Backfield Boys

by John Feinstein

They both knew it because one of the things the camp did was offer to let players buy their tapes to look at and analyze after they went home. They both nodded again.

  “So don’t you think that the staff looked at your tapes from the camp before we decided where to assign you?”

  “Did you look at Jason’s sprint times?” Tom asked. “Did you look at how he runs a route and catches anything within his air space?”

  “Did you watch Tom throw?” Jason added.

  The curled smile disappeared from Coach Ingelsby’s face.

  “If you two would like to apply for coaching jobs here so you can make decisions on who should play what positions, feel free. If you get hired, I’ll be glad to listen to your input on every player we have on the offensive side of the football. Until then, do me and yourselves a favor: keep your opinions to yourselves unless I ask for them.”

  “Do you ever ask players for their opinions?” Tom said.

  “No,” Coach Ingelsby said. He turned and walked away.

  Jason watched Coach Ingelsby stalk across the field toward the locker room without glancing back. “I thought that went well, didn’t you?”

  Tom didn’t answer for a moment, ignoring Jason’s joke. He had his arms folded, his helmet dangling from his right hand. Finally, he shook his head.

  “Look, these are bad guys,” he said. “At least this Ingelsby guy is, and so is Reilly. Haven’t seen enough of Coach Johnson yet to know if he’s the nice guy we met at seven-on-seven camp or—”

  “He’s not,” Jason said. “Remember, he was recruiting us then—trying to charm us—sell us on this place. He’s done selling. We’ve already bought. My guess is that the real Bobo is as big a jerk as Ingelsby and Reilly, and they’re taking their cues from him.”

  “Probably true,” Tom said. “We knew this was a jock factory when we signed up. I think we can live with that, especially going for free. I can deal with being yelled at by coaches, and so can you.” He thought for a moment, then added, “But there’s something rotten in Denmark.”

  “Huh?” Jason said.

  “Come on, you read Hamlet in English last year, didn’t you?”

  Jason shook his head. “CliffsNotes,” he said. “Got a B on the paper. What in the world are you talking about?”

  “One of the most famous quotes in literature, ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’”

  “Oh yeah,” Jason said, still embarrassed but trying to recover. “I remember now. Hamlet says it.”

  Tom shook his head. “No, Marcellus says it in the first act. But he’s saying that something is wrong with the way Denmark is being ruled and—”

  “I get it. Something’s rotten in the state of Virginia—at TGP.”

  Tom sighed. “Close enough.”

  “Well, sweet prince, we better go shower before we get in trouble for being late for dinner.”

  “Et tu, Jason?”

  “Whaa?”

  “Forget it,” Tom said, throwing his arm around his friend. “One Shakespeare play a day is enough. Let’s go eat.”

  * * *

  They walked over to the dining hall with Billy Bob, who was already out of the shower by the time they got to the locker room but had waited for them.

  Even though he’d eaten three meals a day there during the seven-on-seven camp, Jason still found the dining hall—the Robert G. Durant Dining Hall, apparently named for a donor rather than a general or a former president—overwhelming.

  The room was big enough to easily fit every TGP student into it with space to spare. It had seemed relatively empty the previous summer since there were only about four hundred campers—football players, boys’ and girls’ basketball and soccer players—eating in there every day. The skylights built into the high ceiling seemed to make everything in the room shine.

  Now, with the entire student body gathering three times a day for meals, it was quite loud, despite the high ceiling. Even amid the noise, Jason couldn’t help but notice that, although no one had been assigned a seat, there seemed to be very few coed tables and that for the most part players from each different team sat with one another.

  “So what happened out there with Ingelsby?” Billy Bob asked as they loaded their trays in the cafeteria line. “Y’all in trouble?”

  “Not yet,” Jason answered.

  They filled him in on the conversation.

  Billy Bob shook his head. “Makes no sense, really,” he said. “They need a quarterback this year, and I know good old Coach Johnson doesn’t like losin’. In fact, my daddy says there’s been talk around the Southeastern Conference that if Brian Daboll gets a job, Coach Johnson might be in line to be the next offensive coordinator at Alabama. If we’re good this season.”

