by Tim Green
“Water! Get me water!” Coach Hubbard waved his hand like a magician, and Coach Vickerson broke free from his own trance and scooped up his personal water bottle from the sideline. Coach Hubbard cradled Simpkin’s head like a baby’s while Coach Vickerson fed sips of water to our fallen quarterback.
Simpkin sputtered and came to life and looked around, clearly confused.
Coach Hubbard proceeded to ask him what hurt, going over every part of his body until it was clear Simpkin had his bell rung and no more.
Coach Hubbard bared his teeth and snarled up at Jackson. “Jackson, what the heck were you thinking?”
The question rained on Jackson’s parade and he stood still with a blank look on his face, thinking for a moment. “You said ‘live scrimmage,’ Coach. So I went live.”
Everyone waited to hear the answer to that unsolvable riddle, but none was coming.
“Glad he got cleared by the family doctor,” Coach Hubbard said. He gave Coach Vickerson the harsh look a coach usually reserves for his players when they mess up, I think to make sure the two of them were covering each other’s backs if Simpkin’s dad went nuts about him getting hurt.
“He did.” Coach Vickerson nodded wildly. “That’s what the dad said. I saw the note. You have the note.”
Coach Hubbard patted his pocket and nodded, as though he sensed a possible lawsuit in the air and was relieved to know that they were on the same page. They helped Simpkin up and over to the bench. You might think practice would end, but then you probably don’t play football in Texas. In Texas, anything short of a roiling black tornado and you finish football practice.
So Coach Hubbard suddenly had another big decision to make, and because of my earlier tantrum, it was a tough one.
He could either go with the old offense and install Estevan Marin as the starting quarterback, or fall back on me and Jackson and the spread playbook Coach Cowan had given him. Going back to me would create a political nightmare, but choosing Estevan wouldn’t give the team the best chance to win.
I had no idea what Coach Hubbard would do.
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But I probably should have known.
This was Texas, and all that mattered in football was winning.
“Zinna, get in at quarterback.” Coach Hubbard straightened as if daring any single one of us to even mention his seesaw strategy. “Give me that starting spread!”
Coach Hubbard hammered out a note on his whistle and everyone jumped into place. He grabbed a bar on my face mask and yanked me close enough to whisper. “Just call our three best plays.”
“Got it.” I didn’t wait to give him a chance to change his mind.
Jackson beamed at me from his spot in the huddle as running back. He practically danced with delight. “We got this, Ry-Guy. We got this.”
Jackson and I fist-bumped. I called a throwback screen. We scored a touchdown on the first play, ran for thirty-seven yards on the second, and punched in another touchdown with a short pass to Griffin Engle on the third. Coach Hubbard lined us up to run ten exhausting cross-field sprints, then dismissed us after a chant as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
I couldn’t help glancing at Jason Simpkin as I walked past his place on the bench. It was hard, but somehow I managed not to smile.
73
Coach Hubbard never mentioned the temporary Simpkin takeover and I never asked. Jason was hurt, and two concussions in a row made him strictly unavailable, and I was the quarterback. There really wasn’t anything he had to say. Everyone knew how it went, even the Simpkin clan. It was football.
Practice for the rest of the week went so well, it made me nervous. My receivers darted around like water bugs, especially Griffin. Just as I threw the ball, they’d turn their heads, or I’d throw it and they’d make the break I expected. My passes weren’t strong, but they were accurate. And Jackson? Jackson was Jackson, a raging bull in a barnyard of cows, pigs, and chickens. He was unstoppable. Confidence was high, almost too high.
But I was prepared—not only for the game and making middle-school history beating a team who hadn’t lost for five years, but also to win the Dallas Cowboys in my contest with Dillon.
The Dallas Morning Star ran an article about the game in its Wednesday online edition, complete with photos taken of me and Dillon talking on the sideline from the Cardinals game. No one knew how much was at stake. People just thought it was rich that the two kids battling in court over who’d control the Cowboys were facing off on the gridiron. They probably wouldn’t have believed it if someone told them the ownership would be determined by who won a middle-school game and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell. I had enough pressure on me as it was.
Still, interest was high. Local TV stations showed up for practice and interviewed Coach Hubbard. Even if my mom hadn’t banned anyone from interviewing me, Coach Hubbard said the school policy was no player interviews. We were too young.
With all the attention being given to us and the game, and all the pressure because of what was at stake, by Thursday, I was having a hard time keeping my food down. On Friday, I stopped eating altogether. My stomach was a jangle of nerves.
So the last thing I needed when I closed my locker and turned toward homeroom was to see Izzy scowling at me with her arms firmly folded, blocking my path.
“What?” I asked.
“You know what, Ryan. If you all win tomorrow, there’s that bonfire. Mya and Griffin are going as really, really good friends.”
“Tomorrow is the biggest game of my life, Izzy.”
“Well, the bonfire is after the game. Life goes on, you know. I thought maybe we were really, really good friends and we could go together, too, and then you got all weird about it and any time it comes up it’s like you can’t even look at me.”
I was, in fact, looking at the floor at that moment. I forced my eyes up into hers. “What? I can go—if you want.”
