First Team

by Tim Green

  Then Coach Van Kuffler lowered his voice so the defensive players couldn’t hear him and he stepped into the huddle. “Go ahead, Strong Left, X Cross Z Post. Let’s hike it on one to make it easy for you. Just say what I said and break the huddle.”

  Brock felt like he was walking into a trap. He didn’t know why, maybe it was the overly nice voice or just the look on Coach Van Kuffler’s face, the kind of eager look a dog has when it hears the rattle of food in its bowl, but he called the play and walked toward the line, stopping in the shotgun position three yards behind the center.

  “Why don’t you try and hit the post, okay?” Coach Van Kuffler said, then changed his voice as if he were talking to a three-year-old. “That’s the Z. He’ll run up the field, twelve yards, then break for the post. That’s that big yellow H in the end zone.”

  Some of the kids snickered.

  Brock ignored them and nodded. He went to the line and began his count with a color and a number, using the same combination he’d just heard Wentzel use. “Blue 22, Blue 22 . . .”

  Brock looked left where the X receiver was. He’d do a cross, up the field, then crossing from one sideline to the other. Then Brock looked right—where the Z receiver was. The Z would run a post straight up the field for a ways and then break at an angle toward the goalpost. Brock’s heart fluttered in his chest. It was all incredibly exciting, like the first time you got up on a bike, balanced, free, and moving faster than ever before.

  “Set! Hike!”

  The center fired the ball between his legs. Brock caught it and looked at the Z receiver. The player ran up the field, but instead of breaking at an angle for the goalpost, he cut straight across the field. In that split second, Brock didn’t know if he’d heard everything wrong, or if the receiver was just doing the wrong thing. He waited, hoping the receiver might break his route up toward the goalpost. Even late would be better than never, but the receiver kept going, straight across the field for the other sideline. Brock glanced at the X receiver, who, instead of crossing the field, had broken for the goalpost, the post pattern.

  Brock hesitated again. He didn’t know if he should throw the ball to the wrong receiver running the correct route, or the correct receiver running the wrong route. There was no right answer. A little bark of panic escaped his lips, and he just threw the ball up for the post. By then, he was so late that the covering defenders had figured out the play, and the uncertain pass—wobbling like one of Wally’s—was snatched from the air by the free safety who zipped past Brock like a rocket, all the way to the end zone. The defensive players hooted and cheered and slapped high fives.

  Coach Hewitt looked at the ground and shook his head.

  Brock looked to Coach Van Kuffler and opened his mouth to explain.

  All Coach Van Kuffler did was smile.

  20

  “What were you thinking?” Coach Hewitt’s voice was calm, but demanding.

  Brock blinked. “It was a Z Post.”

  “Yeah?” Coach Hewitt nodded.

  “Z ran a cross. X ran the post, so I got confused and didn’t know where to throw. By the time I did throw, it was too late.”

  “It was too late all right.” Coach Van Kuffler stepped between Brock and the head coach and began gesturing with his chipmunk arms. “We just spent the last half hour going over Z and X.”

  Anger pushed Brock’s senses aside. “Yeah. Z is on the right and X is on the left, you said.”

  Coach Van Kuffler smiled in a mean way. “I never said that, son. I would never say that. Z is strong side, X is weak side. So, if it’s strong right, Z is right. If it’s strong left, like that just was, Z is left. Now, you gonna tell me I said different than that?”

  Brock’s mind whirled. Coach Van Kuffler didn’t say Z was right, Brock had said it and the coach didn’t correct him. All the players stared at him, choking Brock into silence.

  Coach Van Kuffler turned to Coach Hewitt. “Coach, I can’t be wasting my time on some new kid who isn’t going to even pay attention.”

  “I paid attention.” Brock’s voice was weak because he knew as the words came out that he was doing it again, talking back, making excuses. This was football, not baseball. Intense. Like the army.

  Coach Van Kuffler tilted his head and flicked his arms in Brock’s direction. “Well, if you paid attention and you still don’t know it you must be pretty du—”

  “Coach!” Coach Hewitt glared at Coach Van Kuffler and shook his head.

