Deep Zone

by Tim Green

  Ty nodded, relieved. He brushed his teeth and got ready for bed before he returned to Thane’s room. “I didn’t spill that drink on purpose, Thane.”

  Thane lay with his eyes closed and his head back, and for a moment, Ty thought he might have fallen asleep.

  “You better get to sleep,” Thane said without opening his eyes. “Tomorrow is a big day for you guys. You didn’t come down here to lose, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Good, then get to sleep.”

  “I really didn’t,” Ty said.

  Thane sighed. “I know. I believe you. Get to sleep.”

  Ty felt a flood of relief. He began to close the door, then stopped. “You think that Troy White is really what they say he is?”

  “Mr. Cole isn’t in the habit of paying people for things they can’t do,” Thane said without moving.

  “Then how can we even hope to win this thing?”

  Thane opened one eye, like a lizard looking for the source of some strange noise. “Let’s just get to the finals, and if they get there too, we’ll worry about it then. Okay? And, we’re going to have to get in touch with that girl tomorrow and buy her a new dress.”

  “Okay, Thane.” Ty felt a thrill go through him. He closed the door, then opened it again. “Thane? I love you.”

  “I love you, too, buddy. I always will. Spilled drink or no spilled drink. Knee or no knee.”

  When he got to his own room, Ty stood in the dark staring out at the glow of the night sky where it met the horizon beyond the endless Everglades. He couldn’t say exactly why, but even though he had embarrassed himself and his brother tonight, he was eager to give the girl named Tate a new dress. In fact, the thought of seeing her again left a smile pasted on his face that wouldn’t go away.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  ONLY THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME of the 7-on-7 Tournament would be played at the Dolphins’ stadium. The preliminary rounds were to take place at the University of Miami’s football practice fields. The practice fields had surprisingly large bleachers, and they were full. With sixty-four teams from across the country, Ty wasn’t surprised. He hopped down out of the shuttle bus Mark Bavaro had hired to transport them from the hotel to the games and scanned the crowd, looking for Thane. Then he sent a text, only to learn that his older brother hadn’t arrived yet.

  Thane texted him again.

  GOOD LUCK!

  Ty smiled and fell in line with his teammates as they wound their way through the crowd and out onto the field, led by their coach, Mark Bavaro. The North New Jersey Raptors wore deep red jerseys with white numbers. Their opponents would be the Kansas Storm, wearing powder blue with black numbers. The kids from Kansas didn’t look that much bigger than the Raptors, but they did look fast. Ty couldn’t keep from noticing as they warmed up how quick the hands of the cornerbacks were. They practiced a press coverage against their own teammates, and their hands shot out quick as frog tongues, connecting with the wide receivers like practiced boxers, and knocking them this way and that. By the time the receivers got free from these jams, they were too late to get to where they should be for the quarterback to throw the ball.

  Ty bit his lip and warmed up with his own team. The Raptors defense played very little press coverage. Instead, they played more zone defense, where defenders would drop back to preassigned spots on the field—setting up a net of sorts—then reading the quarterback’s eyes and the receivers’ patterns to break up the pass or hopefully intercept the ball. Since the Raptors defense played zone, that was mostly what Ty had practiced against the past few weeks.

  Ty liked playing against zone defenses, because he could use his brains to figure out the shape of the net and then his speed to get to the open holes that always existed. Press coverage was a bit different. When a team pressed, you had to be physical at the line of scrimmage, either slapping down their hands or plowing through the blows like a battleship. Ty’s long thin arms and skinny frame weren’t really built for either one of those things.

  Mark Bavaro brought them together and urged them to give it their all.

  “We win this one,” the old player said, “and I’ve got a couple of tricks that’ll get us all the way to the finals. This one is tough because we haven’t seen these guys before, but if we get past them, there isn’t going to be another team we play who we won’t already have figured out. Trust me—I’ll explain later—but we’ve got to win this one, guys.”

