by Tim Green
“I have no idea.” His father rinsed his hands and shook them off in the sink.
“Didn’t Mom do the dishes?”
“I know I baked the cookies, but she actually did do the dishes. Yes.” Brock’s dad straightened up and stared at his reflection in the window over the sink.
Brock dried another dish. “You think you’ll ever have someone do that again?”
His dad seemed lost in the reflection.
“Dad?”
“Huh? Oh, I have no idea.” His father put his dish towel under the sink and walked into the next room where he turned on the TV and sat down on the couch.
Brock listened to the newscaster talking about a plunge in the stock market. He peeked around the corner and studied his dad’s face in the flashing glow of the TV. His father looked old suddenly. The wrinkles stood out at the corners of his eyes and mouth, dragging his face toward the floor. Brock fidgeted with his own dish towel as he stepped into the room.
“Are you gonna wear nice clothes tomorrow night?” Brock asked.
His father looked up at him and blinked. “What?”
“Tomorrow, when we go to dinner at Laurel’s. Should we dress up, do you think? I mean, like a tie or anything?”
His father barked out a laugh. “No. We’re fine.”
“They’re kind of fancy,” Brock said.
“But down to earth. Kim texted me today and said something about going out on the river after dinner, so I gotta believe jeans will be fine. Is that what you’re worried about? You like that girl, don’t you?”
“She’s nice,” Brock admitted. “Pretty.”
His dad nodded. “So is her mom.”
Brock’s dad turned his attention back to the TV set. Brock had a plan. He had no idea in the world whether it would work, or blow up in his face.
39
The next day at practice was hotter than the day before. Brock and Mak rode their bikes together and got there early, already sweating. Brock wanted plenty of time to get changed in the locker room. Mak didn’t need to change, but he promised to work with Brock on his blocking technique before things got going. Brock didn’t want to play on the line, but while he was there, he figured he better keep from getting killed.
“You gotta explode up into him.” Mak’s eyes sparkled. “You gotta get your hands on his chest plate. Like this.”
Mak blasted his hands into Brock’s chest, his fingers biting into the edge of the protective plate just inside of each armpit. Brock gasped for air, but nodded that he understood.
“But your feet never stop moving. It all happens at the same time, see?” Mak chopped his feet and began to wheel Brock backward on the grass. “And, if you stay low and move your feet, you can drive anyone off the ball. Low man wins.”
Mak stopped driving and let go.
“That’s what Coach Hewitt says.” Brock nodded, almost understanding now.
“Cuz you can’t just quit.” Mak took hold of Brock’s shoulder pad and gave it a little shake. “Quitting’s for losers.”
“Losing’s for quitters.” Brock wanted to show he was on the same wavelength.
“Okay, so you try.” Mak crouched and tapped the breastplate of his shoulder pads. “Fire out. Hands inside. Drive the feet.”
Brock got down into his stance.
“Your feet are too wide.”
Brock narrowed the space between his feet.
“Better. Ready? Go!”
Brock fired out, struck Mak’s chest with both hands, which then slipped off, and he crashed his helmet up under Mak’s chin, saw stars, reeled sideways, tripped, and fell.
Brock blinked up at Mak. Sunshine peeked around the cusp of his helmet, blinding Brock so he couldn’t read Mak’s expression. Mak sighed and extended a hand to help him up. “Okay, let’s try it again.”
Brock struggled to his feet, filled with shame and frustration. From the corner of his eye he saw a couple of other early arrivals pointing at him. Wisps of laughter floated across the empty field. Brock ignored them and kept working, struggling until most of the team was out on the grass.
“Well,” Mak said, patting his back, “you’re a little better, anyway.”
Brock could only shake his head.
Coach Hewitt blew the whistle and got things going. Brock ran and bear-crawled and hit the sled with the other linemen. He fired out through a metal cage that banged his head the first several times until he kept his helmet low enough. He tackled a dummy, then drive-blocked another dummy, then shuffled in and out between more dummies. He felt like a dummy.
