They had stayed in Jackson the previous summer and, although they had crossed the quad to the dining hall every day, they hadn’t really been aware of the four buildings that housed the classrooms. Now they were.
The athletic facilities would have made most colleges proud. The football building had three levels, with locker rooms in the basement, a weight room and administrative offices on the main floor, and coaches’ offices and classrooms for team meetings on the second floor.
The two adjacent athletic buildings housed the rest of the boys’ teams and all of the girls’ teams.
Jason remembered crossing the Columbia University campus with his dad en route to basketball games there. This place was a good deal bigger—and more spread out.
When they arrived at the TGP football building, they had to go through another registration process, checking in at the equipment cage so they could be given all their practice gear and assigned lockers.
When Tom asked if number 10 was available—in honor of Eli Manning—the equipment manager looked at him as if he had asked for the keys to his house.
“We don’t even let the seniors pick their numbers,” he growled. “Why in the world would we care what number a freshman wants?”
He shoved the gear at him, and Jason noticed the number on the back of the top was 81. Tom was about to point out that 81 wasn’t a quarterback’s number but stopped when Jason put a hand on his shoulder.
“Later,” Jason said softly.
Jason was very pleased with being given number 19. He remembered that Lance Alworth, the San Diego Chargers Hall of Fame wide receiver, had worn 19. He liked that.
“Willis Reed,” Tom said, remembering that the great Knicks center had worn 19. “Johnny Unitas, too.”
“Lance Alworth,” Jason said. “Wide receiver.”
“Got it,” Tom said.
The freshmen, as expected, were tucked into the back corner of the locker room. That wasn’t a problem, though, because the locker room was huge. Jason guessed there were about eighty players getting into their practice outfits—thankfully, they had been told to wear shorts and no pads for the first workout—and the room would easily have space for a hundred players if need be.
Every player’s locker had his name on it, lined up alphabetically. Jason found himself between Gerry Richards and Larry Ross. Both were clearly linemen. They all shook hands and said hello and then dressed in near silence. The rest of the locker room was much louder, old acquaintances being renewed. The freshmen eyed one another, sizing everyone up. The older players, who had already proved themselves for at least one year, were a lot looser than the new kids on the block.
Tom and Jason followed the older guys down the hall and onto the practice field. There were actually two practice fields: one had FieldTurf—the currently in-vogue artificial surface—and one real grass. During the camp, they had worked out on the FieldTurf every day, but the coaches had told them the grass field existed because some of TGP’s road games were played on real grass and the team would practice on it during those weeks. The stadium, which Jason knew seated about ten thousand fans, was on the other side of the two practice fields and was apparently used a couple of days a week for practice once the season began.
They made their way across the nearest practice field to a small bleacher. Everyone sat down to wait for the coaches. There was clearly a pecking order here, too: the seniors sat in the first two rows, the juniors in the next two, and so on up to the freshmen at the top.
At precisely 3:00, the coaches walked across the practice field to the bleachers, led by Coach Johnson. Jason had googled him when the possibility of attending the seven-on-seven camp at TGP had first come up. He was fifty-one years old and was what was known as a football lifer. He had gotten the nickname “Bobo” growing up in Macon, Georgia, because when he was born his older sister couldn’t say “Bobby,” which was what his mother had wanted to call him. He had gone on to “live the dream”—his words in one interview—of playing at the University of Georgia and had been a starting linebacker for three years with a reputation for hitting anything that moved and hitting it hard. He had been honorable mention All-American as a senior and All–Southeastern Conference as a junior and a senior.
But he’d gone undrafted because he wasn’t considered big enough at six-two, 220, to play linebacker in the NFL, and he wasn’t fast enough to play safety. He had been invited to the Atlanta Falcons camp and been cut, then signed with the New York Giants practice squad—where he lasted, if Jason remembered correctly, for six weeks. Then he’d signed with the Montreal Alouettes of the Canadian Football League, but a torn knee ligament, an ACL, had ended his career.
