Rise Above

by Shannon Knudsen

  The guys were seriously pumped. Athens, the Evil Empire, has been Troy Central High’s biggest rival for as long as the two programs have existed. Most of the guys were pumped, that is. I put on a good show, but between my pounding head and the feeling that my blood had somehow been replaced with cement, I was dragging big time.

  Back in the locker room, Coach Z read off four names and passed out plastic cups for the so-called random drug testing. None of the four were Elite Warriors. Or ex-Elite Warriors, for that matter. I wondered if Coach Kramer was pulling the strings behind the scenes somehow. But at least I had nothing to worry about.

  After lunch, we rode in the Trojans team bus to the Pro Football Hall of Fame for a tour. I’d been there before, but they add new stuff every year. Highlights from every Super Bowl on a twenty-foot screen, an interactive “you make the call” play booth, that kind of thing. Very cool.

  When I asked one of the guides about Marion Motley, he got pretty excited. Turned out they had his 1946 contract with the Cleveland Browns right there in the museum, and the guide got it out of the archives to show us. Motley made four thousand bucks that season, which the guide said would be about fifty grand today. Decent money back then. I stared at his signature and tried to imagine how it must have felt to get paid to do something he loved so much. Not many people get to live that kind of life, you know?

  After the Hall of Fame, we got a couple hours of free time. You guessed it; I took a nap in the hotel. Then came a light, early dinner. Finally, we bused back to Fawcett Stadium. It was time to suit up.

  My head wouldn’t let up no matter how much I slept. I swallowed four Advils just before I slid my helmet on.

  I’d been here before as a spectator, watching last year’s championship game, so I thought I knew what to expect when we ran out of the tunnel. But the perspective from the field is nothing like it is up in the stands. I’d never been surrounded by twenty thousand screaming fans before, never anything close to that many. Even in the open-air stadium, the noise was crushing. I wondered if it was physically possible for someone’s head to pop off from steroid withdrawal.

  Somewhere in that ocean of people sat my mom and dad and Monique. Charise too. I hoped I would do them proud.

  Athens won the coin toss and elected to receive, so it was a while before I got out on the field. By then, we were down a TD and the Athens fans were going nuts. I kept shaking my head, trying to clear the pain and clear my thoughts too. This was the most important game of my life, yet I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t even feel the intensity, though I knew it was all around me. It was like someone had dropped a curtain between me and the rest of the world.

  Still, I had a job to do. I took my handoffs and ran as hard as I could. But I couldn’t make much headway. Shane picked up on it right away, and pretty soon he was hitting Orlando and the other receivers instead of giving me the ball. But all of us seemed off during those first couple of drives.

  Athens took advantage. Ten minutes into the game, we found ourselves down fourteen–zero.

  Coach Z called timeout and read us the riot act.

  “You guys are better than this!” he roared. “You are better than they are! You have the speed, the agility, the guts. What you don’t seem to have is the desire. Do you want this or not?”

  “Yeah!” everyone yelled.

  “Then get out there and prove it to me!”

  And just like that, everyone stepped up. Curtis intercepted the very next pass to set us up for a quick touchdown. Shane fired a short pass to Orlando for the two-point conversion. On their next possession, Athens went three-and-out. We followed with a field goal, then another to tie it up at fourteen. And then Athens fumbled, giving us the ball at midfield.

  Shane pulled us together in the huddle and called a reverse play. It was a no-brainer. A quick handoff to me, a lateral run just behind the line of scrimmage, and a handoff to Terry. We lined up, and Shane took the snap. I snagged the handoff—no problem—and sprinted to the left.

  But something went wrong. Terry wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Neither was my blocker. In fact, the only guy there was a six-foot-tall Raider who proceeded to pummel me into the turf.

  I popped back up like it was nothing and joined the huddle, only to find myself face-to-face with a very angry QB1.

  “Wrong direction! Burns!” he sputtered.