  “Okay, Coach,” Coach Van Kuffler said. “What’s the acceptable term? Mentally challenged? Learning disabled? Slow? I know we can’t say stupid, idiot, or moron. I’d never do that.”

  The two coaches locked eyes until Coach Hewitt cracked a smile, blew some air out of his tight lips, and walked away.

  Brock’s ears burned and the other two quarterbacks chuckled.

  Coach Hewitt blew his whistle and the practice continued. Brock stayed in the back and figured his days as a quarterback had ended before they even began. After they’d run their sprints and Coach Hewitt had dismissed the team, he grabbed Brock’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Brock. I want to talk to you about this quarterback thing.”

  21

  Coach Hewitt looked Brock in the eye.

  “Let’s not give up. If I hadn’t seen you throw that pass, I’d say you’re a lineman for sure.” Coach Hewitt let go of his shoulder. “But you can really sling it. Let’s see if you can’t get at least some of this stuff down. I want you to stay and work with Coach Van Kuffler and the other quarterbacks after practice. That’s part of playing that position anyway, you have to keep working when everyone else goes home. What do you think?”

  “You wanna see me throw it again?” Brock smiled.

  “I do.” Coach Hewitt tossed the ball he had under his arm up into the air.

  Brock caught it and pointed at the far goalpost. He took a step and zipped the ball. It flew up and away in a whizzing spiral and didn’t come down for over fifty yards. Coach Hewitt chuckled. “I like it. Now let’s see if you can get it going to the right guy in the right place at the right time, huh?”

  “I can.” Brock’s confidence suddenly bloomed, just because of the way Coach Hewitt looked at him.

  “Good.” Coach Hewitt pointed to the other end zone where Coach Van Kuffler, Wally, and Wentzel were gathered with three of the wide receivers. “Go join the crowd. I got a meeting with the varsity staff to go over scouting assignments.”

  Coach Hewitt walked off and Mak, who had been standing by, came over.

  “What’s up?” Mak was sweaty and hunched over from heat and work.

  “Coach wants me to work with the QBs a little.”

  “Nice.” Mak patted him on the back. “I’ll just hang in the shade by the press box and watch, then we can go get food. Good?”

  “Sure.” Brock slapped Mak a high five and turned toward the small group. But as he walked toward the team, the confidence pumped into him by Coach Hewitt deflated quickly, step by step, as he approached Coach Van Kuffler. When he reached the other players, Coach Van Kuffler stopped talking and stared at Brock for a beat before speaking.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Coach Hewitt said I should work with you guys some.”

  “Really?” Coach Van Kuffler’s eyebrows disappeared under the bill of his cap. “Well, you’ve got a lineman’s mentality, don’t you?”

  “Sir?” Brock had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Linemen.” Coach Van Kuffler grinned around at the other players. “They bang their heads together until they can’t think straight, then they bang them some more. You already can’t think straight, right?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Huh?” It was the only thing Brock could say.

  “Huh?” Coach Van Kuffler tilted his head and made his voice slow and stupid. “Huh?”

  Everyone laughed some more.

  “I’m only kidding.” Coach Van Kuffler slapped Brock on the shoulder, sounding suddenly n
ice. “We’ll get you into the mix here. You want to work like a QB, right?”

  “I can,” Brock said.

  “Great.” Coach Van Kuffler blew his whistle. “All right, guys, extra push-ups.”

  Everyone got down into push-up position.

  “You want to be strong to throw the ball? Okay, down, one! Receivers, you want to bang on those defensive backs when they’re pressing you at the line?” Coach Van Kuffler barked. “Down, two! We gotta get strong!”

  Coach Van Kuffler counted out twenty push-ups for them before blowing his whistle. Everyone got to his knees and started to rise. “All right. On your feet, boys. Quarterbacks, on the line. Go right through the passing tree. Five throws for each pattern.”

  Coach Van Kuffler turned suddenly to Brock. “Whoa, Brock. Where you think you’re going? No, no, no. You get down and keep going. You missed the first five days, you gotta get caught up. We can do that, though. Ready? Down, one! . . . Down, two! . . .”

