Goal-Line Stand

by Todd Hafer

  “And that’s okay? It’s not a sin or anything?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Cody glanced at his watch and rose slowly. Game time was only three hours away. “I’ll think about what you’ve said, B. But I’m not sure if I can still talk to Mom or not.”

  Blake stood and extended his hand. “It’s okay if you don’t. I can’t say if it’s right for you.”

  “Right now, I’m not even sure, B, and I’m…well…me. Besides, it opens up a whole can of questions.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “I don’t think so. Not right now, anyway.” Cody tapped his head with his forefinger. “Right now there are so many questions bouncing around in here—and with a lot of them, I’m not sure I even want to know the answers.”

  “Well, you know where to find me. I don’t have all the answers. I’m still learning, just as you are. But I’ll always try.”

  Blake released Cody from their handshake and pushed him gently on the shoulder. “Now get home and get ready to tear ’em up on the field today.”

  At lunch the Monday following the Holy Family game, Pork Chop plopped next to Cody with his customary impact. Cody glanced up from his macaroni and cheese—or “macaroni and cheese-like substance,” as Pork Chop called it.

  “Nice of you to join us, Chop.”

  Chop began prying open his carton of chocolate milk with his thick fingers. “Yeah, I know.” He looked across the table at Kris Knight. “Hey, new guy, how you livin’?”

  Knight nodded. “Okay.”

  “You come to the game last week?”

  Knight looked like a mouse cornered by a cat. “Uh—no.”

  Pork Chop frowned. “What, you don’t like football or something? Are you from this country?”

  Cody sighed loudly. “It’s okay, Kris,” he interjected. “Chop, back off, okay? Not everybody has to like football. It’s still a free country, you know.”

  Pork Chop chugged his half pint of chocolate milk, then crushed the carton in his right fist. He belched thoughtfully and looked at Knight. “It’s cool if you’re not into football, new guy. But you missed it by not being there on Saturday.” He clapped Cody on the back. “Because my boy here made the play of the season!”

  Cody dipped his head and tried not to smile.

  “Really?” Knight asked. “What did you do, Cody?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Pork Chop said. “You know what a wedge is, right?”

  Knight cocked his head. “A wedgie?”

  Pork Chop shook his head in disbelief. “No, not a wedgie. Where did you say you were from, anyway? Never mind. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  He slid his lunch tray aside, grabbed the salt and pepper shakers from the center of the table, and set them in front of him. He studied the gray and white plastic containers, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. “Hey, Bart,” Pork Chop called to the far end of the table, “slide me your pepper, dude.”

  Bart Evans stopped his conversation with his twin brother, Brett, who was seated across from him. “Porter, you already have pepper. Right in front of you.”

  “Bart,” Chop said in a forced-calm voice that always made Cody nervous, “please pass me your pepper. Come on, you’re our QB. You should like to pass stuff. Besides, I need it for educational purposes. Don’t make me come down there and get it. I thought you were the smart twin.”

  “Whatever, Porter,” Bart said wearily, as he slid the container down the table.

  “Okay,” Chop said, the excitement building in his voice as he arranged the shakers side by side. “This, new guy, is a wedge. See, when you kick off, three or four guys from the opposing team form a wedge so they can block for the kick return. In this particular case, it was a three-man wedge.” He paused and placed the crumpled milk carton behind the three shakers. “Holy Family, their return guy, Mack, is white—and this is a chocolate-milk carton—so this isn’t what you would call a totally accurate re-creation, but you get the point, right?”

  Knight nodded obediently.

  Chop snatched a half-eaten sugar cookie from Cody’s tray. “Done with this?”

  Cody stared at his friend, mouth open. “Uh, I guess I am now.”

  “Cool. So, now my expert game analysis will continue. This cookie is Cody, right? We kick off to open the game.” He stopped to look at his tray, then Cody’s. “Crud, it’s too bad we aren’t having lima beans today. One of those bad boys woulda made a perfect football. But that’s okay. We’ll just use our imaginations. Anyway, so here comes the imaginary football to Mack, who’s got crazy wheels. He gets behind the wedge, just like he’s supposed to, and they charge upfield.”

