by Tim Green
Brock flicked his hands and barked. The center snapped the ball to him. The defense came hard and fast, squeezing the pocket like a fist. Xaviar slipped past the coverage, but needed time to get open. Brock hung in, stepped up, and rifled the ball downfield.
86
Someone smashed Brock from behind. He banged forward, colliding with his center, a barrel-chested monster who caved in on top of him. From the ground, Brock heard the fans cheer. But he didn’t know which fans.
The pile of bodies trembled with excitement as the players jumped up and broke away from the stack. Brock struggled to his feet, looking all around. The daze cleared from his head. Behind him, he saw a purple defender holding the football high above his head in the end zone. Brock had no idea how, but Groton had intercepted his long pass and ran it back for a touchdown.
Brock hung his head and jogged to the sideline.
Coach Van Kuffler was gesturing wildly to Coach Hewitt while Coach Delaney tried to keep things calm. Brock steered clear of the three men. Taylor found him on the bench and slapped his shoulder.
“Hey.” Taylor spoke in an urgent whisper. “Head up. That’s it. Don’t you quit on yourself now. Picks happen. Peyton Manning throws picks. Life of a Q.”
“Not on the first series he ever played on the first team I bet he didn’t.” Brock slapped his leg and pounded the bench with a fist.
“Especially in the first series of the first game.” Taylor laughed. “Ask Brett Favre. He threw six picks in his first NFL start. Set a record! He didn’t do too bad.”
Brock looked up. “Six picks?”
“You can throw four more and still be better than Favre.”
Brock had to laugh.
“That’s it.” Taylor slapped his shoulder again. “Shrug it off. Come on. Get up. The other good thing about a pick-six is that you get to go right back on the field after the kickoff. You don’t have to wait to redeem yourself. Come on.”
Brock followed Taylor back to the sideline.
Coach Van Kuffler was screaming. Most of it Brock couldn’t understand, but one thing everyone heard was “That woman!” which Van Kuffler repeated over and over again, pointing to where Laurel’s mom stood by the fence.
“Oh, boy. Now he did it.” Taylor was looking back past the bench. He turned away, rolled his eyes, and threw his hands up in the air.
Brock looked and saw that Laurel’s mom had let herself inside the fence and was marching toward the coaches.
“What’s she gonna do?” Brock asked.
“What isn’t she gonna do?” Taylor rubbed his hand down over his face.
Brock edged closer, eager to hear. He was slightly disappointed. When Laurel’s mom spoke it was soft and pleasant.
“Coach Van Kuffler? If you point at me again, if you shout about ‘that woman’ again, I promise this will not only be the last game you ever coach in the town of Calhoun, it’ll be the last job you ever have in Calhoun. Now, let these boys play, whether you like them or not.”
Taylor leaned into the ear hole of Brock’s helmet. “Van Kuffler actually got off kind of easy.”
But Laurel’s mom stopped suddenly and turned, speaking so everyone could hear. “By the way, who calls a Spread Right Alaska 99 against a team that plays cover four on third and long? Just stupid. Really, Coach Hewitt, shouldn’t you be calling the plays? Just a thought.”
She continued on, leaving all three coaches’ mouths wide open. When she reached the fence, the other parents in the stands broke out in polite applause, backing her for whatever she said to get Van Kuffler to shut his big mouth.
Brock looked at Coach Van Kuffler’s red face. His hands held the play sheet like a squirrel holds a nut, but he wasn’t looking at Brock. His face was twisted and oozing hate. His eyes were distant, like he was looking at the clouds.
“Frank?” Coach Hewitt spoke softly and reached for the play sheet. “Maybe I should. Then no one can say . . .”
Coach Van Kuffler’s face came to life. He snarled at Coach Hewitt and snatched the play sheet back. “I’ll call this game. I’m the offensive coordinator! But you’re gonna give me a quarterback I can work with, Buzz, not this new kid.”
Coach Hewitt shook his head like a shaggy dog. He stiff-armed Coach Van Kuffler and snatched the play sheet from his hands. “No, Frank. Brock’s the quarterback. Look, I can call the plays.”