  I just stared at him. “No, Terry wasn’t there—”

  “Oh, I was there,” Terry cut in. “You ran the wrong freaking way, Darius. We’re lucky Athens didn’t let you keep going.”

  That’s when I realized what I’d done. It was worse than a rookie mistake. It was the kind of mistake a guy makes when his head’s not in the game. And mine sure wasn’t. It was too busy trying not to implode.

  So much for momentum. With the help of the down I wasted, we went three-and-out. Midway through the second quarter, Athens took it in for another TD. That left us down by seven.

  I’d only had a couple of touches since my screwup, and I hadn’t done anything spectacular with them. Finally, as the half wound down, Shane lit up Orlando in the end zone. Orlando pulled the ball in like he owned it. Now we were down just a point.

  Coach Z could’ve gone for the kick and the sure tie going into halftime, but that’s never been his way. He called for a two-point conversion. I’d be carrying the ball. You can do this, I told myself as we lined up. You got this, Darius.

  “Hut! Hut! Hut!” Shane yelled. Helmets, pads, and bodies collided. I took the handoff, pulled the ball in close, and stuck my left arm out to block. Ahead of me, Dylan smashed into a lineman. Sure enough, a hole opened. I pushed ahead, but the hole started narrowing fast. I needed more speed than I could coax out of my muscles.

  Smash! I rammed into a Raider, then another, and then a third came at me from the side. I hit the turf, still cradling the ball, but I knew I was way short of the goal line.

  The ref blew the whistle. The silence from Troy’s side of the bleachers confirmed my failure. As I lay flattened at the bottom of the pile, guys slowly picked themselves up, and the horn blew to signal the end of the half. When I could see again, I didn’t even have to look, but of course I did anyway. A full yard short.

  Dylan pulled me up, and a couple guys gave me a friendly slap as we jogged into the tunnel. All I got from Shane was a glare. He hurried ahead to talk to Coach Z, and I knew what was coming.

  The worst part was that I was almost glad.

  14 / STATE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME—HALFTIME

  I’d never been in such a quiet locker room. My teammates barely even breathed as Coach Z rattled off a list of our faults: sloppy special teams work, lousy defensive blocking, the dropped interception. And then he got to me.

  “Burns, what is going on with you? Are you even awake out there? What was that botched reverse?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said.

  “Well, I’m sorry too, son, but your teammates are out there getting pounded, and you can’t tell your right from your left? And how many times have you made that blast for two points this season? Only to miss it when it counts the most?”

  I had a feeling he didn’t really intend me to answer any of those questions, so I kept my mouth shut. He wasn’t done with me yet, though.

  “You’ve got your own QB1 asking me to bench you, you know that?” Coach Z sputtered. “And I’m of a mind to do exactly that. We’ll see if Vasquez can make a play when it counts.”

  Miguel Vasquez was the backup’s backup, the guy who began the season expecting zero minutes because Devon, Ian, and I were all in his way. And now he was taking my place in the state championship. Congratulations, Darius. Your humiliation is complete.

  I tried to stay focused on the rest of Coach Z’s lecture, just in case he changed his mind and put me back in after all, but the headache I was sure couldn’t get worse had started thundering inside my skull again. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open and look like I was paying attention. I didn’t have it in me to actually lis
ten, much less process what I heard.

  A few minutes later, we jogged back out of the tunnel to face our rival and our fate. Our guys definitely took Coach Z’s words to heart. The second half opened with Orlando Green running back the kickoff ninety yards for a sweet six points—and then my backup iced the cake by punching through for the two-point conversion. I cheered Vasquez on as loud as anybody. Score: Troy, twenty-eight; Athens, twenty-one.

  The rest of the third quarter was a see-saw of scoring: them, us, them, us. Both defenses looked ragged. Curtis made some sweet tackles, though, forcing the Raiders to settle for a field goal on one play and causing a fumble on another.

