#1 Out of the Tunnel

by Patrick Jones

  Text copyright © 2014 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Mike Powell/CORBIS, (football player); © iStockphoto.com/mack2happy (grass).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jones, Patrick.

  Out of the tunnel / by Patrick Jones.

  pages cm. — (The red zone, #1)

  Summary: When Brian attains his goal of being a starter on the Troy, Ohio, Central High Trojan football team, as was his father, he enjoys new privileges but is exposed to terrible behavior that adults tolerate because “boys will be boys.”

  ISBN 978–1–4677–2126–4 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–4649–6 (eBook)

  [1. Football—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Family life—Ohio—Fiction. 7. Ohio—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J7242Out 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013034230

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/14

  eISBN 978-1-46774-649-6 (pdf)

  eISBN 978-1-4677-7412-3 (ePub)

  eISBN 978-1-46777-413-0 (mobi)

  1 / THURSDAY, JUNE 7—LAST DAY OF SCHOOL

  “You got it?” Dad asked like a kid on Christmas morning. It, of course, was the football handbook for the upcoming season. No matter that today was June 7, the last day of school. Dad’s mind was on Troy High football. Check that, he was always thinking about football. So was I.

  “Most of it.” I gave him the Troy Central High School Trojan Football Player and Parent Handbook.

  “Most?” His smile vanished. Most, some, and maybe were not words in Big Bill Norwood’s vocabulary. Dad’s a seal-the-deal, all-or-nothing kind of guy.

  “There’s just a few details to work out about the preseason games, I guess.”

  “Well, Bill—I mean Coach Zachary—will take care of that, I’m sure,” Dad said. My dad and Coach Zachary played football together at Troy High on the team. Not a team, but THE team.

  Dad reviewed the schedule. Practice began in ten days: conditioning, then skill camp, and then weights. It was T-shirt weather outside, but Dad and I both yearned for helmets, pads, and cleats.

  “So there’s a fee for conditioning now?” he said.

  I shrugged. A fee didn’t matter. With football, money was no object. It had been that way since fourth grade and Half Backs, Coach Zachary’s youth football camp. Dad, along with other members of THE team, had served as coaches.

  “Now, Brian, about skills camp.”

  “What about it?” I asked. And waited for an answer. Dad was in sales, so a quick answer was his stock-in-trade, but there was just silence. We sat on the big porch in the backyard. He drank coffee as always. Diet Dew was my stock-in-trade.

  “Dad?” More silence. I checked my phone. I’d missed a call from Dylan Davis, my best friend and a fellow Trojan footballer. We’d both earned varsity letters as sophomore starters: Dylan at guard and backup fullback, me at linebacker. Best friends off the fields, we often banged helmets in practice.

  “Brian, I couldn’t be prouder of you starting last year, but for this season, I have an idea.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I knew where I was going: Ohio State, football scholarship, like Dad. Then, unlike Dad, the pros—hopefully, the Bengals. A true high school star, Dad had washed out at OSU, both on and off the field. So he pushed me hard on the gridiron, while Mom pressed me in the classroom. As a teacher, it came natural to her.

  Dad set down his coffee and picked up an-always-at-the-ready football from the porch. He walked slowly into our big backyard, site of many a Norwood family football game. (Tackle, never touch.) I gulped the last drops of Diet Dew and followed him without a word.

  “I’m not sure linebacker is the best showcase for you.”

  I wanted to argue: linebacker was the football position. It combined size, speed, and smarts. Hundreds of hits flashed through my mind—football at its purest.

  Dad tossed the ball toward me, high. I snared it effortlessly.

  “I see weakness in fullback.”

  I tossed the ball softly back. “Dylan’s solid. He’ll do fine.” Dylan got minutes as a guard, but by end of the year, he was taking downs and gaining yards as full-back. With so many senior starters graduated and a weak group of juniors moving up, we knew we’d keep our starting spots.

  “I agree. He’s got potential.” The ball came back to me, harder. “What about tight end?”

  “What about it?” Tight end was now senior Mike Miller’s spot. A good but not great player.

  “Like linebacker or quarterback, tight end requires the best athlete on the field,” Dad said. When Dad played, Troy High was smaller. The best players had played on both offense and defense. His positions? Linebacker and quarterback. “And you’re the best athlete on the team.”

  “Shane would disagree.” Shane was quarterback and the best athlete. Just ask him.

  I threw the ball back. Dad caught it with one hand. “At tight end, you can show your skills: running, receiving, and blocking. It’s a good position for you. Better than linebacker. Safer too.”

  I’d played tight end in junior high but liked linebacker better. “Mike’s pretty good.”

  The ball came back hard, right in the chest. I winced. “You’re better than him, Brian.”

  I cradled the ball. For a second, I allowed myself to see it: catching the winning pass, the crowd yelling, cheerleaders leaping, and Dad beaming with pride. For my friends, I knew that’s why they played: the chance at glory. For me, it wasn’t about glory but the game itself.

  “I’ll talk to Coach Zachary. Coach Colby won’t be happy losing you, but—”

  “He’s never happy,” I interrupted.

