Touchdown Kid

by Tim Green

  Cory’s hesitation cost him the spot. He stopped and considered bumping Mike out of his place, maybe even fighting him for it, but the look on Coach Phipps’s face gave him no encouragement. He paused for another moment before walking to a spot in the grass where a horizontal line of kids was forming to watch. Cory fell into the ranks. If the Coach wanted him with the first team, he’d put him there.

  His heart lifted as Coach Phipps marched his way, and Cory waited—along with the rest of the team—for the coach to speak.

  36

  “I thought I was clear with you, Marco, what I said over there.” Coach Phipps narrowed his small eyes.

  “The part about not running through a kindergarten class?” Cory said.

  Laughter erupted from his teammates all around.

  Coach Phipps sneered at Cory. “You think this is a joke?”

  “No, Coach.”

  “I told you ‘be first,’ but you don’t want to be first, do you?” The coach’s voice was boiling.

  “No,” Cory said. “I do, Coach.”

  “Did you or did you not just now let Chester jump right in front of you?” His voice grew louder.

  “I thought you wanted me to let him,” Cory said, the world slipping away on him, “the way you looked at me and what you said in the cut drill.”

  “Did I not tell you to be first?” Coach Phipps shouted. “Get out of my sight! Go! Run a lap, son. Run ten laps! Winners never quit and quitters never win!”

  Cory hesitated, wondering if the coach was serious. Things had come so far unraveled, he felt like he was back at Westside with Coach Mellon instead of the star recruit come to help win a championship one day.

  “Go!” Coach Phipps screamed, his small eyes popping like a bug’s.

  Cory limped off and began a slow, steady jog around the field. He tried to watch what was happening as he went, but the confusion of bodies and whistles and players running to and fro was too hard to follow. Sweat was streaming down his face and stinging his eyes.

  Cory was running along the back side of the end zone, huffing and hurting, when Mike Chester took a toss on a sweep play, juked out two defenders, and dashed into the end zone.

  Chester held the ball up for him to see. “I told you this spot is mine. Why don’t you go back to the slums where you belong?”

  Hatred torched Cory’s heart, but he didn’t even have the energy to reply.

  Finally, he lapped the field for the tenth time and took his place with the rest of the backup players in their line across the field behind the team drill. Cory hadn’t even caught his breath before Coach Phipps blasted his whistle and hollered for them all to line up on the fifty-yard line for ladder runs.

  Cory found Gant. “Ladder runs? Like, more than one? How many?”

  Gant was huffing too after having been in the thick of the action all practice long. Sweat glazed his face, and he shook his head. “I heard Coach P likes ladders the way a pig likes mud.”

  Coach P liked ladders more than a pig likes mud.

  They ran until three kids barfed, with vomit exploding from their face masks as they staggered to the sideline. Cory’s ankle shrieked and he had to swallow down the remnants of his own lunch as he staggered into the bunch of players crowding around their coach after the last ladder. He dropped to a knee like the rest of them.

  “Okay, not too bad today.” Coach P sounded like he was admitting to a crime. “But tomorrow we gotta get down to some real business. Make sure you cupcakes get plenty of water and plenty of rest. This ain’t gonna get any easier, I can promise you that.”

  No one groaned. No one blinked. Cory already knew it was the HBS way. For his part, he bit his lip and hobbled to the locker room. Inside his backpack was the TracFone, waiting like an escape pod on some alien spaceship. All he needed to do was call. His mom had said any place, any time. Cory shed his shoulder pads and opened his locker. He removed the phone from his backpack and turned it over in his fingers like a smooth stone.

  When he felt a tap on his shoulder, he spun around.

  Mike Chester stood there, glowering at Cory with a small group of frowning players behind him. They were stripped down to their football pants and cleats, bare chested, like cannibal warriors from a movie.

  “Okay, newbie,” Mike said. “Time to sing.”

  37

  “Go ahead,” a big lineman with a face like a frying pan said, “sing.”

  A crooked smile wormed its way onto Cory’s face because this was obviously some kind of a joke. He didn’t know yet if the joke would be funny or cruel. By the look on his rival’s face, he suspected cruel. Cory looked across the locker room to Gant. His giant friend was smiling too, and that gave Cory some hope.

