by Mike Lupica
Cowboys’ ball at the Benton twenty-two, thirty-eight seconds left, Coach McCoy running out at the ref closest to him to call their last time-out.
Bobby Torres had a nice, sure leg for extra points. But if they had to kick from here, it would be a thirty-nine-yard field goal. Out of his range. They had to get the ball a lot closer, or they had to put up six.
Jake jogged over to the sideline, tipped back his helmet, took a swig from the water bottle Bear handed him.
“Son, one thing you can’t do is take a sack,” Coach McCoy said, it coming out as cain’t. “Even if you could get our boys back to the line, by the time you spiked it, we’d probably have time for just one throw to the end zone.”
Jake said, “Yes, sir.”
“They’re gonna be looking at Calvin, which is why I want you to look at him your own self and then turn and throw it to Justice on the other side.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That all you can say? ‘Yes, sir’?”
For some reason it made Jake laugh.
Coach McCoy said, “You think this is funny?”
Jake said, “No, sir.”
Coach John McCoy might have smiled then. Might have.
Jake went back to the huddle, told the guys the play. No chatter now. Nobody in the huddle thinking anything was funny. Lot of guys in the huddle getting after it, a moment like this, for the first time as varsity football players. Jake included. He came up to the line, checked the defense, saw the safety shading over to help the corner on Calvin. But when he looked to the other side, to his right, he saw the outside linebacker do that with Justice at the same time.
So they were doubling Justice, same as they were Calvin. And dropping one of their safeties back to the five-yard line, like he was playing center field for them, defending the end zone.
But opening up the middle of the field. Betting that a short pass couldn’t beat them here, knowing the Cowboys were out of time-outs. Daring them to risk one of the last plays they had left, and a lot of spent clock, on a catch-and-run.
Jake changed the play.
Betting on Calvin.
Called a quick post to him, a one-step drop for Jake. Get Calvin the ball and see if Benton could stop him from winning the game.
Three seconds on the play clock.
Two.
Nate snapped Jake the ball, Jake took a step back, saw the nose tackle rise up and stick his big paw up in the air. Jake slide-stepped to his left, only about five yards separating him and Calvin, Jake throwing that five-yarder as hard as he’d ever thrown a short pass in his life. Could have sworn he heard the air come out of Calvin Morton this time as the ball hit him in the gut, like he’d been gut-punched.
But Calvin caught it. As he did, the cornerback hit him. Calvin held on, stayed up. The corner went down and Calvin took off. Jake followed right behind. When one of the Panther linebackers came racing across the field, lining up the angle on Calvin perfectly, Jake launched himself at him, getting just enough of a block to give Calvin the room he needed to create. He faked a run outside, getting two Panthers to bite, then spun and raced to the other side, slicing past three more defenders before launching himself into the air as the last Panther tried to get in his way.
Calvin landed on his side when he hit, rolling over, never stopping. He handed the ball to the closest ref, whose arms were still raised, signaling a touchdown.
Ball game.
Jake stood at the ten-yard line, arms up in the air like the ref’s.
Suddenly Nate was there, pounding Jake on his back, yelling. “Son, you just done graduated.”
“To what?”
“Unclear,” Nate Collins said. “But you sure ain’t no freshman anymore.”
Troy Cullen hugged his boy at midfield, hugged him after Libby Cullen had done the same, his mom who kept smiling and saying “Jacob” over and over again.
Troy Cullen said, “Well, hell’s bells, was that really my baby boy?” Telling Jake that his skinny butt was going to end up in a sling if he didn’t stop running with the ball so much.
It wasn’t until Jake and his parents started walking toward the parking lot, them to their car and Jake to the bus, that his dad asked him about his new throwing motion.
“When’d you start throwing it different?” his dad said.
Jake hoped he wasn’t going to make a thing of it, so he just said, “Aw, I just tweaked her a little.”
“Didn’t look like tweaks to me,” Troy Cullen said. “All of a sudden I see you flingin’ in three-quarters the way Romo does. And send up a flare when he wins something.”
Libby Cullen said, “It was Jacob who won something today, I’m almost positive.” Poking her husband with an elbow to let him think she was joshing him, even though Jake was pretty sure she wasn’t.
“Not saying he wasn’t, Libby. I’m just trying to understand what I’ve been missin’.”
A lot, Jake thought.
Like most of my life.
What he said: “It’s no big deal, Dad. Coach J and I were just messin’ around at practice one day, and he told me to try releasing it a little lower, as a way of getting it away quicker. He thought I might be taking a little too much time to lock and load. And it started working for me, is all.”
“Letting it go the way I taught you seemed to work pretty well for your brother.”
“I’m not Wyatt,” Jake said in a quiet voice.
“Didn’t think Ray Jessup was your quarterback coach,” Jake’s dad said. “Was under the impression I was.”
Jake nearly told him that if he was, it sure was a part-time job, but all he did was swallow his words—and maybe his pride—again, something he did a lot in front of his father.
“You are, Dad,” he said. “You know that. Heck, everybody does.”
“Maybe after I ride tomorrow, we’ll do some work, you and me, on your mechanics.”