  As the fourth quarter began, it was Troy, thirty-nine; Athens, thirty-one. Not a lot of breathing room, and the coaches looked tenser than I’d ever seen them. Shane made it worse a few minutes in by throwing a rare interception. At least Dylan brought the guy down at the Athens ten, so they had a long way to go. But the Raiders put together a fierce drive, eating up the clock and plowing through our defensive line a few yards at a time. They scored on the fourteenth play of the drive. They followed the touchdown with another two points to tie it up with four minutes and change left to play.

  I knew I wasn’t the only one thinking about my botched two-point conversion. It had made the difference so far. Would my team rise above my mistakes?

  I have to admit, I was worried that Shane wouldn’t be able to shake off that interception. I shouldn’t have been concerned. He may be a jerk, but he’s a jerk with the most intense focus I’ve ever seen on the football field. He hit Orlando for two passes in a row, then mixed it up with a pitch to Dylan that gained us sixteen yards.

  Next, the Trojan offense ran the reverse play—the same one I’d botched in the first quarter, only this time Vasquez executed perfectly. Shane ran it in himself for the touchdown, then did the exact same thing for the two. Athens didn’t know what had hit them.

  With a minute-ten remaining, the Raiders tried to put something together, but they were out of time-outs and they quickly ran out of time. They’d only made it to midfield when Curtis pulled down the last tackle of the game. Final score: Troy, forty-seven; Athens, thirty-nine.

  We did it. We won state. I’d had the worst game of my career. I’d been benched in the most embarrassing way possible, but my boys had taken the prize. And I was as much a part of the celebration as anybody, giving Coach Z a Gatorade shower, whooping it up in the locker room, and finally forgetting that evil headache for a few minutes.

  I didn’t forget that we got there by cheating, though. But a bunch of those guys—in fact, most of them—had played by the book, and they deserved every minute of bliss. They had earned it. I gave Vasquez a high five and complimented his game. He looked like a little kid in a candy store, all wide-eyed and full of joy.

  Next thing we knew, we were piled on the team bus for the trip home. And the season was suddenly over.

  15 / MONDAY, DECEMBER 2—TEAM MEETING

  Two days after winning state, you’d think a football coach would be pumping the guys up, getting us revved for off-season workouts. Not this time.

  “Gentlemen,” Coach Z began, his face stern. “We have a serious situation on this football team. As you know, Ian McNamara was hospitalized last week due to heart palpitations. It’s since come to light that he was taking anabolic steroids, which were the likely cause of his health issues.”

  The guys started talking all at once—except the Elite Warriors. Most of them looked at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but at each other or Coach Kramer.

  “Enough!” Coach Z yelled.

  Everyone shut up.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you that those substances are illegal and absolutely contrary to the values this school and this team stand for. Not to mention dangerous. Now, as far as we know, McNamara’s actions were known to him alone. But the state athletic board will be investigating. If they find that anyone who played on Saturday—or in any of our prior games—was doping, our victory will be vacated. We will no longer be state champions.”

  I’d never seen such a grim bunch of guys. Coach Z might as well have said that Ian had died. In fact, I had a nasty suspicion that some of my teammates would have rather heard that than Coach Z’s actual words.

  “I expect that every one of you will cooperate fully with the investigation. Do the right thing for yourself, your team, and your school. If anyone has any questions, see me individually.”

  Coach scanned the room, looking at each of us in turn. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me, but I could swear he let his gaze linger a beat longer on each of the Elite Warriors.

  How much did he know? And what did he really mean about doing the right thing for the team?

  Walking home from practice, I tried to figure it out. Telling the truth would mean humiliation for the school, the team, even my family. It would mean no more football for me, no college scholarship, maybe no college at all. At least not Princeton like my parents wanted. There’d probably be a suspension from school and that would go on my record and . . .

  Plus Coach Kramer would lose his job. Maybe Coach Z too.

  Actually, I almost could live with that. Kramer had rolled the dice with our health and safety for the sake of winning. And if Coach Z didn’t know about it—which I doubted—he should’ve. He should’ve been looking out for us.

