by Anne Eliot
Luckily my dad helps me reach full-max angst in his own special way by shouting, “If you mess this up—and I’m talking to the love-sick prima-donna front and center, I’m going to make the rest of your life a LIVING HELL!”
Patrick, already in crouch position, tosses a sympathetic look over his shoulder while the rest of the team glares at me with the same unspoken challenge.
My heart clenches with fury and my eyes go to a kid I’ve been tracking since the first quarter.
Number 11. Outside line backer. And I mean monster outside line backer.
The kid looks about one head taller than me, and he’s got to weigh as much as Optimus Prime. The kid is so huge I swear he makes Patrick look like a girl in a tutu. On my last play, I tripped him and called him slow as he hit the ground and I ran past him to score. It was just to egg him on, of course, but in the back of my mind I’m hoping he’s going to be pissed off enough to save me. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me, but staring into his eyes right now as we get ready for the ‘hike’ I know he did. I glance at him, then over to my dad. My mind starts spinning into play-time auto pilot.
Is it going to be this guy? Is it going to be today?
As I call out, “32-22-45,” and the ball fires from the hike into my hands, I tilt my chin at that halfback in what I hope is a challenge-salute. He tilts his chin in return as my feet skip-run backwards. He rushes forward, expression full of promise and all the players surge around me.
My dad shouting is the last thing I hear.
“Throw the damn ball, son, THROW THE BALL, YOU SUCKING IDIOT, EVERYONE’S WIDE OPEN. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
All sound around me grows into a suffocating rush of blood between my ears. I force myself not to look at Ellen in the bleachers because I know she hates this part of the game as much as I do. I can hear my heart going thud. thud, thud. And I’m struggling to hear my own thoughts as my feet steadily work backwards and avoid tackles.
Hate, thud, this, thud, stupid, thud game.
Thud, hate, thud, my life.
Thud, football, thud, hate, thud, hate. My dad.
Dad’s voice creeps in, “Cam! Throw the damn ball! The clock! Thirty seconds! Throw the ever-loving ball or MOVE, you IDIOT!”
I replace Dad’s voice with Ellen’s, saying to me that everything is going to be okay.
Ellen. Thud. Love. Thud. Love. Thud. Love…
I tuck the ball under my arm and run as fast as I can, directly toward Number 11. Which is easy, because the kid’s right here and he’d been coming at me full speed this whole time.
ellen
“No! No!” I’m screaming! I’ve been watching Cam look from his dad, who is shouting as usual from the sidelines, then back to a player who is bigger than a grizzly bear. He’s got the ball, and everyone’s running around him. The crowd’s been screaming “throw the ball” and even I can see more than one wide-open spot where Cam could land a good throw to his teammates, but he’s not throwing the ball! It’s like Cam’s gone crazy.
As has Patrick.
Patrick seems to be trying to singularly protect Cam. He’s brought down guy after guy as they’ve approached Cam, but all the while Cam’s been holding the ball, and run-walking backwards! His eyes won’t quit doing the Ping-Pong thing to his dad, to this huge player who’s managed to avoid everyone, even Patrick, who—as we all watch—is taken out in a huge and horrible dog pile!
“Oh, my poor boy!” Patrick’s mom gasps out.
Cam’s got no more protection and it’s all happening so fast. I don’t know much about football, but I do think I know…I know. I get what Cam’s trying to do! The extra big player’s full on running directly at Cam now. And Cam, like he’s just clicked a switch, is running also—not toward the end zone for the score like he usually does—but instead he’s running directly at this gigantic guy.
“Laura! Laura! Please. You’ve got to help me.” I let my legs dangle off the side of the bleachers and I drop, almost falling but Laura’s close behind. Patrick’s mom gets stuck in the crowd as everyone closes in, screaming at the top of their lungs.
Because our bleachers are close to the field I can still see what’s happening.