The next year he’d gone back to Georgia as a graduate assistant. He’d risen through the ranks to become the linebacker coach under Ray Goff. He’d kept his job when Goff was fired and remained there when Jim Donnan and then Mark Richt took over the top coaching spot. But in 2005, Richt had passed him over to bring someone in from the outside as defensive coordinator and Johnson had left to take the job at TGP, assured that Mr. Gatch wanted to build a football program that competed nationally and had facilities comparable to IMG Academy’s.
According to one story Jason had read, it was now considered only a matter of time before Johnson left TGP for either an NFL coordinator job, a college head-coaching job, or a coordinator’s position at one of the big-time college programs. In the meantime, though, the Thomas Gatch Prep Patriots had gone 24–2 the last two seasons.
Coach Johnson looked to Jason like he could still play linebacker. There was no sag in his body, no sign of anything resembling a belly. He stood in front of his players ramrod straight, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, a TGP baseball cap pulled tightly over his head.
“Upperclassmen, welcome home,” he said, smiling—an expression that really didn’t fit his face. “Freshmen, other newcomers, welcome to your new home.”
From there, he introduced the players to the fourteen assistant coaches, some of whom Jason and Tom had worked with at the seven-on-seven camp, and four of whom were new to the staff. Jason knew that Mark Cruikshank, the quarterbacks coach, and Terry Reilly, who coached the wide receivers, were both new. They were young and had been assistant coaches at other high schools in Virginia. He figured a coach who knew none of the players—as opposed to someone who had already worked with some of them—was a good thing for him and for Tom. Everyone would be starting from the same spot in working with his position coach.
“We’ll ramp up slowly this first week,” Coach Johnson said. “We want all of you to learn and relearn our offense and our defense. Beginning tomorrow, we’ll spend forty-five minutes each afternoon before practice in the classroom so your coaches can teach you the plays and the play calls. By next week, you’ll be expected to know them, so be sure you are listening and taking notes in your playbooks during those sessions. You’ll have academic homework each night, and you’ll have football homework, too.” He paused as if waiting for questions.
There were none.
He went on. “Today, we just want to go through some basic drills. We’ll get you with your position coaches and then work on sprints, agility, ball handling. Linemen, you’ll report to the sleds when the skill position guys start on their drills.
“I’ve introduced the coaches by position, so each of you report to your position coach when we’re finished here. If you are in doubt about your position—or you’re not sure what your best position will be, check with the appropriate coordinator. Clear?”
There were nods and a lot of “Yes, sirs,” particularly from the upperclassmen. Jason felt some adrenaline beginning to surge through him. He couldn’t wait to run some sprints and run under some footballs—preferably thrown in his direction by Tom.
As if thinking the same thing, Tom nudged him slightly in the ribs and whispered, “Ready?”
“Born ready, Bull’s-Eye,” Jason whispered back.
“Okay,” Coach Johnson said, raising his
voice. “Coaches, spread out! Players report on the whistle!”
He blew his whistle sharply and everyone began scrambling off the bleachers. Jason kept his eyes on Coach Reilly, who was jogging in the direction of the end zone to the right.
“See you in a few,” Tom said, trotting in the direction of Coach Cruikshank, who was headed for the far sideline.
Coach Reilly was holding a clipboard when Jason and the other receivers arrived where he was standing.
“Just to make sure that everyone who is here should be here, answer up when you hear your name,” he said.
Jason looked him over. He was young—no more than thirty—and was wearing the same outfit as all the other coaches: blue cap with TGP on it, white shirt emblazoned with GATCH PREP FOOTBALL, blue shorts, and blue-and-white sneakers.
He began ticking off names in alphabetical order. There were, by Jason’s count, twelve receivers standing in the circle around the coach. Jason wasn’t listening so much as sizing up the competition, trying to figure out whom he was going to be competing against for playing time.
“Jefferson!” Coach Reilly said.