She smiled at me.
It was weird. I mean, when I heard about Griffin and Mya, I wanted to go with Izzy. I just had no idea how to go about it, and now it was just happening. “I mean, if you’d really want to go with me.”
“Hey,” she said, shrugging and then smiling to let me know she was teasing, “you’re the kid owner.”
I gulped down some bile. I wanted to tell her that I might not be the kid owner, but the bell rang and she started to slowly back away, heading for homeroom.
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The rest of the day was a blur. I have the dim memory of Jackson howling with delight and mocking me gently at the news I’d be going to the bonfire if we won. At practice, we had a simple walk-through, going over the last-minute details of our game plan without even putting pads on.
That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I didn’t drop off until sometime very early on Saturday morning. The last time I remembered checking the clock from my tangle of damp sheets it said 3:12 a.m. I dreamed of winning and when I woke, even though I can’t say I was rested, I was upbeat and ready to go. I choked back a yawn and poked my fried egg with the tines of my fork, making enough of a mess that my mom wouldn’t know I’d eaten absolutely nothing.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” she asked.
“Big game, Mom.” I liked the sound of my voice. It made football seem as important in our kitchen as it was across the state.
“I hope you aren’t too nervous, Ryan. It’s just a game—it’s not life. If Dillon wins, you’ll still own part of the Cowboys. Remember that.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, Ry?”
“I’m not a kid anymore, right?”
“Well,” she said, “you’re not a child. No, you’re a young man.”
“So, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I said, “but I think I’m old enough to know how big this is. I don’t want to pretend that it’s not and I don’t want you to pretend. If I win this, my wildest dreams come true. If I don’t, I lose.”
I let that word hang between us like dirty laundry, then I spoke quiet
ly. “I hate it, but it’s the truth and I don’t want to pretend it isn’t. Okay?”
She looked at me with a serious face and spoke in a quiet voice, too. “Yes, Ryan. I understand, and I’m proud of you.”
As we pulled into the school parking lot, my mom’s phone rang.
“Oh, hi.” Her voice bubbled and her face blushed just a bit. “Yes, he’s right here. I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you.”
She gave me a funny look and handed over the phone. “Coach Cowan wants to wish you luck.”
My chest swelled. “Hello?”
“Hey, Ryan. You ready?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Make sure you take time to get your pre-snap reads. That strong safety is gonna give away the coverage with these guys every time, right? And watch out for Dillon. You’ll know when he’s blitzing. That kid’s got no discipline whatsoever.”
“Right,” I said. “Thanks, Coach.”
“We just finished practice ourselves and I’m gonna be there watching, so . . . make me proud.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
I handed back the phone, dizzy with excitement but wildly sick from nerves. My mom talked for a minute, then got off. “Well, that’s impressive. Fun, right? The coach of the Cowboys wishing you luck.”
“Fun and scary. I mean, you know . . .”
My mom put a hand on my leg and squeezed. “Like I said, Ryan. It’s just a game. You need to have fun.”
“The only fun in football is when you win, Mom.”
“Says who?”
“I don’t know. Somebody said it.”
“Well, it’s a game, Ryan.” She pulled her truck into the school parking lot. “I want you to win, but it is a game. It’s not life or death.”
I didn’t argue with her, even though I felt differently, so I grabbed the handle and flung the door open. “Okay, Mom. Thanks for the ride.”
“Ryan?”
I stopped before closing the door. “Yeah?”
“Go get ’em, Ry-Guy.” She made a fist and held it up. “I’ll be cheering for you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I closed the door and marched toward the locker room.
I was pretty sure that it was going to be the most important game of my entire life.
75
Have you ever been bodysurfing, going along, riding out these awesome waves, and then all of a sudden the ocean just tosses you like a salad? You have no idea what’s up or down, whether it’s light or dark, if you can breathe or if you can’t. When that happens, you know the next thing is that you’re going to be bounced off the sand, seeing stars and hearing the crunch of your own bones.
That’s what I felt like, dressing in the locker room with Jackson going berserk and the rest of the team feeding off his mania with chants and growls, barks and cheers. I floated on their excitement, out onto the field for warm-ups. The hot smell of the watered turf snuggled up inside my nose. A slight breeze steamrolled the thick heat and the sun stared down without a blink. Sweat poured from every spot of skin.
The home stands were nearly full, but the visitors’ stands overflowed with the orange-and-black Eiland colors, spilling them all the way along the fence to either end zone. Their colors looked mean and tough next to the Ben Sauer Middle blue and white. I spotted three cameramen and wondered if they were all local or if ESPN might have sent a camera as well. Either way, it only increased the pressure.
The Eiland team had white jerseys because they were visitors, but their black helmets and black pants with orange stripes made them look even bigger than they already were. I spotted Dillon immediately in the middle of their team circle, already leading warm-ups with military jumping jacks that ended in a ferocious cheer. Dillon leapt into the air, swinging his arms like weapons and bouncing off his toes like a frantic puppet.
I sought out Jackson and exchanged shoulder slaps. “We can do this, right?” I asked, more to convince myself that we stood a chance against these guys.
“Heck, yeah, Ry-guy!”
