by Mike Lupica
Maybe that was why the idea of losing the upcoming season made him feel so lost.
He thought about going back downstairs, seeing if there was anything good on television tonight. He didn’t really feel like calling Tim, not wanting to talk to anybody in the mood he was in. So he decided to watch one of his favorite movies, The Express, the one about an old Syracuse University football player named Ernie Davis.
As much as Will knew about football history, he didn’t know much about Ernie Davis at first, just that he was one of the names on the long list of guys who’d won the Heisman Trophy and that he’d been the first African American to win the award. He came from Elmira, New York, just over the Pennsylvania border, and he’d grown up poor. So when Will watched the movie and learned that Ernie Davis died in the end, died before playing a professional game, it had just about killed him. He’d rewatched The Express many times since, but he’d always shut it off after Syracuse beat Texas and won the Cotton Bowl and the national championship. Will liked his own ending to the movie better. The happy ending. He wished life could work out that way, too.
He watched the movie tonight and got to the Cotton Bowl part, the part with all the dirty play from the other team, the nasty comments made because Ernie Davis was black, the attempts by the Texas players to hurt him every chance they got. But he kept getting back up until his team won the game and finished off its undefeated season.
The end, Will thought, the happy end, as he shut off the movie, hearing his dad’s car in the driveway at almost the exact same moment.
He heard the car door slam, went over to the window and looked down and saw his dad limping across their small front lawn to the front door, not looking up, not knowing he was being watched from the upstairs window. Will knew his dad always limped more when he thought nobody was watching.
His dad probably wanted a way different story for his own life. Maybe he wished there was a way to pause his own movie right before those two guys destroyed his knee.
Will stood there wondering if his dad even remembered what it was like to run down the field the way Will had today, as if nothing—and nobody—was ever going to stop him. Wondered if his dad even allowed himself to remember the good parts of his own career or if it hurt too much to remember, the way his knee did.
He went to the top of the stairs now to say hi to Joe Tyler.
“What’s good?” his dad said when he looked up and saw Will there, smiling at him, moving to the foot of the stairs with no limp at all, opening his arms for Will to come down and give him a hug.
Will raced down the stairs and did just that.
“You’re good,” Will said, hugging him hard.
CHAPTER 07
Six days later Will’s dad delivered the mail, including a letter addressed to Will. Will’s breath seemed to get caught in his chest when he saw the return address.
It was from New Balance. Will had written a letter to the CEO of the company after doing some research. It was this, his Hail Mary pass with the clock running out and a whole season really on the line, that had kept him secretly hoping for days, the topsecret plan he’d only shared with Tim.
It was a crazy plan, he knew, one that would hopefully end with him and his teammates decked out in New Balance football shoes and jerseys and helmets that they’d provide for the team. A plan that ended with New Balance being their proud sponsor this season the way Forbes Flyers had once been the sponsor of the high school team.
Oh, Will knew it was crazy, all right. But he knew it would have been crazier not to try, to just sit there and feel sorry for himself and do nothing.
He picked New Balance just because he’d always worn their football shoes. He found some e-mail addresses on the Internet, thinking they might be a little sketchy but going with them anyway. Taking no chances, he also got the address of New Balance’s corporate offices in Boston and sent an actual letter to Mr. Rob DeMartini, the company’s CEO:
Dear Mr. DeMartini,
My name is Will Tyler and I am twelve years old and live in a place called Forbes, Pennsylvania, near Ohio. I live there with my dad because my mom died when I was two.
I am going into the seventh grade and love football more than anything. Except my dad. Last year I scored sixteen rushing touchdowns and my team went to the championship game of our league, the Super Bowl of the West River Football League. We lost to Castle Rock, where they make the bottled water, because I fumbled on our last play of the game.
From the time we lost, I have been thinking about getting a rematch with Castle Rock. That brings me to the purpose of my letter, which is that we’re probably not going to get a chance at a rematch or a chance to even compete for one because there’s not enough money in our town’s budget. Our season is ending before it even starts.
Since you make New Balance shoes, you might know that we used to make Forbes Flyers here (not “we” like in my family, even though my grandfather and father worked there) before the company went out of business and the factory closed. Little by little, all of Forbes seems to be closing, too. Now it looks as if my teammates and I might be out of business because Forbes can’t afford football anymore for guys our age.
So I was wondering:
Do you think you might possibly sponsor my team this season?
I don’t know how we could repay the money it would cost—ten thousand dollars—except by trying to do New Balance proud in the way we would play.
Nobody knows I am writing this letter to you, not even my dad. He’s a proud man and doesn’t like taking charity. He works hard every day. But I don’t think of this as asking for charity. I think of it as asking for a chance. A chance to work hard at the game I love.
