by Todd Hafer
From the locker room, Cody and the other first-year players filed like cattle to the gym, where stations were set up to fit them with pads and helmets.
Brett Evans, Bart’s wide receiver brother, caught up to Cody at the helmet station. “Code,” he said, “do you think this is how the knights of old did things? Move from station to station, getting their coats of mail, helmets, armor, swords, and shields?”
Cody chuckled. “I don’t know, Brett. I guess I never thought of that. But, hey, we are kind of like knights. The equipment is kinda the same, and Chop always says that high school football is a battle.”
Brett swallowed. “Yeah, a battle against bigger, stronger, faster guys than we ever faced back in middle school.”
“Meaner, too. Don’t forget meaner. Chop says that a couple of teams have these ‘pain pools,’ where you get money if you put somebody out of a game.”
“For real? I don’t think that kind of thing would be allowed.”
Cody shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t say it was legal. I’m just saying that Chop says it happens.”
“If that’s true,” said Bart, joining the duo, “I hope I never play varsity.”
Brett rolled his eyes. “Aw, c’mon, bro. This is the big time. This is high school football. We’ve waited for this for a long time. Besides, I’m sure that pain pool stuff is just urban legend. Right, Cody?”
“I hope so,” Cody answered solemnly. “If that kinda stuff goes on, I’m joining the choir.”
“I don’t know about that,” Brett said. “I’ve heard you sing!”
Cody chuckled and pulled on a helmet. A high school helmet. He thought of all the Grant High games he’d seen from the stands as a grade-schooler, then a middle-schooler. During the early-season contests you could work on your tan while you enjoyed the action on the field.
When late October rolled around and the Colorado temperatures nose-dived, Cody, his mom, and Pork Chop had sat in puffy down coats, hunched together for warmth. Cody’s mom always brought a thermos the size of a cheese log, filled with homemade hot chocolate that was typically gone before halftime. Cody’s dad rarely came to the games, and when he did, he complained about the “blistering sun” or the “arctic temperatures,” depending on the weather. And he complained about the “rock-hard bleachers” all the time.
When Cody and Pork Chop entered middle school, they began to count down the years until they would wear the blue and silver of the Grant High Eagles. While watching their first game as sixth graders, Pork Chop shook half a box of Hot Tamales into his mouth and told Mrs. Martin, “You better enjoy our company while you can, Mrs. M, because in just a coupla years Co and I won’t be able to sit with you anymore. We’ll be out there on the field, tearing it up!”
“I’ll be here regardless.” She smiled. “Screaming my fool head off for you both. And when it gets cold, I guess I’ll be drinking all the hot chocolate myself. Unless Luke starts coming with me.”
Pork Chop frowned. “Well, maybe you can smuggle me a cup of cocoa down to the bench, you know. I can tell the coaches it’s Gatorade. I mean, I don’t know what you do to your cocoa, but it is sick!”
Cody’s mom looked hurt for a moment. Cody put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mom, sick is a good thing.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Sick? A good thing?”
Cody and Pork Chop nodded in unison.
Cody’s mom sniffed. “I weep for today’s youth,” she said, winking at them.
Cody and Pork Chop’s sixth-grade year was the same season that Doug Porter began writing his legend as Grant’s most celebrated athlete. “DP,” as Chop called him, showed up at preseason football camp with a shaved head, 220 pounds of muscle, and a sub-five-second forty-yard-dash time, placing him among the fastest gridders in the freshman class. Most important, DP brought a work ethic that put many of the junior and senior players to shame.
He won the starting fullback job early in the season and spent Friday nights and Saturday afternoons running over—and, once in a while, around—Eagle opponents. Midway in the season, teammates began calling him Rhino, for his angry, hard-charging style.
On defense, Rhino Porter played middle guard. By late season, he was known as one of the fiercest hitters in the state. Many opposing teams turned to a steady diet of end runs and out patterns to avoid the middle of the field, which was Rhino’s turf.
Whenever the elder Porter charged up the middle for a long touchdown run, or body slammed a quarterback to the ground, Pork Chop would stand and bow to the crowd, boasting, “That’s my big bro—taught him everything he knows!”
