The Big Game

by Tim Green

  “How many will she have?” Janey asked.

  “At her age? Four or five at least.”

  They packed up their things and talked about whether their parents would let them have a kitten and what they’d name their new pets if they were allowed. Ms. Rait dropped them off, Janey first. When she pulled into Danny’s driveway, he got out, but before closing the door he said, “Ms. Rait, why are you doing all this?”

  She looked at him, surprised. “You really don’t know?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “I’m a teacher, Danny. It’s what teachers do.” Ms. Rait raised her hands off the wheel and shrugged. “Listen, I want to be honest with you. Today was easy. Having Janey there, and testing you, giving you some sight words and introducing you to vowel sounds, was like a summer picnic. I’m gonna push you, Danny. You might not like me tomorrow the way you like me right now.”

  “That’s okay, Ms. Rait. I’m a football player. I’m used to coaches being tough on me. I can take it.”

  She nodded. “I’ll remind you of that.”

  “Oh, and about tomorrow . . .” Danny met her eyes.

  “Yes?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “So, I’ve got a game.”

  “Yes, I know. We’ll have to work in the evening. I can do that, though.”

  Danny hesitated. “Yeah, but it’s game day. We should probably just skip game days. I’m gonna be gassed. It takes a lot out of you. Especially if I’m carrying the ball a lot, which is what happens pretty much all the time.”

  Ms. Rait’s mouth flattened. “I’m sorry. Either you’re not listening, or you’re not taking me seriously. I know I asked you about your team, but I don’t care about football, Danny. I care about education and reading, not touchdowns and . . . sideline sweepers, or whatever it is you do. In eight weeks, you’re going to take my first-term final. By yourself. You fail and you’ll be ineligible for football. If we work every day between now and then, you might not fail. If you’re not interested in that kind of commitment, please let me know now so I don’t waste my time.”

  Danny blinked. It didn’t seem possible that she’d transformed from some sweet lady into a total witch in just seconds, but apparently she had.

  He gritted his teeth. “Okay then. Tomorrow after the game it is.”

  “Seven thirty works perfectly,” she said, pleasant again.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, getting out and closing the car door.

  He went inside and all his mom wanted to talk about was Ms. Rait. Danny didn’t know what to say, so he basically said nothing, which irritated his mom and kept him from showing her the sight words sheet or telling her about the flash cards.

  “She’s got a nice cat,” he finally said. “It’s gonna have kittens and she said I could have one.”

  “No,” his mom said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Danny took that as a yes, and once he was safely inside his bedroom with the door locked, he sat down at his desk to try and do some work for Ms. Rait. He worked hard on “about,” “take,” “thrill,” and “agree” and other words they’d gone over on the list, writing them out. He was feeling so proud of himself that he dug the classroom copy of Bud, Not Buddy from the pile of untouched schoolbooks on his desk and opened it up.

  Immediately he began to drown in the words and letters on the page. He tossed the book, end over end, back onto the desk so it landed open-faced with its pages splayed out. He snatched up the word sheet and began pacing the room with it. He tried to figure the word “these” and came up with a dozen versions—he assumed all were wrong.

  “Never.” He grabbed his hair with both hands and breathed heavy through his nose.

  Then he knew what to do.

  He turned on the Xbox and joined Cupcake’s party.

  “Hey, bro! Where you been?” Cupcake said. “We got hostages to save. You ready?”

  “Does a cow make milk?”

  “Wahoo! Now we’re talking! One hundred percent pure beef. Made in America, baby. Let’s dance!”

  They launched into a series of Siege matches until Danny’s thumbs were tired. They were 3–3 when everyone decided they had to end the night with a winning record even though it was late. They got into a serious battle with another team that went into extra rounds. It went on so long that the game finally declared sudden death. It was about to begin when Danny’s mom rapped her knuckles on the door.

  “Danny? You’ve got a game tomorrow.”

