by Tim Green
Coach Hubbard gave me a twisted smile. “That’d be a penalty.”
I studied his red face. “Yeah. I know.”
“Of course you know. I was kidding,” he said. “Anyway, I want you to know that I’m going out on a limb here for you with this spread. There’s a group of dads—actually they were your coaches in youth league—who are urging me pretty hard to stay with Estevan and our regular offense.”
“Yeah, but that’s youth league.” I wanted to draw a bright line between Bryan Markham’s and Jason Simpkin’s dads and Coach Hubbard. “They’re not real coaches, like you . . . like Coach Cowan.”
I struck the nerve I was aiming for. Coach Hubbard tucked in his shirt, stood a bit straighter, then sucked in his gut a bit. “Well, I like to get along, Ryan. It’s a good way to be.”
“Coach Cowan believes in this system, Coach. He believes in you.”
“You think so, huh?” Coach Hubbard looked worried, but interested. He gripped his college ring with its deep-blue stone and cranked it around on his finger.
“I know it. Look at all those texts he sent you.” I pointed at the phone in his pocket. “I mean, I’m not saying it’ll happen, but sometimes high school coaches get their shot in the pros. Skip right over college. It happens.”
“Look, Ryan.” Coach Hubbard put a hand on my shoulder pad and gave me a super serious look. “Stop with the Coach Cowan thing. Do I want to move up in the coaching world? Of course I do, but I’m not taking advice from Coach Cowan because I think he’ll give me a job. I’m doing this because I believe it just might be the ticket to winning this game. Jackson at running back? Who’d have thought of that? We could beat this team today. We could beat Eiland.”
Just the name of my half brother’s team made my stomach heave. I wanted to focus on today first. I looked over at the Carthage Middle School squad, which was beginning to fill up their side of the field as players streamed from the visitors’ locker room. I told myself that they didn’t look so terrifying. Then I saw Jackson, marching out onto the turf, hands balled into fists, a spring in his step. I could practically feel the intensity oozing from him. My heart gave a little leap.
“We’re gonna smash these guys, Coach,” I said. “Trust me. If it doesn’t work, you can always use Mr. Markham’s plan, but I am not gonna disappoint you.”
“I don’t think you are, Ryan.” Coach Hubbard twirled his whistle and smiled.
Jackson barged into our midst. “You ready, my man? You ready? ’Cause the big dog’s gonna eat!”
“I’m ready,” I lied. This time, I was the one to slap Jackson’s pads with my fists. He howled. Coach Hubbard blasted his whistle and we all fell into our places like the pieces of a clock. The gears began to turn and I was the mainspring, suddenly giddy. Suddenly fluid. Suddenly ready to be right where I was, in the center of it all. This was football. This was what I dreamed of.
I got sent out to the center of the field as a captain along with Jackson and Bryan Markham. Markham shook with rage and wouldn’t even look at me. I ignored him, wondering what Jackson would do if he knew about the pink diaper. I wanted to unleash Jackson on him, but we had a game to play.
The ref looked at me and I called heads.
I won the toss and chose to receive the ball.
We’d start on offense, running the spread.
47
Carthage Middle School kicked.
Griffin Engle returned the ball to the forty, a good start.
“What’s the first play, Coach?” I bounced on my toes, ready to go out.
Coach Hubbard looked at the field, smiling. “What do you think? I don’t want any excuses, so you pick the best play you think we’ve got.”
I almost couldn’t speak because I wasn’t sure he was being serious, or just kidding. I recovered quickly, though. “Trips Left Chase Right Waggle?”
“Good! It’s your play. Make it happen.” Coach Hubbard slapped my shoulder pad.
I nodded and jogged out onto the field. I couldn’t help stealing a look at my mom up in the stands. Izzy had arrived and sat right next to her with her friend Mya Thompson. I tried not to grin as I stepped into the huddle and called the play. I marched toward the line with my teammates. I stopped in the shotgun position four yards from the center and looked at the defense, the simple 6–2 I’d expected.