  Still, did I want to be the guy who single-handedly destroyed the Trojan football legacy? Destroyed careers, destroyed everybody’s chances to play college ball?

  On the other hand, telling would mean I wouldn’t have to live with being a cheater. I wouldn’t have to live with covering up the truth about how Ian ended up in the hospital. Why should he take the blame for something his coach pushed him into doing?

  It was too much. I had to stop thinking about it for a while. I called Curtis to see if he wanted to come over for a Call of Duty marathon. An hour later, we were blasting our way through enemy defenses, lobbing grenades, and generally kicking butt.

  Would I tell the truth? I’d have to wait and see.

  16 / MONDAY, DECEMBER 9—TEAM MEETING

  I didn’t have to wait long. The investigation turned out to be a joke. Nobody even contacted me. No questions to answer, no tough choices to make.

  Well, I could’ve chosen to come forward with what I knew. But I didn’t.

  Coach Z was grinning like the cat that ate the canary when he gave us the news.

  “I’m pleased to tell you all that the state athletic board has concluded that Ian McNamara acted alone in his use of banned substances,” he said. “No evidence was found that any other Trojan broke any regulation.”

  It’s never a good idea to interrupt Coach Z, but I guess Shane couldn’t help himself. “So the state championship stands?”

  Coach Z shot him a look, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face for long. “Correct. Since McNamara didn’t play in the championship, and no proof was found that he was using steroids when he played in previous games, all our victories remain on the books. Congratulations, gentlemen. We are state champions!”

  With that, all the tension that had gripped us since Ian went into the hospital seemed to evaporate. Curtis jumped up and gave me a high five, which set everybody off into about five minutes of whooping, hollering, and cheering. As the noise died down, Dylan raised his hand. Coach Z gave him a nod.

  “Where’s Coach Kramer, sir?”

  Everybody looked around. All the assistants were in their usual spots except him.

  Coach Z cleared his throat. “Coach Kramer had to attend to a family situation. He’ll continue to teach, but because he needs more time at home right now, he’ll be on leave from coaching through the off-season. Possibly beyond.”

  I could have sworn Coach Z caught my eye right then—just like he had the week before— and gave me the smallest of all possible nods.

  17 / TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17—PRACTICE FIELD

  It took another week off the juice to start feelin
g like myself again. I made myself run a couple miles every day. Plus my parents kept their promise to get me a biology tutor, so I had plenty of things to occupy my time while the headache faded. To top it all off, Ms. Winthrop decided I could do an extra credit project since I’d been “sick” the day of the test I flunked. One more thing I’d be keeping quiet about, probably for the rest of my life.

  Most of the guys had taken a couple weeks off working out after state. Nobody could hold an organized practice, of course, but we had our instructions for strength training and conditioning. That’s why Curtis and I were on the field after school, timing each other on the forty-yard dash.

  No surprises there. My times sucked. I had a lot of work to do, a lot of things to make up for.

  “Well, look who’s putting in some overtime.”

  I turned around. It was Charise Hawkins, standing on the sideline. I wondered how long she’d been watching us run.

  “Yo, Curtis, gimme a few minutes,” I called out. My buddy took the hint, waved, and jogged off to run a lap around the sidelines.

  Suddenly I had no idea what to say. Charise hadn’t even talked to me since state. I figured I’d blown whatever chance I might’ve had with her, playing like I did. So what was she doing here now?

  “Uh, what’s up, Charise?”

  “Not much. Just taking a shortcut home from play rehearsal.” I remembered she had a part in Oklahoma!—yeah, on top of everything else, the girl could sing.

  “Oh.” I tried to think of something intelligent to say about the musical, but as usual, my tongue was tied in a double knot.

  “You’ve been pretty quiet lately, Darius,” she said.

  “I have?”

  “Mm-hmm. I don’t think you’ve said three words to me since football season ended.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s true.” She didn’t sound annoyed. Just curious.