Second Impact

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Second Impact Page 16

by David Klass


  From gloom to bright lights, and from the low voices of our tense locker room to thousands upon thousands of cheering fans. The powerful lights had been switched on above Princeton Stadium, and they flooded the field with a white, silvery radiance. The thirty thousand seats might not have been completely filled, but I sure didn’t see too many empty rows. I stood there for a long second and drank in the moment—the marching bands playing fight songs, the bright lights shining down, the perfect turf field that seemed to glitter, and the fans who greeted our entrance with a roar. Even the distant top bleachers were mostly filled in with screaming Tiger and Jaguar fans, and there were a lot more TV cameras and photographers than I was used to.

  I saw Sophie West standing next to the dozen or so professional photographers, snapping away for the Kourier. On a front bleacher near her, I spotted Carla in her green coat, with a bright orange “Tiger Power” scarf looped around her neck. Her dad stood next to her, and I wondered for a second if he was mad at me for writing about their family on my blog. Very sorry about that, Mr. Jenson, if you’re reading this.

  I saw my own parents standing together two rows behind the Jensons, looking excited and a little nervous. They waved, and I waved back and then turned away from the bleachers to face the field and my fate. My damn arms and knees would not stop shaking. I wrapped myself up like a package, legs together, arms crossed, and took a deep breath. How was I going to drop back and throw accurate passes with my knees knocking and my right arm quivering?

  A big hand came down on my shoulder. “It’s not that cold,” Coach Shea said knowingly.

  I glanced around. No one was near us. “Butterflies,” I admitted softly.

  “Those don’t look like butterflies, I think they’re pterodactyls,” he said with a concerned smile, and leaned closer. “Is it Ricks? He’s gotten to you? There’s been a lot of stuff in the press.”

  “Nah, it’s not him,” I answered. “I’ll be fine.”

  He studied my face. “Go out with Rosewood right now,” he commanded. “Look Ricks in the eye. Wish him good luck. And when you shake his hand, try to break it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Most teams have two captains, but our whole senior year, we’ve only had one—Danny. I was a little surprised, but on Coach’s orders I jogged out with Danny to the fifty-yard line for the handshake and the coin flip. Joshua Ricks and Don Chambers—their defensive star—sauntered out to meet us. This was my first look at Ricks up close. He was three inches taller than me and more muscular. Quarterbacks aren’t usually bodybuilders, but he looked like he had pumped an awful lot of iron. He was watching me closely but without expression, studying me with his gray eyes.

  An official held a silver dollar in his palm and told Danny to call it in the air. Then he tossed it up, and it gleamed in the stadium lights as it flipped. “Heads,” Danny called out in a strong voice. And sure enough, it landed heads. “We’ll receive,” Danny said.

  The head ref nodded. “Okay, Jamesville kicks off. Guys, let’s have a good, clean game. Wish each other good luck, and let’s get it on.”

  Ricks stepped toward me, and we shook hands. I was vaguely aware that the press people had surged forward over the sideline and were snapping photos of us—Ricks and me—at close range. I saw the flashes, and I could hear the refs pleading with them, “Come on, guys, back up, give them some room.”

  I won’t say I tried to break Ricks’s right hand, but I didn’t exactly stint on the grip. His own grip was strong and firm, and he smiled at me. “Good luck, Downing,” he said.

  “And to you,” I said back.

  He stepped forward a little more, his lips twisted up into a smile or a smirk, and I saw something in his eyes for just a moment. Was it the complete confidence of a natural athlete? I’d like to think so. But I read it as disdain. Even a kind of arrogance. “Thanks, bro,” he told me in a low voice, “but I won’t need it.”

  I looked back at him, and I thought: I know who you are. You’re me, a year ago. You’ve never been taken down a notch. Well, go read the story of David and Goliath, because you may have the size and the attitude, but I have the sling. But I didn’t say any of that. I just stared back at him, and all the jangling nerves and the butterflies I’d been feeling since the moment I’d woken up went away in a single stroke of football magic. Then I let go of his hand and broke the stare and trotted back to our sideline and said to Coach Shea: “Butterflies gone, Coach. Ready to go.”