  “What do you mean?” Cory asked.

  “Sing,” Mike said.

  “Sing what?” Cory said. He had been in third grade when even his loving mother said he was tone-deaf and couldn’t carry a tune. “I can’t sing.”

  “Everyone sings. It’s a tradition. Just do it, Cory.”

  All heads turned because it was Jimbo talking now, and he looked annoyed.

  Cory set down his phone and gestured with both hands, appealing to Jimbo. “Yeah, but I really can’t. I’m tone-deaf. It’s awful. It’s not even singing.”

  “That’s even better.” Mike broke into an evil smile. “Newbies are supposed to entertain us.”

  “Well, I’m not singing.” Cory turned back to his locker and stripped off his own sweaty T-shirt. No one behind him moved. The entire locker room was frozen, waiting. Cory turned back.

  “Sing, or we give you a swirly. You choose.” Mike chuckled. “It’s a tradition.”

  “Swirly?” Cory wrinkled his face.

  “Yeah,” Mike laughed. “A swirly. We put your head in the toilet and flush it.”

  “Cory, can’t you just sing?” Gant spoke quietly and Cory knew there was no way out. No one was helping him.

  Still, he wasn’t going to sing.

  “No,” Cory said.

  Chester shrugged and looked behind him at the big linemen. “Okay, swirly it is.”

  Mike Chester and his goons slowly came at him.

  “Swir-lee, swir-lee, swir-lee.” The chant began low, then it started to grow. “Swir-lee, swir-lee, swir-lee!”

  Cory looked around. The entire team was closing in on him like a zombie apocalypse. He’d fight, though. He wasn’t going to make it easy on them.

  They began to reach out for him, fingers extended and slowly clawing the air.

  If he was truthful with himself later on, he’d have to admit that it was Cheyenne who prompted him to do what he did. The thought of her hearing of his ridiculous voice—making a fool of himself—or worse yet, being dunked and flushed in a dirty toilet, was too much. He was desperate enough to do just about anything, even something crazy. Something dangerous.

  And that’s what he did.

  38

  He knew Mike Chester was the leader.

  Cory looked him in the eye and snarled with a full dose of hatred. “You touch me and you’ll wish you didn’t.”

  The sound that came out of Cory’s mouth was so nasty he startled everyone, even himself. The players froze.

  Mike forced a laugh. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do? There’s thirty of us.”

  “I’m gonna fight you tooth and nail,” Cory said. “But that’s no big deal. You guys’ll get me. It’s what’s gonna happen to you afterward . . .”

  Cory knew he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Remember Liam? The guy who was gonna be here until he got hurt?”

  “What’s he gonna do?” Mike laughed for real now.

  “Not him.” Cory shook his head and clucked his tongue. “His brother and his brother’s friends—they’re my friends too—bad, bad dudes. Westside? You want a taste of the Westside? Our rules: a bunch of softies from the suburbs jumps a Westsider? It’s payback time. I just hope Dirty doesn’t cut you up. Dirty, that’s his name; he loves his knife.”

/>   Hands dropped.

  People stepped back.

  “Yeah, right.” Mike scoffed, but the glimmer in his eyes had been snuffed out and his laughter sounded like it came from a can. “I don’t even believe you. Dirty. Sounds like a cartoon.”

  Cory shrugged. “Fine. I’ll tell him you said that. He’ll like that, you calling him a cartoon. He’ll have a laugh. You can have a laugh together.”

  “C’mon, guys.” Mike looked around at the fading crowd. “He’s lying. He can’t stop all of us. He’s gotta sing. Newbies always gotta sing. Or they swirl.”

  Cory knew the tide had turned in his favor, but it wasn’t over yet. “Yeah, all of a sudden nobody wants to get unzipped by a combat knife. It’s just you, Mike. No swirly. No singing. You’ll have to listen to your iTunes.”

  Cory turned his back to them all and began to stow his equipment. Tension crackled in the warm, stuffy locker room air. The ripe smell of sweat was especially sour.

  Cory pretended not to care, but he couldn’t help cringing as he waited for Mike Chester to either walk away or punch him in the back of the head.