They lined up for an inside run drill. Since Mak had been demoted, Brock was next to him, and that was a good thing. Mak told Brock who to block, so, even though he did a poor job of it, at least he was hitting the right person. When someone substituted in for Mak, Brock tried to explain through his mouthpiece on the way to the line that he needed to be told who to block, but the other boy just gave him a confused look. The ball was snapped. Brock fired out straight, guessing.
Someone hit him from the blind side, knocking him over. Brock fell to the grass right in front of the running back, who tripped and tumbled to the ground. The running back got up and threw the ball at the ground.
“I had a touchdown if this clown isn’t falling into the hole!”
The ball sailed up and then down, bouncing off Brock’s helmet with a thunk that left everyone laughing except the coaches.
Coach Hewitt hollered at Coach Delaney. “Kevin! Get him out of there.”
That made everyone laugh even more.
Then a whistle blew, short, sharp, and hard.
Everyone stopped.
Everyone looked past Coach Hewitt, who wore a mask of rage and confusion.
Brock looked too, and couldn’t believe who stood behind their coach.
40
Coach Hewitt’s snarl melted into a simpering smile. “Coach Spada!”
“Who’s that?” Brock asked.
“That’s Coach Bobby Spada,” Mak said. “He’s a giant in Calhoun. He coached for fourteen years and led the Fighting Crabs to six state championships.”
Beside Coach Spada stood Taylor Owen Lehman, tall and proud. Fat state championship rings sparkled on both their right hands. No one could know what Coach Spada was thinking because his eyes were hidden by the big mirrors in his aviator sunglasses. His mouth gave away nothing either, but judging by the tone of Coach Hewitt’s voice, Brock suspected that Coach Spada wasn’t happy.
“Only thing fun about football is winning, Coach.” Spada directed his words at Coach Hewitt who nodded vigorously.
“We hear that, Coach Spada. We all hear that, right, men?”
There was a smattering of agreement that caused Coach Spada to frown. “That doesn’t look like winning to me. Who’s the slip-and-fall guy?”
Coach Hewitt cleared his throat. “New kid, Coach. Just joined up, but he’s got some size.”
Coach Spada stared. A slight breeze ruffled the collar of his bright-green shirt and the wisps of graying hair bursting from the band of his hat. No one but Taylor Owen Lehman seemed comfortable. Everyone waited for the head varsity coach to speak.
Finally, he did. “TL says you got a quarterback I need to see.”
Brock was confused, but only for a second before he figured TL was Taylor Owen Lehman.
Coach Hewitt chuckled in a puzzled way. “Wally Van Kuffler?”
“I think,” Coach Spada nodded at Brock, “the new kid. The one you got tripping over the line. I hear he can throw.”
Taylor nodded in case anyone was looking. Brock didn’t feel as swell as he’d imagined. He wanted Taylor to rescue him from the line, but not quite like this. This was a public display of discomfort.
“He’s got a strong arm, Coach.” Coach Hewitt bobbed his head. “Needs a lot of work, though. Not enough time to get him going at this stage of the game.”
Coach Spada tilted his head. “What stage?”
“Eight days before our opener, Co
ach.”
Coach Spada bit into the right corner of his lower lip. “How many days until playoffs?”
“Coach?”
Coach Spada repeated himself more slowly. “How many days until seventh-grade playoffs?”
Coach Hewitt wrinkled up his face. “Eight weeks, times seven . . . about fifty-six days.”
“That’s enough time,” Coach Spada said. “If he can throw. That’s what I’m here to see about.”
“If he can throw?” Coach Hewitt gave Coach Van Kuffler an anxious glance.
“If he can throw.” Coach Spada’s head wavered a bit. His hands snapped up and clapped. A dead fly fell to the grass, causing the varsity coach to smile. “Got him. So, let’s see it. You keep on with your inside run, Coach. Just give me the new kid.”
Coach Hewitt pointed at Brock and then waved his finger over toward Coach Spada, then blew his whistle. “Go ahead, Brock. All right, the rest of you! Team period. Give me the first-team offense!”
Taylor smiled as Brock followed him and Coach Spada to the empty grass on the other end of the field. Coach Spada scooped up a seventh-grade ball from the ground and tossed it underhand to Brock as they walked. “Where you from, Brock?”