  “I know.” He muted his microphone, then raised his voice so it’d make it through the door. “I’m getting off.”

  “You know your dad always said—”

  “I don’t want to hear what Dad always said!” Danny yelled with an intensity that surprised him maybe even more than his mother. He took a deep breath. “Look, Mom, can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m getting off and going to bed. All right?”

  After a few seconds of stillness, Danny’s mother said, “That’s good, sweetheart. Get your rest.”

  Danny kept his mike muted. He laughed a crazy laugh, and when the round began, he systematically killed his own team, then pulled out a grenade and dropped it at his feet.

  Boom!

  The controller rattled in his hand and the TV shook from the sound of the impact.

  His headset lit up with chatter.

  “Danny!”

  “What the heck was that?”

  “You idiot!”

  “He killed us.”

  “Danny, why?”

  Danny held himself to keep from laughing his head right off. He powered down the Xbox to silence them.

  “‘Danny, why?’” he repeated in a high-pitched voice, mocking them.

  As he shook with laughter, he realized that he had no idea why. And his laughter quickly disappeared.

  The next morning Danny wore a dress shirt and a tie along with khaki pants.

  Mr. Crenshaw raised his eyebrows. “Church this morning?”

  Danny fidgeted with his tie and slumped down on the couch. “Coach Kinen says game days we have to dress for business.”

  “Ahh.” Mr. C angled his head toward the game box resting on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Yahtzee?”

  “You gotta get Xbox, Mr. C.” Danny wrinkled his nose at Yahtzee, then chuckled at the thought of last night. He’d seen Cupcake in the hall and his friend had given him a dirty look and called him “barley boy” before turning his back. Danny knew he’d be over it by lunch.

  “What’s so funny?” Mr. C asked.

  Danny told him how the game had ended last night. Instead of laughing, Mr. C frowned. “How did that make you feel?”

  Danny stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “To kill your friends and then yourself. I know it’s only a video game, but you were happy, right? I mean, you’re laughing now. You played a joke on your friends, I get that.”

  “I was happy, yeah. I guess. It was funny for a little while.”

  “So you felt something else, too,” Mr. C said. “Maybe angry?”

  Danny chewed on his bottom lip. “I guess . . . I was mad.”

  Mr. C nodded. “Yes.”

  Danny looked into the counselor’s eyes.

  “What made you mad?” Mr. Crenshaw spoke softly.

  The room felt painfully quiet. Danny looked at his hands and shook his head.

  “Where did that anger come from?” Mr. C asked softly again.

  “I shot Cupcake first, so he couldn’t see it coming. But the others . . . they just stood around and let me pop them. Why would you be so stupid?”

  Mr. C picked up a pen and gently tapped his desk. “So you were angry at them for dying?”

  Danny suddenly saw red. He swept the Yahtzee box off the table so hard it burst open and the dice scattered. He leaped up and kicked the table. “This is stupid! I don’t have to be here! I don’t have to read! Why don’t you and your stupid girlfriend leave me alone?”

  Da
nny raced out the door and let it stay open behind him. He stomped through the hallways and realized Mr. C was silently trailing him.

  Danny stopped and shouted, “Stop following me. What are you doing?”

  Mr. C shrugged, but he didn’t seem upset. “You’re my responsibility for first period. I’d prefer we stay in my office, but you’re upset.”

  “No, I’m not!” Danny said.

  “Okay.”

  Danny growled and marched to his locker. He opened it and took the Playaway from his backpack.

  “Oh, that’s a good idea,” said the counselor. “Can you do that in my office?”

  “No. I’m going outside to sit under a tree.”

  “That works.”

  Danny rolled his eyes. He marched right out the front entrance of the school, down the steps, and threw himself down in the grass under a big old tree. He put his back to its trunk and put the buds in his ears. He marveled at what he was getting away with. Mr. C might as well have been Cupcake for all the rules he was following—none.