The crowd roars louder just as Laura lets me lean on her and has balanced me all the way to the sideline. I realize I’m right next to Cam’s dad and that alone has me shaking.
But Laura’s also shaking. I hear her say, “Where’s my Patrick?” But I don’t take my eyes off Cam because he’s about to—
Before I’m even aware of it, I’m screaming, “No! No!” at the very same time Cam’s dad is also shouting the same words, “No! NO!”
Cam gets hit and goes flying like some sort of rag doll high into the air as the clock runs out.
His dad and I are both screaming: “CAM! CAM!”
Whistles blow all over the place, flags are flying and the whole team, the cheerleaders and anyone near the sideline surges onto the field because it’s halftime. Mr. Campbell shoves past me but pauses as if he’s surprised to find me standing so close to him then he runs full speed onto the field to get to his son.
Already crying, I look at Laura. “Get me out there. Please. Help get me there.”
Laura nods and steps in front of me. “Get on. I’m as strong as a horse.”
With no time to protest, I do as she says and she’s galloping me out there, shouting as she goes. “Move out of the way. Move out of the bloody way or I’ll rip your heads off! Move it along—step aside you bloody onlookers. Camden Campbell’s girlfriend is coming through!”
She’s so loud and so startling with her accent and with her full tiger get-up, everyone just steps aside. I know the part where I’m sobbing and shrieking from her back has to be helping. “Let us through. Please! Let us through!”
In a half a minute, Laura deposits me next to Cam who’s laid flat, but thankfully seems relatively okay. We’ve even beat Cam’s dad and the coaches through the tightly knit crowd.
“Hey, beautiful,” he whispers up at me.
“Are you okay?” I breath calmer when I realize Nash, who is known to volunteer on the sidelines as the resident PT for the big games, is right here as well.
Player number 11 is kneeling by Cam’s feet. His helmet’s off. His cheeks are red and round, making him appear quite young and harmless without his gear. Poor kid seems really distraught. He keeps whispering to his own teammates who’ve gathered around. “Dude just went crazy. What the heck was he doing running at me like that? I didn’t know what to do. I just…tackled him…but damn, I didn’t know he’d fly so far.”
I pick up Cam’s hand just as I hear Cam’s dad screaming, “Let us through. Damn you kids, move out of the way!”
Nash asks him, “Where does it hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Cam groans out, curling onto his side. “Everywhere. Don’t worry, I think my body’s just surprised that I was in the air so long, you know?”
“Dude, you surprised us all.”
“Oww. Crap,” Cam groans again.
“What did he hit? Was it his shoulder?” Nash asks the player who tackled him. “Did anyone actually track how and where he landed?” He’s poking his arms and asking Cam, “Did you hit your head—did you twist your spine? Cam talk to me.”
Cam rallies and sits up which makes the crowd cheer and press in closer. “I’m good, Mr. Nash. I’m really good. I swear.”
My heart aches. I can tell by his voice that he’s not good. Not good at all.
“Oh, bloody ducks,” whispers Laura, meeting my gaze. She can tell the same.
“Look,” Cam goes on, moving his arms and legs which only increases my level of dread. I’ve spent years watching his arms and his legs be so fluid and flexible. Right now he moves them like a very old man. From the way he’s keeping his right arm next to his
body, kind of like how I do when my bad arm is spazzing, I wonder if he’s really and truly hurt?
Cam smiles at me and holds out his left arm. “Patrick—someone, help me stand. I want to spend a few minutes of this halftime with my girlfriend and wipe the worried look off her sweet face.”
“Aww…” someone calls out from the crowd.
Patrick hauls Cam to his feet and Laura and Nash help me stand as well. Cam’s dad breaks through the crowd and pushes between us, forcing me to fall backwards into Patrick.
“Don’t anyone touch him! Especially you, Ellen Foster. You’ve got no right to be here! And you—” Cam’s father grimaces at Laura and her tiger outfit then, as if he realizes there’s an audience he calls out in an announcer voice. “None of you kids need to be here. Please return to your seats.”