  Chop paused and looked down the table at the Evans twins. “Brett Evans,” he said, clearing his throat loudly, “our alleged wedge buster, gets knocked on his skinny booty, and it looks like this could be a big return. Mack is picking up speed.”

  He stopped again to advance the condiment shakers and milk carton across the table, toward Knight. “But then,” Pork Chop said, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “here comes my boy, Cody Martin, charging straight at the wedge. I’m watching from the sideline, and it looks like a suicide mission to me. I mean, one on three? They’re gonna squash him, right?”

  Knight shrugged. “Um, I guess so?”

  Pork Chop smiled. “I thought so, too. But, dude, check this.” He moved the half cookie into position in front of the shakers. “My boy, he dives, head first, like he’s Rickey Henderson stealing second base! He mows down all three wedge guys like they’re bowling pins!” Chop rammed his cookie-filled hand into the shakers and watched in wonder as they rattled and spun across the table. The salt decanter eventually rolled to Knight’s side of the table and tumbled to the floor.

  Chop now had the attention of the nearby tables, so he raised his voice another level. “And that’s not all! Somehow, in the middle of the flyin’ bodies, Code gets a hand on Mack’s right foot and sends him sprawling. One second, Mack thinks he’s takin’ the return all the way to the house, the next he’s eatin’ turf!” He picked up the milk carton and spiked it on the table for emphasis. Then he slammed both palms on the table. Silverware clattered. Water sloshed out of Cody’s drink cup. Are y’all feelin’ this? He takes out four guys! It was fierce! HF’s coach is screaming on the far sideline—he thinks it should be a penalty or something. I look behind me, and the home crowd is going nuts!”

  Pork Chop looked up and saw Mrs. Studdard coming toward him, so he began talking rapid-fire, “And Coach Smith, who doesn’t usually get excited unless he’s mad, he’s whoopin’ and pumping his fist like Tiger Woods. He’s so amped I think he’s gonna blow a breaker! He turns to Coach Benton, the assistant coach, and says, ‘I guess we’re gonna have to start calling Martin ‘Cody Crash’!”

  Cody had bowed his head for the entire demonstration. He raised it now and saw Knight staring at him, his eyes radiating admiration. “That’s awesome, Cody. Wish I could have been there to see it.”

  Cody shrugged. “Well, it was only one play.”

  “You’re way too modest, man,” Chop said. “You heard what Coach Smith said in the locker room after we won, twelve-zip, ‘That play set the tone for the whole game.’” Pork Chop paused for a moment and studied the remains of Cody’s cookie. “Homeboy,” he said, “you want your cookie back?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Pork Chop raised his eyebrows plaintively. “Well? You sure?”

  Cody shook his head. “Help yourself.”

  Pork Chop picked up the cookie remnant and tossed it in his mouth. “It’s a shame to waste good food, you know. There are people starving in Indiana.”

  “India,” Cody said wearily.

  “There too!”

  “Give it back!” a sharp female voice Cody knew too well interrupted the conversation. He twisted around and saw Robyn, two tables down. Andrew Neale had stolen the cookie from her plate and stood over her, dangling it above her head. “I’m not kidding, Neale!” her voice
was measured, but intense. “Give it back!”

  “How bad do you want it?” Neale taunted in his low nasal voice.

  Pork Chop smiled grimly as he pushed himself up from the table. “You gonna rescue your woman, Code, or you want me to do it?”

  “She’s not my woman,” Cody snapped, surprised at the anger in his voice.

  Pork Chop’s smile widened. “Yeah, right.”

  Cody rose to his feet and drew in a deep breath. He felt his heart accelerating.

  Please, God, he prayed silently, please show me what to do. And, if it would be your will, please don’t let me get beaten to a pulp in front of the whole lunchroom. Especially not in front of Robyn when I’m tryin’ to rescue her. Amen.

  He followed Pork Chop to Robyn’s table. Neale was still taunting her, passing the cookie back and forth between his left and right hands.

  Cody saw Neale’s sarcastic smile turn to a wince when a set of bony fingers clamped around the back of his neck.

  “Andrew Neale,” Mrs. Studdard said evenly, “how nice of you to volunteer for cleanup duty.”

