by Jon Scieszka
Why should he have to stay behind? It made him sick. It made him … mad.
The spark became a flame. He sneered at himself.
“What am I going to do?” His voice sounded to him like a crying girl’s. Daddy can’t pay for IH. Boo-hoo …
“You big baby!” Jake snarled at himself. “No one says that scholarship belongs to Bobby Lemke. You want it? Take it!”
Jake couldn’t concentrate on any of his lessons, even English, his favorite subject. The words seemed to spill from his teachers’ mouths like drool, meaningless and unpleasant.
Jake couldn’t get stuck in Eastview, playing for a varsity coach everyone knew was a joke. If the coach was a joke, the team was a joke, and the players were treated like jokes. Even moderately talented players moved into districts like Lawtonberg’s—a team that was no stranger to the state play-offs—if they could.
Still, nothing compared to IH.
When the final bell rang, Jake mustered up his courage and walked into Coach Heath’s classroom. Coach taught science. Jake didn’t have him for a teacher, but they were doing the same thing in Jake’s class: dissecting frogs. Coach stood bent over a lab counter next to a thin kid with pale skin, messy black hair, and a red NASCAR T-shirt. The kid looked up and blinked through thick glasses.
“Jake,” Coach asked, “what’s up?”
Jake looked down at the frog, pinned to the tray on its back and sliced open down the middle of its belly. Jake swallowed.
“Can I talk to you, Coach?”
“I’m helping Gene with his lab, then I’ve got a minute before practice. Stick around. Did you do your frog yet?”
Jake shook his head, then nodded.
“Which is it?” Coach asked.
“We did it, but we worked in groups. I recorded the findings.”
“Like the group secretary, huh?”
“I guess.”
Coach nodded without trying to hide his disgust. “That’s why I make everyone do their own.”
“Here, look.” Coach used his stubby fingers to peel back the frog’s belly, exposing a maze of guts.
Vomit bubbled up into the back of Jake’s throat.
“Yeah, see? You don’t like to look, but that’s how you learn. Here. See this? That’s the heart. The center of it all. How can you understand how it all works if you don’t see it up close and personal?”
Coach seemed to be enjoying Jake’s discomfort. Gene poked the rubbery lungs with his own bare finger, then used tweezers to scoop up a strand of intestines that looked like a waterlogged worm. Jake turned away.
Coach chuckled and wiped his hands. “All right, come over to my desk. Gene, take out the major organs we talked about in class and label them. I’ll show you how I want them weighed when we’re done.”
Jake followed the coach to his desk and sat down in the chair off to the side. He clasped his left arm with his right hand and leaned forward so he could talk quietly.
“Coach, I want to move from guard to tackle.”
Coach Heath’s eyes widened. A smile crept onto his face. “You sniff a little too much formaldehyde?”
Jake furrowed his brow.
“That’s the embalming fluid they pickle those frogs in.” Coach nodded toward the lab counter. “Sometimes it makes people loopy.”
“No, I want to play tackle.”
“You mean the position I’ve been trying to get you to play for the past two years?”
Jake nodded. “Left tackle.”
“Left tackle?” Coach bit his lower lip, then he sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Jake, I know you and Bobby are friends, but are you really going to embarrass yourself like this just to help him get a scholarship to IH? Don’t you have any pride, son?”
Jake squinted. “What? What do you mean?”
Coach tilted his head. “You think I don’t know? That you’ll lie down for Bobby in the scrimmage with the IH coach so he can walk all over you. It’s just not right, Jake, for you to make a fool out of yourself. I don’t think Bobby needs the help. He does a pretty good number on Collin Mettler as it is.”
Jake blinked. “I’m not doing it for Bobby, Coach. I want to do it for me. I want to go to IH, too. You said the head coach will be watching. I want to play there.”
“But you don’t need a scholarship, son.”
Embarrassment burned Jake’s face, but he shrugged it off. “You said I got to find my fire. Well …”
“So, you’re gonna find your fire by having Bobby Lemke beat the tar out of you in front of the IH coach? You see what he does to Mettler every day.”