  “Why would he leave a job where he has absolute power to be a coordinator and have to work for someone—even if it is Nick Saban?” Tom asked.

  “Because the head coach here only gets paid a hundred and fifty grand a year,” Billy Bob said. “The coordinators at Alabama make a million-plus.”

  “Coordinators?” Jason said, stunned.

  Billy Bob laughed. “You boys just don’t understand the South. “Everyone in the Southeastern Conference gets paid a lot of money.”

  They found their table just as the school chaplain was walking to a podium in the front of the room to deliver the premeal blessing. As quietly as they could, they slid into three empty chairs near the back of the room that Tom’s roommate, Anthony, had saved for them.

  “Welcome home, ladies and gentlemen,” the chaplain said before starting his blessing.

  “If this is home, how do I run away?” Jason whispered to Tom, causing him to snort with laughter.

  “Hey, freshmen, you need to shut up and show some respect during the blessing,” some kid hissed at them from across the table.

  “Blessing hasn’t started yet,” Tom hissed back.

  The hisser didn’t respond because the blessing had gotten under way and he had bowed his head.

  “Dear Lord,” prayed the chaplain, “we thank thee for our food today. May we be faithful stewards of thy bounty. Grant us the grace to walk where your son Jesus’s feet have gone…”

  Jason wouldn’t bow his head for a prayer mentioning Jesus as the son of God (and he thought praying about someone’s feet was an odd choice for mealtime). Tom didn’t bow his head because he believed that all prayer should be silent and private.

  Somehow, the hisser took time out of his own praying to make note that neither of them had bowed his head or murmured an Amen when the chaplain finished. “What’s the matter, you big-city boys don’t believe in God?” he snarled.

  Jason started to answer, but Tom put a hand on his arm in an I-got-this gesture.

  “How about we all mind our own business?” Tom said.

  The hisser glared at Tom but said nothing.

  The kid next to him, whom Jason recognized as Ronnie Thompson, one of the other quarterbacks, looked at Tom and said, “Are you Muslim or something? You pray to Allah?”

  “I’m not, but if I were, so what?” Tom said. “You pray to whomever you want, and I’ll pray to whomever I want, and we’ll leave it at that.”

  “Except you guys don’t pray at all, do you?” the hisser said.

  Billy Bob jumped in. “Fellas, I’m a good old boy from Gadsden, Alabama, and I go to church every Sunday and pray to the Lord Jesus Christ, just like you do. But at this school we’ve got folks from all over, and we all”—he glanced at Jason and Tom—“better learn that not everyone’s the same as us. Now can we all just eat? I’m starvin’.”

  “I say amen to that,” Tom said.

  There was a good deal of glaring in response to that comment, but Anthony reached for the plate of chicken in front of him and the table fell silent as everyone began chowing down.

  Amen, Jason thought, to that.

  5

  There wasn’t much talk at the table during the rest of dinner, other than people asking that rolls and pitchers of
iced tea be passed. The food wasn’t exactly Aberdeen Barn quality or even Roddin kitchen quality, but it was plentiful.

  While everyone was digging into the ice cream that had been served for dessert, Mr. Gatch went to the podium. “The good news is, you already heard my welcome-home speech today,” he said.

  Jason might have found the comment funny if his stomach wasn’t still churning and if he wasn’t already sick and tired of hearing this place called home over and over again.

  “You older kids know one of our traditions here at TGP is getting to know people,” Mr. Gatch continued. “Tonight, you all randomly picked a table at which to sit. Note the table because that is your table for the rest of this week. Next Monday, you’ll sit at a different table and stay there until the following Sunday night. And so on.

  “And, every Monday, at the end of dinner, you will spend an extra few minutes at your table getting to know your tablemates. Each of you will introduce yourself, talk about yourself for about a minute—where you’re from, what sport you play and your position, what your parents do, and maybe who your favorite teams or athletes might be. By Sunday, you will be expected to know the names of each of your tablemates and a little about them. If one of your coaches asks you next week who you sat with this week, you’d better know.” He smiled. “There are going to be rivalries here, and there will be competition on every team. But in the end we are all on the TGP team—regardless of what sport you play, boy or girl.”