  He must have seen something in my face that he liked because he slapped me on the back and said, “Downing, I got a feeling this is your day to shine.”

  Since a lot of you were at the game, I don’t need to go over it play by play. And I don’t want to seem like I’m bragging. But I kind of knew it the moment I set foot on the field. I was surer of it when I called a post to Glenn Scott on our second play and let it go thirty yards, and my tight spiral fell right into his fingertips. If you’d gone out there with a pencil and pointed the tip at the exact best spot for the ball to come down into his hands, that’s where I put it. I wasn’t aware that I completed my first seventeen passes, but I knew I was in a zone. Just before the half, running to my right, I tossed it all the way across the field to Magee streaking down the left sideline, and I knew it was a perfect throw as it left my fingers. Magee caught it at full sprint and took it seventy yards for our fourth touchdown, and that might have put the game out of reach.

  All credit to Joshua Ricks—he tried to lead them back. He threw for one touchdown and ran for another and never gave up. I could see what skill he had, and what speed and what a powerful arm. I think he’s going to be a pro athlete one day, and I’ll be curious whether it’s football or baseball.

  But as dangerous as dual-threat quarterbacks are, don’t discount the pocket passer. There are days when you drop back into the pocket and the action slows down to a crawl so that you can check off options, and it seems like you just can’t make a bad throw. I’ve had games like that before, but never like this—never, ever like this.

  Mike Magee caught three touchdowns, and did you see his last one? It was a fully extended dive to snare a pass I lofted into the right corner of the end zone. I had to angle it up over their biggest lineman, who had his arms raised and looked like he was eight feet tall. The ball spiraled up into the lights and then dropped back down into Mike’s hands. He caught it as his body stretched out in a dive, and then he belly flopped hard onto the turf, and the Jamesville defender crashed down right on top of him. But that ball didn’t pop out or even peek out. Mike cradled it like a newborn and put it to sleep. Way to go, Mike, not a bad catch for a soph!

  Let me give a shout-out to our defense. Every time Jamesville tried to come back, we’d stuff one of their runners in the backfield, and when Ricks tried to match me bomb for bomb, our quiet but always tough three-year letterman Steve Henderson made that key interception that drove a stake through their hearts. You could see it in their eyes after that play—they were done.

  I could never have had a game like this without great pass protection. Every time I dropped back, it felt like I was surrounded by the Great Wall of China, or at least the Great Wall of Kendall. Well done, guys!

  And then there was Glenn Scott—our junior warrior and, at least in my book, a shoo-in for next year’s cocaptain with Ryan Hurley. Glenn, you not only filled in for Danny but you did it with your own flair. My favorite play of the day wasn’t one of the long bombs, but rather when you slanted up the middle for what was just supposed to be a first down, and the moment you caught it they hit you high and low, but you refused to go down and kept your legs moving and dragged four Jaguars seven extra yards.

  And last but not least, there was that moment at the end of the fourth quarter when the clock was winding down and I glanced at the sideline and saw Coach Shea counting down silently with it. When it hit zero, he couldn’t suppress a very small smile. Sorry, Coach, I know you pride yourself on never changing expression during
a game, but that little smile meant so much to me. It wasn’t a smile of gloating. It said, “Okay, we played with pride and passion and we’re through to the final, and now we can find out just how good we are and what our destiny is.”

  Danny, my only regret today was that you weren’t there for me to lay it in your hands a few times. Next week, pal. I saved some for you. Carla, I wish you could write this game up. I know you can’t. But I’m really glad you were there to see it. Football Gods, thank you most humbly for giving me two hours like that. I ended up with thirty-one completions in thirty-five attempts for three hundred and forty yards in the air, with no interceptions. I threw six touchdown passes, and we buried the Jaguars 42–14.

