Just A Game

by Dustin Stevens

  The minutes crawled interminably by, aided by Clay checking the clock every thirty seconds. He did his best to pay attention and took diligent notes, though class seemed even slower than usual.

  When the bell mercifully rang, Goldie jumped up and headed straight for the cafeteria. He knew better than to wait for Clay, who would be sojourning to the gym for another round of protein bars and relative silence.

  The class followed Goldie’s lead, quickly gathering their things and heading for the door. Idle chatter about music and the weather commenced as Clay took his time putting away his papers and stacking them atop his math book.

  When the room was empty, he put his books under one arm and shuffled over to Mrs. Elmner’s desk. He perched himself atop the closest desk and rested his foot on the seat, balancing the books on his knee.

  “Mrs. Elmner, do you have a minute?” Clay asked.

  Theresa Elmner looked up from her desk, unaware that Clay had been standing there. “Clay! Of course, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Clay said, half smiling.

  “No, no, not at all. What’s going on?”

  Clay paused for a moment and studied Mrs. Elmner. She was in her mid-fifties and could probably retire soon, though everybody seemed to think she would teach forever. The years had brought on some extra weight and a great many grey hairs, but had not touched how sharp her mind was.

  “Is this about the test?” Mrs. Elmner asked. “I know this is a busy time of year, with the season wrapping up and stuff, but you know I can’t change grades.”

  The thought embarrassed Clay and he stammered out, “No no! Not at all! I mean, it is about the test, but nothing like that.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Elmner said, surprise in her voice. “I was going to say, I thought you did rather well on this test.”

  “Well, I don’t know about rather well, but I’ve definitely done worse,” Clay agreed.

  Mrs. Elmner smiled, but said nothing.

  Clay took a breath and decided to go back to the beginning. “Earlier this week I had a meeting with Mrs. Norris. She and I sat down and discussed the requirements for being eligible to play college sports.”

  “Mhmm,” Mrs. Elmner said. “So you’re going to be playing football next fall?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Clay admitted, “but there’s been some interest and recruiting usually picks up after the season.”

  “And right now you’re not eligible?”

  Clay made a non-committal face and said, “It’s hard to say. Eligibility is determined by an organization called the NCAA Clearinghouse. They look at your grades, test scores, etc. and determine if you’re eligible to play.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Elmner said, nodding along.

  “Right now, I’m very border line. As you know, my grades are alright. As you probably don’t, my test scores weren’t that good.”

  “And by weren’t that good you mean?”

  “18 on the ACT. Not horrible, but with a 2.35 GPA it means I’m right on the line.”

  “So you need to raise your grades?”

  “Well, yeah, that wouldn’t hurt. The thing I’m worried about there though is I’ve only got one more grading period before everything needs to be submitted to the Clearinghouse.”

  “So while you can improve, it might not pull your GPA that far.”

  “Exactly,” Clay said.

  Outside the classroom a few students shuffled by, talking loudly. Both Clay and Mrs. Elmner glanced towards the door, then turned their attention back to the conversation.

  “When are you retaking the test?”

  “December. Six weeks from Saturday.”

  “Still a decent bit of time,” Mrs. Elmner said. “What do you need to score?”

  “I don’t know that there is a specific target score, just that I need to raise it some. I’m hoping for 22 or 23, but will take anything out of the teens.”

  Mrs. Elmner gave a non-committal twist of her head and said, “Difficult, but doable.”

  “Thanks,” Clay said, half-smiling. “That’s what I’m hoping for. Anyway, that’s why I’m here. I’m hoping you can point me in the right direction.”

  “Point you in the right direction?”

  “Well, my last test I scored a 20 on three of the four sections. Math was my weakest at a 16. I thought I would start there.”

  Mrs. Elmner’s eyes bulged a touch and she said, “When did you last take it?”

  “Summer before last, between my sophomore and junior years.”