  Jason could see that he wasn’t the only one at the table rolling his eyes. It was the first sign of anything resembling camaraderie he’d seen all day.

  Mr. Gatch was winding up. “If you’re a senior, start the introduction process at your table. If no one speaks up right away and you’re a junior, you start. And so on. Let’s go.”

  The massive room was instantly filled with noise as seniors around the room began their introductions. Apparently no one at Jason and Tom’s table was a senior, because there were several seconds of awkward silence. Finally, a boy at the end with a shock of blond hair and a nose that had clearly been broken at some point spoke up.

  “Looks like no seniors here,” he said. “I guess I’ll start. I’m Jeremy Winslow and I’m a junior from Belfast, Maine. I’m an offensive tackle, and I play on the wedge on kickoffs. My dad’s a fisherman, and my mom is the mother of six.” He smiled. “That seems to be enough to keep her busy.”

  They went around the table that way. Six of them were football players. Two played basketball, one was a swimmer, and one played soccer.

  It turned out that the hisser’s name was Rudy Nesmith and he was from Ottumwa, Iowa. The only thing Jason knew about Ottumwa, Iowa, was that Radar O’Reilly, one of the characters in his father’s favorite old television show, M*A*S*H, was from there.

  Jason and Tom went last.

  “Jason Roddin, New York City,” he began. “I’m a freshman and I am a…” He paused for a second, thinking about what he was about to say. There were no coaches at the table, just other students. “I’m a receiver,” he said, finally, causing both Tom and Billy Bob to give him surprised looks, “but they got me playing QB.”

  “Tom Jefferson, also from New York,” Jason’s friend said, jumping in. “No, I’m not related to the bigwig on the nickel.” That got a laugh from everyone except Nesmith. “I’m Jason’s quarterback, but they put me at receiver.”

  He shot Jason a look as if to say, Okay, I’m in, too.

  A few minutes later they were all heading back to the dorm.

  “You know this will get back to the coaches,” Billy Bob said quietly as they walked out of the dining hall.

  “You sure?” Jason said.

  “Absolutely,” Billy Bob said. “That kid Ronnie is a quarterback, remember? Think he’s not going to say something?”

  “Fine with me,” Tom said. “You, White Lightning?”

  Jason shrugged. “Why not? What are they going to do, throw us out?”

  “Only if we’re lucky,” Tom said. “Only if we’re lucky.”

  * * *

  They didn’t get that lucky.

  The next day, Jason was walking out of his last class of the morning—geology—when someone he didn’t recognize walked up to him and said, “Yo, are you Roddin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before you go to lunch, Coach Johnson wants to see you in his office.”

  “You mean, right now?”

  “You about to go to lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m guessing it means right now.” The kid was a little taller than Jason, with dark skin, black hair, and equally dark eyes.

  He turned to walk away.

  “Hey, hold up. Who are you?” Jason asked.

  The guy turned back.

  “Juan del Potro. I’m on the baseball team. As part of my scholarship, I have to be a football manager in the fall. Saves my parents twenty K a year, so I put up with it.”

  “You sound thrilled,” Jason said.

  “I’m an errand boy all fall,” Juan said. “But I couldn’t afford to be here if I didn’t do it. I’m not good enough to rate a full scholarship, only a partial. So I do it. It’s that or Boston Science—which has no sports.”

  Jason nodded and gave him a dap. “Got it. Thanks.”

  Juan smiled. “Don’t thank me, man,” he said. “My guess is, you aren’t being called in there to be told you had a great first day of practice.” He glanced at his watch. “And you better get going. Bobo doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I have no idea what this is about, but good luck. I suspect you’ll need it.” He turned and walked away.

  There was something about him Jason liked. Maybe it was the fact that he referred to Coach Johnson as Bobo.