“All over, Coach. Maryland most recently.”
“I don’t love Maryland football. Lacrosse country isn’t it?” Spada kept his eyes ahead.
Brock shrugged. “I play baseball in the spring, Coach.”
Spada smiled. “Who’s the best player ever?”
Brock swallowed. He wanted to say Albert Pujols, but he felt Coach Spada was more old-school, really old-school. “Babe Ruth.”
“Correct.” Coach Spada stopped. “Okay. Let’s see you throw.”
41
Brock warmed up, throwing the ball back and forth to Taylor. Taylor snuck a smile at him and a wink. Brock kept his face serious. His whole body was sore from hitting and playing on the line, and his shoulder was still aching from the treatment Coach Van Kuffler had given him, but the more he threw, the better he felt, and soon they were thirty yards apart and Brock was zipping it.
“Taylor, you run some patterns.” Coach Spada stood with his arms folded across his chest. “Do a couple hitches, then a post, then three or four outs.”
Taylor nodded and lined up on the thirty-yard line. Brock stood at the thirty-five, going into the end zone.
“Go ahead,” Coach Spada said. “Call a cadence and run it.”
Brock held out his hands as if he were receiving a shotgun snap. “Blue eighteen, blue eighteen, set . . . Hut!”
Taylor took a jab step and hopped back behind the line. Brock delivered a bullet. Taylor snatched it and pretended to run a couple of steps upfield before tossing it back. He ran two more hitch patterns, then a post pattern. Twenty yards downfield, Brock zipped it right into Taylor’s hands. He never broke stride and took it into the end zone.
Coach Spada cleared his throat. “Nice.”
Brock beamed.
“Now,” Coach Spada said, “let’s see you throw a ten-yard out. If you can’t throw the out, you can’t play quarterback at Calhoun. When we get it going, the defense just can’t stop the out.”
Brock tried to breathe deep while he waited for Taylor to jog back to the line. He had a feeling that these next three passes would determine whether or not he’d continue playing football.
Taylor lined up and nodded at him. Brock called out the cadence. Taylor took off. Brock stepped into it and let the ball fly, another bullet, right into Taylor’s hands.
Brock couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder. Coach Van Kuffler was watching and scowling. Brock tried not to grin, but didn’t mind that much when he failed.
“I’m a little disappointed,” Coach Spada said.
Brock attempted to hide his confusion. He wished he could see the man’s eyes.
“Me too,” Taylor said.
Brock’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them, waiting to hear what he’d done wrong.
“How can you have an arm like this and put the kid on the line?” Coach Spada glanced over at the seventh-grade team and snarled.
“I told you, Coach,” Taylor said. “And I’ll work with him too.”
“You’re not the only one who’s gonna work with him. Come on.” Coach Spada tugged his hat down tight and marched toward the other end of practice.
Coach Hewitt saw them coming and he blew his whistle and stopped everything and waited for Coach Spada to speak. Coach Spada stood like a statue.
Brock wondered if he was maybe changing his mind? Whatever he was doing, no one was comfortable, coaches and players alike, except for Taylor, who simply waited, smiling, and kicking at something in the grass with the toe of his cleat.
“Who’s your backup quarterback, Coach?” Spada directed his glasses at Coach Hewitt.
“Kurt Wentzel,” Coach Hewitt said, glancing around until his eyes found Wentzel.
Spada looked Wentzel over. “Not very thick, is he?”
Coach Van Kuffler stepped forward, surprising everyone. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders, Coach. Makes great decisions.”
Coach Spada tilted his head at Coach Van Kuffler. “Decisions?”
“Yes,” Van Kuffler said.
Coach Spada looked at Wentzel. “Which one’s correct, Wentzel? Three and two are six, or three and two is six?”
Coach Spada started snapping his fingers at Wentzel. “Come on, son. Quick. Decisions. Decide. Which is it?”
Wentzel wore a panic-stricken face. “Three and two are six, Coach.”
Coach Spada turned to Coach Van Kuffler. “Kind of panics under pressure, Coach.”
Coach Van Kuffler stood his ground. “Coach, all due respect, grammar’s got nothing to do with football. I didn’t even know it was three and two is six.”