Cam steps forward, but wobbles slightly on his feet as though he can’t quite see straight. “I want my girlfriend here at least,” Cam shouts, but then grimaces as if shouting hurts his head.
“You don’t have a girlfriend.” Cam’s dad glares at me.
The crowd, instead of dispersing as Cam’s dad commanded, closes in more. I suppose ‘the disabled girl and the quarterback’ is the best halftime show our school has ever orchestrated. Because I can’t run how I want to run, I staple on a calm face and field glares from some of Cam’s and Patrick’s team mates as well as the cheerleaders who are also crowding in around us.
Mr. Campbell freezes me with another death glare as he goes on, “How about you take your circus side show of freaks out of here. All of you! Get off the damn field!” He moves in really close and stares down at me. I stare back. Up. Way up. “Now!”
Cam’s voice gets stronger. “Back off her, Dad, or I swear I will lay you flat!”
The crowd gasps and starts muttering because no one’s ever heard Cam, or anyone for that matter, speak like that to Mr. Campbell.
Cam tries to step around his dad to get to me, and even though my left calf has started cramping up as a warning that I’m stressed and about to have trouble, I don’t care. I only want to get to Cam. Touch him, put my hand in his to calm him down. He sounds so upset and I’m still really worried he’s not okay after that horrible tackle.
Cam’s dad makes this face like Cam’s some sort of annoying insect and pushes him back at the same time he uses his elbow to block me and almost knocks me to the ground!
“You need to lie down, son. You haven’t been cleared from a concussion yet.”
Cam’s dad says this through a creepy closed tooth smile as he looks around, nodding all funny to these chubby coach-looking guys wearing University of Michigan jackets. They’ve approached and are watching the whole interchange with extreme interest. Unaware of any tension, one of them calls out, “Good to see him standing! You okay there, boy?”
Cam nods.
A guy wearing an Ann Arbor jacket approaches Patrick. “That was some amazing defending there, son. I’m impressed. Very impressed. What year are you?”
“I’m a junior, sir.”
“If your parents are here, I’d like to speak to you and your coach after the game, if that’s possible.”
“Yes, sir. I’d be honored.” I can hear the hope and excitement in Patrick’s voice.
“Cam, please sit down and let the PT assess you.” Mr. Campbell’s voice has turned low and deadly like he’s daring Cam to mess up any of his scholarship deals or embarrass him in front of his coach friends. “Everyone else who’s not a coach or a member of this team, please clear the field!”
I can see Cam’s angry. He obviously wants to say or do something other than what he’s doing, but like me, he probably doesn’t want to mess up what the coaches from Michigan might offer Patrick or any of the other guys. It’s a rare event, these football recruiters sniffing around the farm boys of Canada.
Cam lowers himself down back to the grass, and even though I want to stay to hear what Nash has to say about Cam’s possible injuries, Laura and I turn away along with the rest of the crowd.
“I’m okay, Ellen. I promise. Wait for me after the last whistle,” he calls out after me.
“Yeah. Of course. In the bleachers. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll be there, too,” mutters Patrick with his eyes on Laura.
She nods just as Cam’s dad shouts, “I hope people don’t wait too long. I’ve got my players pretty busy after this game.”
“Yeah!” Tanner Gold calls out. “We’ve got team stuff—after. Remember, guys?”
“As soon as I can, Ellen!” Cam’s almost shouting now. “I’ll be there. I will.”
Heart pounding with dread, I fake my own smile and turn back because Cam’s voice sounds so desperate and trapped I want him to know—to feel—that these people can’t stop us from being together. I hope my voice holds enough strength and meaning to calm him down. “I’ll wait. However long it takes. Because I’m—you know.” My eyes are telling him how much I love him, but I can feel the heat of hundreds of glares so I say only, “I’m really, really patient.”
ellen
As the crowd, still cheering from the playoff win, exits the bleachers, giving me the extra space I need to finally stretch my legs, Laura hops up, taking her hair out of the tight bun she’d had it in for the last hour.
