by Todd Hafer
After a quarterback draw picked up six yards on first down, the Saints lined up in shotgun formation, with Minnery standing three steps behind his center. As Minnery bellowed the snap count, Mack went in motion, jogging toward Craig Ward’s side of the field.
“Check this,” Brett said, his puberty-stricken voice cracking, “Mack’s gonna go up against Ward? That’s crazy! Ward will be on him like a second skin.”
On the snap of the ball, Mack bolted into the Grant secondary. He ran up to Ward as if he were meeting a long-lost brother, than planted his left foot and turned 180 degrees back toward his quarterback. Ward stayed right behind him, ready to tackle him as soon as the ball arrived.
But Mack had no intention of gaining only a few yards. He did another 180 and dashed toward the end zone.
A hook-and-go, Cody thought. Man, Mack runs a crisp pattern. And that was a pretty good pump fake Minnery just gave.
Ward must have found the pattern crisp too, or maybe he bit on the pump fake. Whatever the case, he overplayed his opponent. When Mack turned and went long, he left Ward behind. Minnery reared back and launched the long ball. It looked to Cody like he put everything into the pass, not wanting to under-throw to his ace receiver again.
“This is bad, this is bad, this is bad,” Bart chanted.
Mack was running under the ball now. It looked as if he would be able to catch it in stride. Ward had recovered, but he still lagged two strides behind. Mack looked over his left shoulder. Cody heard one of the two athletes grunt from the supreme effort he was exerting, but he wasn’t sure which one.
The ball descended toward Mack’s eager hands as he crossed the twenty-five-yard line. Ward, closing on Mack’s left side, leaped into the air.
Cody heard a stew of gasps and shouts of “Noooooo!” behind him in the bleachers.
Cody had seen Craig Ward dunk a basketball with two hands, but some guys didn’t have the same hops when pack-muling a dozen or so pounds of football padding.
Ward wasn’t one of those guys. Sailing upward, he deftly batted the football away from Mack, and the receiver trotted toward the end zone holding nothing but unfulfilled expectations.
“Did you see that?” Cody shouted, grabbing Bart by his freshman game jersey. “That was big-time closing speed! That was big-time hops!”
“Yeah,” Brett said admiringly. “No wonder they call Ward’s side of the field the No Passing Zone. That’s a DB who can handle his business, just like us this year, right, Cody?”
Cody laughed dismissively. “Yeah, whatever,” he said.
Yeah, I hope so, he thought.
Ward’s big defensive play turned the momentum of the game. Grant went ahead by two touchdowns before halftime, and in the second half, Brendan Clark took over the game. Early in the third quarter he sacked Minnery in his own end zone for a safety. Two series later, he collapsed the pocket, forcing a bad pass that Ward intercepted and returned for a touchdown.
Midway through the fourth quarter, Clark bulldozed a Saint halfback behind the line of scrimmage, forcing a fumble that was pounced on by ATV. With the score 30–7, Coach Morgan sent in his second team. The backup unit earned two first downs before punting the ball away.
Lydell was flagged for pass interference on third-and- long, which allowed the Saints to get in field goal range and make the final score a slightly more respectable 30–10.
The third-team offense, sparked by Berringer, was driving for a possible late score when time expired. Before he joined his teammates in their stampede to the locker room, Pork Chop detoured toward the bleachers. Before Cody and the Evanses could congratulate him, he shouted, straining to be heard above the buzzing, euphoric crowd, “Code, did you see Weitz around tonight? The bleachers? The snack bar? Anywhere?”
Cody shook his head. “Nah, dude. No sign of him. Go enjoy this. This is really cool. And you played a fierce game. Didn’t allow a single sack.”
Pork Chop dipped his head. “Thanks, dawg. Hey, you guys gotta come join the celebration. After all, you’re Eagles too.”
The Grant locker room was bedlam. ATV worked the room like a party host, moving from locker to locker and exchanging high fives and fist pounds with every teammate.
When ATV arrived at Pork Chop’s locker, he clasped both hands around his face, like a vise. “That’s the way to hold it down on the O-line, big Chop. I could have driven my truck through those holes you were blasting. And I have a big truck! Your big brother woulda been proud if he could have seen you tonight!”