“I just think …” Jake’s voice faded off.
“Think what?” Coach Heath dipped his head so he met Jake’s eyes.
Jake hesitated. He looked up and directly into Coach Heath’s eyes. “I can take care of him.”
“You can, huh? You feel confident about that? You’ll be up against Bobby every day for the rest of the season.”
“I know I can.”
Coach chuckled again. “Well, I guess we’ll see about that. Yeah, Jake, I’ll move you to left tackle. That’s where you belong anyway. But you’re there for the scrimmage, too. If I make this move, I’m not going to change it. Mettler’s not a great player, but no one deserves to be a yo-yo. Don’t ask to switch back.”
“I want to be there for the scrimmage.”
Coach nodded. “Okay. Fine.”
Jake didn’t chatter with his teammates in the locker room, and when Bobby slapped him on the rump on their way to the field, Jake said nothing. When the time came for one-on-one drills with the offensive linemen battling the defensive linemen, Jake took his spot at left tackle.
Bobby snorted. “What are you doing?”
“I’m left tackle now.”
Bobby gave him a confused look, then he shook his head and got down in his stance. “Okay, you asked for it.”
Coach Heath moved the big tackling dummy into position about five yards behind the center, then he walked over to where Jake faced Bobby.
“You two set?” Coach clamped his whistle between coffee-stained teeth and narrowed his eyes with expectation. “On your movement, Jake.”
As the offensive lineman, Jake got to make the first move. He swallowed back the flutter in his chest and took a smooth backward step, cutting off Bobby’s outside angle to the quarterback. In the same instant, he coiled his arms for the two-handed punch he’d try to deliver to Bobby’s chest.
Bobby barreled straight at him.
Jake saw stars at the collision. He stepped back again, and again, punching and keeping his hips low. Bobby’s right hand found its way up and under Jake’s face mask, clawing at the soft flesh of his mouth and nose. Instead of wincing and lilting, Jake punched hard and found a grip under the edge of Bobby’s shoulder pad. He sensed the bag directly behind him. He’d given up as much ground as he could.
Jake roared, lifting and wrenching at the same time. Bobby crossed his legs, and he went over sideways. Jake followed him to the ground, free-falling on top of him with every ounce of his 244 pounds. The air grunted from Bobby’s lungs. He thrashed beneath Jake, trying to get up. Jake accidentally got poked in the eye and cried out. Yesterday Jake would have skittered away from the pain.
Today he ate it up, growled, and kept Bobby pinned down. Coach’s whistle split Jake’s ears. Hands from all quarters grabbed at him and pulled him free from Bobby, who sprang to his feet, snorting and flailing and spraying sweat across Jake’s face. Coach hammered the whistle and stepped between them.
“Enough! Good, I like it. Good battle. That’s how you fight!” Coach gave them both a final shove, separating them even farther. “Next up.”
Bobby glared at Jake, growling while the rest of the linemen took their turns. When it was his and Jake’s turn to go again, Bobby came at him like a maniac.
Jake won again. He lost the next round, though, when Bobby struck, then spun, disappearing like a genie and crashing into the bag. Jake struck his own helmet,
and it was the last time that day Bobby beat him. During run drills, Jake got his pads lower than he’d ever done before. He fired out quicker, pumped his feet faster, and matched every bone-jarring hit with one of his own.
At the end of practice, Bobby waited until they were in the locker room, outside of Coach’s hearing, before he grabbed Jake and slammed him up against a locker.
“What are you doing?” Bobby’s breath was hot with tuna and onions.
Jake gripped Bobby’s hands without tearing them free. He looked around at the rest of the team, who had stopped moving and were staring at them. “Playing football.”
“That’s not how you play.”
“It is now.”
“You do that tomorrow, and I will kill you, Jake. I will smash your face in.”
Jake cast Bobby’s hands aside and opened his locker. He ignored the stares and whispers and Bobby glowering at him from two lockers over. After he’d changed, Jake marched out of the locker room with his head high and biked back home.