  After the game Ricks sought me out and shook my hand again. “Jesus, Downing,” he said, “what the hell cereal have you been eating for breakfast?”

  I thanked him and wished him well.

  I really think that all I’ve been through this year: picking up garbage in public, and those sleepless nights when I was suspended, and wondering if my parents would ever trust me again, and looking in the mirror and hating myself and who I’d become … I really think that the weight of those experiences changed me and brought me to where I was on that field at Princeton. So let me take a very little bow—a cautious bow—and say, “Thanks to you all. Glad it worked out. See ya next Friday when we play Albion High for the Championship of the State of New Jersey!”

  View 4 reader comments:

  Posted by user TIGERSRULE at 11:56 a.m.

  Jerry, if I ever had any doubt we’d be seeing you in the NFL one of these days it’s completely vanished. That was one hell of a game.

  Posted by user DanTheMAN at 1:13 p.m.

  No regrets, man. Next week we’re gonna finish the deal. Would have been a waste of my talents today, anyway. Gotta save it up for the big show.

  Posted by user Photog_Sophie at 1:47 p.m.

  Click here to see the before-game shot of Jerry shaking hands with Ricks. We found out which one’s a better QB, but you’ll have to vote in this poll for us to find out which one’s hotter. I’m also including a separate photo & poll for the back view … click here to vote on which one looks better in spandex!

  Posted by user Ms_Edison at 2:33 p.m.

  Given the importance of the victory, I’ll leave this one up, Sophie. But I won’t vote! Well, not on the second poll, at least.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Great game

  * * *

  Hey, Jerry, that was some football game. I screamed myself so hoarse I can barely croak tonight, and that’s pretty unusual for me—I can usually talk no matter what. But there was so much to cheer—and an awful lot of it was you—that it was totally worth it. And I have to say, much as I wish I were writing this story, there is something kind of exciting about just letting go and watching the game, not worrying about taking notes, not rushing around to get every possible scrap of information—just watching the game. Especially a game like that.

  Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t forgiven the principal. I think I should have been allowed to write up the game, and I’m looking forward to writing up the big one next week. I’m supposed to see Mr. Bamburger on Monday to apologize one more time and get reinstated, and I’m eager to be writing again. But I will say, I enjoyed being a simple spectator for once in my high school life. But come next week, when Growling Downing (Jungle Jerry?) leads the Tigers onto the field for the championship, I’m going to be telling the story, and it won’t be a version that leaves out the hero, like some bloggers I could mention.

  You were amazing, Jerry. Great game. Start to finish, I’ve never seen anything like it. Congratulations, good work, and please be proud of yourself. Take a real bow.

  Carla

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Great game

  * * *

  Hi, Carla, thanks for your note. I wish you could have written up that game, but just say a few nice things to Bamburger on Monday and you’ll be the one writing up the championship next Friday for sure.

  It’s turning out to be quite a strange weekend. Our phone never stops ringing. I’m taking some calls and doing a few interviews, and believe it or not there are even people waiting around outside our house. If I stick my nose out the door, in a few seconds I’m surrounded. I’m trying to ignore all the fuss and just keep a level head. I hang out with my parents and Danny, and when they’re not around I talk to Smitty. Do you remember Smitty, our golden retriever? You insulted him, but he’s a forgiving kind of dog, and he knows you weren’t at your best that day.

  At night when no one will recognize me, I go out walking through the streets of Kendall. Last evening I must have walked for two hours, from the railroad tracks to the golf course, from one side of town clear to the other. I passed near your house, but it was late and I didn’t want to bother your parents again. As I walked, I kept thinking how this is my town, where I was born and grew up. This is also the place I disgraced. And now I’m so close to redemption, so close to giving everybody here what they want and deserve. One more game. Just finish it, Jerry. Well, I’m gonna give it my best shot.