Pork Chop stood—speechless—something Cody didn’t witness very often. Chop could manage only a grateful nod.
When ATV finished his rounds he threw back his head and released a howl that reverberated off the concrete floor, steel lockers, and cinder-block walls. Then he punctuated his victory cry by flushing three urinals in quick succession.
“We should go congratulate ATV,” Bart said to Cody and Brett. They were watching the celebration from just inside the entrance.
“Yeah,” Cody agreed.
The trio approached ATV, who had shucked his jersey and shoulder pads. Cody noted that his sweat-soaked gray T-shirt bore the hand-scrawled message across the chest: “100%—Every Play!”
“Great game, ATV!” Brett said. Cody and Bart nodded their agreement.
“Hey, thanks, freshmen!” ATV boomed. “You see how it’s done? You see how good it feels to win? Take note. That’s gonna be you out there someday!”
“Another hundred-yard game for you, huh?” Cody offered.
“One hundred and forty-six—in only three quarters! That’s 12.9 yards per carry. But who’s counting?”
“That’s awesome,” Cody said, smiling. “Hey, do you know where Clark is? He had twenty solo tackles. We counted. We wanna tell him.”
ATV rolled his eyes and tilted his head in the direction of the wrestling room. “He’s in his chapel, just like always.”
There was something in ATV’s voice when he said “just like always.” Cody couldn’t tell if it was disgust or bewilderment.
“Chapel?” Brett said. “I don’t get it.”
“Go see for yourself,” ATV said with a shrug.
The team was singing the Eagle fight song, off-key and at full volume, when Cody and the Evans brothers headed for the wrestling room only a few steps from the locker room doors.
The wrestling room’s double wooden doors creaked softly when Cody and Brett pushed them open. The lights were off. The only illumination came from the moonlight that filtered through a row of windows along one side of the low-ceilinged rectangular room.
Brendan Clark was in a far corner, on his knees, moonlight gathered around him. The scene reminded Cody of a movie, but he couldn’t recall which one. He could see Clark’s lips moving, but he heard no sound.
Bart started to say something, but Cody poked an elbow in his side and held a forefinger to his lips. Bart shrugged, confused, but after a few seconds, nodded in apparent understanding.
After a minute or so passed, Clark popped to his feet. He walked toward the trio, narrowing his eyes. “Cody Martin and the Evans twins, right?” he asked.
The three looked at each other stunned. Cody knew he and the twins were thinking the same thing: “Brendan Clark knows our names? ”
“Uh, right,” Brett stammered. “Um—that was a fierce game, Brendan. You had twenty solo tackles: did you know that?”
Clark smiled faintly. “I guess I do now.”
“That’s not official or anything,” Cody pointed out. “But we kept pretty good track.”
Clark yawned. “Well, the official total will probably be less. Our stat guy usually gives at least a couple of my tackles to ATV. I think ATV threatens him.”
Bart chuckled, too loudly.
“It doesn’t matter though,” Clark said.
“Yeah,” Brett interjected. “What really matters is that you won. You spanked ’em!”
“Winning is an objective,” Clark said. “I mean, they do keep score.�
� He paused for a moment. “The party still going on in the locker room?”
“Oh, yeah,” Cody said. “It’s still rockin’!”
Clark stretched his hands above his head. “Well, I guess I better go join the fun.” The way he said it, Cody thought, he might as well have said, “Well, I guess I better go get my wisdom teeth pulled.”
Clark cleared his throat. “I had to take care of first things first though.”
Brett and Bart looked at each other. “First things first?” the former asked.
“Yeah, you know, priorities. Right, Cody?”
Cody was marveling that Brendan Clark had now uttered his name twice when Brett elbowed him in the kidney. “Martin!” he whispered loudly. “The man’s talkin’ to you!”
“Yeah, sure,” Cody said quickly. “Priorities.”
“I’m not sure what either of you is talking about,” Brett said. “I mean, what could be more important than celebrating with your teammates?”
“Giving thanks to God,” Clark said flatly.