That got Jason’s attention. Why was he calling Tom’s name? Or was he? It was certainly possible that there was more than one player named Jefferson on the team. But no one responded.
Coach Reilly tried again. “Jefferson!” he said, his voice a bit louder.
Still no answer.
Jason put a hand up. “Excuse me, Coach?” he said in a timid voice.
“You Jefferson?” Coach Reilly said.
“No, sir, but—”
Coach Reilly stopped him. “Let me finish the roll and then tell me why you felt the need to interrupt.”
That reply didn’t give Jason a warm and fuzzy feeling about his new coach. He waited for Coach Reilly to call his name. He never did. When the coach had finished calling the rest of the names on the list he looked up from the clipboard at Jason. Everyone else was also looking at him.
“And you are?” Coach Reilly’s tone was remarkably snide, given that Jason had only said three words.
“I’m Jason Roddin,” he answered, feeling his stomach beginning to turn over—although he wasn’t exactly sure why.
“Well, Rodding, you aren’t on the list of wide receivers,” Reilly said. “Could you be in the wrong place?”
Jason ignored the mispronunciation of his name, but he was beginning to think that maybe he was in the wrong place. And it had nothing to do with the list he apparently wasn’t on.
4
Jason was still trying to figure out how to respond to Coach Reilly’s question about whether he was in the wrong place when he noticed Tom and a coach he couldn’t identify walking in their direction.
“Coach Reilly, I think we’ve got a couple of newcomers who are a bit confused,” the coach said as he and Tom reached the receiver group.
“Well, Coach Ingelsby, I’ve got one youngster here who isn’t on the receiver list, so maybe you can clear things up for all of us,” Coach Reilly answered, a snarky smile—at least it looked snarky to Jason—on his face.
Jason realized then that the other coach was Don Ingelsby, the offensive coordinator; he’d heard of him but hadn’t ever met him during the seven-on-seven camp.
“This is Thomas Jefferson,” Coach Ingelsby said, putting an arm around Tom. “He thought he was supposed to be with the quarterbacks. I’m betting you have Jason Roddin here with you when he should be with the QBs.”
“That explains it,” Coach Reilly said.
“Roddin, you need to report to Coach Cruikshank—and you better do it on the double.” He smiled the same snarky smile. “Jefferson, better late than never. Welcome.”
Jason looked at Tom, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say, I don’t get it either.
“Coach, excuse me,” Jason said, “but there’s been a mistake.”
“And we’ve cleared it up,” Coach Ingelsby said before Jason could go any further.
Jason shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t think so—”
Coach Ingelsby held up a hand to stop him. “Roddin, this is your first day, so I’m going to cut you some slack. But you need to learn that at TGP you don’t contradict your coaches—especially on the practice field. When practice is over you can ask your position coach a question if you’re confused about something. Now I’d suggest you get over to the QB group in a hurry, because you’re about five seconds away from a long run and I doubt that’s how you want to start your first practice.”
Once again, everyone was looking at Jason. Once again, his thought was that the coach had it wrong; Jason did want to run—and keep going until he got to I-64 and could hitch back to New York from there.
Instead, without saying another word, he began walking, then jogging, in the direction of midfield, where the quarterbacks were gathered.
* * *
When he arrived, much to his surprise, Coach Cruikshank didn’t give him a hard time.
“Some confusion I take it, Jason?” he said. “We’ll straighten it out after practice, okay?”
Jason was surprised by the friendly tone, and by being called by his first name. He just nodded and went to line up for the sprints that were apparently first on the practice agenda.
His adrenaline still up, Jason finished well ahead of the other quarterbacks at all three distances—even the 10-yard sprint, where he finished a full step ahead of Billy Bob, who was second.
“Why are you here?” Billy Bob said quietly as they walked back to the starting line. “I thought Tom was the QB.”
“He is,” Jason said, but didn’t have time to say anything more.