Pork Chop’s proclamations would draw curious looks from newcomers to Eagle football, who would stare at Chop’s caramel skin, then turn their eyes to the sidelines, as Rhino removed his helmet and steam rose like smoke from the ghostly white skin of his shaved head.
Cody knew that Chop loved confusing newbies, as he called them. The people who didn’t know that Doug was the only child from Tom Porter’s first marriage, which had ended in divorce. Doug was only two when his dad met Richelle Taylor at a Denver Broncos game. She moved from big-city South Denver to the small-town farm country of Grant eighteen months later. Pork Chop arrived ten months after the wedding. He was barely out of diapers when his mother declared Grant “too small and too white—if you get my meaning” and separated from her husband. They divorced before Chop started preschool.
Cody grinned as he saw Pork Chop holding his helmet in both hands as if it were the Hope Diamond. The blue plastic crown was well polished and reflected the gym’s lights. It reminded Cody of a brand-new bowling ball.
Chop’s voice was quiet, reflective. “Just feel this, dawg. Feel the weight. This is a man’s helmet. It’s beautiful. It’ll almost hurt me to get it all bashed and battered and stuff.”
“You sure you can bust up these helmets, Chop?” Cody asked, turning his own headgear around in his hands like a piece of prize fruit. “These feel real solid. Better made than the ones we had last year.”
Pork Chop slapped himself across his barrel chest. “Last year was eighth grade,” he said. “This is no eighth-grade body. Hey, Singletary broke sixteen helmets in college. That’s intensity, my brother. That’s fierce. That’s what I’m gonna bring. Every game. Every practice too.”
Cody nodded. He frowned as he watched Chop’s expression change. The bravado drained from his face. “I wonder,” he said quietly, “if my mom will come down for any games. And I wish your mom was here to watch our high school careers.”
“Me too,” Cody half whispered.
“But she’s up there watching, right?” Chop said, stabbing a blunt forefinger into the sky. “Best seat in the house, right?”
“I guess so,” Cody said, feeling the familiar pain return. It sat like a brick in his stomach.
Chapter 2 Brendan Clark in the Dark
Lydell!” Cody heard the bear growl of Coach Alvin’s voice. Coach Alvin coached receivers and offensive and defensive backs and was as manic as head coach Martin Morgan was quiet and calm. “That stunk, son. Phillips turned you inside out. You have got to move your feet!”
Cody looked up from the soccer field where the freshmen were practicing, to the “official” practice field where the varsity was going at it in the first full-on scrimmage before the season opener. “Man,” he mumbled to himself, “I’m glad I’m not Winston Lydell. Coach A has been yapping at him all afternoon. I couldn’t take it.”
Brett, who was stretching near Cody, heard the comments. “Yeah, I’m sure glad we’re freshman cornerbacks, not varsity ones like Lydell.”
Cody nodded. “I wonder why Coach is riding Lydell so hard. I mean, he’s really pretty good.”
“Well, Lydell is gonna be a target this season. I think that’s why. There are a lot of good QBs in the conference this year, and there’s no way they are gonna throw at Craig Ward. I mean, he’s probably the best cover guy in the state. So guess who’s gonna get tons of balls thrown his
way?”
Cody nodded again. “Yeah, that makes sense. Dude, I wouldn’t want that kind of pressure.”
Brett snorted. “Tell me about it. If you’re a lineman and you miss a tackle, maybe no one will notice, with all the bodies flying around. Besides, maybe a linebacker will have your back and make the play. But if you’re a corner and a wideout makes toast out of you in a fly pattern for a TD, the whole world knows.”
Cody groaned. “Don’t remind me. Makes me want to be a punter.”
Paul Vance, Larry’s brother, was a former Grant center who was built like a fire hydrant. He coached the freshman football team, along with Chris Hendricks, a student teacher and volunteer assistant. After two weeks of practice, Cody decided he liked both of them. Coach Vance was louder than Mr. Smith, the eighth-grade coach, but not as sarcastic. He lacked Smith’s mean streak.