Mr. DeMartini, my teammates and I feel like we got hit from the blind side. But my dad once told me it takes no talent to get knocked down, especially in a game like football. He said that it’s how you get back up that counts. I am asking for your help, to give me and my teammates a chance to get back up. If you do, I will make you a promise in return:
We will be a team that will make you stand up and cheer.
Maybe we can even get our town to do the same thing.
They could use it here.
Thank you very much for taking the time to read this letter. My dad has always told me to speak from the heart and that is what I tried to do.
Very respectfully yours,
Will Tyler
Now he was staring at the return address on the letter he held now in hands that didn’t shake this way when a game was on the line:New Balance Headquarters
20 Guest Street
Brighton, Mass. 02135-2088
Will was careful opening the envelope, even though his first impulse was to rip it open like it was a Christmas present. He knew that if somehow there was good news inside, he was going to want to keep everything intact.
The letter was typed, with Mr. DeMartini’s signature at the bottom: Dear Will,
As you can probably guess, we get a lot of letters at New Balance asking us for money, from people all over the world. But I’m not sure I’ve ever received one that touched me quite like yours did, like it came straight from your heart to mine.
And like me, you’ve probably seen the credit card commercials on TV where they give the dollar value on a few items and then have something at the end that they call “priceless.”
Well, I’m pretty sure that when I was your age, I would have considered my own football season priceless.
That’s why I consider having to pay only ten thousand dollars for yours a bargain.
Jim Davis, our chairman, is an old Middlebury College football player, and we’ve both always shared a dream of owning a National Football League team. That may be a little out of our reach. But when I showed him your letter, he said maybe it was about time New Balance owned a football team, even if it was one in Forbes, Pa.
Somebody from my office will contact your dad in the next few days and he can give us the proper contacts to start working out
all the details of sponsoring a team in your league.
For now?
Go tell your friends and your coach and the whole town if you want to that there’s going to be a season after all.
I can’t tell you how much I look forward to meeting you one of these days. Maybe at the championship game.
I look forward to watching you carry the ball.
Your new friend in football,
Rob DeMartini
Will was by himself. When his dad had delivered the mail, he had just rung the doorbell like he always did, turned and waved when he saw Will waving at him from his bedroom window. Then he took a right at the end of the walk and headed up Valley to continue his route.
No limping today, not with Will watching him.
Will had raced downstairs—having a feeling and not knowing why—saw the letter, saw who it was from, took it into the kitchen and sat down at the table to read it.
He read every word and then when he finished, he went back and read the whole thing again, just to make sure that he hadn’t dreamed up the whole thing.
His heart was pounding as if he’d just gone the whole length of the field on a kickoff return, had just crossed the goal line.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to be cool.
Then he raised his right arm nearly to the ceiling, fist closed, pulled his arm down hard, the way Hannah Grayson had done after she made that insane kick in front of him.
“Yes!” he shouted at the top of his voice, not caring whether the neighbors could hear him or not.
Then: “Yesyesyes!”
And this time he did the kind of crazy touchdown dance he never did on the field, dancing around the small kitchen like a complete lunatic, banging his hip on the corner of the table and not caring.
Not sure in the moment whether to laugh or cry.
There was going to be a team.
There was going to be a season.
He thought: Sometimes a running back can complete a Hail Mary pass after all.
He tried to call Tim, got his machine. Same with Chris Aiello. Forget it, he thought, I’ll get on my bike and go tell them to their faces. He would tell it to all his teammates even if it took all day.
A team and a season and new uniforms and cleats and real games after all.
Yesyesyes!
Will left the letter and the envelope on the table, ran out the front door, took the same right up Valley that his dad had taken, knowing the route by heart from all the days when he’d walked it with Joe Tyler.
He was glad that Tim and Chris weren’t home, now that he thought about it, running at full speed to catch up with his dad.
His dad should be the first one to know that it was still all right to believe in miracles.
Even in Forbes, Pennsylvania.
CHAPTER 08
Will didn’t expect his dad to jump for joy when he caught up with him at the corner of Cherry and Elm, not on that knee, but he thought he’d be more excited.
But when Will gave him the news, the first thing he said was, “Ironic, isn’t it? One of the companies that put this town out of business is now saving a town football team.”
At first Will thought he might just be trying to be funny, but he wasn’t. Will could tell by his eyes.
“But, Dad,” Will said, “the important thing is that Mr. DeMartini stepped up to the plate for us. You can read his letter when you get home. He sounds like a great guy.”
His dad leaned against a tree. “Bud, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you. I am. It was killing me, too, thinking of you losing a season from your life. Because you’re never sure how many of those you’re going to get.” He turned his head and looked down Elm, like he was trying to see all the way to the end of it, all the way to the river. “Trust me, I found that out the hard way.”
“It’s all right if I go tell some of the guys, right?” Will said. “He’s not gonna change his mind? Or do you think I should make some kind of announcement at school tomorrow?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
Will grinned. “Answer them in any order.”