He was in his room, just staring at the math problems in front of him, when his mom came in. “Bobby’s here. He can stay for dinner if you like.”
“Where is he?” Jake studied his mom with suspicion.
“Out back.” His mom walked out as if nothing was wrong. To her, there obviously wasn’t.
Bobby sat in a deck chair beside the pool with his arms folded tightly across his chest.
“What?” Jake didn’t sit down.
“Seriously, what are you doing?” The edge and anger were gone from Bobby’s voice.
“You make me look bad, and it’s football.” Jake clenched his hands. “I make you look bad, and something’s wrong?”
“I can’t be messing around like this tomorrow.” Bobby’s eyes flashed. “That IH coach will be here, and I need to look good. I can’t have my best friend going all superhero on me.”
“So, stop me.” Jake folded his arms across his own chest.
“I thought we were going to IH together.” Bobby’s voice softened. “Are you kidding? What’s wrong with you? You’ve got everything.” Bobby nodded toward the pool, then the big house. “This IH scholarship is my ticket. You want to battle it out every day, compete with me to get better, fine. Do that after tomorrow.”
Jake looked out over the rippling water and blinked at the sparkles. He wanted to explain, to tell Bobby what his father had told him the night before, but the shame of it all tackled the words in his throat. “Just play, Bobby. No one said this scholarship was going to come easy.”
Bobby hung his head so that a curtain of blond hair fell around his eyes. “Remember Fritzgelden and Stinson? What they did to you, or tried to do?”
Jake felt his cheeks burn, and it wasn’t from the last rays of sunlight. “So?”
“You were going to quit football. Remember? They had you so scared …”
“So, you helped me and we’re friends.”
“I saved you. No one else would. They were going to tape you up and make you eat dirt.”
Jake tried to see through the curtain of hair. Bobby didn’t have to say that Jake had cried. They both knew he had, and it made Jake sick to even think of the two eighth-grade bullies from last year.
“So, now you own me? I’m your puppet or something?”
Bobby looked up, and the sun’s rays electrified his blue eyes. He stood. “No, just my friend. That’s what I thought, anyway.”
Jake watched him go, slack shouldered and weighted down by disappointment and misunderstanding. At dinner, it was just he and his mom. His dad had to fly to Chicago. His mom asked him what was wrong.
“Everything.” He kept his voice down to avoid an alarm. He didn’t need any drama. He needed to get to sleep. The scrimmage started at ten. He said good night and kissed her cheek. She squeezed his hand as he walked out of the room.
Jake tossed in a sweaty tangle of sheets most of the night. He woke up with the bright sun casting thick beams onto his bed, and he woke up tired. His mom made him breakfast and said, “Good luck.”
She had no idea.
Jake pedaled to the school—empty on a Saturday morning—and locked his bike. He kept his eyes on the ground and built a small fire in his gut, fueling it with anger and desire. Bobby walked into the locker room, and Jake sensed his presence like a dark and silent thundercloud creeping up over a hilltop. He taped his wrists, then wiggled his fingers into padded lineman gloves. His shoulder pads smelled of dried sweat and dirt. The snaps on his helmet sounded like the distant gunfire of a battlefield.
Jake pushed through the locker room without a sideways glance. He didn’t even see his teammates. His vision went inward, and his eyes glittered in the blaze. When he saw the IH coach in the stands with a foam cup of coffee and a clipboard, Jake’s breakfast tried for a speedy retreat. A bit of vomit burned his mouth before he could swallow it down. He turned away and got his muscles loose.
Whistles blew. They ran. They stretched. They went through the banging and popping of pregame ritual, then the offense and the defense jogged to opposite sides of the field. The scoring system didn’t matter to Jake. It wasn’t about the offense winning the scrimmage. It was about him manhandling Bobby Lemke, pounding him into submission in front of the IH coach.
When he lined up across from his best friend on the first play, Bobby muttered, “Don’t do this, man.”
Jake answered by firing out with all the force he could muster, smashing heads with Bobby, driving his paws up under Bobby’s pads, and driving his feet like a paint-can shaker. Jake wheeled his butt at the last instant, and the runner slipped through the open space. Someone hit Jake from behind, cutting his knees and sending him to the bottom of a big pile of bodies. He took Bobby down with him.