“Oh, really?” Van Kuffler wore a mean smile. “Maybe I should just go sit down and watch you and this kid kill our season. How about that?”
Coach Hewitt sighed. “Fine, Frank. Do that. Have a seat.”
“Are you serious?” Van Kuffler screwed his face up tight. “You do this to me and I’m finished. Got that? I’m done coaching, Buzz.”
Coach Hewitt sighed. “Yeah, I guess you are finished, Frank. And, I gotta say, it already feels so good to have you gone.”
Van Kuffler whipped around and stormed through the bench area, then straight through the opening in the middle of the bleachers, heading for the parking lot.
Coach Hewitt turned to Taylor. “Taylor, give me a hand here, will you? I think you know this offense better than Coach Spada.”
Taylor smiled and nodded. “Happy to help, Coach.”
Coach Hewitt turned to Brock. “Okay, kid, this is it.”
87
The sight of Taylor Owen Lehman signaling in the plays cooled the blood running through Brock’s veins. It didn’t slow the blood, but Brock took a deep breath and felt the peace of knowing someone important was on his side. The signals came quick and correct. The plays made sense, and even Brock could see the pattern emerging where the offense would try one thing and keep doing it until the defense stopped it, then attack another area of the field left unguarded by the defense’s focus on the prior plays.
It all worked. Brock moved the offense up and down the field. He threw two touchdown passes, pumping his fist and jumping up and down after each one. Taylor almost knocked him over both times when he returned to the sideline. Brady Calenzo ran two more in. The problem was that Groton’s offense was even better and, with forty-seven seconds left to go in the game, Groton scored on a long pass to take a two-touchdown lead.
On the Calhoun sideline, heads hung low.
Those same hung heads all turned when Mak bellowed like a stuck bull, pounding his chest and wagging his head from side to side. When everyone was looking at him, Mak whipped off his helmet and glared around at them.
“We will NOT lose this game!” Mak’s eyes blazed out at them from his sweat-drenched face. “Do you hear me? We will NOT lose! Now everybody pick his head up and let’s go GET IT!”
Coach Hewitt stepped up. “Mak is right! Pick your heads up! We go score a quick touchdown, get an onside kick, and this is OURS! Bring it in! Calhoun pride! Pride on three . . . One, two, three . . .”
“PRIDE!”
Brock felt it too. Electric energy ran through them all. Brady Calenzo ran the kickoff back to the fifty. Calhoun fans cheered, gaining some life and hope.
Coach Hewitt grabbed Brock’s face mask and pulled him close. “I want it right now. Spread Left Double 79. Pump fake right to draw off the safety, then look for Archangel on the left. We need this, Brock!”
Brock could only nod his head.
Taylor slapped his shoulder pad. “Just like the backyard. Throwing at a target, buddy. You got the arm. You can do this.”
Brock dashed out onto the field with his teammates, called the play, broke the huddle, and jogged to the line. The butterflies were back. They’d been gone for the past two quarters of the game, but here they were again.
He took the snap, dropped back, pump-faked right, then reset his feet and fired downfield.
88
Xaviar Archangel reached out, stretching, but never stopped running. He caught the ball and ran into the end zone.
Calhoun’s sideline and fans went crazy.
Brock’s teammates swarmed him, but the celebration was short-lived. They kicked the extra point, a wo
bbly side-winding thing. It struck the goalpost, bounced up into the air, and fell just inside the upright.
The team gathered around Coach Hewitt. “Okay. Onside kick. We’ve never done it, but we’ve practiced it. Eli?”
Everyone turned their attention to Eli Cash, their kicker, who was a redhead with pale skin and freckles. Eli nodded his head, but grabbed his stomach and gagged before a jet of puke shot from his face mask like somebody had broken a water balloon.
Coach Hewitt looked down at his sneakers and the orange spots of vomit, then back up at Eli. “Better?”
Eli nodded that he was.
“Can you do this?”
Eli gagged a little, then nodded again.
“Well . . .” Coach Hewitt scratched his head and looked at Coach Delaney, who shrugged. “We got nothing else. Give it your best, guys. Let’s go!”
The kickoff team bolted out onto the field and set up in onside kick formation, overloading the ten players besides Eli into a clump next to the Calhoun sideline.