“Oh,” Brett said, exchanging a glance with his brother.
Okay, Cody thought as he moved his eyes from the twins to Brendan Clark, this must be what they mean by “awkward silence. ”
Finally, Brett offered, “Well, I think we better get back down to the field and find our dad. You comin’ Cody? You need a ride?”
“Nah. I think I’ll ride home with the Porters. You guys go ahead.”
The Evanses congratulated Clark again, then left the wrestling room as if they were late for dinner.
“I hope I didn’t embarrass you or anything, Cody,” Clark said when the twins were gone.
Cody wasn’t sure what Clark meant. He answered anyway. “No. You didn’t embarrass me at all. It’s all good, you know.”
Clark nodded slowly. “Some people can find it a little awkward to talk about their faith. That used to be me. But not anymore. God has done so much for us; it would just be a crime to not give him his props, right?”
“Right—but—” Cody felt the question forming in his mind. It was a question he had wondered about for the past few football seasons, and he really wanted it answered. But, he warned himself, this is a question that could also get you concussed by the best middle linebacker in the state.
“But?” Clark’s voice was soft, patient. Nothing like the voice that commanded the Eagles in pregame warm-ups or practices. Cody allowed his gaze to fall on the figure in front of him. Especially in this light, Clark, with his boyish, rounded face, looked more like an extra from a Nickelodeon kids’ show than the guy Pork Chop called “The Baddest Man in Shoulder Pads.” If you saw just his head shot in a yearbook, Cody surmised, you’d think he was harmless—until you saw that head was attached to a professional wrestler’s body.
Cody swallowed. He could feel Clark’s eyes on him. “It’s just that I’ve been watching you for a long time now. And when you make a big play—sack the QB or pick off a pass—you don’t point at the sky. And when you score a TD, you don’t kneel in the end zone like some of the guys in college and the pros do. I mean, you say you have to give God his props, but—”
Cody paused. Clark was staring at him, studying him. This is great, Cody Martin, he scolded himself. It’s months until wrestling season. That means once Clark kills you, they won’t even find the body for a long, long time. Oh, well, if I gotta get killed, I guess I’d rather it be by Brendan Clark than Gabe Weitz. At least Clark’s a legend, not a loser.
Clark was chuckling softly. “You know, I think I will believe you that I had twenty tackles tonight, no matter what the stat boy says. You’re an observant guy. You know, no one else has noticed what you have. In fact, I’ve heard people say I actually do the kind of stuff you’re talking about. They just assume I do all that demonstrative stuff because I’m a Christian.”
Cody wanted to do something demonstrative at the moment—drop to his knees and thank God for sparing his life. But he wanted an answer to his question first, although he wasn’t sure he had, in fact, asked a question.
He looked up from the wrestling mat when he heard Clark clear his throat. “So, Cody,” the linebacker said, “here’s the deal—if I may?”
Cody shrugged, embarrassed. “Sure. I mean, I’m interested—”
Clark smiled. “Do you think God cares who wins football games?”
“No.”
“Do you think he cares about tackle stats, touchdowns, who makes the all-state team?”
Cody wagged his head.
“Neither do I. See, all I think God cares about is who honors him. That’s all I try to do in football, in the classroom, in life. When I get an A on a test, I don’t point to the sky or kneel in prayer in the chemistry lab. So why would I do that kind of thing on the field? Never have. Never will. You feelin’ what I’m sayin’?”
Cody shifted his feet. “I think so, but those other guys—the ones who do celebrate—”
“I’m not dissing them. As long as they do what they do to honor God, not bring attention to themselves, I’m cool with it.”
Cody felt his head nodding in agreement. Clark reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Well, it’s been good kickin’ it with you, Cody. I gotta hit the showers. You keep the faith, okay?”
“Okay,” Cody said, but he didn’t know if Clark heard him. Clark was already sprinting across the wrestling room toward the lockers.
The following Monday’s practice began with Coach Morgan addressing the whole team, freshmen included. “I’ll make this brief,” he said. “Winston Lydell and Avery Lynn are no longer part of this football team. They violated a team rule over the weekend. You all signed a document committing to following the rules. I expect you to honor your word. There are consequences for those who don’t.”