They might be bigger across the board, but no one could rival Jackson’s size and probably not his craziness either. I got caught up in the excitement and the nervousness and didn’t look into the stands until I removed my helmet for the national anthem. When I did, my eyes went right over my mom and Izzy and Mya to the upper reaches of the stands. There, by himself, stood Mr. Dietrich. He held a straw hat over the heart of his flouncy white shirt. His reddish pants reminded me of strawberry taffy. His face was serious behind a large pair of sunglasses and his lips were unmoved by the patriotic song.
He may have seen me looking because when the song ended the first thing he did after replacing the hat on his bald head was raise a pair of binoculars and direct them right at me so that I quickly pulled on my helmet. I worried that maybe I should have acknowledged him, but I worried even more when I saw Dillon across the field waving into the stands, turned, and saw Mr. Dietrich waving back with a smile. It was like the two of them knew how this would turn out before it even started. Worry is the wrong word for what I felt. I got sick, for real.
I made a break for the back of the bench and dry-heaved onto the strip of grass skirting the track. When I looked up, Coach Hubbard was scowling at me.
“You okay, Ryan?”
I nodded and he consulted his clipboard. “You got the first five plays memorized, right?”
I only nodded because the acid from my stomach had scorched the back of my throat and I didn’t trust how my words would come out.
Coach Hubbard looked up and eyed me now with suspicion. “Right?”
“Yeah,” I croaked.
“Well, okay.”
We won the toss and that meant that I would be out of my misery sooner than later and that was better. The only reason I was even aware of how badly I was sweating was because I felt like I could barely get a grip on the ball as I took a few more practice snaps from my center. Our kickoff return team got stuffed by a mob of insane Eiland players, and I jogged out onto the blazing hot field under the thunderous boos from the black-and-orange section of the stands. I’d never seen fans booing in a middle-school game before, but I’d never seen Eiland.
The first play was a rollout pass with receivers at two levels, a third breaking into the deep center field and a throwback to Jackson in an emergency.
It was an emergency.
An instant after I took the snap, I saw Dillon from the corner of my eye, coming like a lightning bolt, straight up through the gut of our offensive line.
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I thought I could hear Dillon’s breathing, even through the noise. I ducked and he shot over me like a missile. More Eiland defenders were coming though and Dillon pounced from the turf like a panther. In a panic, I heaved the ball back to Jackson.
He caught it and did his thing, rumbling up the gut, breaking a tackle and heading for the thinner defensive population on the far sideline. Players chased, but couldn’t catch him until an Eiland defensive back tangled himself in Jackson’s ankles. It was still a twenty-three-yard gain and now the Ben Sauer fans cheered like maniacs to let Eiland know that Highland football was something to be reckoned with, too.
Jackson went wild. He slapped high fives and shoulder pads and banged his helmet against mine in his joy.
“Easy, Jackson!” I glared at him. “I gotta think.”
Jackson just laughed.
“Okay, let’s huddle up, guys. Come on! I love twenty yards, but we got a long way to go to win this thing. Get in here!” I surprised even myself with how I took control, and the flicker of the father I never knew danced across my brain. Maybe he had been that way?
I called the next play, a run to Jackson, and he took it to the seven-yard line. The third play was a draw play, fake the pass and hand it to Jackson, but I swapped it out with the fourth play, a swing pass I couldn’t miss on. If the defense kept blitzing—and I knew they would—it would be wide open.
I went to the line and got up under the center. Dillon was no more than si
x feet from me. His eye twirled like pinwheels and he snorted and growled like a junkyard dog. I tried to ignore him, but a shiver jiggled my spine. It was like I knew he was coming for me on a blitz, and of course, he was. I thought maybe I should have stayed with the game plan and not skipped one of the plays Coach Hubbard had given me. It seemed the right thing to do, but now, not so much. The problem was that the play clock was ticking down. I had no time.
I barked out the cadence, took the snap, and started to roll out. My right guard fired out at Dillon’s knees and should have cut him down like a blade of grass, but Dillon leapt right over the guy and before I could even think about making the throw, he had me by the collar with a mighty paw. Even knowing how fast Dillon was, I still couldn’t believe he’d gotten to me as quickly as he did.
My feet left the ground and my body floated for the briefest moment in the air before that wave smashed me to the turf. I felt its shock in my teeth. Stars ignited and burst. I have no idea what happened to the football, but I sensed the action moving away from me in the opposite direction at rapid speed like a fading dream.
I stumbled to my feet just in time to see the referee signal an Eiland touchdown on the other end of the field.
Dillon jumped into the air, celebrating with his teammates and holding my fumbled football high in the air for everyone—fans, cameras, Izzy, my mom, and Mr. Dietrich—to see.
He may as well have ripped out my heart and held that high, too.
77
The really good things about ourselves, or the really good things we do, we like to pretend came from our own personal well of talents and gifts. Usually, it’s not the case. Usually, what makes us special can be attributed to our mom or dad. I think my own relentlessness came from both. It’s just how I’m hardwired. I didn’t learn it or develop it because of some great teacher or coach who sat me down and told me, “This is what you have to do if you want to have a chance to succeed.” I’m just that way.