  “So before you had me for a teacher?” Mrs. Elmner said. “That in itself should help a lot.”

  Clay laughed and said, “That it should.”

  Mrs. Elmner brought her hands together in front of her and said, “What kind of help were you looking for?”

  “I’m not even sure,” Clay said. “Mrs. Norris mentioned some prep courses. I’m sure there are books around. I guess I’m just looking for some suggestions.”

  Mrs. Elmner slid her thick-framed glasses down her nose and set them on the grade book in front of her. “Are you free at this time every day?”

  “Yeah. It’s my lunch period, though I always bring my lunch.”

  “I know you only have a couple days of your season left. Starting Monday, bring your lunch here during this period and I’ll tutor you.”

  Clay’s mouth dropped open. “Uh, that’s, very kind of you, but please know that wasn’t what I was getting at. I know this is your free period too.”

  Mrs. Elmner waved a hand and said, “I’ve had a free period every day for thirty years. Missing a few weeks worth won’t kill me.”

  “Thank you...so much,” Clay said.

  A smile spread across her face and she said, “You are more than welcome. People don’t realize that things like this are why we get into teaching.”

  “Things like this?”

  “Yeah, students seeking out our help. Wanting to better themselves. It’s one of the most rewarding parts of our job.”

  Clay picked the books up from his knee and stood. “Thank you again. Really, I appreciate it.”

  “You’re very welcome, Clay.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The white athletic tape made a stretching noise with each pull as Clay wound the roll around his right cleat time after time. Beside him Goldie pulled his shoulder pads on over his black neoprene shirt and nodded in approval at what he saw.

  “Busting out the tape today. Nice.”

  “Just on the right foot,” Clay said. “Last one of the season, got to pull out all the stops.”

  Goldie smiled and said, “You realize he won a helluva lot more of these than you have this year right?”

  “Hey, the man said winner-take-all. I’m holding him to that.”

  Goldie snorted as Clay finished wrapping his foot and tossed the roll of tape into his locker. It made a loud rattling sound as it hit against the aluminum locker and another as Clay grabbed his helmet and slammed it shut.

  Gripping his helmet by the facemask he waited for Goldie to finish and together they walked over to the coach’s office along the back wall. The door stood cracked open a few inches and Goldie hollered, “Hey Coach Bellick, it’s Judgment Day! You ready?”

  A set of fingers wrapped themselves around the edge of the door and pulled it back and a moment later Bellick’s face appeared. He held a finger to his lips, then held it up as if to say ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Both Clay and Goldie nodded as Bellick’s head disappeared. Behind him Clay caught a glimpse of Coach Paulus in the same red windbreaker and black cap before the door swung closed.

  Clay paused for a moment and stared hard at the door.

  “Dude, you coming?” Goldie asked from the doorway, snapping Clay from his stare.

  “Let’s do it,” Clay said, half-jogging a few steps to catch the door Goldie held for him.

  The two of them walked together across the parking lot to the field where Timms and Aust
in were already kicking balls. Ahead of them Matt turned and said, “About damn time fellas!”

  “Maybe we just don’t need as much practice as you do!” Goldie called.

  They could see Matt’s head bob a few times and hear him talking, but couldn’t make out the words.

  “What do you think he’s saying right now?” Clay asked.

  “I bet he’s saying, ‘You know, Goldie’s right. They’re just being nice by letting me catch a few extra balls.’”

  “You know, somehow I don’t think that’s what he’s saying,” Clay countered.

  Goldie weighed it for a moment and said, “Hmm. Maybe he’s saying that he hopes I don’t pick him later?”

  Clay snickered and said, “Yeah, I don’t think that’s what he’s saying either.”

  “No?”

  “Naw, besides, you wouldn’t actually pick him would you?”

  “Hell no. I’m sure the Little boys will pick each other. Bad enough to have two seniors going up against one another.”

  “Yeah, I hadn’t thought about that. More than one would be poor form.”