When it came time to throw, Jason didn’t do badly, but the star was Billy Bob. The kid could throw the ball over the moon, Jason decided after watching him. He had to admit, the Alabama boy’s arm was stronger than Tom’s, but he’d still bet on Tom when it came to accuracy. There was one other QB who caught Jason’s eye—Jamie Dixon, a rangy kid who looked to be about six foot four and who, he remembered hearing, had been tabbed as the heir apparent to the two quarterbacks who had graduated.
The sun was still blazing hot and the humidity still thick enough to peel when Coach Johnson’s whistle brought all the players and position coaches to the midfield area.
“Take a knee,” Coach Johnson ordered, and they all did. Tom had veered away from the receivers and was kneeling next to Jason.
“Good first day,” Coach Johnson said. He pointed in the direction of the top row of stands, where cameras were set up. “As you know, we tape everything that goes on here. I know it’s all digital nowadays, but I’m old-school and I still call it tape. By the time we practice tomorrow, the coaches will have some comments for you based on what they see on the tape tomorrow morning.
“They’ll also start scheduling you for individual tape sessions and, once we get all the plays in place this week, we’ll spend some time on tape before practices. Tape, gentlemen, is a key to opening the door to football success. Come to those sessions ready to focus and work!”
They were all nodding. Jason felt himself dreading tape sessions already.
“We’ll scrimmage on Saturday,” Coach Johnson continued, “and that will go a long way toward establishing a depth chart for the opener. We only get two weeks of preseason practice, so come prepared mentally and physically every day.” He paused, then finished, “Okay, that’s it. Hit the showers.”
Everyone stood up, and most of the players began walking slowly in the direction of the locker room. Billy Bob came over to where Tom and Jason were standing.
“So what happened?” he asked, glancing around as if wanting to be sure no one else was listening. “Why’d they switch y’all?”
“No idea,” Tom said.
“I think we need to talk to Coach Johnson,” Jason said.
“Bad idea,” Tom said. “My guess is that this is a place where, if you go over someone’s head, it won’t be looked on kindly. I think we go to the position coaches.�
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“Equally bad idea,” Jason said. “I was only with Coach Reilly a couple of minutes, but my sense is that he’s a serious jerk.”
Tom nodded. “Unfortunately, your sense is correct.”
“Why don’t you compromise?” Billy Bob said. “Go to the offensive coordinator. He’d be the one who had input, if not final say, into position assignments anyway.”
“Coach Ingelsby?” Jason said. “He didn’t strike me as a charmer either.”
“If you’re looking for charm, you’re in the wrong place,” Billy Bob said.
“I’ve been thinking that most of the afternoon,” Tom said.
Jason was about to agree when they looked up and saw Coach Ingelsby walking in their direction.
“Ready or not…” Billy Bob muttered, and he turned and headed to the locker room, leaving Jason and Tom to meet their fate, in the form of their coordinator.
* * *
“You guys like standing in the hot sun?” Coach Ingelsby said, taking off his cap to wipe his brow, the hint of a smile curling his lips just a bit. The effect was more frightening than friendly.
“No, sir,” Tom said. “But we were hoping to talk to you for a moment.”
Coach Ingelsby turned his palms up and spread them. “Talk,” he said. “Floor’s yours.”
Jason and Tom glanced at each other. Tom was a lot better speaking on his feet than Jason, so he took the lead.
“Coach, we think there’s been some confusion—”
“About what?” Coach Ingelsby broke in. It was pretty clear that he wasn’t feeling terribly patient, despite saying that the boys had the floor.
Tom picked up on the fact that he’d better cut to the chase. “I’m a quarterback,” he said. “Jason’s a receiver. Somehow I ended up today with the receivers, and Jason ended up with the quarterbacks.”
Coach Ingelsby folded his arms. “You boys were both in seven-on-seven camp a year ago, weren’t you?”
They both nodded.
“You know we taped everything there, just like we tape practices here, don’t you?”
Backfield Boys Page 3