  Neale started to protest, but Mrs. Studdard countered by cupping her other hand over his mouth. “I must advise you, Mr. Neale, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And this,” she said, slowly rotating her head to take in the expanse of the lunchroom, “is my courtroom. And I…I am the law. Do you understand me?”

  Cody saw Neale’s head bobbing up and down, but he wasn’t sure if the nod was voluntary or controlled by Mrs. Studdard. “That’s a good boy.” She chuckled. “Now get back to the kitchen and ask Doris for an apron. I think she has one your size—extra gangly.”

  As Neale trudged away, Mrs. Studdard turned her attention to Robyn. “Go get yourself another cookie, sweetie,” she said warmly. “We don’t know where Mr. Neale’s hands have been. In fact, take two.”

  Pork Chop looked at Cody and shrugged as they returned to their table. “Dude, Mrs. S has got game!” he said. “Who knew?”

  Cody, Pork Chop, and Knight watched Robyn get her replacement cookies from Mrs. Ward, one of the servers. Then she turned, pushed her frameless Perry Ellis glasses with the pink-tinted lenses up on her short, narrow nose, and marched to her seat. She flashed Cody a quick, coy smile as she sat down.

  “So,” Knight began warily, “is that your girlfriend, Cody?”

  Pork Chop began rubbing his palms together furiously, as if trying to create enough friction to start a fire. “Oh, I gotta hear this answer!” he said.

  Cody drummed his fingertips nervously on the tabletop. “Robyn Hart is not my girlfriend, okay? We’re friends. That’s all. Friends.”

  Pork Chop fake-coughed. “Friends, huh? I didn’t know friends kissed!”

  “That was in the fifth grade, Chop. And it was on a dare! For cryin’ out loud, when are you gonna stop throwing that in my face?”

  Pork Chop stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Not any time soon. It’s too much fun.”

  “Hey,” said Knight, mercifully changing the subject, “who was that skinny dude who was harassing, uh, Robyn?”

  Cody heard himself groan. “Andrew Neale. Biggest pain in the school. He harasses everybody.”

  Pork Chop cleared his throat loudly. Cody smiled. “Well, almost everybody. He gets by with it because he’s best friends with Alston. He’s roughest on the girls. Especially this one named Greta.”

  “Who stinks like three-day-old road kill,” Pork Chop interjected.

  “Chop, please, give her a break!”

  “I’d rather give her a bar of soap—and some of that stuff that’s strong enough for a man, but made for a woman!”

  Cody rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, Kris, watch your back around Neale.”

  “But,” Pork Chop added, “if he hassles you, just let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

  Cody raised his eyebrows. “You gonna take care of Alston too?”

  Pork Chop waved his hand in front of his face as if shooing mosquitoes. “One of these days, my brother. One of these days, Terry Alston is going to meet my two friends.”

  “Two friends?” Knight asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Pork Chop said, with mock solemnity, holding up his left fist, “my friend Six Months in the Hospital—” he paused for dramatic effect before holding up his right fist “—and my other friend Sudden Death!”

  Mrs. Studdard waited for Pork Chop to lower Sudden Death before she grabbed him by the wrist, tugging its owner to his feet. “If you’re quite through, Mr. Porter,” she said cheerfully, “your assistance is required to help clean tabletops and sweep the floors.”

  Pork Chop gave her a wounded look. “Why? What did I do?”

  “I saw that little football dramatization you put on. Haven’t you been taught not to play with your food?”

  “Well, technically, it was Code’s food—oww! I’m trying to explain something here! Don’t you wanna hear my defense?”

  Smiling, Mrs. Studdard had moved her grip from Pork Chop’s right wrist to his right ear. She began leading him slowly to the rear of the lunchroom. “Well,” she said, “I’d love to hear your defense, but you better tell your story walkin’!”

  Pork Chop called to Cody as he was led away, “Dude, if I’m not out of here by the time practice starts, send a rescue party!”

  Cody tried to suppress a laugh. Mrs. Studdard was handing Pork Chop a sponge and a pail of water.

  “This can’t be good for my hands, Mrs. S,” he said loudly enough for the entire lunchroom to hear. “If my shooting touch is messed up come basketball season, I’m gonna sue!”

  Mrs. Studdard scoffed, “What touch, Mr. Porter? I’ve seen blacksmiths with a softer touch than yours.”