  “You figure out who you’re picking?”

  Clay smiled and said, “I’ve got something worked out.”

  “And I’m guessing you’re not sharing?”

  “Oh, you’ll see soon enough,” Clay answered as they reached the grass and took off in opposite directions.

  Clay jogged over to where Tripp was already stretching and did a few quick form runs. He moved into a brief dynamic stretch and kicked a few balls towards Matt.

  “Breaking out the tape?” Tripp asked.

  “No reason to hold back,” Clay said, smiling as he swung his leg into another punt.

  “You think you got him today?” Tripp asked.

  Before Clay could answer, the sound of a shrill whistle erupted from the parking lot. Everybody on the practice field looked over to see Bellick running towards them, dodging cars like he was a running back in the open field and blowing the whistle every few seconds.

  Clay and Tripp both laughed as Tripp said, “That man’s crazy.”

  “He’s high on life, that’s for damn sure,” Clay agreed.

  Bellick came to the last car in the lot, a faded grey Honda Accord, stutter stepped and spun around it, then broke into a sprint for the end zone.

  “Bellick breaks into the open field!” he yelled, narrating his own play. “He’s at the thirty, the twenty, the ten! He’s only got one man left to beat!”

  As he reached the edge of the practice field he stopped cold in his tracks and stood with his hands on his hips. The whistle fell from his lips and he pointed a stony finger at Clay. “And that man is you!”

  A cacophony of laughs broke out across the field, leaving several of the players bent over.

  “Shouldn’t even bother showing up again today, right Coach?” Clay called.

  “It’s going to take more than a fancy tape job to beat me today Hendricks!”

  Clay smiled and motioned Bellick towards him, grabbing another ball and attempting to punt it. He was still laughing from the entire show and the ball caught the side of his foot and fluttered to the side.

  Bellick pulled up beside him and bounced a couple of times in place. “I told you. Look at how scared you are. Can’t even kick the ball.”

  Clay smiled bemusedly and caught the snap from Timms, stepped into and booted a kick high into the air.

  “That one didn’t look too bad,” Clay offered.

  Bellick swung his leg from side to side and front to back several times. “No, no it didn’t. You’re pumped up for this one I can see.”

  Clay kicked another one and waited as Timms went to fetch it back from Matt. “Coach, can I ask what was going on with Coach Paulus back there?”

  A look of surprise caught Bellick and for a moment he stopped bobbing in place. It quickly passed and he resumed warming up. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re in season, Coach. Isn’t that a violation?”

  “That...that’s not what you think it is,” Bellick said.

  “How so?”

  “Just, trust me. Definitely no violation,” Bellick said.

  Clay’s eyes narrowed a little and he stared for a couple of seconds before letting it go.

  “Alright boys, bring ‘em in here!” Bellick called, motioning with his hands. “It’s put-up-or-shut-up time!”

  Timms and Austin both stopped kicking and jogged over to where Bellick and Clay were. Goldie joined Matt on the far side of the field and began lobbing indiscernible comments down at them.

  “The rules,” Bellick announced in an official tone. “Start with a ball in hand from behind the thirty yard line when kicking, best two out of three wins.”

  Clay grinned and nodded. Tripp tossed each of them a ball underhanded and moved off to the side with Timms and Austin.

  “On three,” Bellick said. “One...two...three!”

  Side by side they each stepped forward and dropped their ball, swung their leg through and connected as hard as they could. The force of their leg swing brought them both off the ground as Clay’s burst forth end over end and Bellick’s moved in a perfect spiraling arch.

  They each edged forward and watched as Clay’s hit and bounced high into the air. A moment later Bellick’s hit behind it.

  “Look at that boys! Don’t even need a warm-up kick!” Bellick crowed.

  “Come on, get the balls back here!” Clay yelled beside him.

  They waited a few minutes for Goldie and Matt to return the balls and lined up for round two.

  “On three. One...two...three!” Bellick called.