  He pulled out his phone and sent Tom a text, then walked quickly from the academic area, across the wide lawn over to the side of campus where the athletic buildings and fields were. He was about to pull open the door to the gleaming three-story building marked TGP FOOTBALL when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “I should have known he’d call us in together,” Tom said.

  “You think this is about dinner?” Jason said.

  “Nah, I doubt he’s going to ask us what we want for dinner,” Tom joked.

  Jason batted him on the back of the head as they walked up the steps in the middle of the lobby that they knew led to the coaches’ offices. They had been here a year earlier when Coach Johnson had told them how much he wanted them to “be part of the Gatch family.”

  Chances were good this meeting wouldn’t be quite as cordial.

  At the top of the steps was the receptionist. Jason remembered her from their last visit at the end of seven-on-seven camp, because she was tall, African American, and stunning—not necessarily in that order.

  “Mr. Roddin, Mr. Jefferson, nice to see you again,” she said, giving them both a spectacular smile. She nodded to her right, where Jason knew the head coach’s office was located. “You can go right in. They are waiting for you.”

  They? Jason gave Tom a look, wondering who else was in there.

  The players walked into an outer office that had two desks—neither occupied. In front of them was a closed door with COACH JAMES JOHNSON emblazoned in gold lettering on the glass.

  Jason was about to push the door open, but Tom stopped him.

  “Knock,” Tom whispered. “Let’s not give him an excuse to start yelling before we’re even inside.”

  Jason nodded and knocked.

  “Come in!” a voice said from the other side.

  Jason turned the knob and pushed the door open into a giant office, with two picture windows on the right that looked out on the practice fields. On the left were bookshelves loaded with trophies and a handful of books. Coach Johnson sat behind a huge desk. Behind him was a wall filled with plaques.

  Arrayed in chairs around Coach Johnson’s desk were four other men.

  Jason recognized three of them: Coach Ingelsby, the offensive coordinator; Coach Re
illy, the receivers coach; and Coach Cruikshank, the quarterbacks coach. Coaches Ingelsby and Reilly appeared to be trying to stare holes through Jason and Tom. Coach Cruikshank gave the boys a quick wave.

  “You fellows know your O-coordinator and your position coaches,” Coach Johnson said without bothering to say hello.

  He nodded at the fourth man, who also appeared to be giving them the evil eye. “This is Coach George Winston. He’s our strength and conditioning coach. You’ll be getting to know him well.”

  Coach Winston showed no sign of wanting to shake hands or greet them in any way, so Jason and Tom just nodded at him. There were two empty chairs in front of the desk—with the coaches seated on either side.

  “Take a load off,” Coach Johnson said, pointing at the chairs.

  They both sat.

  Coach Johnson leaned forward in the huge, garish red executive’s chair he was sitting in and put his hands on the desk. “I understand you fellas are unhappy with your position assignments. That right?”

  Jason looked at Tom, who, as usual, was ready to take the lead.

  “Sir, with all due respect to you and”—he nodded at the other men—“to your coaches, I don’t think it’s so much being unhappy as confused. I’ve always played quarterback, and I played quarterback most of the time in the seven-on-seven camp last summer. Jason’s always been a receiver. You saw yesterday how fast he is in the sprint trials and—”

  “That’s enough, Jefferson,” Coach Johnson said. “Correct me if I’m wrong on this—because perhaps I misunderstood something Coach Ingelsby told me, and I’m always a believer in giving my players the benefit of the doubt—but didn’t you bring this up to him after practice yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  Coach Johnson put up a hand in a stop motion.

  “And didn’t he explain to you that all our decisions on positions at Thomas Gatch Prep are made according to what we have seen of players both live and on tape?”

  This time, Tom didn’t bother with the but, because he knew he’d be stopped. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  By now both boys knew where this was going.

  “Now, as time goes by, we move players around. Sometimes we do it because of injuries; sometimes we do it because a player shows us he’s better suited for another position. Happens all the time, in fact. So there may come a time, Jefferson, when you’re moved to a different position. Heck, you might be moved to defense at some point. You, too, Roddin.