“I can’t stand it. I’ve got to get another slushy drink before they close the snack bar. Do you want one this time?”
Instead of answering, I peer over the crowd. This whole time, my gaze has always been on Cam. After the final score I’ve hardly caught sight of him in the milling, joyful crowd.
I know he’s hurt. From the way he’d been standing and favoring his shoulder, I’m pretty sure it’s also going to take some time to heal. I’m sure Nash told Coach and Mr. Campbell about the injury, but still Cam played the whole second half.
Instead of throwing the ball, he became the madman quarterback again. He played crazier than I’ve ever seen him, and from the way the crowd was going insane with cheering around me, Cam played even crazier than anyone had ever seen him play, ever!
Each play he was somehow twisting and rushing and literally flying through the air. He proved his reputation double today by being un-sackable and untouchable in every way.
With the help of Patrick who was throwing players to the ground like he was stacking firewood, Cam scored four times. At each touchdown, I could tell he was so angry about something, because he’d slam the ball down and walk away from his entire team as if to tell all of them to back off. When the defensive side was up, Cam simply stood at the chalk line, didn’t watch the game, crossed his arms and stared only at me.
No one messed with him. Not even his dad approached which I found really interesting, because Cam’s dad doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who likes to be told what to do.
I figure they had some sort of fight in the locker room. Probably over me. I’d have been really mad at Cam about the staring thing, because it drew too much attention toward me. The whole school was staring at me off and on, which I absolutely hated. If I didn’t have the feeling that Cam needed me—just needed to stare and to see me in the stands—I would kill him for what he did!
For him and because I knew he was upset, I tuned out everyone and stared back. I’m sure people thought we were mental. Five times at least my staring had Laura going crazy with, “Awww, you two are so cute,” or, “He loves you and you love him and, awww, it’s just so great and romantic.”
But there was nothing cute or great or romantic about this. This was me, somehow saving him. This was him, dying in front of me. The whole last quarter, it was all I could do not to slide off these bleachers and walk across the field so I could get to his side. I had this urge pick him up, for once. Tell him to run, and if he wouldn’t, I’d carry him far away from this football field and all the pressure he lives under.
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Sadly, I couldn’t…and he can’t because we’re only sixteen. I used to be excited and dream about being this age. But after these last two weeks, I’ve decided sixteen sucks.
Sixteen means you’re suddenly old enough and smart enough to see where you want to go in life, but when you head that direction, everyone freaks out and says you’re not ready because you’re still a kid. Worse, even though you know they’re wrong and you fight against their claims that you are too immature, that stupid kid—the kid that sadly, is still a part of you—somehow holds you back from the adult you are trying so hard to become.
Right now, Mr. Campbell is yanking on Cam’s arm. I figure it’s so he can’t turn around to look at me again. Or, maybe the guy is simply trying to keep his son from walking over to me—my heart grows heavy—watching Cam fight to get away.
My thoughts have made me hate myself because as much as Cam’s trying to get to me, I’m know I’m too exhausted from this long day in the bleachers to be able to get to him.
Cam dodges his dad’s grip, turns back once and holds up a finger as if to say he’s coming in a minute, but before I can wave back, his father is there again. This time, Mr. Campbell pulls down Cam’s arm and starts shoving him quite hard actually, until Cam’s ahead of everyone and is front and center, facing the news crew that’s appeared because of the big win.
The old guy who’d sat next to me the entire game told us that this is the first time in two decades our Huron High School team has made it into the provincial regionals.
The marching band starts up again and the cheerleaders are all over the place, acting like they won the football game all by themselves. The crowd on the field seems to be growing because of the celebrating rather than getting smaller. I’m happy for the team and for our whole town, but I’m also wishing all the noise and confusion could just be over. Because when it is, I will get to hold Cam’s hand again.