As for Hendricks, he smiled whenever anyone called him “Coach,” and Cody liked it that he referred to everyone by his first name rather than last name. Coach Hendricks was a first-class jock, too. He had been an all-state defensive back in Kansas and played two years of small-college ball.
Whenever Coach Hendricks spoke, Cody tried to memorize every word. He also appreciated how the young coach took the time to demonstrate footwork and tackling techniques.
Midway through week three of practice, the Grant Middle School eighth graders trotted next door to the high school practice field for the annual eighth grade versus freshmen scrimmage. Before kickoff, Cody chuckled as he saw a small cluster of middle schoolers across the field eyeing their larger opponents, pointing and shaking their heads. One of the group was Pat Hart, Robyn’s younger brother. He was the team’s quarterback—a high-energy player who always made things happen. But not always good things.
While Coaches Smith and Vance talked at midfield, Cody trotted across to Hart and his teammates. “Pat,” he said cheerfully, “you and your posse can relax. Chop’s not scrimmaging today. He’s already made varsity. Looks like he’ll start on the O-line.”
“Thank God,” Pat said. From the sincerity in his voice, Cody could tell young Hart meant the expression literally. He clapped Pat on his left shoulder pad. “Have a good scrimmage, Hart. Take it easy on us, okay?”
Pat smiled. It reminded Cody of Robyn’s smile.
The middle schoolers received the opening kickoff and returned it to their own thirty-six. Cody felt his hands tingling as he lined up against a tiny wide receiver with an ill-fitting practice jersey. The first play was a handoff to the fullback up the middle. He was swarmed at the line of scrimmage, and the mini receiver didn’t even have time to get to Cody and throw a block. He didn’t look as if he wanted to.
On the second play, Pat tried a sneak up the middle and gained half a yard. Again, Cody’s opponent pulled up before contact. Come on, he thought, somebody please bring some game my way. I’d at least like to get my uniform dirty.
On third down, Cody watched the little wideout eying his QB. The QB called out the snap count, trying to make his voice deeper than it was.
Aw, you didn’t even glance at Mr. Hart the first two plays, little man, Cody thought. So I bet this ball’s coming to you.
The center snapped the ball, and Pat dropped back into pass formation. The receiver charged at Cody, faked to the inside of the field, then cut for the sideline. Cody followed him like a shadow, risking a quick glance into the backfield.
Pat released the ball as soon as his receiver made his cut. The ball fluttered and wobbled toward its target like an overweight duck trying to fly. Dude, Cody thought, I think Robyn has a better arm than you.
For a moment, the ball seemed to hang in midair, as if levitated by a magician. All mine, Cody thought. He darted to the ball and made sure he secured it in both hands before dashing for the end zone. Looking downfield, he saw Pat angling toward him. The QB made a game effort to cut him off, but, as Cody surmised as he whipped by his would-be tackler, Robyn must have gotten all the speed in the Hart family—along with the arm strength.
Brett arrived in the end zone only a few seconds after Cody. The two banged helmets. “Way to break on that ball,” the other corner gushed. “You really sniffed that one out.”
Cody laughed dismissively. “Well, it wasn’t that hard. That little wideout might as well have told me the play. He totally telegraphed it.”
The middle schoolers went three and out on their next possession, and Marcus Berringer, a hard-running halfback, scored on a sixty-eight-yard sweep around the right end on the freshmen’s first offensive play.
Midway through the second quarter, the score was 28–0, with the freshmen driving again. Pat Hart had engineered one drive deep into opposition territory, but the mini receiver, working against one of Cody’s backups at corner, dropped a perfect pass as he ran into the end zone.
The coaches met at midfield again, both nodding like bobble-head dolls. They shook hands, and Vance turned and jogged to the sideline. “The scrimmage is over,” he announced. “No need to continue the carnage.”
Cody dipped his head. He already had two pass deflections and three solo tackles to go with the interception and return for a TD. “Man,” he muttered to Brett, who was standing next to him. “I know I could get another pick. Poor Pat Hart has no zip on his passes today.”
“Yeah,” Brett said. “And did you see how my bro was shredding their secondary? He was having fun!”
Friday night brought the varsity season opener at Grant’s home field. Cody and his frosh teammates filled the first two rows of aluminum bleachers, eager to cheer on their team, especially Pork Chop and Marcus, who suited up as a third-team tailback.
