by Tim Green
As he marched toward the sideline under a thumping of hands, he thought to look up into the stands.
When he did, he realized—with horror—that Coach McMahan was already gone.
11
While victory was sweet, the stink of disappointment fouled Cory’s spirits. He’d never done anything close to what he’d done today. He wasn’t sure he could ever do it again. Coach McMahan’s absence was the tragedy of a lifetime.
“Why the face?” His mom had an arm draped over his shoulder. They had exhausted the congratulations of the other parents, teammates, and Westside football fans and were walking slowly toward their car.
“I did all that and he wasn’t even here.” Cory hung his head.
“Who?” His mom put a hand on his neck and squeezed, speaking sad and slow. “Your father?”
Cory looked up, jolted by the word. “My father?”
“I . . . I didn’t know what you meant,” she said. “You said ‘him.’”
“I meant Coach McMahan, from HBS. He was here to see Liam, but he left.”
“Oh.” She hugged him tight with one arm and they stumbled along toward their car. “How do you know he left . . . that coach?”
“You can’t miss him. Tall guy, silver hair. Crimson hat.”
“It doesn’t matter. You played great for you and your team.” His mom fumbled with her keys. “Besides, I don’t want you going so far anyway. HBS is a football factory. You’re going to be a lawyer, Cory.”
They separated, and Cory looked at her over the rusted roof of the car as she unlocked the doors. “Football can pay for college,” he said. “I can go to law school after I play in the pros.”
She burst into a smile and a gust of laughter floated up into the muggy air. “A couple touchdowns and you’re already in the NFL, huh?”
A voice behind Cory said, “Nothing wrong with dreaming the dream.”
The voice was low and strong. Cory saw the look of surprise on his mom’s face, and he spun around.
Coach McMahan was standing there, smiling. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Flap—Cory. Cory Marco.” Cory trembled with the thought of a new beginning. No more Flapjack, no more reminder of the infamous mess on Father Haywood’s shoes.
“And are you Mrs. Marco?” Coach McMahan peered over the top of the car at Cory’s mom, and his voice took on a different tone.
“Call me Ashley,” Cory’s mom said. “It’s just Cory and me.”
“Your son, Cory, was something out there today,” Coach McMahan said. “He was like some kind of Touchdown Kid.”
The coach smiled at Cory’s mom, but she didn’t seem to understand what he meant.
“For a while there, every time he got the ball, he scored a touchdown,” Coach McMahan explained. “I’d like to talk to you both about HBS.”
Cory’s mom put her hands flat on the roof of the Hyundai. “Cory’s going to be a lawyer.”
Cory wanted to melt. His mom didn’t seem to have a full measure of respect for things like the police or the head coach of a big private school. He flashed her a dirty look, hoping to slow her down. But Coach McMahan didn’t seem put off. His smile got so wide Cory could see the silver fillings in back.
“That’s great news,” the coach said. “We’ve had many, many HBS graduates go on to become lawyers. HBS is one of the finest academic institutions in the state. Our rate of college enrollment is almost one hundred percent.”
“Hmm,” Cory’s mom said before she nodded. “Keep talking.”
12
They followed Coach McMahan’s white Tahoe SUV to the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner of Velasko Drive and Grant Avenue to talk.
Dunkin’ Donuts was Cory’s idea of heaven.
You could get anything, and with Coach McMahan paying, that’s what Cory did. He began with a turkey, bacon, and cheese croissant sandwich and a side of hash browns. To wash it down, he ordered a Strawberry Coolatta, and the girl behind the counter had no problem topping it off with extra whipped cream. Dessert was part of a balanced meal to Cory. He chose a pink-frosted glazed donut with a rainbow of sprinkles as well as an Oreo Cheesecake Square.
His mom and the coach sipped their iced coffees, watching Cory eat. Coach McMahan set his cup down on the table and said, “Fate is a fickle mistress.”
Cory wasn’t sure what fickle meant. It rhymed with pickle, though, and that made him grin. Fate was also something he knew he should know about, but didn’t really.
“You mean Liam getting hurt?” Cory’s mom asked.
