Cody's Varsity Rush

by Todd Hafer

  Cody felt his face growing hot. He tried to think of something to say.

  Then from the back of the room, Terry Alston, Pork Chop’s rival for best all-around freshman male athlete, interrupted. “How do you know all of this, Chop? You’re just a dumb lineman.”

  “Oh, brother,” Cody muttered to himself, “here we go again. But at least the heat’s off me.”

  Pork Chop half turned in his chair to face Alston, who was sitting to the left and behind him. Chop let out a short, humorless laugh. “Excuse me, TA. Dumb lineman?”

  “Look,” Alston said quickly, “I’m not disrespecting you. You know I respect your game. You’re a big strong dude. I’m just sayin’ it doesn’t take a genius to ram into another big guy all day.”

  Pork Chop appeared genuinely amused. “Oh really,” he said. He appeared ready to eject from his seat and make Terry Alston’s dentist very wealthy.

  Mr. Dellis, perhaps sensing a potential battle royal in his classroom, jumped in. “Now, Mr. Porter, let’s remember what I said about respecting dissenting opinions. I don’t know a lot about football, but I think all that Mr. Alston is saying is—”

  “—See, that’s my problem, Mr. Dellis,” Pork Chop countered. “You don’t know football. Neither does TA. He’s just too pretty to play it I guess. If you did, you wouldn’t use the words ‘dumb’ and ‘lineman’ in the same sentence. An offensive lineman has to be one of the smartest guys on the field.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding,” Alston scoffed.

  Pork Chop looked to Mr. Dellis, “May I, sir?”

  Mr. Dellis nodded and smiled. Cody’s mom had a name for smiles like that: cat that ate the canary.

  Pork Chop stood in front of the class as smiling and confident as a gameshow host. “It would take way too long to explain all the intricacies of an offensive lineman’s responsibilities,” he began, “so I’m just going to give you a little glimpse into the world of the Midnight Cowboy, lineman extraordinaire. It’s a pressure-filled world, because I play left tackle. That means I have to protect the quarterback’s blind side every game or he ends up in a body bag.

  “Let’s see, I think I’ll pick a play from the third quarter of our win over Mill Creek last weekend. It’s a third and six, and Hammond, our QB, calls I-right flex—dog right split. On three. See, that’s our basic formation. Two running backs in the I formation. One tight end, two wideouts. But when Hammond says ‘right split,’ that tells Butcher, the tight end, to line up about five yards from the tackle instead of right next to him like he usually does.

  “The word ‘right’ in ‘right split’ means that the formation is strong to the right—because that’s where the tight end is. It also tells the two wideouts which patterns to run. You keeping up with me so far?”

  Pork Chop looked to Alston, who frowned and nodded.

  “Okay, that’s good. ’Cuz I’m just getting started. Now Hammond is going to take a five-step drop, and his first option is a shallow out pattern to Butcher. All of this is going through my head when I get to the line and face off against Jonathon Harper, a 250-pound monster who’s three years older than I am. But, for me, the key word in the play Hammond called is ‘dog.’ That means the line will slide to the strong side, and I’ll be mano-a-mano against Harper. Unless, of course, Creek decides to stunt, and their end and tackle switch spots on the snap. Or they could blitz, and a DB will come up and shoot in behind Harper. Then I take one of the guys and ATV, our fullback, blocks the other one.”

  Mr. Dellis sighed, pulled a tissue from his pocket, and dabbed at his forehead. He replaced the tissue, then sat on his desk. “Is that it?” he asked hopefully.

  Pork Chop belched and shook his head. “Ha. Not even close. See, on this particular play, I get to the line, and I see Harper to my left, with no one lined up against Cook—he’s our left guard—and my homey. It doesn’t look like their strong-side linebacker is going to blitz, and they’re not bringing up a safety either. So I’m thinkin’ what’s up here? What’s their game?”

  Cody studied Mr. Dellis. It looked like he might get up from the desk and try to regain control of his classroom. But Cody knew his friend wasn’t done yet, so he asked, “Chop, how did you solve the mystery?”