  While Wentzel and Wally threw passes, Coach Van Kuffler made Brock do five more sets of twenty push-ups. It took quite a while because after the first two sets, Brock had to rest between reps while Coach Van Kuffler screamed at him for being weak. When he finally finished, sweat bled into Brock’s eyes and filled his mouth like salty tears. He staggered to his feet and Coach Van Kuffler tossed him a ball. The other players stopped to watch.

  “I saw you showing off to Coach Hewitt.” Coach Van Kuffler gave Brock a twisted grin. “Let’s see how far you can throw it now. Go ahead. Show us that cannon.”

  Brock gripped the ball, still huffing with exhaustion. Furious, and determined to disappoint Coach Van Kuffler, he gripped the ball as hard as he could and launched it down the field. The ball wobbled and dropped short of thirty yards.

  “That’s not so impressive.” Coach Van Kuffler bit the end of his thumb and spoke in a mystified voice, then he suddenly brightened. “But let’s see how you do with some live targets. Come on, you want to be a quarterback? You gotta be a team leader. Imagine it’s late in the fourth quarter. Everyone’s tired, but you gotta make a play. Come on. Throw a post, that one you couldn’t figure out earlier.”

  Brock nodded and stepped up to the line. One of the receivers got in his stance. Brock called out the cadence and pretended to get the snap. He waited for the receiver to get to twelve yards and break for the goalpost, then he let his pass fly. It wobbled and sailed behind him. The receiver spun to get it, but it was too far off. He barely nicked it with his fingertips before it fell to the turf.

  “Not so good, but let’s try again.” Coach Van Kuffler spoke in a voice that was as false as it was kind. “See if you can get it.”

  Brock looked at him and sighed. The other quarterbacks stood and watched while Brock threw. He threw wide, high, and low, completing just two of about twenty passes. Still, they kept on. Brock had no idea why Coach Van Kuffler kept it up. He’d already humiliated Brock thoroughly.

  Then, Brock saw Coach Hewitt come out of the building and march toward the field. When he got to the sideline, Coach Van Kuffler shouted over to him. “Take a look!”

  Brock saw Coach Hewitt staring at him and he knew he had to perform. This was his chance.

  Coach Van Kuffler turned to Brock. “Go ahead. Let me see a go route.”

  A go route sent the receiver up the sideline as fast as he could run. Brock barked the cadence and threw the pass. It wobbled and fell short. Brock couldn’t even feel his arms. His stomach suddenly felt like he’d swallowed a box of ants.

  “Okay, not bad.” Coach Van Kuffler spoke in a friendly tone that belied everything he’d been doing to Brock. “Let’s see a hitch.”

  A hitch was the easiest throw a quarterback could make. The receiver simply stood at the line and caught the ball before running, but it was like Brock’s arms were filled with Jell-O and he threw a bad hitch pass. His stomach crawled. He sniffed back hot tears, determined not to break down, even though what Coach Van Kuffler was doing to him was so wrong.

  The coach kept calling out different routes.

  “A cross.”

  Brock missed on the cross.

  “Post.”

  He missed it.

  “Swing.”

  Brock missed again, and with that, Coach Hewitt shook his head and walked away.

  22

  At the end of practice, Brock dragged his feet off the field. Mak met him at the bottom of the bleachers.

  “What happened?” Mak’s eyebrows disappeared up into the football helmet he still wore.

  “Did you see all those push-ups he made me do?” Brock tried to snarl so he wouldn’t cry.

  “Yeah, that was sick. Was your arm just jelly?”

  “It still is.” Brock raised his left arm and let it fall back down, limp.

  “Yeah.” Mak turned and the two of them started to walk toward the center of town. “The line isn’t so bad. You’ll be with me.”

  They left the school grounds and tramped down the sidewalk. They passed big homes with bright green lawns under the shade of tall trees. Birds twittered high above. The sun winked down at them through the leaves but heated the naked streets like the surface of a griddle. Boiling air waffled up and away, adding to the muggy warmth.