“His mechanics looked just fine to me,” Jake’s mom said, some snap in her voice that Jake knew was never good for his dad. “I expect they looked pretty good to the Benton Panthers, as well.”
Troy Cullen said, “Now, hon, I know you know your football—”
“Hon?” Libby Cullen said.
“Hold on, Libby,” Jake’s dad said. “You know I didn’t mean nothin’ by that.”
“No,” she said, “now you’ve piqued my interest; go ahead and finish your thought. Because what I heard was that I know my football . . . but. But what?”
Jake knew he should get to the locker room and let them sort it out, like they always did. But he wanted to see this, hear it.
“I just want to help the boy get better,” Troy Cullen said. “He showed some potential today.”
“Potential? Really?” Then Libby Cullen began walking away from the field.
“See you at home,” Jake’s dad said to him, slapped him on the back, and said, “You did good today.”
But it was too late. Sounded to Jake like some kind of afterthought, like he was throwing Jake a bone.
Like somehow, even though Jake had won the game today, he still hadn’t measured up.
16
IT WAS ALL SET UP TO BE A BIG SATURDAY NIGHT AT STONE’S, the way it always was after a win for the Granger Cowboys, everything half-price when the team won, even the most expensive steaks on the menu, what Bobby Ray Stone called his big ’uns.
Maybe it wasn’t the whole squad in the back room by the time Jake and Nate and Bear arrived, but it sure seemed to be close enough, players everywhere, in booths and round tables and the long table against one of the walls.
And soon as they walked in, knowing they were on their way to the corner booth that Bobby Ray always saved for any member of the Cullen family, Jake spotted Sarah with three of her friends from cheerleading: Beth Ayers, Amanda Starling, and Monica Moroni. All of the others cute,
but none as cute as Sarah, not even close.
“Well, now, how’s this gonna go?” Nate said, all of them standing just inside the door to the back room.
He could see Sarah, too.
“I’m the one who’s gonna go—home—if you start in on me,” Jake said.
“Chill, my brother,” Nate said. “Just be as cool as you were playin’ ball today, not getting that cold rush of you-know-what because of some girl.”
That was Nate’s definition of choking in sports: a cold rush of you-know-what to the heart.
“Who couldn’t relax after a fine pep talk like that?” Jake said.
Bear just stood there grinning, taking it all in.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, ’cause we can’t just stand here all night,” Nate said. “We’re just gonna pause at the girls’ table and you’re gonna say hello, the way we all are, and then keep moving. Just on one condition.”
Jake said, “Who said you get to make conditions about anything?”
“The condition,” Nate said, “is that you do say hidy to Miss Sarah.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll do all the talking,” Nate said.
Bear said, “No one wants that.”
Jake said, “And maybe I’ll start chattin’ up Emma Jean, when she comes to take our order.”
“No need to lash out at me,” Bear said. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Sure you are.”
But Jake did exactly as Nate asked, stopped when he got to Sarah’s table, knowing he wasn’t just doing it because of Nate, that he wanted to talk to her on a night like this, after a game like the one he’d played. Nate was right: If he could take the team down the field against Benton, he could surely do that.
He could talk to a girl, even if it was this girl.
Nate and Bear led the way, both of them smiling at the girls and saying “Hey,” moving on to their booth. Jake stopped and said, “Hi, Sarah,” said hi to the other girls, too, calling them by their names, his mom’s voice inside his head telling him that there was no fault in being polite to a fault.
“Hi, Jake!” Sarah, smiling at him, actually seeming happy to see him.
Before Jake could think of something else to say, she said, “Great game today!”
“Wasn’t just me,” he said. “Everybody did pretty good there at the end.”
“But you were the one making all those plays and all those throws,” she said. “Somebody said you looked as cool out there as Wyatt.”
“Hey, even Wyatt Cullen knew it’s hard not to look cool throwing it to Calvin.”
Casey.
Jake turned and said, “Man, you got that right.”
Casey must have come in right behind Jake and his boys. Casey was with his own boys, Dicky Grider and Roy Gilley. Jake noticed Calvin and Justice behind them, but they seemed to be on their way to Melvin’s table.
Jake knew Casey was just announcing himself, a little louder than he needed to, the way Calvin sometimes did.
It was Sarah who spoke next, saying, “Well, all us Cowboys fans hope he stays lucky and good.” Smiling as she added, “You both looked good out there.”
Casey grinned and said, “Miss Sarah, you haven’t seen nothin’ yet, trust me.”
Jake knew he was talking about himself, but let it go. Nobody said anything now, both Jake and Casey standing there in front of Sarah’s table, Jake knowing he felt awkward even if Casey didn’t. Maybe the guy never felt awkward; he always thought he was right where he was supposed to be.
“Well, I gotta go sit,” Jake said to Sarah now. “You know how ornery Nate gets when he’s hungry.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Sarah said. “And again: awesome game.”
Jake walked across the room, not looking back, sat down with Nate and Bear, still not looking back at Sarah’s table. “Tell me Casey didn’t sit down with them,” he said.
