Goal-Line Stand

by Todd Hafer

  Then, after a quick prayer for self-control, he said, “I’m sorry about the hit. I really am. Brett, please, can

  we just take a quick walk?”

  Brett stared at him warily. “Okay,” he said after several seconds, “whatever.” He pushed the screen door open and let it bang shut behind him. Then he marched down the driveway without checking to see if Cody was following him. At the end of the block, Brett turned abruptly. “This is as far as I go, Martin,” he said. “You got something to say, you better say it here. Now.”

  Cody looked to the sky, hoping earnestly to draw divine strength from above. “Brett, I’ve said I’m sorry a bunch of times already,” he began, “and I’ll say it a hundred more times if that’s what it takes to make it right with you. I wish you hadn’t gotten hurt, and I’d take the hit back if I could.”

  Brett’s eyes narrowed to a slit. “Well,” he said icily, “you can’t.”

  “I know,” Cody sighed. “I just want you to know it wasn’t intentional. C’mon man, you know I don’t roll like that.”

  “I don’t know what to think about you anymore, Martin.”

  Cody forced himself to look Brett in the eyes. “Look, maybe I can explain. I’m not going to make excuses, but I’m hoping when I tell you a couple of things, you’ll stop hating me.”

  “Well, I don’t have all day.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. It’s been hard dealing with my mom’s dying. Sometimes I want to play so hard, to make her proud. But other times, this—I don’t know—sadness starts to, like, cover me up. I feel like it’s going to suffocate me. It can happen anytime. Even in a game. So, earlier this season, I lost my concentration a few times. And I played like crap because of it. I got rocked by blockers I shoulda seen coming. I missed tackles. I jumped off-sides. I misread plays. You name it.”

  Brett nodded slowly. “And you got in Coach Smith’s doghouse.”

  “Big time.”

  Brett wagged his head slowly. “Coach Smith holds grudges, you know. Both my older brothers told me that. He’s kind of a psycho that way. He doesn’t forget stuff.”

  “I don’t know about all that, Brett. All I know is that he started treating me like something he stepped in. And I was desperate to get on his good side again. And I had all this anger in me, too. Because he was callin’ me names, holding me out of games, telling me, ‘You’re weak and soft, Martin! Why don’t you go play on the swing set!’”

  “I know. I heard.”

  “Anyway, there was like this pressure building up inside of me, and that day at practice, I just felt like, if I didn’t hit someone or something, I was gonna explode. And then I was covering you on that one play—and I just lost it. That was wrong. And I’m so sorry.”

  Brett started walking back toward his house. Cody walked by his side, trying to gauge his mood.

  When he got back to his doorstep, Brett paused. “Well, thanks, I guess, for coming over. I know it must be hard on you. I can’t even imagine what it would be like, if—”

  “I hope you don’t ever have to find out.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Anyway, apology accepted, I guess. I’m not gonna be like Coach Smith.”

  “You gonna be able to play the last game?”

  “Yeah. Our doctor said it’s okay. My head hurt for a day or two. But I’m fine now.”

  “Good. I’m glad. If you want, I’ll ask Coach Smith to put you back at starting receiver.”

  “I don’t know about that. Just do what you think you have to do, I guess. Look, I gotta get inside. Homework, you know.”

  “Okay, Brett. Thanks.”

  Cody could hardly wait to call Blake and tell him the news.

  “I’m proud of you for not giving up with Brett,” Blake said, his sincerity evident, even over the phone. “You may not see it yet, but your efforts to make things right will make a huge impact on him. And I admire your long-suffering with Coach Smith this year.”

  Cody sighed. “Well, you got the suffering part right.”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy, Code. But you didn’t quit. That shows me something. It shows Coach Smith something, too. Now, just finish strong this weekend. And next season will be better. I have a feeling.”

  “Yeah, who knows? Maybe I’ll make the JV team. Doug says Chop will make varsity lineman. He might even start. I’ll be glad for him, but I’ll miss playing behind him.”

  “Um-hmm,” Blake said.