  Dad laughed. Colby was the defensive coach. A real hard case.

  Dad motioned for me to throw him the ball, but I held onto it. “You’re sure about this.”

  “Look, Brian, you’ve got to understand this is what’s best for you. And the team.”

  I tossed the ball back. It fell short. Dad frowned at imperfection even in backyard catch.

  “Being on offense and a receiver gets you in the center of the action, Brian.”

  And center of attention, I thought. I’m not so sure about that. I don’t mind being outside.

  “And unless things have changed since I played, there are other benefits.” The ball came back to me in a perfect spiral that would make Shane green as grass. “You know what I mean.”

  I did, but I didn’t say so. The Big Six. Everyone knew, but nobody said it out loud.

  “So, we’re agreed. You’ll make the switch. Remember, it’s for the good of the team,” Dad said. “The Norwood family will always do what is best for Troy football and Trojan pride.”

  I smiled at Dad, but my mind traveled to the scrapbooks that sat in his trophy case like holy bo
oks. The books contained every game program, every story clipped from the newspaper, and every flyer promoting the Friends of Troy Football Kickoff Carnival since grandpa Chuck played fifty years ago. My house acted as the Troy Central High Trojans football museum.

  “Pass it!” he said.

  I did as I was told, as always. Dad held the ball and my fate in his hand. I might change positions, but the bigger changes might be off the field. I wouldn’t be an outside linebacker; instead, I’d be on the inside. Not just part of the offense but part of the Big Six.

  2 / MONDAY, JUNE 18—FIRST DAY OF CONDITIONING

  “Is Devon here?” Mike asked. He stood with me, Terry, and Dylan outside the locked gates to Willard Auto Parts Field, formerly Trojan Field until Dad’s boss bought naming rights.

  “That would mean being on white people time,” Terry joked. None of us laughed. I guessed Terry hadn’t learned that unlike the people at his old school, the evil empire of Athens High, Coach Z didn’t tolerate that kind of racist nonsense. The only color Coach Z wanted us to see was the brown of the football, the green of the turf, and the red numbers lighting up the scoreboard.

  “If Orlando was here, he’d squeeze in.” I pointed at the tiny space between the chain-locked gates. Wide receiver in fall, sprinter in spring, Orlando was rifle-thin and bullet-fast.

  “Well, except his head,” Terry said. We all laughed. We agreed on that. The only thing larger than Orlando’s considerable talents was his colossal ego. Dylan joked that Coach Quinn bought a special oversized helmet for Orlando. “He’ll be late too.”

  “Do you know who is running the first day?” I asked. Coach Colby and Coach Whitson took turns running conditioning camp, with Coach Z making an occasional appearance. Never knowing when Coach Z would drop in, kept all of us on our toes, including, I guess, the coaches.

  “Witless Whitson,” Mike said. Whitson made the call to replace Mike at halfback last year when Devon transferred before the season started. Even without taking part in the grueling football preseason program, Devon took Mike’s job. Some guys, like Devon, just had it. I felt sorry for Mike, but then I was planning on taking his job this season, so not that sorry.

  I wondered if Dad had already told Coach Z and Coach Whitson about his plan to switch me to tight end. With Dad being an officer in the Friends of Troy Football Board and an old friend of theirs, I knew they’d listen to him. I imagined the back-slapping-recall-the-good-times conversation. I avoided Mike’s eyes, dreading the scene of him being told he wouldn’t be starting at tight end.

  “Real men would’ve climbed over!” Coach Whitson yelled from his SUV. He parked his Chevy Tahoe, honked his horn, and shouted, “Any of you ladies able to do some lifting?”

  The four of us raced toward the parking lot. I beat Terry by one step, Dylan by two, and Mike by five. The tight end job was mine for the taking.

  “Whatever you need,” Dylan said.

  “Lifting doesn’t start until next week, but let’s see if you ladies can handle some serious weight.” Coach Whitson opened the doors to his SUV. The seats were stacked high with boxes.

  “What’s this?” Dylan asked.

  “While you were working on your tans and sipping Shirley Temples with your aunties, the coaching staff was hard at work.” He lifted a box with ease. We all followed his lead. Mike tried to lift two but failed.

  “Great hands, Miller!” Coach Whitson cracked.

  Mike said nothing as he picked up the contents of the box: a thick notebook with a Trojan red and white cover. On the front it said, Troy Trojans Conditioning Program—Hardened for Victory.

  “The coaching staff realized the reason you girls lost four games last year, including that fiasco to Athens, wasn’t lack of talent but lack of conditioning. You were weak.”

  Dylan, Terry, and Mike muttered in agreement.

  We weren’t weak, I thought, the other teams were better.

  “No excuses this year. We’re going to work you like government mules.”

  More muttering from my friends, but I was distracted by my pain. The box in my hands felt light since other than a few of the linemen, I could move more metal than anyone, but my hands hurt. Maybe the others had been working on their tans like Coach said, but Dad had me working on calluses. He’d thrown—and I caught—more passes than a pretty girl heard in a year.