  Mr. C took out his phone and sat on the stone railing at the bottom of the steps. He seemed to pay Danny no mind, and after a while the story Danny was listening to got so good he forgot Mr. C was even there.

  It was some time before he heard a shout that he ignored. He heard it two more times before he realized it was his name.

  “Owens!”

  Danny looked up and saw Mr. Trufant, red faced and trembling with rage. Danny yanked his earbuds out.

  “What in the world are you doing out here?” the principal roared.

  “Listening, sir.”

  “Well, listen to me . . . You just listened your way out of playing in a football game today.”

  “What?” Danny looked around in a panic.

  Mr. Crenshaw was gone from his spot on the steps, but taking a wider look, Danny spied the counselor. He was strolling toward them from the teachers’ parking lot like everything was just fine.

  Mr. Trufant followed the direction of Danny’s eyes and his mouth fell open in disbelief. He clumped down the steps. “Bob, what in the world are you doing out here?”

  Mr. Crenshaw had a bright red apple in his hand. He tossed it in the air, caught it, and took a crunchy bite. “I was getting an apple from my car.”

  The principal puffed up, still scowling. “I see that. I mean what are you doing out here with Danny? I look out my office window and I see a student, missing from the building, unsupervised . . .”

  Mr. Crenshaw didn’t hurry nor did he speak until he stood directly in front of his boss. “Nature therapy.”

  “Nature what?”

  “Therapy, nature therapy. Some people call it a derivative of transcendentalism, but it’s very current.” Mr. C turned to Danny. “Feeling better?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “How about that?” Mr. Crenshaw snapped his fingers in the air as he breathed in deep. “Fresh air. The shade of a tree. Filtered sunshine.”

  “We have rules, Mr. Crenshaw,” the principal growled. “Like no one leaves the building without signing out.”

  “Ah, Section 27(b)3 in the handbook, right? I could have sworn that said no one is to leave school grounds during the school day without signing out.”

  “No, it says ‘the building.’”

  “Are you sure? 27(b)3?”

  “I have no idea the number. I know the rules.” The principal pointed to his own chest.

  Mr. Crenshaw scratched his head and muttered, “I thought I did too, but apparently not.”

  Danny thought the timing was right and he blurted out, “I can play today, right, Mr. Trufant?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” The principal looked disappointed that he had to go back on his own order, and he jabbed a finger in Mr. Crenshaw’s direction. “But this can’t happen again.”

  “No more nature therapy?” Mr. C raised his eyebrows as if that would be a terrible sin.

  “Yes, I mean no, not no more, just no more leaving the building without signing out. Understood?” The principal pushed his glasses up on his nose as he had begun to sweat.

  “Oh, you scared me for a minute. I don’t know a counselor worth his salt who doesn’t apply a little nature therapy from time to time.”

  “You’re not being cute with me, Mr. Crenshaw, are you?” asked Mr. Trufant.

  “Not at all.”

  “Good, because I take rules very seriously in my building.”

  “We are on the same page, sir.”

  The principal turned to Danny. “I expect four or five touchdowns from you this afternoon.”

  Danny smiled big. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Mr. Trufant cleared his throat and glanced up at the second-story windows. “Let’s take this show inside, now. There are people looking at us.”

  They followed him inside and separated at Mr. Crenshaw’s office. When the door was closed, Danny thanked Mr. C. “He was gonna suspend me from playing, then he asks for five touchdowns.”

  “Sometimes, to do our job, we have to do things we don’t want to do.” Mr. C sat back down behind his desk.

  “Like you spending first period with me,” Danny said.

  “That’s my job, yes, but I enjoy it.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. C shrugged. “I like to help people, kids especially. You’re a good kid. I’d like to see you feel better.”

  “I feel fine.”

  Mr. Crenshaw looked like he was thinking. “Did you feel fine when you dumped the Yahtzee box and ran out of here?”

  “That was because . . .” Danny couldn’t remember why he’d done that. He looked at the scattered contents of the game box and began to pick the dice up from the floor. He put the box back on the shelf. When he turned around, the counselor was looking at him, the question still fresh on his face.