  Pork Chop winked at him. “I’m getting to that. See, by this time I have battled Harper for thirty-two plays. I’ve learned that he has decent speed for such a big tank, but he’s a creature of habit. He hasn’t given me an inside move all afternoon. So I’m just about positive that he’s going to try to barrel around the outside and outrun me to Hammond. I’m in my two-point stance, so Harper knows that we’re either gonna pass or run a draw play. So I’m not gonna charge right at him in run-block mode. I have my left foot behind my right one because I need a quick start. I gotta get moving backward as soon as the ball is snapped.

  “I’m moving as soon as Hammond begins to pronounce the ‘h’ in ‘hut.’ I know his cadence like my own. Harper blasts out of his stance. I slide into position. My footwork is perfect. He’s going outside again, just as I figured. I get my hands up in his chest to slow him down. Gotta give our QB time. Harper is swatting at my hands like they’re horseflies—gigantic, powerful horseflies.”

  That comment brought a few chuckles. Chop waited for them to subside before continuing. “So, I’m hand fighting with Harper, struggling to keep my hands and arms up into him, but at the same time I am moving my feet too, moving back and to the side. Keeping my balance. Being wary not to step on anybody who might have fallen or gotten knocked down in the backfield. I have to possess great hand and upper-body strength, while displaying the footwork and balance of a ballet dancer. Otherwise, I fall on my booty.”

  “And that’s some serious booty,” Marcus Berringer offered from his place next to Alston. More chuckles followed.

  Pork Chop steepled his sausage-like fingers and waited. He cleared his throat. “If I may continue now—I am keeping my ‘serious booty’ low, keeping my leverage on Harper. I push him off, move back, then prepare to battle him again. By now, Hammond shoulda thrown the ball, but he’s kept drifting back in the pocket because no one is open. So Harper has one more shot at him. He loads up and tries to charge through me one more time. But he’s too desperate, too eager. He’s off balance, and I put him on the ground. I pancake the dude. Ah, the pancake block—the offensive lineman’s touchdown.

  “Meanwhile, Hammond realizes he has taken way too much time, so he—finally—tucks the ball under his arm and sprints left. He picks up twelve yards and a first down. That’s just one play for me. All in all, we run sixty offensive plays, thirty-one of ’em passes. I don’t allow a single sack all day—and just one ‘pressure.’ What’s most important, I help the O-line make our team goal. Two hundred yards rushing and no sacks. Not a bad day’s work for a dumb lineman, huh, Alston?”

  Cody studied Alston. He shoulders slumped as he slid forward in his chair. He said nothing. Robyn turned to Pork Chop. “Deke,” she said, “you rock. I had no idea how complex you guys have it on the O-line. I’m impressed.”

  Chop smiled. “It is pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

  Cody saw Mr. Dellis push himself off his desk. “May we continue now, Mr. Porter?” he asked. Cody was sure the question was meant to be sarcastic, but the teacher’s voice sounded quite sincere.

  Chop considered the query for a few moments before saying, softly, as he made a sweeping gesture with his right hand, “Be my guest, but the bell rings in less than a minute.”

  Cody tried to catch up to Robyn when World History ended. But she ignored him, striding toward the exit as if in the middle of a fire drill. Chop clapped him across the back, nearly knocking him off balance. “Let’s talk after practice.”

  After practice was over, Pork Chop and Cody remained on the field. Chop slid his helmet off of his head and turned to face his friend. “You need to feel what I’m about to say, dawg,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice—or was it disappointment?

  “Sure, Chop—and t
hanks for bailing me out in Dellis’s class,” Cody replied. “What’s up?”

  Pork Chop pointed to his face. “It would be crazy to try to hide that I’m black, right?”

  Cody wrinkled his forehead. “Of course it would, Chop. I mean, why would you want to, anyway? You’re proud of who you are.”

  “That I am. Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Proud of who you are, what you are?”

  Cody held up both hands, as if fending off the block of a hard-charging wide receiver. “Look, it’s not that I’m ashamed of my faith or anything. I just don’t want to get into it with Dellis, that’s all.”