  Pork Chop held his hand—sponge included—over his heart. “Oooooh! That’s harsh!” He called to Cody once more. “If I don’t make it outta here alive, you gotta keep my memory goin’, man. Don’t let ’em forget the Midnight Cowboy!”

  Cody gave Chop a quick salute, then turned to Knight. “Let’s get out of here, dude, before we get forced to help him.”

  Knight scrunched up his nose. “Well, shouldn’t you help him? I mean, you are his friend.”

  Cody let his jaw drop. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “He ruined my cookie! Now c’mon, we’re so outta here!”

  The week of practices went quickly. The team scrimmaged on Wednesday, and Cody earned two congratulatory slaps on his helmet from Coach Smith. The first was for sacking Mark Goddard, the second-string quarterback, on a broken play.

  Goddard couldn’t find a receiver on a pass play, so he had scrambled out of the pocket, to his right. He had just planted his right foot to turn upfield when Cody arrived on the scene. He squared his shoulders, arched his back, and charged forward, remembering to keep his head up.

  Goddard lost momentum when he tried to cut, and he toppled like a bowling pin when Cody hit him head-on. He wrapped his arms around Goddard’s torso and drove him onto his back. Goddard hit the ground with a loud “Ooo!” as the wind was driven from him.

  Coach Smith whistled the play dead and trotted over to Cody. “Did you all see that hit?” he asked excitedly. “Did you see how Cody Crash wrapped up his man and tried to plant him in the turf? That’s the kind of hittin’ I want to see out here!”

  Cody slid off Goddard and stood, offering him his hand.

  “Good…hit,” Goddard gasped, as he pulled himself to his feet.

  Coach Smith was still rattling on about the sack as the two units huddled up. “That’s the way you do it,” he said. “You don’t nudge a guy with your shoulder. This ain’t bumper cars. You drive through your man, you wrap him up, and you put him on his back! You know what? That was a good way to end the scrimmage. You can break outta your huddles. And because I’m in such a good mood, no wind sprints tonight!”

  That announcement brought whoops from most of the team. Several players came up to clap Cody across the shoulder pads as he and Pork Chop jogged to the locker room.<
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  The Friday before the Mill Creek game was Cody’s last day as Kris Knight’s official mentor and tour guide. At lunchtime, they took their customary seats and picked warily at their grilled-cheese sandwiches.

  “So,” Cody said, “how is school going for you so far?”

  “It’s all right. Grant is bigger than my old school in Kansas.”

  “I guess I never asked—what made you move to Colorado?”

  “My dad’s job. He’s an engineer in the Springs. My mom stays home to watch over my little sister and stuff. She’s two. What do your parents do?”

  Cody fidgeted. Everyone always said parents, plural. “My dad works in the Springs, just like yours,” he said. “He’s a business writer for the newspaper.”

  “And your mom?”

  Cody felt the familiar lump forming in his throat, the familiar knot tightening in his stomach. “Um, she died this past summer. Cancer.”

  Knight looked embarrassed to the point of nausea. He trained his eyes on his tray as he mumbled: “Oh. Uh—I’m sorry. I had no idea—”

  “It’s okay,” Cody said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He scanned the lunchroom as awkward seconds crawled by. Where was Chop when you needed him?

  Cody was replaying the uncomfortable lunchroom exchange as Grant lined up to receive the opening kickoff from Mill Creek on an oven-like Saturday afternoon. He recalled the pained expression on Knight’s face. He’d seen that look at least a hundred times when an innocent question led to an unexpected answer. Each time it happened, he feared the feeble dam that was holding back a lake of tears would give way.

  Sometimes it did. He’d already made three trips to the nurse’s office, and it was only a month into the school year. As he scanned the field for someone to block, he wondered how long the excuses of stomach aches and headaches would work. He wondered if someday he wouldn’t make it out of a classroom before the tears escaped, before his cover was blown.

  Cody was imagining what Andrew Neale would say in such an instance when a Mill Creek defender drove a shoulder into his stomach. The impact was so severe that he felt his teeth sinking deep into his rubber mouth guard. For a moment, he feared he might bite through it. Then he noticed that he was airborne. At first it was a peaceful feeling. He noted small tufts of clouds in the sky as he fell backward.