“Get some topspin on it!” Coach Delaney shouted at Eli.
Eli raised his hand, took two steps, and puked again.
The crowd groaned.
The ref jogged toward Eli, but Eli waved him off and held his hand up again to start the sequence of the onside kick. This time he took five steps and kicked it. The ball skittered toward the sideline before its tip suddenly caught the turf sending it twenty feet in the air.
A Groton player got directly under it and prepared to make the catch, hang on, and end the game.
The Calhoun players swarmed toward him like killer bees.
89
Instead of falling on the ball, the Groton player clutched it tight and tried to run. It wasn’t smart, but Brock could see the panic in the kid’s eyes. Brady Colenza hit the ball with his shoulder and the Groton kid exploded. Arms, legs, and the ball flew up into the air. Players from both teams piled onto the spot where the ball hit the ground. The refs blew their whistles and peeled players off the pile, one by one. When there were just three left—two Groton players and Eli Cash—the head referee got down on his hands and knees and looked into the tangle of limbs, jumped up, and chopped his hand toward the Groton end zone, signaling a Calhoun first down. Eli popped up with the ball held high.
The Calhoun sideline went wild again, as did the Calhoun fans, but Brock felt a fog of calm. Even Mak, screaming into Brock’s face with his red cheeks ready to burst, didn’t get Brock flustered. He looked at the scoreboard. The clock read thirty-three seconds. Coach Hewitt and Taylor sandwiched him.
“Thirty-three seconds,” Coach Hewitt said.
“Four plays, maybe five if we get a first down,” Taylor replied.
“What do you think?” Coach Hewitt asked. “All at once, or work it down the field?”
Taylor looked at Brock and bit his lip. “He’s never run a two-minute drill in his life, but with his arm, he can almost reach the end zone. I’d take four long shots. He’ll hit one of them. I know it. Then, gosh, Brady can run it in, or we throw a play-action pass. We’ve got one time-out, so we can stop the clock.”
Even though he was calm, Taylor’s confident tone alarmed Brock. He didn’t feel that kind of unwavering confidence, but he didn’t have time to think about it much at all. The offense was charging onto the field, led by Mak who leaped like a ballet dancer, spinning as he jumped and slapping everyone’s helmet, urging their finest effort.
Brock listened to the play and ran in. His voice quavered in the huddle, but no one seemed to notice. The look on his teammates’ faces said his arm was what kept them in the game. He could see they believed his arm could also win it. They broke the huddle with a loud clap and jogged to the line. Brock took the snap from five yards deep, but before he could even look downfield, a defender appeared from nowhere and hit him square in the face. Brock saw stars on the hit and another burst when he struck the ground.
Mak was beside him quickly, shoving the defender off and raising Brock to his feet. “It wasn’t me, buddy. They sent two guys off the edge.”
“Two?” Brock thought that wasn’t possible. His head was foggy, but shouts from the sideline drew his attention toward Coach Hewitt and Taylor. They both waved their arms frantically. They were pointing, but pointing everywhere, at the scoreboard, at the defense, at him, at their wrists. Brock walked toward them.
They waved him back, still shouting. Brock had no idea what was going on.
Brock knew he was missing something, and he knew it was costing them the game.
90
Coach Hewitt threw his hands up in the air, then made them into a T and directed his shouting at the referee. The ref blew his whistle and made an X with his arms that signaled a time-out, stopping the clock. Coach Hewitt motioned for Brock to now come to the sideline, along with the rest of the offense. Brock jogged over, knowing that he’d done something very wrong, but unable to sort it out. His head was swimming in a fog and time slowed to a crawl until he saw a face in the crowd, shining out at him like the sun.
Next to Laurel’s mom against the fence stood Brock’s dad, and next to him was Brock’s mom. She wore a look so full of intensity and so full of love that he felt it. While everyone in the crowd wanted him to win, he somehow knew she didn’t care. She only cared about him, and he realized he had a mom, and that this was home, a place they’d all live in together, whether he won the game or didn’t, whether he was first team or not.