  Pork Chop started making a robotic, rhythmic beeping sound.

  Cody rolled his eyes. “Okay, Chop, what’s up with the beeps. Are you impersonating a microwave oven or something?”

  “Nope. Beep. Beep. Beep. This is my smoke detector. Beep. Beep. Beep. It tends to go off when somebody blows smoke at me.”

  Cody exhaled and blinked his eyes. “What—you think I’m lying?”

  Pork Chop shrugged. “The smoke detector doesn’t lie. Look dawg, I know what it’s like to be a minority, especially in this town. You know how many times I sit in a movie theater or restaurant and I’m the only brother in the house? You think that sometimes I don’t wish that I could just blend in—avoid the stares, the whispered exchanges?”

  “But, Chop, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing here.”

  “It’s the same kind of thing. I know what some people see when they look at me—a dishonest, profanity-spewin’ thug with a chip on his shoulder—and probably a gun tucked in the waistband of his drawers. Hide your money. Hide your women. And I know what some people think when they hear you are a Christian—science-hating, judgmental, hypocritical rightwing fanatic.”

  Cody considered the comparison. “I never thought of it that way,” he said. “You’re right. I guess that’s one more thing we have in common. But I want you to know—I’m not ashamed of God, but I guess I am afraid of how people will label me because I believe in him. I don’t want to be stereotyped. You know what I mean?”

  Pork Chop fake coughed. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

  “But how do you deal with it, Chop? How do you keep from being labeled?”

  Cody felt the warmth of his friend’s smile. It was a big brother kind of smile. “Code,” Chop said, “the labels won’t stick to you if you don’t let them. And the best way to keep ’em off you is to just be who you be. Don’t worry about what people might say or might think. Even what I might think—and you know we don’t see eye-to-eye on this particular subject. But still, you gotta—”

  “Be who you be,” Cody finished the sentence, his voice a guilty half whisper.

  The next morning, Cody patted his dad on the back before heading off for school. “Good to see you eating a healthy breakfast, Dad,” he said, eyeing his father’s bowl of bran flakes. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

  His father looked up from his cereal. “Okay, I guess. You seem in a good mood this morning—hey, what’s that you’re carrying?”

  “It’s my study Bible. Gonna do some reading in study hall. And I think I might need it in World History too.”

  His dad frowned. “But why not take your pocket Bible? It would be a lot easier to carry. And not quite so—uh—conspicuous.”

  Cody headed for the door. “You know, Dad,” he said, smiling. “Sometimes you just gotta be who you be.”

  In game seven of the season, Grant faced Maranatha. As the bus rumbled to the game, Cody hoped the varsity Eagles would fare as well as the frosh had.

  Grant hadn’t scored more than thirteen points since the season opener, and the coaching staff had been merciless on the offense ever since. Cody thought they were due for a breakout game, and he was right.

  ATV did most of the breaking. He had ninety-nine yards on nine carries at halftime, taking the Eagles to a 14–0 lead.

  Phillips scored on an end-around early in the third, and ATV pushed a pile of defenders seven yards on the way to his third TD of the game.

  With a 28–0 lead early in the fourth quarter, Coach Morgan sent Cody into the game. Cody’s fingers trembled as he tried to fasten his chin strap. He had seen little action since being called up to varsity—just some spot duty against St. Stevens and one series against Mill Creek.

  Cody lined up against a towering Crusader end, who looked at least six foot two. On first down, Maranatha ran a quarterback draw. The end threw a vicious block on Cody, knocking him two steps backward, but Cody kept his feet and was ready to lay a hit of his own on his opponent when the referee blew the play dead after a seven-yard gain.

  On second down the end came for him again but, instead of laying a block on Cody, hesitated and then streaked down the field. “Pass! Pass!” Cody heard coaches and teammates shouting from the sideline. He sensed where the pass was going: long, and to his opponent.

  Cody struggled to stay even with the tall receiver, whose long, loping strides gobbled up yards of real estate. Cody tucked close to the receiver’s inside shoulder, hoping to keep him breaking toward the middle of the field.

  But this was a simple fly pattern. The receiver’s goal was simple: outrun Cody and catch the ball.