  Coach put his box down, opened the gate, and led us onto the field. And as great as it was to walk onto the field, only one thing was better: coming out of the tunnel. When Mr. Willard bought the naming rights, he put in more seats, a better scoreboard, and a tunnel from under the stands onto the field like college and pro players had. When called, we’d burst out like cannonballs, running from the dressing room through the darkness of the tunnel then to the lit-up field under the crowd’s roar.

  I started back with Mike, Terry, and Dylan to get more boxes, but Coach Whitson called me aside. “Brian, Coach Z spoke with me. So, you want to try for tight end?” I nodded with vigor.

  “Nothing gets handed to you. You’ll need to work for it,” Coach said, full throttle.

  I rubbed the calluses on my fingertips.

  “There are no favored nations in Trojan football, understand?”

  Another nod, less vigor. We both knew that was a lie. There were three levels at Troy High: the Big Six, the rest of the team, and mere mortals who didn’t play football.

  We talked a little more, but pretty soon other players started to arrive. School had only been out a week, and yet here we all were. The goalposts were flames, and we were moths.

  “BN, what’s up?” Shane yelled from a distance. Devon and Orlando walked by his side.

  Shane called everyone by their initials, except other members of the Big Six. He must have learned that from Coach Z, who called anyone who didn’t start only by his jersey number.

  I stumbled for an answer. Shane had it all: lettered in three sports, good grades, a hot car, and a hotter girlfriend. But like every hero, he had an Achilles’ heel. He was the biggest jerk at Troy.

  “It’s hot out here. You look thirsty,” Shane said as his pack closed in on me.

  “I’m good.” For some reason, this caused shivers of laughter among his group.

  “Have some OJ.” Shane handed me a big, clear bottle of orange juice. More laughter.

  I gulped back the juice fast but spit it out even faster. “You got screwed!” Shane yelled.

  Orange juice with vodka. A screwdriver. My cousin Stan loved them; I didn’t.

  “Word is you want on the right side of the field,” Shane said. I nodded. “Keep your mouth shut, do as we say, and you got it made.” Another nod, another gulp, another laugh.

  3 / WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20—FIRST DAY OF SKILLS CAMP

  “Who wants it more?” Coach Z asked the huddled masses of players. Like conditioning last week and weight lifting next week, these “opportunities” were optional, except I’d never seen anyone but Devon and Terry make the team without suffering the summer away in agony.

  “That’s what it is about, kids.” Coach Z paced back and forth—slowly, since he had little cartilage in either knee. Though it was a warm June day turning to night, he wore his blue and gold Trojan sweatshirt with Head Coach stitched on the sleeve. They’ll bury him in that thing.

  “We can improve your skills, build your conditioning, and help you add strength, but only you can bring out the best of yourselves.” Coach Z’s voice boomed over a sea of heavy breaths. The coach’s welcome to us was a command to run the steps eleven times: nine for each regular season game and two for the playoffs. “We’re in a competitive division, and in order for us to win, training and preparation are key.”

  This led to more nodding and muttering of agreement from fifty or so tired and scared faces, especially from the incoming ninth graders. Coach Z didn’t break up skills camp or the first week of double practices in August into varsity and JV. He said it was to help the underclass build skills, but I guessed it was really a toughness tes
t. Those of us, like Dylan and Mike, who played serious minutes as tenth graders, passed Coach Z’s exam. As a PE teacher, like Coach Colby, it was the only test Coach Z gave. Whitson taught business, a class all the football players took because it was an easy A. We all knew which teachers understood how the game was played.

  Since Coach Z paced, he tended not to make eye contact. That was left to the other eight coaches. Mom liked to point out that Troy High had three times as many football coaches as school counselors and nine times as many as school librarians. As Coach Z continued to pace around, I thought I heard Shane, Devon, Orlando, and Terry whisper to each other.

  When Shane laughed, Coach Z stopped talking. His angry glare only caused Shane to laugh a little louder. Like a chain reaction, other people started to laugh, including Mike who sat next to me. “Something funny, 54?” Coach Colby shouted. “Run off your giggles, now!”

  And so it began.

  Mike wiped the sweat from his brow to make room for more of it as he hit the steps.

  “As the great Vince Lombardi said, ‘Winning isn’t everything, but striving to win is.’ This has always been the heart and soul of Troy’s proud football history.” Coach Z was now in full-blown motivational halftime speech mode. “Football is a demanding sport of discipline and determination, requiring commitment and courage. It takes a dedicated athlete. Football is not for everyone, but playing football will give back to you far more than it will take from you.”

  As I watched Mike bravely battle exhaustion, I briefly questioned Coach Z’s math.

  “Football provides a sense of success and pride. It fosters self-assurance, bravery, and develops lifelong friendships. Being a football player is a state of mind and an honor that only a few share,” Coach Z said and smiled. “Although winning is always the goal, remember what Vince Lombardi said, ‘The harder you work, the harder it is to surrender.’”

  Most players hung on to Coach Z’s every word. Mom, who taught theater as well as language arts at Troy High, would joke—when Dad wasn’t around, of course—that Coach Z would have made a great stage actor, but only if the play was nothing but monologues.