by Tim Green
“I got you for a best friend, too.” I nearly choked on the words.
“Aww.” Izzy tilted her head. “That is so sweet. Thanks, Ryan.”
“Sure.” Maybe it was because I felt embarrassed, or maybe it was because there’s just something wrong with me. You know, that thing that makes you want whatever it is that you don’t have, even if you should be enjoying the great things you do have?
Anyway, all I could think of in that moment when I should have been thinking about Izzy and Jackson and my mom and the Dallas Cowboys was how very bad I wanted to play quarterback. And, like most impossible dreams, I just couldn’t see a way for that to happen.
How could I have known that the very next day someone would help me have a crack at that impossible dream?
And that the person would be Jason Simpkin himself.
25
The next day at practice, I was walking out onto the field when I saw Coach Hubbard off to the side. He looked like he wanted to talk to me the moment I reached the practice field, like he had something to say but didn’t want to say it in front of everyone. His lips quivered, and his eyes darted back and forth from me to the ground and back.
Coach Vickerson blew the whistle and started us on our stretching routine. Coach Hubbard kept looking over my way and pacing. Finally, he wandered over while we were all laid out on the ground, one foot extended straight, the other crooked going back, doing hurdler stretches. “Hey, Zinna. How’s it going today?”
“Great, Coach.” I blinked into the sunshine. “Ready for a big win Saturday.”
“Saturday? Yes. We all are . . . Ryan.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Uh, did you see the Cowboys game yesterday?”
“Yeah. Tough loss.” I felt a little jolt of electricity go through me because I already knew where we were heading.
Coach Hubbard chuckled. “And they talked about you . . .”
“Yeah,” I said, sounding like it was no big deal, “that kid owner thing.”
“Yeah . . . that. Well, congratulations on that. Pretty special, huh?”
“Yup.” I switched legs when Coach Vickerson blew the whistle and reached for my other toe. “My mom wants everything to stay the same. Hopefully it’ll be a good thing, though. I think so.” I let that hang. Even though he called me Ryan for the first time ever and now knew I owned the Dallas Cowboys, I wasn’t going to start badgering him about playing quarterback instead of receiver. At least, not yet.
I went through practice same as every other day. When we did tackling drills, I threw my body around like a missile. When we did blocking, I got low, exploded into people, and chugged my feet like a madman. As time went by, the whole Dallas Cowboys thing got lost in the sweat and the crack of pads. During offense, I went with the receivers, doing my best with balls bouncing off my hands like marbles on the lunchroom floor. I hated that and had to contain myself from marching right up to Coach Hubbard and demand being switched to quarterback. I felt like I could do it, too, but held back.
When we switched over to defense, I lined up at the free safety position. The offense passed on my first play in, two long routes for the receivers, a post and a go. I got right where I was supposed to be, over the top of both routes, then broke on the ball when it went to the post, but the ball sailed right over my head. The receiver caught it for a touchdown and I wanted to scream. I’m too short to play free safety and if my coaches didn’t already know that, that play just proved it to them.
I should have been playing cornerback, but we already had a lot of cornerbacks. I chewed on my mouth guard, grinding the rubber on the end into a flat useless tab. I was dying to change things around, dying to take control of my football career, but something told me the time wasn’t quite right.
And then, it happened
It was the second play of team period, which is kind of like a live scrimmage. Jason Simpkin rolled out on a bootleg pass. Michael Priestly came hard up the middle on a blitz. No one touched him, and Priestly built up a head of steam and launched himself. Simpkin got the pass off before Priestly slammed him, right in the ear. I think they heard the hit halfway across town. Simpkin went down like a wet blanket and flopped onto the grass, unmoving. Coach Hubbard hurried over and knelt beside him, shouting for Coach Vickerson to get the trainer. Simpkin stirred.
We had a teammate get a concussion during the first week of contact, so I knew the drill and I knew what it meant. Simpkin would have to sit out for a week at the very least. Estevan Marin would step in at first team quarterback. Simpkin got up and was helped off the field by the trainer. The coaches returned to business.