“Go tell your guys,” Joe Tyler said. “Some sneaker companies you can probably trust not to bail out on you. Trust them to do what they say they’re going to do.”
Will put out his fist and his dad pounded it with his own.
“Dad,” he said, smiling, “I did it.”
“You did.”
“You always tell me it’s not about getting knocked down, it’s how you get back up, right?”
“Right as rain.”
“Well, I wouldn’t let the town council take me down and keep me down.”
Joe Tyler messed up Will’s hair and said, “That’s your mom in you coming out. She was the toughest person I ever knew.” Then he said to his son, “Listen, the mail in this bag isn’t going to deliver itself today. So you go do what the big sneaker man told you to do, and tell your good news to anybody you want to.”
Will did his best to hug his dad around the large mailbag on his shoulder, and then ran back home to get his bike. As he came through the front door, he heard the phone.
He ran to the kitchen and checked the caller ID and saw that it was Ben Clark calling from Castle Rock.
The two of them hadn’t talked all summer and for a second, Will wondered how he could possibly know about New Balance.
“Hey, man,” Ben said, “I heard the news.”
Will said, “What news would that be?”
“About your team. Bummer.”
Will smiled, thinking: The old news. The old bad news.
“Listen,” Ben said, “lemme talk for a second before you say anything.” He was a quarterback and quarterbacks always thought everybody else should shut up and listen. “I was talking to our coach and we agree you should come play for us. He said he’d even drive you over sometimes if your dad was working or whatever. You know I’ve been telling you since the championship game that you should be playing for us. Dude, imagine what it would be like if you got to play half your games on that field turf of ours. It would be, like, epic.”
“Listen,” Will said. “You’re nice to offer.”
Ready to tell him no, but not about Mr. DeMartini’s letter. He wasn’t about to tell the Castle Rock quarterback that news before he told any of his teammates.
But then Ben was talking again.
“It not just a nice offer,” he said. “We’re treating you like a free agent that just fell into our laps. My coach was saying how they’re always talking about contracting the poor teams in the NBA. He goes, ‘Will’s team just got contracted.’”
And for that one moment, Will did picture himself on that field turf they’d put in new last season. In that moment, Will wasn’t trying to imagine what he’d look like in whatever uniforms New Balance was going to buy but in the cool Castle Rock uniforms that they’d worn last season, the bottled-water company having not spared any expense in styling them up.
Mostly Will imagined himself running behind that huge offensive line of theirs, not having to do it all himself, the defense not able to stack up against him because they had to worry about Ben Clark’s golden arm.
Yeah, he thought, phone in his hand, neither he nor Ben saying anything.
It would be epic.
Then he looked over at the kitchen table where he’d left Rob DeMartini’s letter.
“I have a team,” he said finally.
“But I thought—”
Now Will was the one doing the interrupting.
“You’re a couple of days behind the news,” Will said. “We came up with the money.”
Nearly saying, I came up with the money.
“In Forbes?” Ben said.
He couldn’t have sounded more surprised if Will had told him he’d found ten thousand dollars under his bed.
“How?” Ben asked.
“Long story,” Will said. “But as stories go, pretty stellar. Tell you about it the next time I see you.�
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“You’re really gonna have a team?” Ben Clark said. “Because my dad went to the coaches’ meeting with Coach Tate last night, and he said the league’s pretty much resigned to going with seven teams this season instead of eight.”
“It’ll be eight,” Will said. “We’re in.”
“Well, congrats,” Ben said. “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Dude,” Ben said, “you guys barely had eleven to suit up last season. You bringing in some kind of big recruiting class now?”
Will knew what a good guy Ben Clark was. What Tim called a bro. Not spoiled or stuck up like he could have been. Will knew Ben was just playing. But he knew something else: it had only taken a few seconds for him to go from a friend back to being an opponent.
“We’ll be all right,” Will said.
He thought of saying it as aiight, but every time he tried that, he just sounded—and felt—like a tool.
“Well, we’ll see how all right you’re gonna be when they make the schedule,” Ben said. “Game’ll be at your place in the regular season this year.”
“Who knows,” Will said, “maybe the championship game will be here, too.”
“Oh, so you’re going from having no team to getting home field in the playoffs? If you count that junkyard as a field.”
“You never know.”
“In your dreams, Tyler.”
Then they were both laughing, chirping back and forth a little more, before Will said he had to be someplace. But before he hung up, he said, “Ben? Thanks for calling and asking. No lie.”
“You still belong with us, whether you’ve got a team over there or not.”
“Nah,” Will said. “I’m right where I belong.”
Something he never would have said before he picked up the mail today.
Then he hung up and got on his bike.
Ben Clark had to be kidding, worrying that they weren’t going to have enough guys who wanted to play over on this side of the river. In their own cool uniforms? With their cool New Balance football shoes?
