pass?”
“Why don’t you shut up?” said the quarterback.
“C’mon guys,” Cory said. “Let’s do this. We can win this.”
The lineman rolled his eyes. “You and what army? Wait till you get blasted by these guys. You’ll be crying for your momma.”
Cory jammed his mouthpiece onto his upper teeth and bit down, staring hard at the quarterback. His insides burned with fury. The quarterback rolled his eyes and called the play. They went to the line.
The ball was snapped. Cory lunged forward, taking the handoff.
The first man to hit him was the defensive tackle, unblocked. Cory blasted into him and spun. The left side of the line had collapsed. Cory bolted right, ducked under the defensive end, and found some daylight. A linebacker dove at his knees. Cory high-stepped, tearing free, got hit again, and spun again. The safety was veering toward him like a heat-seeking missile. Cory lowered his shoulder and dropped the safety before plowing over the top of him. A linebacker came at him from the other side.
Cory held up his hand like a traffic cop, jamming the palm flat into the linebacker’s facemask and guiding his head into the turf before leaping over him. Then the field was wide open, nothing but a zebra—a referee—on the green. The goalpost waited for him like the gates to heaven, shiny and gold. He turned on all the speed he had.
Crossing the goal line in full stride, Cory ran right through the back of the end zone before turning to see the mess of bodies he’d left behind.
A Cougars stampede charged him. Cory laughed and let the slaps rain down on his helmet. He grinned and chuckled, smacking high fives with everyone, even the lineman who’d doubted him. Back on the sideline, Coach Mellon gave him a funny look. “That was pretty good, Flapjack. What got into you?”
Cory shrugged and forced himself not to look into the stands at Coach McMahan.
“Well . . .” Coach Mellon glanced at Coach Piccolo, who ran the defense. “Who goes in for Liam on D?”
Coach Piccolo consulted his clipboard and flipped a page. “Uhhh . . .”
“Can you play the outside backer the way you ran that forty-two dive?” Coach Mellon asked Cory.
“Yes!”
“Get in there.”
After two run plays that went away from Cory, the Falcons quarterback rolled out to pass. Cory saw the tight end dragging across the field underneath the coverage. He read the quarterback’s eyes and knew where it was going. It was a risk to leave the zone he was supposed to be covering, but Cory trusted his instincts.
Just as the quarterback let go of his pass, he was hit by a Cougars defender. The ball wobbled in the air. Cory darted in front of the tight end, snatched the ball, and cruised into the Cougars’ end zone for another touchdown, tying the game. His teammates mobbed him, and once again he found himself standing on the sideline with a bewildered Coach Mellon as the Cougars kickoff team took the field.
“Well . . .” Coach Mellon grabbed Cory’s shoulder pad and gave him a lit
tle shake as if to make sure he was real. “What play would you like to run when we get the ball back?”
Cory shrugged like it didn’t matter, because he felt like he could do anything. “Sweep?”
“Okay, a forty-six . . . no, a forty-eight sweep.” Coach Mellon nodded and laughed. “Now get out there and stop them, and then we’ll get you that sweep.”
Cory didn’t have another spectacular play on defense, but the Cougars held, and midway through the fourth quarter, he was in the offensive huddle again. His teammates looked at him through the bars of their facemasks, eyes glazed by newfound admiration. The quarterback called a forty-eight sweep.
“You can do it, Flapjack.”
“You got this, Cory.”
“Make it happen, Big Dawg.”
They broke the huddle with a single, confident clap. Cory lined up deep behind the quarterback and surveyed the defense. They moved like the men who sometimes left the Shamrock Club after an evening of drinking, stepping carefully one way, then the other. The defense wasn’t just confused, they were worried.
Once Liam got hurt, the game was supposed to open up for them like a birthday gift—nothing but some flimsy wrapping paper to dispose of before they could enjoy their victory.
Things were different now, though, because some chunky third-stringer had just evened the score. Now here he was again, standing tall, looking them over like he’d look at a tray of donuts.
Cory put his hands on his knees, but still his eyes flickered over the defense. When the ball was snapped, he took off to the right. He saw the quarterback pivot and toss the ball on a long, slow arc that landed in his hands. Cory covered the tip with his palm and tucked it tight. Then he did his thing.
Three defenders got their hands on him. But none could bring him down.
Cory’s sixty-three-yard touchdown gave them the lead. The Cougars fans went crazy.
Three times he’d touched the ball; three times he’d scored.