  They chanted “win” three times, then broke their huddle. The Raptors won the toss and got the ball first. Ty walked out onto the field with his offensive teammates, trying to keep his back straight and his head tall, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. He stepped into the huddle and glanced up into the stands for his brother, thinking he must be there by now. David Bavaro called the play, they broke the huddle, and Ty approached the line.

  One of the Storm cornerbacks bounced into position in front of Ty, his rabbit-quick hands already flickering. One of the cornerback’s teammates shouted at him. “Hey, Moby, try not to hurt that skinny kid!”

  Ty ignored the remark and took one more quick look into the stands.

  That’s when he saw a face that made him freeze in terror.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  BEYOND HIS COUSIN CHARLOTTE’S strange behavior and unpredictable mood swings, Ty hadn’t given much thought at all to girls. It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls, it was just that he didn’t think about them. His mind was on sports and books and doing well in school. Girls filled up the same space in the hallways and classrooms as boys did. The only difference he ever really noticed about girls was that they had their own sports teams.

  The girl named Tate had changed that.

  She scared him and made him dizzy with excitement all at the same time.

  Spilling his drink on her the night before had been a moment so horrible that he was sure he’d never forget it. But, spilling the drink also made it possible for him to see her again. They had to get her a new dress. His brother said so. Ty already imagined several noble ways they might present Tate with her new dress: over dinner in a fancy restaurant, out on a grand yacht they might charter for an afternoon on the ocean, or beside a campfire on the beach with the darkness closing in.

  What he hadn’t considered was seeing Tate at the football field. Worse would be Tate seeing him, especially when he was about to get battered around like a punching bag. Ty averted his eyes and settled into his stance as the quarterback began his cadence. He tried not to notice the burning intensity in the cornerback named Moby’s eyes, but they drew his attention like a pinball is drawn to a magnet. The bright yellow eyes swirled like a madman’s, and Moby made little huffing noises like a dog’s frantic sniffing.

  The ball was snapped.

  Ty took off.

  Moby hit him square in the chest, and Ty’s feet left the earth.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  BAVARO THREW AN INCOMPLETE pass downfield to one of the receivers who was able to get off the line of scrimmage. The whistle blew, and Ty’s eyes went toward Tate’s seat in the stands.

  She looked at him with real concern, then smiled uncertainly and waved.

  Ty blushed and gave a little wave back as he got to his feet. He dusted the grass off the sleeve of his shirt and realized that Tate hadn’t been looking at him at all. She broke out into a full grin now as Troy White and his mom walked up the bleachers’ steps and gave her hugs before sitting down beside her. Troy wore a dark blue jersey with white numbers, and Ty figured he must be playing soon. Ty only hoped that the boy from Georgia—because he was finding his seat—hadn’t seen Ty get knocked off his feet.

  “What happened?” David Bavaro asked Ty in the huddle.

  “He pressed me.”

  “They rolled their safety to the other side of the field. You should have been wide open,” the quarterback said. “Come on, Ty. You gotta get past the press.”

  “He’s pretty good.” Ty spoke in a mutter. “I’ll try.”
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  Bavaro called the play, and they broke the huddle. Ty jogged to the line, hoping that this time another Kansas player might be covering him. He glanced up into the stands and saw Tate sitting with the Whites. Troy stared right at him, and Ty pretended not to notice.

  The same cornerback, Moby, bounced toward Ty and hunkered down across the line from him. Ty gritted his teeth and exhaled. He just had no luck.

  Ty got into his stance, hands up, feet staggered, eyes straight ahead, looking through the bouncing, snarling, fist-flickering cornerback.

  David Bavaro began his cadence, and Ty glanced to the inside to see how much space he’d have to run. The ball was snapped. Ty gave a head fake to the outside, then burst back toward the inside. Moby didn’t miss a beat. He never went for the head fake at all, but instead shot both hands out into Ty’s chest. Ty staggered sideways, and Moby jammed him again, sending Ty toward the middle of the field and completely out of the pattern.