Coach McMahan slowly turned his coffee cup halfway around. “I was thinking about Cory, but you’re right. Liam’s loss is Cory’s gain.”
“What do you mean? Can’t both of us go to HBS?” A surge of guilt left Cory feeling panicked. “Liam too, when he’s better?”
“Anything’s possible,” Coach McMahan said. “He could make the ninth-grade cut. But Liam’s knee is in pretty bad shape—dislocated. He won’t be back on the football field anytime soon. So, I started thinking right away about filling his spot with three other kids we’ve been looking at. Then, well . . . what I saw from you just now? That Touchdown Kid thing? I think we’re both lucky. Right place, right time . . . that’s fate.”
“So, you want me to go to HBS?” Cory felt silly coming right out and asking, but he was giddy with the words Touchdown Kid ringing in his ears, and he needed to hear it.
“Yes. That’s why we’re here. It usually doesn’t happen like this. You know I’ve met with Liam’s mom and brother, and they’ve even visited the host family. They had time to absorb the whole HBS experience. It’s life changing.” Coach McMahan leaned halfway across the table to make his point. “Everyone there is headed to college. Preparation begins in sixth grade. Homework is something everyone does. Studying for tests. Writing papers. Reading.
“I mean, you’re there to play football, too,” Coach McMahan said, leaning back with a sly smile and looking at Cory’s mom. “But he’ll get an education in a setting that will allow him to be whatever he wants to be. Lawyer? That’s easy coming out of HBS.” He paused. “I mean, look, not all public school is awful, but the opportunities for Cory after going to HBS are huge.”
Cory’s mom bit her lip and nodded.
“I read somewhere that some of these city high schools have a fifty-four percent graduation rate.” Coach McMahan frowned and looked around at the noisy mayhem inside the restaurant. Parents were piled up in orange booths with little kids screaming and running around the tables. Then he nodded at the window. Outside, a fistful of teenagers hung around smoking. “How many of them are going to college?”
Cory’s mom’s face did some gymnastics before coming to rest with a small smile. “I’d love to see Cory at a private school. It’s just . . . with me working two jobs, I . . . my car’s not the most reliable to get him there every day.”
Coach McMahan cleared his throat. “Well, a lot of our scholarship kids are in the same boat. That’s why we have a host family all lined up. You see, HBS is like one big family. We take care of our own. And the football team? That’s a family within a family.”
“What does that mean?” Cory’s mom asked.
“We have a place Cory can live, with other HBS kids.” Coach McMahan opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. “A home.”
Cory’s mom’s face soured. “Like an orphanage?”
Coach McMahan shook his head. “No! Not that kind of home—a real home. A teammate whose parents want to help. His own bedroom . . . everything. Our scholarship kids typically end up feeling like they’ve got an extended family.”
Cory’s mom scowled. “Cory’s not living with anybody but me.”
“I know it might take some time to get used to the idea.” Coach McMahan’s face looked frozen. “Liam’s mom had some reservations too, at first, but she even ended up helping decorate his new room . . .”
Still Cory’s mom shook her head as she set her coffee on the table and pushed it away. “There’s nothing
to get used to. It’s me and him. We’re the family.”
Cory saw light leave Coach McMahan’s eyes. “This is a lifetime opportunity, Mrs. Marco. It might not come around again.”
“Thank you for the coffee, Coach McMahan.” Cory’s mom wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and stood to go. “Cory’s fine right where he is.”
Cory had so many feelings he didn’t know what to think or say. His heart felt like an ice-cream cone spilled onto the hot summer street.
13
“Mom, we—”
“Get in the car, Cory.” His mom marched across the parking lot, guiding him by the elbow.
Cory looked back inside the Dunkin’ Donuts where Coach McMahan sat sipping his coffee as if nothing unusual had occurred. Cory wondered if he’d ever had something like this happen before. He doubted it. Kids on the Westside didn’t say no to HBS. They weren’t thinking about law school. Their parents wanted them at a football factory.