“Down!” I shouted, trying to keep my voice from squeaking. “Green eight. Green eight. Set. . . . Hike!”
The center fired the ball back. I snatched it and faked the handoff to Jackson, then rolled out. Griffin Engle came wide open across the field. I fired it, hard. The ball nosedived into the turf so that the tight end had no chance to even get a hand on it.
Blood rushed to my face and my jaw tightened.
Markham bumped into me on my way to the huddle. “What the heck was that?”
I said nothing. Markham was right. It was pathetic, and I felt panic rising up inside me like a volcano ready to explode. I tried to breathe deep and looked to the sideline. Coach Hubbard motioned with both hands for me to settle down and signaled in a Waggle Dive play. It looked exactly like the play before, only I was to hand the ball off to Jackson, who’d run it up the middle. I wasn’t sure if the play was because Coach Hubbard didn’t trust me to throw it, or if he’d legitimately seen a weakness in the defense during the last play.
I called the play, forcing myself to sound more confident than I felt by thinking about that stupid diaper and getting mad.
We went to the line. I shouted the cadence and handed the ball off to Jackson.
Jackson took off like a bullet, snatching the ball from my hands before he burst through a gaping hole and trundled down the field toward the end zone. It was incredible how easy Jackson made it look. Only one defender had a shot at him, the free safety. The defender had just the right angle and he was coming fast.
I clenched both my hands and gasped at the thrill of it.
48
Jackson exploded through the free safety. That kid went flying like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Jackson barely broke stride. He crossed the goal line, turned, and looked right at me, holding out the ball for everyone to see before he leaped into the air.
It was a footrace to the end zone as the rest of us swarmed Jackson. I wasn’t happy that I’d muffed my first throw, but Jackson’s run was spectacular and it meant that no one could argue that the spread offense wasn’t working. Coach Hubbard wasn’t going to let up. On the next two series he called one running play after another. Jackson answered the call, steamrolling defenders on the other team or simply outrunning them with his speed. This was all good—great, really—but I started to feel like I could use my skills to help things along as well. It was great to be winning, but now that we had a lead, I wanted to do more than hand it off to Jackson.
We were up 21–7 when I finally made a suggestion. “Coach, what do you think about a couple passes on this next series? They’re crowding the line to stop Jackson and the pass should be wide open, right?”
I stared hard at Coach Hubbard’s eyes, willing him to remember one of the foundations of Coach Cowan’s offense: balance, the spread ultimately being half runs and half passes.
Coach Hubbard nodded and called the play like it was a reward for good behavior. “Okay, Ryan. Run that Waggle pass again. Maybe with a smash route?”
I rewarded him back with a smile. “Great call, Coach.”
This time I rolled out, and saw Griffin Engle, my wide receiver, come open on a comeback. I set my feet and threw. The ball wobbled through the air on a slow arc, but it was nearly on target. Griffin snatched the ball, turned, and got another five yards before being blasted out of bounds.
I pumped a fist into the air like I was the one who had scored three touchdowns. It felt that good, but I seemed to be alone in my joy. My teammates took it in stride, gathering up in the huddle like a fifteen-yard pass was no big deal.
I was hungry for some real glory and when Coach Hubbard called the same pass play
going the other way, it made me giddy. This time, Griffin Engle was covered. I dashed toward the line like I was going to run, the cornerback took off for me, and I dumped the ball over his head to the now-wide-open Engle. Griffin took it down to the one-yard line, where he was brought down by his heels. We huddled up and I could taste the end zone. This was my dream come true: Ryan Zinna orchestrating a touchdown drive for all to see, working the ball down the field, making great plays through the air.
When Coach Hubbard called a dive play that would send Jackson up the gut, I gave Coach Hubbard a hopeful look and made a passing motion. Coach Hubbard glared at me and signaled the dive play again. I wanted to explode. Two passes brought us to the doorstep of the end zone and now I had to hand the ball off to Jackson again? He had three touchdowns already! Didn’t my coach see that? Of course I wanted to win first and foremost, but we were winning. Coach Hubbard obviously wasn’t thinking about me, and wasn’t this whole spread thing and running Jackson my idea to begin with? I knew I was being selfish, but I couldn’t help it. Didn’t I deserve some glory?