  He did one of the two. But that was enough. McCall, Maranatha’s quarterback, hummed a tight spiral that the receiver caught over his outside shoulder as he crossed midfield. Cody stuck to him like Velcro, but the ball was so well thrown that he was helpless to make a play.

  He felt anger and panic boiling inside him as his man tried to accelerate and leave him behind. Cody reached with his right hand and grabbed a handful of white jersey, then did the same with his left.

  Man, this guy is big, Cody thought, but if he wants to score, he’s gonna have to drag me all the way to the end zone.

  As they crossed the twenty with Cody doing little more than slowing the receiver down, he feared his prediction would come true.

  Then Brendan Clark arrived. He hit the receiver so hard that Cody was sent flying. The Maranatha player went down face first at the ten. Clark helped his victim up, and even helped clear away the divot of sod that had lodged in his face mask.

  Coach Alvin motioned for Cody to come out of the game. He trotted to the sideline, to where Coaches Alvin and Morgan stood side by side. You must not cry, he told himself, no matter what they call you. Just take it like a man.

  Coach Morgan looked at his assistant and patted Cody on the helmet. “Good coverage, Martin. You stuck right with him. If McCall doesn’t throw a perfect pass, that’s an incompletion or an I-N-T. Good job. Keep your head up. You’ll probably get another series or two before the game is over.”

  Chapter 7 The Pain Pool

  Cody survived the rest of the Maranatha game, which Grant won 28–7. ATV gained 208 yards rushing, averaging 9.1 yards a carry. Cody’s man caught one more pass on him, this one on a dig-and-go, but Berringer was there to help drag him down after a modest twelve-yard gain.

  The win moved Grant’s overall record to 4–3, 4–1 in the league. That made the regular-season finale against Claxton Hills crucial. Whoever won that game would move on to the playoffs. The other team was done for the year.

  Cody spent his lunch periods the same way as always since joining the varsity—in the weight room watching game tapes. One of the coaches had taped Claxton Hills’ 21–0 spanking of Mill Creek.

  “Man, those guys look big,” Cody whispered to Paul Goddard during Wednesday’s video session.

  “Yeah,” Goddard muttered, with grudging admiration. “Their lines average about 220 pounds. We barely average 200. I don’t like those guys. Bunch of rich white boys who think they are living the thug life. Their parents spend about six grand a year in tuition—how ghetto is that?”

  Cody cocked his head. “You don’t like ’em just because they’re rich?”

  “No, freshman,” came the reply, “I don’t like them because they’re cocky—and the
y play dirty. They have pain pools for every game. And they do it differently than other schools. It’s not random. They pick one guy to target each game. Rich alumni fund it. Put the target out of the game, not just for a few plays, and you get a hundred bucks or something.”

  The traditional Thursday dinner was held at Brendan Clark’s house that week. A group of parents grilled more than 150 hamburgers and tossed what looked to Cody like a Jacuzzi full of salad. There were no leftovers. After dinner, players dispersed throughout the Clarks’ two-story house, some playing video games, others shooting pool in the basement or watching a college football game on ESPN.

  Soon, the coaches gathered everyone in the living room for a big-screen TV viewing of Remember the Titans.

  Last on the Thursday night agenda was the team meeting in the Clarks’ three-car garage. After Coaches Morgan, Alvin, and Curtis gave brief speeches, they opened up the floor to the players. Usually, several Eagles took advantage of the opportunity—to thank their coaches, to make commitments regarding the upcoming game, or to challenge or encourage a teammate. Parents, while welcome everywhere else, were barred from these meetings.

  ATV spoke first, promising his teammates that he would run harder than ever the following evening. Tucker challenged defense to put pressure on Claxton Hills’ six-four QB Eric Faust. And he thanked Brendan Clark, whom he called “the best teammate I could ever hope to have.”

  That set the stage for Clark. “Seniors, this could be our last game,” he began slowly. “Or at least our last game in front of our home crowd. Let’s give everyone something to remember. I promise to play the game of my life. I owe each of you that—my teammates, my coaches.”