The news cast a shadow over practice. Between drills, it was the only topic of conversation. Lydell and Lynn, a free safety, represented half of the Eagles’ starting defensive backfield.
“Dude,” Bart said to Cody as the freshmen lined up to run gassers—a series of six sprints across the width of the field—“Morgan is harsh. I mean, no warnings, no temporary suspension, just boom! One mistake and you’re outta here!”
“Well,” said Mark Goddard, “a rule is a rule, and a promise is a promise.”
Cody smiled at Goddard, a multisport athlete like him. Goddard was still carrying about ten extra pounds around the middle, which puzzled Cody, because no one worked harder in practice. Well, no one except Pork Chop.
The freshmen were supposed to have their season opener on Thursday, but the bus carrying the Maranatha Christian School team broke down halfway between Colorado Springs and Grant. The game was rescheduled for the following Tuesday. To help alleviate his team’s disappointment, Coach Vance hastily put together a scrimmage against the JV.
Cody intercepted a pass and knocked down two more, but the excitement he felt about the feats was fleeting. He hungered for real game action.
On Friday night, he rode with Mr. Porter to watch the Grant varsity face Burlington in a nonconference game. He had hoped his dad would join them, but Dad and his girlfriend, Beth, decided to see a movie instead.
Coaches Morgan and Alvin did their best to compensate for the loss of two defensive-backfield starters. They moved Paul Goddard, Mark’s older brother, from strong safety to cornerback. Then, after much discussion, they named Marcus Berringer their new roving free safety. This meant he would get fewer reps at running back, but Cody knew he wouldn’t care. A chance to start on the varsity came around about as often as Halley’s Comet.
For a while, it looked like the “musical players” experiment would work. The Eagles led 3–0 at the end of the first half. The defense allowed a total of twenty-seven yards. Clark amassed twelve tackles. On one play, he hit the Burlington fullback so hard the fullback’s helmet flew off.
Unfortunately, the Burlington coaching staff made a key halftime adjustment. The Cougars abandoned the running game in the third quarter and took to th
e air. One of their wideouts kept beating Goddard deep, and an overzealous Berringer committed two costly pass-interference penalties.
With the Eagles trailing 17–6, Craig Ward looked to get his team back in the game. Realizing that Burlington was exploiting Goddard’s lack of speed, he cheated to the opposite side of the field on a third and eight. He made a one-handed interception of an attempted down-and-in and bolted for the end zone.
The Burlington fullback, the one Clark had blown up earlier, was ready for him. As Ward crossed the twenty, the fullback hit him flush in the right shoulder with the crown of his helmet. Ward collapsed instantaneously. He struggled to his feet moments later, his arm hanging limp at his side. He looked to the sideline and shook his head.
“Uh-oh,” Mr. Porter said to Cody, “that is not good. I bet he’s gone and separated that shoulder.”
Mr. Porter proved to be a prophet. Ward had season-ending shoulder surgery the Monday after the game. The Eagles’ defensive backfield was a shambles.
Chapter 3 The Intruder
As the Eagle freshmen went through pregame warm-ups before their rescheduled season opener, Cody noticed Coach Morgan approach Coach Alvin and Coach Vance. All their faces were somber, and they talked with their heads almost touching, as if they were telling government secrets. This was no casual “good luck, Coach!” kind of conversation.
Then, Cody felt his heart accelerate when he saw Coach Alvin point at him. At least, he feared he was the target. He looked around. No one was doing jumping jacks close to him. Okay, Cody tried to assure himself. This doesn’t mean anything. There could be any number of reasons Coach A is pointing at you. Maybe he’s showing Coach Morgan the skinniest guy on the team. Or pointing out the guy with the dead mom. Or maybe he’s not pointing at you at all. Maybe he’s pointing at Goddard, only his aim’s not very good. He’s not looking to call you up to varsity, so quit worrying. There’s no way they’re gonna start a punk freshman DB. That would be insane.
“Martin!” Cody startled at the sound of Coach Alvin’s sandpaper voice. “Get over here! Chop-chop!”