  39

  “Fine,” Mike said. “You don’t have to sing, Marco, you jerk. You stink anyway, and probably won’t be here in two weeks. Meantime, don’t think you’re really on this team, ’cuz you’re not.”

  Mike walked away and the locker room quietly came back to life. Cory’s heart went from a sprint to a jog and his breath came back. By the time he’d changed back into his clothes, people were looking past him or through him, and he realized what Chester said was true—he wasn’t part of it anymore. Even as a fifth-string running back with the Cougars, he’d been part of the team, laughing and joking. Grinning and groaning and trying to top Liam’s imitations of Coach Mellon and the way he’d scratch his butt crack when he thought no one was looking.

  Now, suddenly, Cory was a ghost. He thought about just getting up on the bench and belting out “The Star-Spangled Banner.” He would have, except for everything else that had happened to him already. He couldn’t break his last thread of dignity. Embarrassing himself would be too much to take, and Cheyenne would snicker at him along with the rest. How could she not?

  He pretended to be busy at his locker until Gant closed his with a crash. Cory hurried to catch up—hobbling in pain—as Gant left the locker room. They walked a ways down the empty hallway before Cory spoke. “Bunch of bull, right? Singing?”

  “Yeah.” Gant shrugged, but Cory could tell he was out of sorts.

  “I mean, you can probably sing,” Cory said. “I mean, if you can sing, that’s another thing, but I’d be making a fool of myself.”

  “Yeah.” Gant made the word walk the plank, forcing it from his mouth.

  “You think I’m wrong?” Cory tugged on his arm.

  Gant pulled away. “Come on. Let’s not talk here.”

  Gant took off, walking briskly out the door and stopping in the shade of the tennis court fence. The ball thumped off their racquets as the kids volleyed it back and forth, grunting like weight lifters.

  Gant looked back as if he would be embarrassed to be seen talking with Cory. “You’re new. Everyone does it. Sings. Plus, you’re hurt before you even get on the field?”

  “You saw me slip.” Cory tried not to sound desperate. “That idiot Chester pushed me. What if I tell Coach P that?”

  Panic flooded Gant’s face. He shook his head wildly. “Don’t. You don’t do that, Cory. This isn’t just about you. I’m a scholarship kid too. You got to fit in. This is the rich man’s world.”

  Cory huffed.

  Gant continued. “Bro, you can pretend all you want, but you come from the Westside. You talk like it. No father. Free lunch. Some guy named Dirty cuttin’ people?”

  A tennis ball smashed into the chain-link fence, and one of the players hollered like he’d scored a touchdown.

  “See?” Gant smirked. “You see kids playing tennis in your old school?”

  Cory did see. “Even if I could sing—which I really can’t—I can’t do it now, Gant. If I do it now, no one respects me. They’ll say Chester punked me. I can’t do it. Not for anyone.”

  Gant sucked in his lower lip and nodded. “Yeah, but lay low now, okay? No more trouble, right, bro? You gotta get that ankle well and do your Adrian Peterson dance—runnin’ people over and all that Touchdown Kid stuff. Was that for real? That’s how they talked about you.”

  Cory actually doubted himself. How had he ever exploded on the football field? But it had to be true. “Coach McMahan was the one who started calling me the Touchdown Kid. I just did my thing.”

  “Yeah.” Gant scrunched up his forehead. “That’s the good part, Coach McMahan. He’s the god of football, and that’ll keep you alive until you stop limping. Till then, though, keep cool with Chester and everyone else. Just get along!”

  “I don’t want any trouble, Gant.” Cory shook his head. “But those jumping beans you got?”

  Gant patted his pocket with pride. “Yeah?”

  Cory frowned. “That’s like us, Gant.”

  Gant removed the two beans from his pocket, held them in his palm, and wrinkled his brow. “Say what?”

  “We’re trapped,” Cory said. “And we gotta jump to make people happy. We stop jumping? It’s over. We’re done.”

  “Hey.” Gant poked at one of the beans with his finger while the other one jiggled around in the cup of his hand. “I think this one’s shot too.”

  “See?” Cory said. “That’s what I’m talking about, Gant. Now what? You dump that thing in the nearest trash can.”

  “You some lawyer?” Gant said. “Stop makin’ everything so complicated. They’re jumpin’ beans. Besides, this one might come back. Maybe it’s just sleepin’.”