  Danny looked at the clock. “The bell’s about to ring.”

  “Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Aren’t you going to the game?” Danny asked.

  “Would you like me to?”

  “You could see why everyone is making a fuss over me.”

  “So being a good football player is what makes you special?”

  Danny snorted. “It’s Texas, right?”

  The bell rang and Danny made for the door.

  “So, I’ll be impressed?” Mr. Crenshaw asked.

  Danny didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir, you will.”

  Froston was one of three other junior high schools besides Crooked Creek that fed students into Jericho High, so the rivalry was a bitter one. Froston was also a town that looked down its nose at Crooked Creek because the average home there was twice as expensive and they had a mall in the town center with all the latest and greatest stores and restaurants.

  Danny looked around the Crooked Creek stadium. That was something Froston didn’t have, not like this anyway. The home stands held two thousand people. There was a press box and a concession stand with public bathrooms. It was as big as some high school stadiums—not Jericho’s of course. But the people of Crooked Creek needed seats for everyone and the town had issued a bond five years ago to see to it, so this was a source of pride for all.

  Danny stretched his legs and watched the Froston players file off their bus in two columns. Their sky-blue helmets and jerseys seemed somehow overly proud to Danny. They took the field in perfect formation, and a slow, steady chant filled the air.

  “We are . . . Frost-ton . . . We are . . . Frost-ton . . .”

  They circled the entire field, sometimes passing within a few feet of the Crooked Creek players, before they emerged onto the field from the far goalposts. When they’d spread themselves evenly across the field, they began a wild rant of clapping and bellowing that ended with one final sudden clap that echoed off the brick side of the school.

  Danny’s teammates were on their backs, stretching their quads, when Cupcake erupted in a lone, loud voice that was obviously intended to be heard by their opponents. “Wow! That’s some bad bar
ley. They’d win the regional cheer competition, hands down!”

  Danny and his teammates burst into nervous laughter.

  “All right, Cupcake,” Coach Kinen scolded as he walked among his ranks. “I hope you’re this chipper after our first offensive drive.”

  “Just so long as you let the big dog eat, Coach, we’ll all be chipper.”

  “Oh, and you’re the big dog?” Coach Kinen asked.

  “Not me, Coach. Danny Owens!” Cupcake hollered. “Feed the big dog and we’ll send these rich kids and their baby blanket jerseys back where they belong.”

  As the team got to its feet for arm circles, they began to chant, “Dan-eee, Dan-eee, Dan-eee . . .”

  They kept it up for the final few minutes of their stretching, and Danny soaked it in. He couldn’t help looking into the quickly filling stands, hoping his mom and Janey and even Mr. Crenshaw were there to hear. He found his mom and Janey easy because his mom wore his dad’s black-and-gold number 33 jersey. They were on the fifty-yard line right below the press box. He didn’t spot Mr. C.

  Coach Kinen blew his whistle and stretching ended. Players lined up on the goal line and did agility drills back and forth until it was time for them to do some quick tackling drills and then run some plays. When the warm-up was complete, everyone surrounded Jace, barking and hopping up and down until the signal when they broke down into hit positions with a unified war cry.

  They jogged to their sideline, where guys made last-minute equipment adjustments or got a final gulp of water before the national anthem and the coin toss. Jace won the toss, which prompted more “Dan-eee” chants.

  Danny took a handoff up the middle on the first play. He hit the line like a cannonball. Bodies flew and tumbled. His legs got bogged down in the tangle of arms and legs, but not before he’d run for twelve yards and a first down. He hopped up, high-fiving his teammates and feeding on their excitement.

  That’s how they went down the field, Danny left, Danny right, Danny straight up the gut. His shortest run was seven yards and he punched it into the end zone from the fifteen-yard line, running right off Cupcake’s big backside. The stadium—spilling fans from the stands—went crazy.