I growled the running play to my teammates, then broke the huddle and marched to the line.
Jackson was gurgling with laughter and muttering joyfully to himself like a little kid getting ready to trick-or-treat. “Touchdown Daddy, again. Touchdown Daddy.”
He had no idea I was furious.
The defense crowded up for a goal line stand. I barked the cadence. The center snapped the ball and I snatched it out of the air. What happened next, I swear, I didn’t even think about.
I just did it.
I guess I figured it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
49
One thing every spread quarterback has is a favorite receiver and a hot signal. A hot signal tells your favorite receiver that you’ve read an all-out blitz and he needs to run a slant pattern—just take off at a forty-five degree angle and get ready for the ball to come right at him. No one else knows it’s coming, just you and him. I already had a favorite wide receiver, for obvious reasons. Griffin Engle was fast and athletic and smart. Also, he sat at my lunch table.
I showed Griffin the hot signal on Thursday before practice and we’d run one during Friday’s practice. It pasted a huge grin on Coach Hubbard’s face to see something he never dreamed his players could do in seventh-grade football.
“I like it!” he’d shouted. “Yes! You see an all-out blitz in a game, you just run that hot route. Good work, guys.”
The signal was me grabbing my face mask, then pointing to my head. Griffin knew to nod if he got it.
There was no all-out blitz coming, but I looked over at Griffin, grabbed my face mask, and pointed to my head.
He gave me a look of confusion, but nodded that he understood, and I started barking out the cadence.
The snap came back and I grabbed it. Jackson took a side step, then took off toward the line on the dive play. I stepped like I was going to hand the ball to him, but didn’t. I pulled it at the last instant, ran past him, and threw it over the heads of the wave of defenders swarming the line. I couldn’t see Griffin. I have to admit that, but I knew right where he should be and I threw it anyway.
50
I won’t forget that moment until the day I die.
It was every A+, every full Halloween bag, every Christmas tree bursting with presents, every birthday cake, and every last day of school crammed into one special instant.
It was my first touchdown pass.
Everyone cheered and the world seemed to stop a moment to tip its hat my way. All the images are in my head, like photos from an album. The look of confused frustration on Jackson’s face melted away. His grin burned brightly at me and he hugged me and lifted me up with a howl. The rest of my teammates out on the field (except for Bryan Markham) slapped my shoulder pads and helmet. I looked up into the stands and saw my mom bouncing on her toes and clutching her hands together in a frozen clap. Izzy was right beside my mom and so happy she hugged Mya.
The thing about touchdowns is, they’re like potato chips: once you have one, you’re pretty much crazy to eat a whole bag. That’s what I was thinking as I jogged off the field with the Ben Sauer fans still clapping. I wanted more.
Coach Hubbard was red-faced. “Ryan! We need to talk.”
To his credit, Coach Hubbard didn’t embarrass me in front of everyone. He took me over to the side behind the Gatorade table, whipped off his sunglasses, revealing crazed eyes, and spoke in a harsh whisper. “What was that? You do not run this football team.”
I gulped. “I know, Coach.”
“You know? So tell me what happened to the play I called? And don’t even think about telling me you saw an all-out blitz! We both know better.” Coach Hubbard flashed his eyes at a couple players who dared get near and they bolted for the far side of the bench.
I hung my head. “I just did it, Coach. I’m sorry.”
“You ‘just did it’? What does that mean?”
“I . . . I wasn’t thinking,” I said.
“No. You weren’t thinking,” he said. “And if you do that again, it’ll be the last play you run at Ben Sauer.”
I took a deep breath and looked hard into my coach’s eyes. “Coach, I’m sorry.”
“Good. That works. Now let’s go win this thing.” He nodded and turned back toward the game, where Coach Vickerson was sending his defense out onto the field.