  When Bavaro threw to the crossing route over the middle, Moby leaped up and tipped the ball. The ball sailed, end over end, like a kickoff. One of the Kansas safeties jumped up and snatched it, accelerating past Ty, dodging Bavaro, and scoring a defensive touchdown for the Storm.

  Ty looked haplessly at Bavaro. The quarterback could only shake his head, turn away, and walk off the field. Ty hung his own head and followed at a jog. When he got to the sideline, Mark Bavaro stood waiting for him, banging the side of his leg with a clipboard. Bavaro’s face looked like it was ready to explode.

  “Ty,” the coach said, pointing toward the bench, “have a seat.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  IN CASE TATE WAS watching, Ty didn’t go straight to the bench because he didn’t want her to see that happen. Ty wandered over to the Gatorade table and sipped at a cup. He got an idea and headed for Larry Oppenheimer, one of the dads, who was a professional trainer and helping out with the team.

  “Mr. Oppenheimer,” Ty said, making his face long, “could you take a look at my tape? I think it’s too tight.”

  Mr. Oppenheimer looked at him impatiently because his son was playing linebacker on defense right next to Michael Strahan Jr. and he obviously wanted to watch the game.

  “Here, hop up here.” The trainer walked over and patted the bench.

  Ty hopped up and watched with intense concern as the trainer stripped off his shoe and sock and examined the tape.

  “It looks fine. Your foot’s not red or anything, Ty.” The trainer glanced over his shoulder at the action. “You want me to retape it?”

  “No, thanks, Mr. Oppenheimer. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t cutting off the circulation. I’ll work through it.”

  The trainer gave Ty a sympathetic look before moving back toward the sideline. Ty felt a weight in his gut over tricking the trainer, but he preferred that feeling to having Tate and Troy White witness his benching. As it was, they might think he was hurt, and that’s why he wouldn’t be returning to the field. Ty sat there with his ankle still up on the bench, as if he really was hurt.

  The problem for Ty was that the longer he sat there faking it, the worse he felt. When he heard Thane’s voice from behind him and saw his brother leaning over the fence separating the stands from the bench area, Ty put his leg down and stood up.

  “What are you doing?” Thane asked. “What’s with your ankle?”

  “Oh, my tape was a little tight. That’s all.” Ty knew his face must be red as a fire engine.

  “That’s no reason to sit there on the bench. What happened? Why aren’t you out there?”

  Ty glanced at Coach Bavaro, who was shouting something to his son as they drove down the field, the Raptors now back on offense.

  “I had trouble getting off the jam.” Ty looked at his cleats.

  “Bavaro benched you?”

  “It happened twice. I messed up. The guy covering me jammed me all the way into the middle, then jumped up and tipped the ball. They picked it off and scored.”

  Thane pressed his lips tight enough so that his mouth was nothing but a paper cut in the bottom of his face. A warm breeze wafted Thane’s brown hair across his forehead until he swept it away.

  “Well,” Thane finally said, “it is what it is. Just be ready if you get another chance. What did you do with your eyes?”

  “My eyes?” Ty said.

  “Did you look where you were going?”

  Ty thought for a moment. “I did.”

  “Okay, that happens,” Thane said. “Just remember, if you get the chance, don’t look where you’re going to go. Eyes straight ahead, no matter what. Then, give him a double move. He’ll jam on the second move, and you’ll be gone. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Ty walked back into the mix of teammates standing behind their coaches on the sideline. He studied the cornerback Moby. Moby shut down every Raptors receiver he went up against. Coach Bavaro sent two different players in at Ty’s position, but neither of them could get free. The game progressed with each team trading scores, keeping it close.

  Ty took a deep breath and tapped Coach Bavaro on the shoulder. “Coach, I think I can get past that guy. My brother gave me an idea.”

  “Your brother?” Bavaro looked around, saw Thane standing by the fence, and gave him a nod. “We’ll see.”

  Bavaro turned his attention back to the field.

  As the clock wound down into the final few minutes, Coach Bavaro glanced Ty’s way, and Ty began to think that he just might get that other chance.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  THE RAPTORS WERE DOWN by two points.