  I’ve been reading up on Albion; they’re a dangerous kind of team. They don’t have any superstars—no Sand River Monster or Joshua Ricks. They don’t excel in any one thing, but they do everything pretty darn well. Unlike Kendall, they’ve never been in the state championships before—they’ve never even come close. But this year they’ve put together a scrappy bunch of guys who refuse to lose. Four times this season they were trailing in the last few minutes and each time they came back. In their semifinal game on Friday they trailed by fourteen points in the fourth quarter and somehow pulled it out. There’s a lot of heart there, and we have our work cut out for us.

  Well, good night. I’d better take one last swing at my trig. See you in school tomorrow.

  Jerry

  A BLOGGER’S FAREWELL

  Posted by user CARLA on December 3 at 2:03 a.m.

  Good morning, Kendall High. If any of you are online right now, you are about to see something just a little out of the ordinary. This is your sometimes sports reporter, Carla Jenson, doing the blog equivalent of setting herself on fire as a protest. No, don’t worry, don’t call in the counselors. I’m not threatening to kill myself. I’m going out in a blaze of something—call it glory or call it stupidity. And I would predict that everything you are reading right now will be gone, gone, gone in an hour or so, as soon as word gets back, so do me a favor: spread the word so at least a few people read it before it gets erased.

  You’re wondering what I’m gibbering about, aren’t you? Last Friday, Jerry Downing threw the game of his quarterbacking life, and the Tigers soared with his every spiral. So why is Carla, the sportswriter, talking nonsense on her blog three days later when she ought to be covering every drumbeat of the approach to the final championship game?

  Well, Carla the sportswriter is writing her last blog for the Kendall Kourier. So long, kids, it’s been real. In case you didn’t catch on yet, I am posting this without permission, without clearing it with Ms. Edison (let me make that clear, Mr. Bamburger—this is nobody’s doing but mine. You can have my words removed [I’m sure you will] and prevent me from ever writing for the Kourier again [you’ve already told me that I can’t] and punish me in all the ways you threatened, but it’s only me, all alone out here, and for once, I’m going to use all the parentheses I want).

  Maybe some of you have noticed that I didn’t cover that glorious game on Friday, and that I haven’t been posting on this blog for a week or so. To make a long story short, I was doing some stories on sports-related injuries, and I was building up to a final piece on head injuries, especially in football, but then Danny Rosewood got taken to the hospital after he got hit at the Midland game, and I posted a blog entry in which I made it clear that I thought he had been knocked unconscio
us but didn’t want to admit it, and Mr. Bamburger called my house and made my parents make me take it down. (It gave me at least a tiny bit of satisfaction that he didn’t have the technical savvy to take it down himself. We’ll see if he’s learned anything about the Internet over the past week.) And then he called me into his office and read me the riot act—no more stories about sports injuries, most especially not about head injuries, most especially not about Danny Rosewood’s head injury. He told me I was silenced for the week. That’s why I didn’t cover the game on Friday; I was waiting out my sentence. And he hinted pretty strongly that if I gave him any trouble, I could kiss my college applications goodbye. So I did what any self-respecting high school senior with high SAT scores would have done. I swallowed and said yes sir, no sir, no excuse sir.

  Okay, fast-forward to this morning. I swear to you, I wasn’t expecting trouble when I came to school. I was still a little giddy from the game Friday, from all the parties this weekend to celebrate. I didn’t do much schoolwork this weekend, and I’m willing to bet neither did any of you. And I was thinking, too, that my punishment was about to be over. The cone of silence was about to be lifted, and I would spend the week posting football stories on this blog.

  Instead, I get a message in homeroom: Mr. Bamburger wants to see me. I think he wants to tell me, “Welcome back, glad you’ll be covering this championship week.”

  But the minute I walked into his office, I could tell it wasn’t that. I could tell I was in really serious trouble, even though I didn’t know why. He didn’t get up. He sat behind his desk looking at me with a kind of, well, almost a kind of disgust. His desk was completely clean—standard executive intimidation strategy (I’ve heard my dad talk about it)—except for one little pink piece of paper, one of those forms that people use to take messages in offices that haven’t gone completely digital yet.

 

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