Now we’d need another quarterback. No team—not even a seventh-grade middle-school club—would go into a game without a backup quarterback.
And I had an appointment with destiny.
26
I saw them talking about me, Coach Hubbard with his paw hung over the shoulder of Coach Vickerson, his head bobbing up and down and the younger coach nodding in agreement before the parted.
“Ryan!” Coach Hubbard barked. “Zinna!”
I hopped to it and stood at attention in front of them both. “Coach?”
“Get in there with the second offense. We need you to be ready in case something happens to Marin. We have no idea how long Simpkin’s gonna be out.”
“Got it, Coach!” I bolted into the huddle and wondered only briefly if he would have given me the shot if I hadn’t been the owner of the Dallas Cowboys. I thought not. I thought they would have picked Griffin Engle, our tailback—who was fast and a really good athlete overall—to fill in, but it didn’t matter. This was my chance. Second-string QB didn’t guarantee I’d get on the field, but it did mean I’d get reps in practice.
I looked around at my teammates.
Bryan Markham didn’t even try to hide his disgust. He snorted and spit a loogie on the grass in front of him. Everyone else, except for Jackson, stared and blinked in disbelief at the sight of Minna Zinna taking over their huddle. Jackson? His face glowed and he grinned so hard that it looked like it must have hurt. He might have been happier than me, and that’s saying something.
“Come on, Ryan. Let’s do this.” Jackson spoke like it was just the two of us getting ready to launch a bottle rocket in my backyard.
“Let’s ease you in here with something simple, Ryan.” Coach Hubbard looked at his clipboard, selecting a play. “Thirty-two Dive.”
“Coach, I can run the dive, but there isn’t a play I don’t know.” I turned to look directly at him. Honestly, owning the Dallas Cowboys made me feel like . . . like Superman. Things that hadn’t been possible before were now. I felt like I could say what I wanted. I felt bold and confident and . . .
Coach scratched his ear and glanced down at his list of plays on the practice schedule. “Okay, Blue Right 94. Hit the 4. Got that?”
I didn’t even reply and went straight to the huddle, called the play, and marched to the line like General George Patton crossing into Germany at the end of World War II. I barked the cadence, took the snap, rolled right, and threw a wobbling duck to the 4 route. It wasn’t pretty, but I completed the pass.
Jackson hooted and slapped me high five, then hugged me all the way back to the huddle.
“Well . . .” Coach Hubbard looked at Coach Vickerson and shrugged. “First down. Good play, Ryan. Get a little more spin on that ball if you can.”
Playing quarterback isn’t always about being this super athlete. It’s about knowing the offense, making the right decisions, and being able to get the ball to the open receiver. The really smart quarterbacks run the West Coast Offense, or the spread, whatever you call it, lots of passing, chipping away at the defense. You don’t have to have a cannon for an arm to win games. I thought of John Torres and the way he held the ball against the blitz in yesterday’s game. Even an arm as big and strong as his can’t help you if you don’t get rid of the ball quick.
I knew I could make all the right decisions. I was already quick. If I could just ex
plain all that, I knew I might be able to convince Coach Hubbard that we should adapt Ben Sauer Middle’s offense to some version of the Spread.
I don’t know if it was luck or destiny or if Coach Hubbard was actually tuned into the possibilities, but he called a pass on the next play, too. I went to the line and read the defense. By the way they were lined up, I was sure it was a shallow zone with two safeties over the top on both sides. The play Coach Hubbard called wasn’t the best for this kind of coverage. I had no choice but to run it, though.
I barked the cadence, took the snap, and dropped back. My two primary receivers ran crossing routes, but both were covered, as I expected. I checked them just in case one got wide open, but when they didn’t I hit my check down pass to Griffin Engle, right away. He grabbed it and shot right up through the middle of the field for a twenty-yard gain. It was an easy pass, and the right decision.
Next play was a run. I made the handoff smooth and clean and Griffin gained seven. The following play Coach Hubbard called another pass. I dropped back and when the blitz freed up the middle, I darted outside the pocket. Instead of panicking like the newbie quarterback I was, I directed Griffin to the sideline, pointing my finger. The cornerback let him go and rocketed my way, thinking he’d have a free hit. Just before the defender reached me, I dumped the ball up and over his head. Griffin snatched it and went up the sideline and into the end zone.