  Again they both went through their motions and connected at the same time. Two hollow thuds sounded out as Clay’s kick shot forward in a tight serpentine spiral and Bellick’s fluttered towards the parking lot.

  “Looks like we’ve got a tie ballgame!” Goldie called from across the field as he ran for the parking lot to chase down Bellick’s kick.

  Bellick and Clay stood side-by-side and waited for the balls to return. Bellick bobbed up and down as Clay shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Four years of kicking competition comes down to one last kick,” Bellick said.

  Clay chuckled and said, “Don’t you think we’re well past psych jobs at this point?”

  “Never get past a good psych job,” Bellick said, catching the pass from the Goldie. He turned and grinned at Clay as the second ball came in and they returned to the starting line.

  “Would you like the honors this time?” Bellick asked.

  “Alright,” Clay said.

  “Come on now Clay, you got this!” Goldie called out. Beside him Matt clapped his hands together, bouncing from side to side.

  “Here we go now, for all the marbles,” Timms said.

  “Last one!” Austin chirped.

  “One...two...” Clay counted out. “Three!”

  In unison they stepped forward and punted. Side by side the balls floated upwards, both moving in knuckleball fashion against the pale grey sky.

  Everybody present edged forward as the kicks wound through the afternoon air.

  Bellick’s was the first to hit, followed a fraction of a second later by Clay’s. Goldie and Matt both ran forward, Matt with his hands held less than a foot apart.

  “Clay by this much!” Matt shouted out.

  Beside them Tripp, Timms and Austin all raised their hands and shouted, “Oooh!”

  “Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!” Goldie called out, shadowboxing the air.

  Clay stood and laughed, shaking his head at the excitement around him. Beside him Bellick stood with a smile on his face and said, “Bout damn time you beat me.”

  “You’ve been waiting a long time for that haven’t you?” Clay asked.

  “Damn right,” Bellick said and extended a hand to Clay. The two shook, rotated their hands around the thumb and brought their shoulders together into a hug.

  Behind them a familiar v
oice called, “So what happened?” from the parking lot.

  Bellick released the hug and lifted Clay’s hand in the air towards Coach Stanson and the rest of the team.

  “After four years, the kid finally did it!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Black A 8! Black A 8! Set...Hut!” Clay barked in a deep guttural tone. A moment later junior center Hal Renton slapped the cold, hard ball into his hands and Clay began striding backward from the line.

  The sounds of grunts and shoulder pads clapping filled his ears as he completed his five step drop and scanned his receivers.

  On his right Marksy sprinted forward seven yards and broke hard for the sideline. To his left, sophomore slot Andy Wells ran a drag towards the middle of the field. Beside him, Goldie blocked for three seconds before releasing out into the flat.

  If pressured, any of the first three reads were open for Clay to unload it. Instead, he paused for an extra second and waited for Matt to gain separation before launching the ball down the right sideline.

  The ball shot away from Clay like a rocket, flying straight and true in a tight spiral. With each moment the ball was in the air Matt gained a little more distance from the cornerback covering him. He sprinted as hard as he could for several long seconds, extended his hands and cradled the pass. Without breaking stride he covered the last ten yards into the end zone and threw his hands high into the air.

  A smattering of cheers went up from the handful of people watching practice on the sidelines. A few were retired townspeople like the Killer B’s that came every afternoon with their lawn chairs and watched. Most were there for the festivities of the day, leaning against the side of their car or sitting on the tailgates of trucks.

  Coach Stanson clapped as the players returned to the huddle and slapped Clay on the helmet as he walked by. “That’s a way to look him off. Go through your reads before taking the deep ball.”

  “Yeah, Coach,” Clay said.

  Stanson held his whistle to his lips and blew it sharply three times before letting it fall back to his chest. “Alright boys, that’s enough for today.”

  A handful of people climbed out of their cars and began walking over to the sideline and another small round of applause went up.