Grant High School sat on a ridge just above the football field, and before each game, the Eagles would burst from the locker room and thunder down a well-worn path to the field. At the bottom of the path, cheerleaders clutched a circular metal frame that held a construction-paper sign crafted by the Pep Club. Tonight’s sign urged “SMASH THE SAINTS,” in honor of the visiting team from Holy Family. Accompanying the message was a drawing of a muscle-bound Eagle clasping a sledgehammer in its right talon.
Clark was the first player to pop through the sign, drawing a roar from the crowd. Others followed, clawing for remaining scraps of the tattered sign as they charged through the hoop.
Clark lined up the team for warm-ups, his voice a rumbling baritone that Cody struggled to believe could be generated by a seventeen-year-old’s vocal cords.
Grant was the heavy favorite. Cody studied the opposition warming up at the south end of the field and counted only twenty-eight Saints. That meant a lot of guys would have to play offense and defense.
Grant head coach Martin Morgan carried forty-one athletes on his varsity roster, and that was after cutting five seniors that he deemed not up to playing varsity ball. Some coaches let seniors play JV, but Coach Morgan didn’t believe in robbing practice and game time from younger players—players who might earn their way up to varsity someday.
The Saints won the pregame coin toss and elected to receive the opening kickoff. “Receive” was a bit of a misnomer when it came to ATV’s kickoffs. Cody tried to remember one of the powerful athlete’s kicks that had actually been returned.
ATV charged toward the ball, which rested on the kickoff tee almost perfectly perpendicular to the field. As he made contact, the ball seemed to explode off his right foot. Cody watched in awe as it flew in tight, end-over- end somersaults through the uprights, bounced once, then hopped over the chain-link fence that marked the outer boundary of Grant Field.
Last year, Cody had seen one of ATV’s kickoffs, aided by a powerful tail wind, clear that fence on the fly, landing in the bed of a Ford pickup parked on the road south of the field. Still, this most recent kick wasn’t bad for an early-season effort.
Holy Family showed desperation early, trying a gadget play on first down. Minnery, the Saint QB, handed off to his fullback, who then flipped the ball right back. “Pass! Pass!” Cody heard the coaches s
creaming on the sideline.
Yancey Mack, the Saints’ star wideout, sprinted down the center of the field. Lydell trailed him by two strides. Uh-oh, Cody thought, Lydell must have bit on the fake. This is trouble.
Cody knew Yancey Mack. Cody had competed against Yancey’s little brother in middle school. Both of the Macks were fine athletes. Minnery lofted a high, tight spiral. Cody held his breath.
“Dude,” Bart said, “if Mack catches it, he’s takin’ it all the way to the house. Look—Winston can’t keep up with him.”
Cody nodded.
The pass looked a bit short. Looking back for it, Mack slowed his pace and extended his arms back for the ball.
Come on, Cody urged silently, here’s your chance, Lydell, close on him. Now!
The underthrown pass did give the Grant corner time to catch up with Mack. The two were side by side as the Saint receiver pulled the ball into his chest. But then, with the ball secured, Mack went into sprint mode again.
Lydell was candy.
“Aw, man,” Bart groaned. “Mack’s leaving Winston Lydell behind like he’s a stationary object! Coach is gonna have him running gassers all week!”
Grant quickly answered the Saint score. ATV tripped over one of his own blockers on first down, gaining five yards to the Eagle thirty. The next play sent ATV off left tackle. Pork Chop was left tackle. Chop backed his opponent up five steps and sealed him to the inside of the field. ATV charged through the gaping hole. He bowled over a linebacker at the thirty-eight and chugged through yards and yards of open field before dragging a cornerback and a free safety into the end zone.
A pack of grade-school students, aware of ATV’s kicking prowess, stood outside the field area in the middle of the road at the field’s north end, awaiting the extra point. ATV kicked the ball over all of their heads, sending them scrambling into the parking lot to find it.
ATV’s ensuing kickoff bounced off the crossbar in the Saint end zone, giving Holy Family a first down at its own twenty.