I realized how close I’d come to blowing everything, and Coach Hubbard’s acceptance of my apology filled me with relief. Still, I knew that if things didn’t go well, I’d never get a chance like this again.
As if the gods of football were against me, a cheer went up from the visitors’ bleachers. I looked up to see the ref raise his arms, signaling a Carthage touchdown.
Coach Hubbard scowled back at me from his place on the sideline. “Come on. Let’s go get them again.”
We received the kickoff, but incredibly, Griffin Engle muffed it. Carthage scooped it up and ran it into the end zone. In a matter of seconds, our big lead was cut to seven. With the score now 28–21, Griffin fielded the next kickoff with unusual caution and got rocked on the ten-yard line, giving us terrible field position.
Coach Hubbard grabbed my face mask and looked hard at me. “You thinking what I’m thinking here, Ryan?”
I had no idea what he was thinking, but I swallowed some of the stomach juice seeping up into my throat and nodded. I was thinking of Jackson.
“Yeah, Coach,” I said. “Let’s start with a 32 Dive.”
Coach Hubbard looked out at the Carthage defense, swarming off their bench in a frenzy of excitement. “I like that call.”
I buckled my chin strap and ran out onto the field.
51
The beautiful thing about Jackson was that he was unstoppable.
I called the 32 Dive and he ran for twenty-three yards. I nodded at Coach Hubbard when he signaled in a 37 Toss Sweep. Jackson got eighteen more yards. Next we ran a 33 Draw where Jackson smashed his way down to the four-yard line.
I quickly jogged over to the sideline and, hopeful that I hadn’t been dreaming, suggested we run a Bootleg Pass.
“You don’t want to just punch it in with Jackson?” Coach Hubbard raised an eyebrow.
“It’s what they’ll be expecting, Coach.” I tried not to sound like a beggar, hard as it was, but things were going so well and I’d scored a touchdown on the last pass play, hadn’t I? “The Bootleg should leave me untouched and Griffin wide open.”
Coach Hubbard scratched his jaw. “Okay. You’re right. Do it.”
I jogged out onto the field and joined the huddle without looking at Jackson because, yes, I did feel like I was stealing his touchdown. But I was hoping he’d understand. Either way, I broke the huddle and set up in the shotgun position. I called the cadence, took the snap, faked a handoff to Jackson, and rolled out into the open field.
I’d been right.
The entire defense swarmed Jackson, who car
ried out a fake so believable that I could have waltzed backward into the end zone. I didn’t, though. Like every other quarterback in the game of football, I wanted passing touchdowns, so I lofted the ball up on a slow arc so that it dropped into the waiting bread basket of Griffin Engle’s arms.
Jackson was the first to hug me. “Awesome, Ry-Guy!”
“Well, you got us down here.” I had to give him the credit he was due. “Sorry for the fake and just changing the whole play.”
“No worries, man. You punched it in.” Jackson grinned and slapped my back. “Nice pass.”
Coach Hubbard met me at the sideline and gave me a high five. “Worked perfectly.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I fought back a grin of my own. The whole thing was almost too good to be true.
It didn’t stop there. While we mostly gave the ball to Jackson to run with, Coach Hubbard obliged me with enough pass plays to make me look like a star in the making.
Twice, I was able to get the ball to Jackson as my receiver, and that made everything right in the world by giving each of us credit for a touchdown, me for passing and him for receiving. I ended the game with four touchdown passes. Jackson had four running and the two receiving.
In the end, the Ben Sauer Middle School crowd of parents and supporters cheered for us until they were red in the face. Carthage was no Eiland, but they were a respectable opponent who we ended up beating by a score of 49–24. In the locker room after the game, spirits were high and cascades of laughter rebounded off the tile walls. Backs got slapped. Jokes were made and there was lots of cheerful boasting about what we would do to Eiland the following week.
Jackson smiled ear to ear, but his pregame bluster was gone. He looked exhausted and his arms hung limp as he sat hunched over on the bench in front of his locker, breathing deep.