  “You know, during games, Chop keeps talking to me when we’re on defense. He smacks me on the helmet and says, ‘You got my back, right, Code?’ Like he needs anyone to watch his back.”

  Blake frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Code. We all need someone to back us up sometime. Even the biggest and strongest—and cockiest—of us.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. Now get offa my phone line. I got things to do.”

  “You mean like take a nap?”

  “No comment.”

  Cody watched the Broncos battle the Raiders on TV. Midway through the fourth quarter, grogginess spread through him like smoke. He stood up and paced in front of the TV set to keep himself awake. When the Broncos finally won the game on a last-second field goal, he flopped onto the living room couch.

  When he woke, he blinked his eyes, straining to focus at the liquid-crystal digits on his watch. It was two minutes after seven, and his dad still wasn’t home from the office.

  “Working all day on a Sunday,” Cody muttered as he padded to the kitchen to make dinner for himself. “Mom woulda never stood for that.”

  On Monday, as the team dressed for practice, Cody shot a glance at the locker room chalkboard, which typically bore an inspirational quote from Knute Rockne, Vince Lombardi, or Dick Butkus. Occasionally the board displayed more practical information, such as special instructions for the day’s practice or a diagram of a new offensive formation.

  Today, however, the only thing on the board was a large, blocky number “1,” shaded around the edges to make it look three-dimensional.

  “Coach Smith must have forced an art student to do that,” Pork Chop said, as he arrived at Cody’s side, the two of them staring at the chalkboard as if it were a painting in an art gallery.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Cody said. “He can’t even draw a straight line or make a circle that doesn’t look like an amoeba.”

  Coach Smith explained the mystery of the “1” before calisthenics and stretching. “Fellas,” he began, “I hope you all saw what was on the board in the locker room today.”

  He paused, noting thirty-two bobbing heads, before continuing. “That number is gonna be up all week. And there’s a reason for it. Now I know we aren’t number one in our conference. We’re not ranked first in any statistical category, team or individual.”

  “I’d be first in tackles if I didn’t get double-teamed on every play,” Pork Chop whispered to Cody.

  “Anyway,” Coach Smith said, “here’s what the ‘1’ is all about: Our final game of the year is five days away—against the undefeated number-one team in the league. In fact, East is probably the best eighth grade team in the whole state. I hear that Bobby Cabrera has gained at least 100 yards rushing in every game.”

  Coach Smith was pacing now, speaking slowly and deliberately. It looked to Cody like he had rehearsed this speech, but was now struggling to remember it correctly. “Now I’m not saying we can beat East,” the coach said, smacking a thick fist into the palm of his other hand. “But we can give them—and everybody in the stands—something to remember. We can go out and finish the season with a game we can all be proud of. What I’m tryin’ to say is, we’re not number one, but let’s go out and play one game like we are! Whaddya say?”

  The Raiders roared their approval and began practice with a fury that would carry them through the week. In fact, Coach Smith had to cut short Wednesday’s scrimmage after Betts and Goddard were shaken up on consecutive plays.

  “You guys are hittin’ like men, and I’m prou
d of ya,” Coach Smith said, his voice ragged from three days of yelling. “But we gotta make sure we save some of this fire for East. Besides, I’m afraid that Porter is going to put somebody in the hospital if we don’t get him off the field.”

  Cody was the last player out of the showers after practice. And he deliberately dressed slower than his teammates so that he could be alone in the locker room. He sat on the wooden bench in front of his locker, his helmet on his lap.

  He ran his fingers over the plastic crown of his helmet, feeling every scratch, gouge, and ding. He smiled. Given the amount of time he had spent standing on the sidelines during mid-season, his “hat,” as Coach Smith called it, carried a respectable number of battle scars.

  Cody noted the maroon smear near the left ear hole. That was from the Central game, probably the doing of Tucker. The divot on top of the helmet was from Holy Family and a head-on collision with Mack. The black smudges on the back must have been from one of the times he had been kicked or stepped on in a pileup.

  He set the helmet on the bench next to him. Coach had said Mike Singletary broke sixteen helmets in four years at Baylor—all of them his own. Cody shook his head in admiration.