Everyone on the Westside knew about Jo-Lonn Dunbar. He started out like a lot of kids with just a dream, but he went to HBS to play football—lived in the weight room. He went on to Boston College before signing with the Saints and winning a Super Bowl. Everyone talked about the ring and the glory and the money. He was a local hero. Cory had seen Jo-Lonn’s dark gray Mercedes G-Wagen floating away up South Avenue like a ghost after the famous player had spoken at a fund-raiser for a city councilwoman. And, while he hadn’t seen the player himself, he had seen the SUV with its glittering silver trim, so he knew it was all real.
Cory got in the little green car. He looked at her, desperate. “Mom, please.”
His teardrops plopped onto the cloth seat.
“Really?” His mom wrinkled her face because she hated when he cried. “You’re gonna do this? You’re gonna cry?”
Cory sniffed. He could barely speak. Finally, he choked it out. “It’s what I dreamed of, and it happened. It really happened, and now you’re just gonna crush it? How can you do that?”
She huffed and turned the key.
The engine wound itself up, sounding old and tired before it slowed down to a steady wavering groan. She turned it off, then tried again. After a small spurt of energy, the little car moaned as if dying from pain. She turned the key and slapped the dashboard.
“Piece of junk! Junk! Junk! Junk!”
And then she was crying too. She grabbed the wheel and buried her face in her arms, trembling as if she were cold. Words leaked through her thick web of hair. “I don’t want to lose you, Cory. And I know that’s what will happen if you go to HBS. I-I don’t want to lose you.”
Cory put a hand on her back and felt her bones buried like the blade of a shovel beneath her skin. “You’re not gonna lose me, Mom. I’ll be right here, I promise. I can come home every weekend and vacations and all summer. We can do all the stuff we do, cookouts and movies and the mall. And you work so much anyway. Half the nights I don’t even see you.”
“I know, but I do it all for you, Cory. So we can have a decent life.” As bad as Cory felt for his mom, his eyes couldn’t help but track the path of Coach McMahan as he left the donut shop. The big man cruised across the parking lot, head tilted down beneath the low brim of his hat, checking his phone. Cory felt a spark of urgency. “But this would give me so much, Mom. Look, the coach is leaving. You’ve got to stop him so I can go.” He paused. “Please?”
With a cackling sound that was part sob and part crazy laugh, his mom sprang from the car and dashed across the parking lot just as Coach McMahan pulled open the wide door of his big white SUV. Cory clenched his hands and watched them talk.
When his mom reached up and hugged the coach, Cory let go of a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.
14
Cory spent the next day at the rec center at Burnett Park marking time until he could see Liam at the hospital where he’d had surgery after the game. When his mom returned from work, she picked him up so they could shower and change their clothes before driving to see Liam. At the hospital, his family waited in the lounge area. Aunts, uncles, and cousins all were there, downcast and hushed.
Liam’s brother scowled when he saw Cory. Liam’s mother whispered hello and then escorted them into the hospital room, sniffing and sobbing as she went. Her hair was a messy nest and smelled like smoke. Cory and his mom pushed past the tangle of balloons and flowers to find Liam with his leg suspended from the ceiling and wrapped tight like a mummy’s. His face was puffy, and when he opened his eyes just a slit, they were wet and shiny.
Liam forced a smile and raised a weary hand trailing an IV tube. “Hey, Cory.”
“Hey, Liam.” Cory bit his lip, afraid he might break down. He had never imagined Liam so weak.
“They hit me good, but I guess they say they got it fixed.” Liam’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he closed them.
“What are you doing here?” Finn entered the room and put his tattooed hands on the end of the bed, leaning toward them and sticking out his lower lip.
Cory looked at his mom. She put her hands on her hips, unafraid. “We are here to see how Liam is doing.”
“Because you gonna take his free ride to HBS. You’re feelin’ bad, huh?” Finn was snarling now. “Yeah, I’d feel bad too. You want to feel good about it? You want to think like the best man won? Well, the best man is Liam. Nothing is going to change that.”
“Finn, please,” his mom said.
Cory’s mom cleared her throat. “The way I understand it, Finn, there may be an opportunity for Liam later.”