  Only twenty-two seconds remained in the game.

  When the coach called Ty’s name, he ran out onto the field without taking even a peek at where Tate sat with her friend Troy White. Ty didn’t care. He was zeroed in on Moby, and on beating him good.

  “We got to go deep.” David Bavaro stared at his four receivers without blinking. “Double ninety-seven strong seam. One of you guys has got to get open. On two, ready . . .

  “Break!”

  Ty jogged out to the edge of the field and lined up on the forty-five-yard line, going into the end zone. From the corner of his eye, he saw Moby approaching him, bouncing on his toes, hands jittery. Ty set up in his stance, coiling his muscles, and stared straight ahead. He ignored Moby’s huffing sounds and refused to let his eyes wander. David Bavaro began the cadence.

  Moby’s bouncing increased and he began to mutter. “Gonna jam you. Gonna jam you good.”

  Ty didn’t react, but on the snap of the ball, he gave a head fake outside, then back inside. Moby’s hands shot out and struck Ty, but Ty had already turned sideways and started back to the outside: the double fake. Moby’s blow glanced off Ty’s ribs, and Ty shot past the cornerback, racing straight down the sideline.

  As he ran, Ty sensed Moby on his heels. Ty had beaten the jam, but the lightning-quick cornerback had recovered faster than Ty had imagined. Ty kept his cool and pumped his arms, smooth and fast, like pistons in an engine. At twenty yards, Ty turned his head—just a bit—to see if the ball had been thrown his way.

  It had.

  The ball had already reached the peak of its arc and it fell now on a trajectory that would actually fall short of where Ty would be if he kept running at full speed.

  Ty felt sick. In that same split second, he knew that if he slowed to catch the ball, Moby would catch him. It was the only way, though. Ty slowed, turned, and leaped up into the air for the ball. Moby caught him and spun on one foot like a dancer, leaping high, higher than Ty, and snatching the ball from the air before Ty could even touch it.

  Chapter Forty

  THE JETS WERE PLAYING the Patriots in New York in late December. It was the last game of the regular season. The Jets needed to win if they were to make the playoffs. Only seconds remained in that game as well when the ball was thrown up to Tiger Lewis. When the ball came up short, Patriots cornerback Leigh Bodden jumped up in front of Tiger and grabbed what looked like a game-endin
g interception.

  That was not what happened, though. Instead of giving up, Ty’s brother swatted at the ball in the cornerback’s hands, spilling it from his grip and causing the pass to fall incomplete to the turf. Two plays later, Tiger outmaneuvered the Patriots secondary in the end zone to pull in the winning catch and send the Jets into the playoffs. Tiger was ESPN’s Player of the Week.

  When Ty asked his older brother about the play with Bodden, Thane bent at the waist, lowering his face so that it was even with Ty’s. “The only statistic that matters is wins and losses. Never forget that. No one gives you credit for breaking up an interception, not like they do when you catch a touchdown pass, but breaking up an interception is every bit as important as scoring a touchdown. When that cornerback gets his hands on the ball? Remember this: It’s your ball. It belongs to you. You go get that thing like some punk stole your lunch money. You hear me?”

  Ty nodded ferociously. He felt embarrassed at the way people stared at them. They were talking in the players’ parking lot after the game. Everyone else was celebrating cheerfully, and the intensity of Thane’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

  The impression stayed with Ty. He knew because when Moby’s fingers wrapped themselves around the point of the ball, Ty felt an outrage his brother would be proud of. It was the outrage of watching someone steal from you. Even as they both fell back to the ground, Ty made a fist and punched up under Moby’s arm.

  The ball popped free, toppling up end over end, sailing past Ty’s head and falling to the turf. Ty landed in a heap with Moby on top of him. Moby cursed and jumped up, dusting himself off as he walked away without even a glance at Ty. Ty climbed to his feet and jogged back to the cluster of teammates waiting for the play to be called.

  David Bavaro met Ty outside the huddle, slapped him on the shoulder, and said, “I owe you big for that. We all do. Heck of a play, Ty.”