  I’m no Singletary, he thought, but, still, this hat has seen some action. And on Saturday, I’m collecting some green paint, Cabrera’s, I hope.

  During the remaining two days leading up to the season finale, the fever that began in the Raider locker room spread through the whole school. Posters lined the hallways, bearing proclamations such as GROUND THE EAGLES! PLUCK THE EAGLES! RAIDERS FINISH STRONG! And EAGLES: UNBEATEN NO MORE!

  In a pep assembly Friday morning, Coach Smith stood in the red circle in the middle of the basketball court, holding a microphone like it was a dead fish. He shifted his weight from left foot to right, like a rhythmless man trying to dance for the first time.

  “Uh,” he said, pausing to dab his moist forehead with a handkerchief, “this is a big game for us tomorrow. And, uh, we would appreciate your support. Please show up tomorrow. In full force!”

  The students filling the bleachers roared their approval. As if energized by their support, Coach Smith threw his fist in the air, which raised the noise level even more.

  As one of the team captains, Pork Chop got his chance with the mike, too, and he handled it like a seasoned game show host.

  “Coach is right,” he began, nodding deferentially at Coach Smith. “This is a huge game for us. In fact, it’s the biggest of our lives. So, if you don’t come tomorrow and scream your heads off for us, I’m gonna eat all your lunches on Monday!”

  A burst of laughter and applause erupted from the stands. Pork Chop basked in the admiration for a moment, then raised both hands and began lowering them slowly, as if conducting an orchestra. When the throng was quiet again, Chop brought the mike to his mouth.

  “One more thing,” he announced, “all you students, as you know, get in to our games for free. Well, you better enjoy it while you can. Because someday, when I’m playing for the Broncos, you’re gonna have to pay big bucks to see me in action!”

  The students cheered again before breaking into unison chants of “Chop! Chop! Chop!”

  Before practice that afternoon, Cody found himself next to Pork Chop in the locker room.

  “Hey, Chop,” he said, “great speech this morning, but I have a question. How many school lunches do you think you could eat, without throwing up, I mean.”

  Pork Chop shook his head in mock disappointment. “Code,” he said, “I wasn’t threatening to eat anybody’s lunch literally. It was just a figure of speech. C’mon, dude, catch up. If you’re gonna be my best friend, you’re gonna have to work to stay with me intellectually.”

  With that, Chop belched contentedly and walked to his locker, his rubber cleats clicking like tap shoes across the hard floor.

  Friday’s practice was designed to be easy, to conserve players’ energy and avoid injuries. But Pork Chop twisted his ankle during agility drills and got into a shoving match with Berringer over the ownership of a cup of Gatorade.

  After the final practice ended, Cody and Pork Chop walked to the locker room together. “So, Chop,” Cody said, “you think we have any chance against East?”

  Pork Chop stepped carefully from the field to the cracking asphalt of the parking lot, apparently favoring his tender ankle. “I don’t know, Code. It’s hard to imagine how good they must be. I mean, they handled Central twenty-zip. They pitched a shutout on a team that smoked us. It’s scary.”

  Cody whistled through his teeth. “You’re scared? You didn’t sound that way at the pep rally.”

  Pork Chop muttered something Cody couldn’t decipher.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing, Code. Look, I’m not scared. I’m just sayin’…it’s been a long season. I’m tired. I’m hurting. And I’m sick of Berringer and his big mouth. Don’t get me wrong. I’m bringing the war for thirty-two minutes tomorrow. It’s just that—I don’t know. I guess I’ll be glad when the season’s over.”

  Cody slapped his hand on Chop’s left shoulder pad. “Come on, Chop. You’ve had a great season. It’s not your fault we’re not very good this year. But it’s just one game—let’s go for it. Let’s hang a loss on those hot dogs. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “Yeah, it would. But I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Chop. If you get fired up, most of the other guys will too. You’re our captain.”

  “Yeah, but a good captain wouldn’t lie to his troops.”

  “You really think we have no chance? I can’t believe what I’m hearin’.”