Brock beamed at her. She smiled back, gave him a thumbs-up, and blew him a kiss that knocked him back into reality. Time sped up again and he realized the coaches were talking at him.
“The clock.” Coach Hewitt shook his head.
Taylor pointed at the scoreboard. “When you get sacked, the clock keeps running. We wanted you to run the next play and save our time-out.”
Brock looked and saw that now the clock read eight seconds. He thought of the Groton player who mindlessly ran the ball on the onside kick instead of just falling on it, and Brock slapped his own helmet. “Stupid.”
“Hey.” Taylor shook his head. “Don’t do that. It’s over. You’ve never done this before. We’re okay. We’ve got two plays left if we do it right, if the receiver can get out of bounds. Focus on that.”
“Mak said two guys came. One of them hit me.” Brock rubbed the back of his neck and found Mak among the rest of his teammates crowded around the coaches. “What did you mean?”
Coach Delaney appeared with a whiteboard and knelt down with it to show him a series of Xs and Os. He used a marker to circle one of the Xs, then drew a line with an arrow from that X straight to the quarterback. “They’re playing a Man-3 Prevent, but they blitzed the safety off the slot. They left the slot uncovered underneath. I’m sure they’ll do it again, but not with the same guy.”
“Which one?” Brock asked.
“He has to see it,” Coach Hewitt said, glancing at Taylor.
Taylor bit his lip and gripped his forehead, thinking, before he looked at Brock. “You said you’re a pitcher, right?”
“That’s baseball.” Brock was really confused now.
“Yeah, but when you look at the batter, what else do you have to see?” Taylor asked.
“Well, if there’s a runner on first, I gotta see him too in case he steals.”
“Right!” Taylor slapped Brock’s shoulder pad, then knelt beside Coach Delaney, taking the marker and looking up at him. “That’s what this is. You look downfield at the free safety, deep in the middle, but you’ve got to see the whole field. They’re gonna send one of these four guys.”
Taylor quickly circled the four defensive backs opposite the offense’s four wide receivers spread across the line. “You don’t know which one, but whichever one they send, that’s where you gotta throw it. The receiver will be wide open. Let’s hope it’s Xaviar.”
“So what’s the play?” Brock asked.
“Spread Right Alaska 99 Peel.” Taylor looked at Coach Hewitt, who nodded in agreement, then ar
ound at the receivers. “You guys, if the man covering you blitzes Brock, you gotta stop and turn and look for the ball, that’s the peel. Brock’ll hit you. The rest of you gotta run downfield as fast as you can to draw off the 3 Deep Zone. Don’t stop until you hit the back of the end zone, and keep your eyes open because you never know. Linemen, when Brock throws the ball, you get downfield and block. This’ll only work once. Whoever catches the ball, get to the sideline if you don’t have an opening for the end zone. If you can’t score, you have to get out of bounds to stop the clock so we’ll have the chance to run another play.”
“Let’s go, Coach!” The ref barged into their crowd, tapping his watch.
Taylor grabbed Brock’s face mask and tilted it so that Brock’s eyes were aimed at his. “The one thing you can’t do is hold the ball.”
Brock didn’t even know what he meant and his face twisted with confusion.
Taylor huffed impatiently. “The clock. Eight seconds. You gotta throw the ball quick. If you do, we can get off another play. If you hold it, you’ll burn up all the time and the game will be over. You can do this, Brock. Now go!”
Taylor shoved him toward the field and slapped him on the back. Brock jogged out with his teammates. They got in the huddle, and Brock called the Spread Left Alaska 99 Peel. He wanted to remind the receivers to run to the end zone. He wanted to tell them that whoever’s man came on the blitz to be sure to peel off the route and stop. But he was too busy going over it in his own mind and nothing came out of his mouth.
Brock staggered toward the line of scrimmage. His teammates got set in their positions all along the line. The defense was just what Coach Delaney had drawn for him on the board. Four linemen to rush the passer, four defensive backs pressed up tight on the wide receivers in man-to-man coverage, and a 3 Deep Zone behind them. He took a gulp of air and started the cadence, directing his eyes down the middle of the field at the free safety, but trying to see the whole field, knowing one of the front four defensive backs would come full speed at him, unblocked.