  Up ahead, Brock could see the brick and stone buildings standing along Main Street. “I’m not playing on the line. I’m playing quarterback.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Brock said.

  “Yeah, but why so stubborn? You’ll do good on the line.”

  “You’ve seen me throw the ball,” Brock said.

  “I saw you throw it just now. I could have done better, and I’m kind of a slob.”

  “That wasn’t right and you know it.” On a whim, Brock veered down a side street, heading for the library. Something in him wanted to see Laurel, just see her.

  “Where you going? Aren’t we going to Subway?” Mak stopped, but Brock kept on walking. “I’m starved.”

  “Library.”

  “Oh Romeo, oh Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo.” Mak giggled and caught up. “You got guts, I tell you that. Quarterback and Laurel Lehman. You gonna run for class president, too, I bet.”

  Brock shook his head and smiled. He looked at Mak. “Do you ever feel silly walking around town with your full football uniform and that helmet on your head?”

  “Don’t get mad,” Mak said. “I like your style. You remind me of me.”

  Brock glanced over at him and shook his head. He pulled open the door to the library and said, “After you.”

  “Why thank you . . . Romeo.”

  Brock slapped Mak’s helmet. Mak took it off and the two of them giggled together as they tumbled into the musty library. When Brock looked up at the desk, he saw Laurel and froze. She wasn’t alone. A boy leaned close to her with his arms braced against the top of the checkout counter. The boy was big, over six feet tall, and looked like an actor with his tan skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. Laurel pointed at Brock and said something he couldn’t hear.

  All Brock could think about was his blurted invitation to take her to ice cream. Obviously, this superhero at the counter was her boyfriend and Brock had made a run at his girl.

  “Him?” The boy pointed at Brock.

  Laurel nodded and Brock couldn’t move—even though he was horrified—as the older boy marched toward him with a cold hard look on his face.

  23

  “You’re Brock?” The boy stopped and folded his arms across his chest. His hands made the biceps bulge through the sleeves of his black T-shirt. Brock could tell he lifted a lot of weights. Brock wanted to deny that he was Brock but, just as he’d blurted out his invitation to take Laurel to ice cream, his head simply nodded on its own.

  “Yeah.” The other boy nodded back. “Laurel told me about you.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Brock’s voice came out in a kind of squeak. He assumed that this kid viewed his invitation to Laurel for ice cream as asking his girlfriend ou
t on a date.

  “Pretty hard to say you didn’t mean anything by it.” The boy’s stare was cold and hard. “You said what you said.”

  Brock looked over at Mak, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. Brock wanted to kick his new friend in the shin.

  “Hey, Taylor.” Mak raised and lowered his chin.

  Brock glared at Mak. Couldn’t he have told Brock about this guy? Instead, Mak quoted Romeo and Juliet at him, making the whole thing a joke. Mak should have warned him the minute he mentioned the library.

  “Hey, Mak.” Taylor looked at Mak before turning his attention back to Brock. “You guys gonna be any good?”

  “We got a good line.” Mak puffed up. “We’ll see about the QB, though.”

  “How’s the new kid look?” Taylor angled his head at Brock.

  “Not too good today, but Coach Van Kuffler made him do about a million push-ups.”

  “That figures.” Taylor frowned. “So, New Kid. Brock. Laurel says I got to help you.”

  “She said . . . help?” Now Brock was totally baffled. He thought Taylor was getting ready to knock him flat, now he was talking about help?

  “You got any sisters?” Taylor asked.

  Brock shook his head. “No.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re lucky.” Taylor looked over at Laurel and grinned.

  “Hey!” She looked up from a stack of books she was working on. “Taylor Owen Lehman, I heard that.”

  “You’re Laurel’s brother?” Brock said.

  “Taylor’s the first-team varsity quarterback. Ohio State’s looking at him.” Mak beamed, proud of his information.

  “The varsity?” Brock’s mouth dropped.

  “State champs last year.” Mak said it like he was part of the winning squad and he pointed at a silver ring on Taylor’s hand. It had a green stone the size of a gumdrop. “That’s where he got that.”