My teammates cheered. Griffin tossed me the ball with a wink. Jackson slapped my back and nearly knocked me over.
I didn’t stop after my first series either. I made the right decisions on every play, and even though my passes were nothing to write home about, I continued to move the offense up and down the field by completing short throws to the open receivers, making clean handoffs on the running plays, and encouraging my teammates like I was already the star quarterback I’d always dreamed I’d be.
I thought things couldn’t have gotten any better for me. But, at the end of practice, just as we completed our last wind sprint—which I finished first, by the way—a big black Escalade limousine pulled into the school parking lot beside the field, its chrome grill glinting in the sun.
Coach Hubbard held his whistle halfway to his mouth, ready to call us all in together, but everyone froze and stared at the big black SUV.
And when the rear door opened and we saw who had arrived, no one could believe it.
27
Jackson leaned into me, nearly knocking me over. “Dude, that’s John Torres.”
Flashing a full smile of bright white teeth was John Torres, the Cowboys’ star quarterback, built like a lion. Torres wore a Cowboys sweat suit and carried a football. He was headed our way with an older man right behind him who was a thick, gray, and crusty old salt who looked like a real cowboy from the Wild West. I looked for Cody Cowan, wondering if the Cowboys’ head coach had come, too.
When Torres reached an openmouthed Coach Hubbard, the star quarterback extended a hand. “What do we got here? A football team?”
“Yes . . . we . . .” Coach Hubbard sputtered. “I’m Coach Hubbard.”
“Nice to meet you.” Torres smiled and clasped Coach Hubbard’s shoulder. “Looks like you got a heck of a team here, Coach. And I’m looking for your man, Ryan Zinna.”
All eyes were on me. I felt my face warming and raised my hand like I was asking a question. All my complaints about Torres’s performance against the Bears melted to nothing.
“Ryan Zinna!” Torres grinned even bigger and half turned to the man beside him, who wore a three-piece suit and brown ostrich-skin boots. “You know Bert Hamhock, our general manager?”
Torres looked back at Coach Hubbard. “Can we take my man here with us? You’re done with practice, right, Coach? Is it all good?”
“Uh, sure, Mr. Torres.” Coach Hubbard puffed himself up. “It’s all good. Thank you for coming by. Uh . . . would you maybe have a word for the team? We’re 1–0 right now, so . . .”
“1–0? Wow, wish we were 1–0.” Torres looked around and his face turned serious. “I do have a word, Coach.”
Torres rose up to his full six-foot-six height and stared hard all around the team. “Seek the truth, fellas. Seek the truth.”
He turned to me. “Come on, Ryan. We heard from Mr. Dietrich that you were coming to the stadium, so we thought we’d just come out to see you first. We got some ideas for you. Coach, good luck with your season.”
John Torres put his hand on my shoulder as we walked toward the bleachers on the other side of the football field. I must have floated over there, because I sure didn’t feel my feet touching anything. We sat down and John Torres kept his hand on my shoulder pad. I couldn’t help looking over at Bryan Markham, whose face was a blend of confusion and hatred.
“You okay?” Torres asked me.
“I . . . yes. Sorry.”
Bert Hamhock forced a smile and sat down on the other side of me, speaking in his West Texas drawl. “We wanted to welcome you, Ryan, before things get too crazy, and we thought the best way to do it was just ride right on out here after practice. . . . The Cowboys practice, that is . . . and we caught you, so, good.”
I looked back and forth between them, kind of waiting. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Right.” Bert Hamhock slapped his knees. “Hey, no sense just sitting here like fans in the stands, you two oughta toss the ball around. What position are you, Ryan? Wideout?”
“Actually, quarterback.”
“Quarterback! Hear that, John? Couple of Qs chucking it around. How’d you like that, Ryan? Pigs in a mud puddle.” Hamhock glowed.
You bet I liked it. “Sure.”