Nate said, “He did not.”
“How’d all that go?” Bear said. “We could only hear Casey.”
“Went fine,” Jake said.
“Figured as much,” Nate said, “since your face is the color of ketchup right now.”
“Is not.”
“Nate speaks the truth,” Bear said as they all watched Casey and Dicky and Roy head off to their own table, Jake not caring if they sat on Jupiter or Mars as long as Casey wasn’t with Sarah.
It was a good night—even with Casey in the room—to be a high school football player, good to be a Granger Cowboy, good to be at Stone’s with what felt like most of the team and half the town crammed into the place. Everybody moving around to everybody else’s tables, like it was a party more than a night out on the town. Bear flirted with Emma Jean in his own bumbling way—like I’m anybody to talk, Jake thought—and Nate acted like the mayor of the back room, at least between courses.
Calvin worked the room, too, sitting with Jake and the boys for a few minutes, then going right across the room and sitting with Casey and his boys. Like he was trying to remain neutral on which quarterback he liked best, not wanting to declare after just one win for the Cowboys.
And why should he, when you really thought about it? They’d won today—always the most important thing to Calvin—and he’d gotten all the touches he wanted. Far as Calvin was concerned, life was good.
And life was good. One of those nights when you wondered how anything in your life was ever going to be better than high school, especially this high school on a Saturday night during football season.
Until Casey Lindell came over to their table, right after they’d finished up with dessert.
“Everybody here havin’ a good time?” he said.
“Just had pie,” Nate said. “Never been a bad time for me that included pie.”
But Casey wasn’t there to talk to Nate about what he’d ordered.
“How about you, Cullen?” he said, voice not loud enough to be heard over all the chirp and chatter in the room. “Everything good with you?”
Cullen.
“Tonight it is,” Jake said.
“Come on, man. You can’t be happy with this deal we got going, you against me?”
“The only ones I’m against,” Jake said, “are the guys we’re playing against.”
Casey said, “You know better than that.”
Nate shifted slightly in his seat. “Come on, man,” Nate said. “Let’s not do this now.”
Casey ignored him. To Jake he said, “You know this can’t work in the long run. You get that, right?”
“Last time I checked, we won the game today,” Jake said, his voice sounding like a whisper compared to Casey’s, wondering if the people starting to turn their way could even hear him.
Hoping that might stop Casey, wherever he was going with all this. Such a good day up to now, a good night.
“You’re telling me you’re really good with this,” Casey said. “I play, then you play?”
“Doesn’t matter if I’m good with it as long as Coach is,” Jake said. “He’s the one makes the substitutions.”
The room had gotten quiet, way too quiet, Jake feeling as if everybody was looking their way now.
Casey said, “You know I didn’t come here to back up a freshman, even if his name is Cullen.”
“Casey, you got to move on,” Nate said.
“Wasn’t talking to you, Nate.”
“Well, if you’re so on fire to have this talk with Jake, have it in private sometime. And someplace that ain’t here.”
Again Casey acted as if he hadn’t heard. Even Jake had to admit Casey Lindell had some brass to him, ignoring Nate Collins when he had to know Nate could pick him up like a baby if he wanted.
“You know guys in this room are already choosing up sides, me against you,” Casey said. “Right?”
Jake said, “Coach must think it’ll work itself out, sooner rather than later.”
“Funny how freshman QBs don’t have to wait their turn in Granger as long as they have the right last name,” Casey said.
Now his voice was the only one you could hear at Stone’s Throw. Like he really was talking to the whole town.
Casey said, “We both know this isn’t as much about what I can do, much as it is about who you are.”
“We won,” Jake said again.
“It’s gonna tear this team apart,” Casey said.
“Not if we don’t let it,” Jake said.
Almost saying, Not if you don’t let it.
He was at the end of the booth, closest to Casey, and stood up now, knowing he was the only one who could end this.
But also knowing in that moment he was probably making things worse, because when he slid out of the booth, there was hardly any air between them, Casey with that cocky look that seemed frozen on his face, maybe thinking Jake wanted to go, right here, right now.
“You want to do this here or outside?” Casey said.
“I don’t want to do anything,” Jake said, “’cept leave.”
Somehow he got past Casey without touching him, looking back long enough to say, “See you at the truck,” to Nate and Bear, walking across the middle of the room, past Sarah’s table, past where Calvin sat with his cousin Melvin and Justice, past everybody, feeling like he was walking by himself down Main Street, all of Granger watching him, walking through the back room and the front room and out of Stone’s.
Trying to tell himself he was doing the right thing for his team.
But feeling humiliated anyway.
Feeling more like a little brother than he ever had in his life.
17
WHAT HAD JUST HAPPENED?
Jake leaned against the driver’s side of Bear’s pickup, replaying it in his mind like he was watching film with Coach J, thinking of it like a play that had broken down, wondering if there’d been a better option for him. Coach J, he always talked about Jake’s decision-making, how you either had it or you didn’t, blah blah. But Jake didn’t need Coach telling him; it was one of the things he’d always taken a quiet pride in, knowing the right play to make.