  Cory saw Jimbo pop out of the school, looking around for him. In the parking lot, he saw Mrs. Muiller’s Range Rover roll up. “I gotta go.”

  “Wait.” Gant stopped him. “I got an idea.”

  “An idea?”

  “Maybe a way to fix this whole thing.”

  Jimbo was waving to him now, and Cory held up a finger signaling he’d be right there. “Tell me, Gant. Tell me quick.”

  40

  Football players of all shapes and sizes drained steadily from the back entrance of the school. Cars lined up along the parking lot and around the corner. They’d snake close, gobble up a kid or two, and then surge away. The gleaming black Range Rover moved to the front of the pack. Jimbo loaded his backpack into the SUV and waved at Cory again with both hands.

  “Gant?”

  Gant looked like he was still thinking. His eyes widened. “She likes you. She can help.”

  “Who?” Cory wrinkled his face. “Jimbo’s mom?”

  “His sister. Cheyenne.”

  “You want me to ask Cheyenne to do what, protect me from Mike Chester? I can fight my own fights, Gant.”

  Gant shook his big, shaggy head. “Just help. She’s got Mike on a short leash. I saw him talking to her after the last bell. Dude was cow eyed and purrin’ like a kitten, but I know she likes you. I saw that in lunch.”

  “Like a sister.” Cory tried to control his own heartbeat.

  Gant shrugged. “Sister, girlfriend, whatever. She likes you, Cor. I know it. She can help. You just explain it all. She’ll figure something out. Girls are like that, especially these rich girls. They’re used to gettin’ what they want.”

  Mrs. Muiller tooted the Ranger Rover’s horn.

  “You’re crazy, Gant.” Cory took off, limping fast.

  “Trust me!” Gant hollered after him. “Forget about jumping beans. Just do it!”

  41

  Jimbo gave Cory a cold look and slid into the front seat. Cory took his place in the back.

  “We can’t hold up the line,” Mrs. Muiller complained as she took off, adding some lipstick and angling the rearview mirror to check the job as she sped away. “Jimbo, that’s on you.”

  “Me?” Jimbo’s jaw slid sideways.


  “Yes, Cory is our guest. He’s part of the family. The football family . . . and our family too.” She flicked aside a lock of brassy blond hair and flashed Cory a huge red smile.

  Jimbo crossed his arms and harrumphed.

  “What’s that look?” his mom asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “How was practice?” She sounded like a songbird, hitting the high notes.

  Jimbo shook his head.

  She adjusted the mirror so she could lock her own blue eyes on Cory. “Cory?”

  “Not great,” Cory said.

  Jimbo snorted. “I’ll say.”

  “I hurt my ankle.” It was the best Cory could offer.

  “Oh, my.” Mrs. Muiller switched on the radio. “This sport. ‘Ice and Advil’—that’s what my daddy always said. You’ll heal.”

  She turned up the volume, sparing Cory the need to reply.

  Back at the house, Jimbo disappeared. Mrs. Muiller gave Cory a bag of ice and two Advil. “Get around these. Did you get your homework done in study hall? I love that study hall for you boys.”

  “I did,” Cory said, “but I thought I’d go over some notes and read ahead. They gave us The Outsiders.”

  “Notes? Reading ahead? You sound like Cheyenne.” Mrs. Muiller put her hand to her mouth and hollered toward the stairs, “Cory’s reading ahead, Jimbo! You hear!”

  Cory wondered if things could get worse.

  “The Outsiders . . . I think we read that in school too.” She chewed her lower lip.

  “Yeah,” Cory said. “So far it’s not that good.”

  “And you’re reading ahead anyway.” She clucked her tongue. “Well, get that ice on your ankle. School’s important, but so is football—at least around here it is . . . Dinner at seven.”

  Cory retreated downstairs to his room. He wondered where Cheyenne was and had a wild hope that she’d be sitting there like she’d been last night. When he opened the door, though, the room was quiet and empty. Cory sat on the bed, laid the ice bag over his ankle, and picked the book out of his backpack. He had settled in, his ankle aching like a bad tooth from the cold, when he heard the faint titter of girls laughing outside his window. Then, something else . . . a splash?