Bobby got up and glared at Jake. “Bring it.”
The next play was a pass. Bobby raced around the outside, slapping Jake’s hand, darting past him, and crashing into the quarterback. Bobby howled at the sun, and his defensive teammates swarmed him like a liberating hero.
Jake clenched his teeth and hands. He got back into the huddle, the flames now burning out of control.
The battle went on. Blood spilled. Sweat flew. Flesh got clawed up like hunks of sod, leaving bloody divots on both their arms and lower legs. When it was done, Jake’s head spun, and he staggered to the cluster of players surrounding their coach, vaguely aware that the offense beat the defense by a narrow point margin. He removed his helmet and knelt down. He had no idea if he’d beaten Bobby or if Bobby had beaten him.
Coach Heath introduced Coach Commisso from Immaculate Heart. Coach Commisso had a thick black crew cut and eyebrows. A shadow of stubble shaded his face. He cast an iron gaze out over the team. Jake pulled up a handful of grass and stared at the back of Bobby’s sweaty head and the dark crescents of matted blond hair.
Coach Commisso said, “I like what I saw just now, and I know why you guys usually win your district. Good work, boys. As you know, we like to offer scholarships to IH to four young players every year. It’s a full ride to a very prestigious academic institution.”
Coach Commisso shared a secret smile. “And we’ve got a pretty good football team, too.”
Everyone laughed politely.
“There’s a lot of talent out here, I’ll say that. You.” Coach Commisso’s eyes locked onto Jake. Everyone turned to look at him, and Jake’s stomach knotted up tight.
“Jake,” Jake said. “Jake Simpson.”
“Jake. You’ve got a lot of promise. Great feet for a big man … and I like … I like your fire.”
Jake couldn’t tear his eyes away, but he sensed Coach Heath nodding his head.
“I could see you at IH one day.”
Jake’s chest tightened. He realized he’d forgotten to breathe. He forced himself to inhale and gasped.
“I’m gonna keep an eye on you. Sometimes we’ll have a kid that doesn’t work out, and then you could join your teammate here.” Coach Commisso angled his head toward Bobby.
Tears blurred Jake’s vision. He looked away and sniffed them back. The fire sputtered. Coach Commisso was talking about Bobby, but Jake wasn’t hearing him. The flame distracted him, steady now, hypnotic. In a daze, he held up his helmet and chanted with his team, changed in the locker room, and left the school without a word.
He rode for half an hour without knowing where he even was. When he looked up, he saw a sign: LAWTONBERG 5 MI. Jake kept going. The next sign said 2 MI., and the flame inside him crackled and grew. Jake soaked in the saltbox houses crammed together along old, tree-lined streets. A yard sign read: GO HUSKIES.
He saw the speed zone for a school and pedaled faster. The school’s dusty brick walls baked in the Saturday morning sun. The soft tweet of whistles reached over the building from the football field beyond. Jake circled the school, dodging broken glass and a rusted muffler that lay dead by the curb. The bark of coaching mixed in with the whistles.
Jake parked his bike and studied the playing field as he passed through the fence. The head coach had on a floppy hat worn by soldiers in the desert. He was a big man, a former lineman. Jake waited for a water break and walked out onto the field, extending a hand.
“Coach, I’m Jake Simpson. My family might be moving into the district next year. I’m a football player. Offensive line.”
The coach went up and down his frame with a practiced eye, and a smile spread across his face. He shook Jake’s hand and shouted to one of his players.
“Givens, come here.”
The quarterback jogged over with the ball still in his hands.
“This is Jake Simpson.” The coach directed the quarterback to shake Jake’s hand. “Boy this big might be just what we need next season to shore up our line and get us that championship, don’t you think?”
The quarterback named Givens grinned and nodded.
Jake looked past them both at the huge banner above the stadium.
HUSKIE PRIDE
In his mind, he could see it happening, all of it, and it was like gasoline on the fire.