The corner of Coach Spada’s mouth quivered, suggesting a smile that never came. “Three and two are five.”
Coach Spada turned to Coach Hewitt. “You got yourself a new backup quarterback, Coach. I want him ready for the playoffs in case your starter goes down. Or . . . maybe he beats out your starter? Kid’s got a cannon for an arm.”
Coach Spada walked away with Taylor beside him.
Just before he stepped off the field, Coach Spada turned and pointed at Coach Van Kuffler. “Don’t disappoint me, Coach.”
They marched off.
Coach Hewitt stared at Brock.
Brock’s hands and eyebrows went up like they were attached to puppet strings.
“All right!” Coach Hewitt seemed determined to regain command of the field by being loud. “Brock, you’re a QB now. Wentzel you’re—”
Coach Van Kuffler stepped forward with his hands in the air. “Coach, I can use three . . . in case Brock’s not ready and something happens with Wally. What if Wally gets hurt today? Wentzel knows the offense.”
Brock raised his hand. “I can—”
Coach Van Kuffler charged Brock like a mad bull and pulled up right in front of him with his boiling face just the other side of Brock’s mask. “You shut your pie-hole! You think because you kiss some butts and get the varsity coach down here to watch your circus act that you’re something special? You’re a player, and you keep your mouth shut! RUN A LAP! NOW!”
Brock glanced at Coach Hewitt, but by the look on his face it was clear he wasn’t going to help, so Brock took off to the distant shouts of Coach Van Kuffler for him to run faster. When he got back, the team was already back in the full swing of practice and Brock stood in the back, as close as he dared to Coach Van Kuffler, trying to listen and learn.
When Coach Van Kuffler saw him, he gave Brock a look so nasty that Brock knew if looks could kill, he’d already be dead.
42
Brock only got three reps in practice at quarterback. He ran with the second team, as Coach Spada had insisted, but a grinning Coach Van Kuffler only put the second team in for one play at a time before he replaced them with the third team, then back to the first team fo
r the bulk of the reps. So, Brock was back at quarterback, and on the second team, but anyone could see that with Van Kuffler running the offense, it wasn’t going to do him much good. Brock kept trying to catch Coach Hewitt’s eye, but he was busy with the defense and when he wasn’t focused on them, when it came to the offense, he seemed to only pay attention to the line.
Coach Hewitt carried on like Coach Spada had never appeared. They ran hard at the end of practice, but only two kids lost their breakfast. When the quarterbacks and a few receivers stuck around for some extra work with Coach Van Kuffler, Brock stayed too. He figured if ever there was a time for him to get some instruction, this would be it. Instead, Coach Van Kuffler acted like Brock wasn’t even there.
Brock just stood there, feeling furious and sickened at the same time. Finally, Coach Van Kuffler gave a toot on his whistle and told the players he’d see them tomorrow. Brock walked away too.
That’s when Van Kuffler called his name.
Brock turned and shuffled back, standing face-to-face with Van Kuffler.
“That was a good trick,” the coach said, “getting Taylor Owen Lehman to drag Coach Spada down to our practice, throwing the ball around like that.”
“What?” Brock didn’t know what to say. He could feel the rage oozing from Coach Van Kuffler. Brock stepped back and shifted uneasily.
“Only problem with that is . . . Lehman and Coach Spada aren’t going to be here day in and day out.” Van Kuffler gritted his teeth. “I am.”
“Coach, I just want to—”
Van Kuffler silenced him with an upraised hand. “No. I know what you want. You want what everyone wants. First team.”
Coach Van Kuffler looked around to make sure they were alone. The field was empty.
“This is a small town, Barrette. It takes years to belong here, generations really. You don’t just move into the Flatlands and think you’re God’s gift because you can sling the ball. That’s not how it works. You’re from the wrong side of town. No one’s gonna stick their neck out for you. Maybe you got Taylor Owen Lehman to make a little noise with Coach Spada, but that dog won’t hunt day in and day out. Day in and day out, you’re with me, and you know what I think of you? I think you’re a pain in the neck Flatty who doesn’t know his place.