  “I’m not saying there is no chance. There’s always a chance. That’s why they play the game.”

  “Well, that’s what you need to show to the team. Hope. Because if you don’t have it, nobody’s going to have it.”

  Pork Chop arched one eyebrow. “Not even you?”

  Cody fixed his eyes on the horizon. “I don’t know, Chop. It’s my final junior high game. My dad’s going to be there—I hope. I’m gonna go big, no matter what.”

  Pork Chop smiled. “You know what? Then I will, too. You just inspired me.”

  Cody felt his mouth drop open. “I inspired you?”

  “Hey, I’m not ashamed to admit it. You’re a church boy. You know that David was badder than Goliath. I guess I should tell you, since you obviously aren’t perceptive enough to realize it, but it’s good for me to know you’ve got my back. Out on the field and everywhere, you know?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t the same playin’ on the D-line without you out there, backing me up. Because I know if a ball carrier is lucky and gets by me, you’ve got my back. That’s why I’m not afraid to battle two blockers, even three. ’Cuz I know you’re behind me and you won’t let me down.”

  Cody walked several steps in stunned silence. Pork Chop smiled knowingly. “What, I rock your world or something by admitting I’m not Superman and I can use a little help now and then?”

  “Yeah,” Cody answered after a thoughtful pause. “I guess you did.”

  Glancing at his watch, Cody noted it was 9 p.m. He wanted to go to bed early, as he always tried to do the night before a game.

  “Come on, Dad,” he whispered, “where are you? We need to talk.”

  He woke to the sensation of his dad gently tugging on his arm. “Code,” he said in a half-whisper, “why don’t you head up to bed? Guess you fell asleep on the couch, huh?”

  Cody blinked and tried to focus on his father’s face. “I…I guess so. Is it really after ten?”

  His dad nodded.

  “Hey, Dad, before I go up, I have a question, kind of.”

  Cody’s dad sighed loudly. “Please don’t pester me about going to church again. I’ve told you over and over, I’ll go when I am ready. And I’m not ready yet!”

  Cody swallowed hard. “No, it’s not about that, Dad. I mean, I do wish you would start going with me again—but, uh, what I was going to say is tha
t tomorrow is the final game of the season. The final game of my middle school career.”

  “Wow, Code, the season sure went by fast.”

  Cody yawned. “I guess so. Anyway, I guess I understand why you haven’t been able to make it to any of the games this year, but tomorrow, it’s important, you know. You think you can make it, just this once?”

  “Sure, son. I’ll be there. I have to go into the office again in the morning, but I’ll come to the stadium right from work. What time is the game?”

  “Two o’clock, just like all the Saturday games. So, you’ll be there? You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  On game day, Cody walked to school after eating a lunch of microwaveable chicken noodle soup, followed by two peanut butter sandwiches. He reached the school at 12:30. The East bus hadn’t even arrived in the parking lot. Entering the locker room moments later, he saw Coach Smith seated on a bench at the far end. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him and he backed away, hoping to exit unseen.

  But Coach Smith saw him before he took three steps. “Hey, Martin,” he said. His voice was tired. Cody walked slowly toward his coach. As he drew near, he saw that the man’s eyes were red and weary.

  Maybe he’s allergic to something, Cody thought. Hope it isn’t me.

  “Sit down, Martin.”

  It sounded more like a suggestion than a command.

  “You ready for today, Martin?”

  “Yes, sir, Coach. I’m going to give it everything I have. We all are. We’re going to play hard for you.”

  “Thanks, Martin.”

  Coach Smith began massaging his temples with his stubby fingers.

  “Coach,” Cody asked tentatively, “are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he answered absently. “It’s just been a long season. A disappointing one.”

  “Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Martin,” Coach Smith said, interrupting himself with a long sigh, “your class is the best crop of athletes this school has had in a long time. Then Alston decides not to play football. Doesn’t want to mess up that pretty face or whatever. Berringer has an off year. Can’t grasp the concept of running around defenders, not into them. I get out-coached half the time. I try to put in these trick plays to confuse the opposition, and the only person I confuse is myself—and my own team.”