“Except all of a sudden Coach McMahan won’t return my texts.” Finn pointed at an enormous arrangement of flowers, the biggest bunch by far. “See that? Says, ‘Good luck. So sorry things didn’t work out.’ From the Muillers, the people—I’m guessing by your clothes—you’re about to go meet. HBS snobs. You believe what you want to believe, but I know you’re takin’ Liam’s spot, and I’m asking you to leave, now.”
“Liam? I—” Cory started, but Liam just turned his head.
“See ya, Cory,” he whispered. Liam’s mother nodded, silently agreeing that they should go.
Cory’s mom had a fire in her eyes. “Well, no good deed goes unpunished. Come on, Cory, let’s go.”
They climbed into his mom’s car and rode in silence, up onto the highway and out toward the suburbs where most of the people whose kids attended HBS lived. The car trembled and whined like a stray dog. Hot air waffled in and out through the open windows. Cory’s mom struck the steering wheel with her hand and spoke as if someone had asked her a question. “Mean. That kid is just plain mean.”
“Finn?”
“Yes, mean as a wet wasp.”
“He had big plans for Liam.”
Cory’s mom left the highway for the better side of town without responding. Cory thought of how Finn would brag about Liam’s football skills and how Liam seemed to need his praise. He watched the world going by, cool grassy lawns beneath towering shade trees and homes with crisp white paint. Not a single broken or boarded window in sight. Up they climbed, higher and higher. Views of the city below appeared.
“Finn was going to manage his money,” Cory explained, “and his uncle was going to open a nightclub down on Geddes Street. Liam always laughed, but I think he liked it.”
“Awful.” His mother clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Grown men making plans on the back of a little boy.”
They turned off a main road and wound up a long street before his mother pulled over and tilted her head. “Is this it? Does it say 4444?”
“Yes, ‘The Muillers,’” Cory said, pointing to a large tile worked into one of the columns that supported massive wrought iron gates. The gates stood open and his mom turned in, winding up a driveway bordered by trees, flower beds, and thick grass. The huge house was capped by a weather vane glinting with gold.
“Can you believe this?” Cory’s words drifted from his lips.
“No,” his mother said softly. “I can’t.”
>
15
They pulled into the circular driveway and parked behind a sleek blue Bentley sedan. Cory’s mom wore a pale brown dress. Her purse matched its color, although its clasp was tarnished and broken so that he could see the box of breath mints inside. His own white shirt was stiff and uncomfortable, and when he looked at the reflection of their images in the side of the car, he removed his hand from hers. He did not want to look like a child. He was a football player. Football players were supposed to be big and tough.
His mother rang the bell. The sound of a large gong came from deep inside the house. The boy who answered the door was Cory’s height. His blond hair was swept back from his forehead in a stylish cut. Instead of dressy clothes like Cory had on, he wore green gym shorts and a Boston Red Sox away-game T-shirt.
His teeth were perfect. “Hey, you must be Cory.”
Cory smiled to hear his real name—not Flapjack.
“Hi, Mrs. Marco,” said the boy. “I’m Jim. Everyone calls me Jimbo.” He smiled. “Please come in. My parents and Coach McMahan are waiting to meet you.”
Cory’s mom gave Cory a “you better have good manners too” look, and they followed Cory’s future teammate through a house with ceilings only a giant could reach. Fancy oil paintings covered the wood-paneled walls like medals on the chest of an army general. Even though he was excited, the smell of wood and leather and old books and the yellow light falling through the tall windows made Cory feel sleepy.
They passed a huge fireplace. There was a stuffed zebra’s head above the mantle. Its eyes watched them all the way to the double glass doors, which were open to the warm evening breeze. On a granite terrace overlooking a gigantic pool, Coach McMahan stood next to Mr. Muiller. He was a large man, blond like his son, only with short hair and a close-cut beard. The men held bottles of high-end beer with necks wrapped in gold foil. They watched over a wide grill crowded with sizzling steaks and chops.
Jimbo’s mother was blond too, and big. She sat at a long glass table, stirring ice in a tall glass. Behind her was a row of potted lemon trees and beyond them enormous hedges cut with the precision of Lego building blocks. Even farther off was a breathtaking view that stretched to Lake Ontario some fifty miles away. Posts surrounded the pool, each capped by an oil torch, their flames dancing in the breeze.