“Here, you stay right there.” John Torres hopped up and jogged about ten yards down along the bleachers before he stopped and turned and raised the ball to throw it.
I held up my hands and when he lobbed it to me, I caught it!
He held up his hands and I threw it back.
“Move your hand back on the ball a bit.” Torres tossed it back.
I did what he said and the ball didn’t wobble as much.
“That’s it. See?” He tossed it back and I dropped it, but I didn’t care. I was playing catch with John Torres and I glanced over at my team, which had broken apart and was heading into the locker room with all necks twisted and all eyes on me.
Hamhock nodded as we kept the toss going. “This is great. See, we want you to feel welcome as hot apple pie on the sideboard, and like you can talk to me and John—me on the management side and John on the players’ side—about anything you have questions about. We want to work with you. We know the season is starting out a little rough, but, you know, you have to stay the course with the master plan.”
I wanted to ask what the master plan was, but felt stupid for not already knowing. Even though I nodded like I understood and caught the next pass, inside I was boiling at my mom for keeping me in the dark. Again, I could see no reason why I shouldn’t have been in the thick of things, meeting the players, calling the shots. Lawyers . . . they made me sick.
“So, do you have any? Questions?” Hamhock asked.
“Uh . . .” I was thinking hard. I wanted to ask what it was like to play quarterback under an offensive guru like Coach Cowan, who’d written five books on the subject, but didn’t think that was very cool. I wanted to be cool. Then it just popped in my head—something kind of cool—and I focused on John Torres as I threw him the ball. “Did you really go on a date with Selena Gomez?”
He caught the ball, chuckled. “A couple.”
The minute my question came out, I wished I could’ve taken it back. Wow, did I feel dumb. My face got so hot I think I could’ve cooked an egg. Who cared about Selena Gomez? This was John Torres and the GM from the Dallas Cowboys. We were playing catch, at my school, and I asked about a date with Selena Gomez. I wanted to crawl in a hole.
“Oh, cool,” I said, nodding like I already figured that and desperate to fill the silence.
Hamhock huffed quietly. “Look,
Ryan . . . you’re a football player, obviously. So you know that sometimes a team and a coach aren’t . . . well, it’s like a sow at the supper table. It doesn’t work. It’s the chemistry. Sometimes it’s just off. No one’s fault, it just is. Now, we’ve got a heck of a team, led by one of the premier throwing quarterbacks the league has ever seen.”
Hamhock pointed a finger at John Torres.
“Well . . .” John sounded like he wanted to apologize for Hamhock being so bold, and he tossed the ball straight up before catching it.
“You are.” Hamhock held up the pointing hand to cut off an argument. “Your numbers haven’t been what they could be because of the system you’re in. No one has ever questioned your ability. Goose and gravy, John, you run a 4.6 forty, you bench-pressed 225 twenty-seven times, and you can throw the ball seventy-seven yards. Don’t be modest, son. You’d take the blue ribbon at the state fair hands down every time.”
I knew all this about John Torres. He was so good, the Cowboys had traded up to get him as the third pick in the draft three years ago. So I nodded in agreement.
“Good, you see what we’re getting at,” Hamhock said.
I didn’t see exactly, but kept nodding my head, hoping I’d figure it out soon enough. I was starting to get nervous that being kid owner was a little more involved than great seats at every game.
“I know it won’t be easy, but you’ve got me and John behind you, Ryan. That’s why we wanted to get out here and have a little visit. We’re hoping we can help you through all of this. I don’t think you need to tell people that, but that’s what we’ll do. We’ll be like . . . like your older brother.” Hamhock nodded toward Torres, my new older brother, before pointing a thumb in his own chest. “And your Dutch uncle. Sound good?”
“Uh, sure.” What else could I say? I had no idea what a Dutch uncle was, but come on, I was standing right next to John Torres.
“You’ll have your critics, we know that.” Hamhock twisted his face in disgust, dismissing my critics forever. “They’re like patties in the pasture. You just step by ’em and try not to get their stink on you, but that’s why we’re here with you. It’s your team now, and we’re all part of it.”
