Backfield Boys

by John Feinstein

  “Let’s just try to get the fair catch down today,” Coach Gutekunst said. “We can worry about dealing with a return tomorrow—maybe.”

  Jason ended up catching the last two punts—catching the fifth one cleanly, then bobbling the sixth one before holding on. He had a long way to go. He was about to say something to Coach Gutekunst when he heard Coach Johnson’s whistle. There was only so much time to spend on third-string punt returners.

  “Not quite there yet, huh?” Tom said as he jogged to the sideline while the starters lined up to scrimmage for a few series.

  “You saw it,” Jason said. “Nowhere close.”

  Tom put his hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get it,” he said. “Just be patient with yourself.”

  Jason appreciated the encouraging words—especially from Tom. He’d been quieter than usual during the week, clearly brooding about his status with the team. About the only time he’d perked up was when he got a text from Teel that simply said,

  Making some progress.

  Teel and Robinson weren’t coming to the game Friday night, because they had to travel with Virginia to a game at Indiana. Jason thought it must be pretty cool traveling around the country to go to games—and get paid for it. Maybe, he thought, if football didn’t work out for him, he’d become a sportswriter.

  * * *

  He voiced that thought at lunch on Thursday, his stomach already twisting at the thought of trying to catch punts again at practice that afternoon.

  “It’s a dying profession,” Tom said. “Papers are folding, and there’s so much stuff floating around the Internet that guys are begging for work.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Jason asked.

  Tom smiled. “Because I had the same thought as you. Did a little research. The money now is all in TV. Look at all the sportswriters who are on the major channels. That’s how you get rich.”

  “You mean like Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon?” Jason said, thinking of the hosts of his favorite ESPN show, Pardon the Interruption.

  “Them and a lot of others,” Billy Bob said. “Where I live, Paul Finebaum’s a big star on TV and radio. He started in newspapers, too.”

  “So why can’t I do that?” Jason asked.

  “You can,” said Juan del Potro, who’d been listening. “You just have to get in line with every other single guy—and girl—who is into sports. They all want to be on TV if they aren’t good enough to be pro athletes.”

  “Yeah, and when the pro athletes retire, they all want a TV gig, too,” Anthony said. “And you’re behind every one of them in that line.”

  “Some want to be coaches,” Jason said.

  “Only if they can’t get a TV job,” Anthony said.

  Everyone laughed. Jason didn’t think it was so funny.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Jason finally caught and returned a punt. The problem was, he returned it backward.

  The special-teams segment of practice was always longer on Thursdays, so he was given ten chances instead of six.

  After he had gone five-for-nine making fair catches, including fielding the last two smoothly, Coach Gutekunst asked, “Ready to try one for real?”

  Jason wasn’t certain that he was, but he wasn’t about to say no. “Absolutely,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t quavering.

  The teams lined up, and punter Todd May, who was being recruited by just about every major college in the country, spiraled a high kick in Jason’s direction. Jason picked it up in the air and realized he needed to back up to catch it. He retreated, not bothering to take his eyes off it for fear he’d lose track of it. He caught it cleanly and, just as he did, someone slammed into him. He fell backward, losing control of the ball as he hit the ground. Someone else came in, scooped it up, and trotted into the end zone.

  “We’re gonna say the ground caused the fumble,” Coach Gutekunst said as Jason’s tackler helped him to his feet. “So, technically, you caught it and got tackled for about a five-yard loss. In a real game, that was one you’d fair-catch. We’ll work more next week.”

  Oh joy, Jason thought. He was starting to be a little jealous of Tom, standing safely on the sideline, his body very much in one piece. Jason wasn’t so sure about his.

  * * *

  The game against Culpeper Prep on Friday was a cross between the DeMatha game and the South Hill game. The players boarded two buses—one for the offense, one for the defense—for the trip to Culpeper. It was only about sixty-five miles from the outskirts of Scottsville to the outskirts of Culpeper, but a lot of the road was two-lane, so it took about an hour and a half to get there.

  Culpeper’s stadium was considerably smaller than TGP’s and considerably older. Coach Johnson didn’t believe in leaving players behind on road trips, so all eighty-one TGP players, even the six who were injured and wouldn’t play, had made the trip. The visiting locker room had only sixty lockers in it, so almost all of the freshmen had to leave their clothes on benches that sat in the corner of the room after changing into their uniforms.

  The stadium, which Jason figured probably seated about four thousand people when full, was perhaps two-thirds full at kickoff, almost half the crowd appearing to be TGP fans.

  It was a beautiful late-September evening, the temperature probably around seventy at kickoff with almost no humidity. Both teams were 2–0, and each knew that this was a key game—even if it was only the conference opener. The Culpeper Cornstalks had finished second in the league behind Roanoke Christian a year earlier. Those two teams and TGP had been labeled the preseason favorites—TGP being the unknown quantity since this was its first year in the league.

  Not surprisingly, the game was intense from the beginning—rife with penalties, the two teams nervous, tight, and amped.

  The halftime score was 7–7, each touchdown scored by the defense on an interception return.

  Both quarterbacks looked overmatched against the other team’s defense. Once again, Coach Johnson placed most of the blame on the O-line when the team came back into the locker room.

  Sitting next to Anthony in the back row, Jason heard him whisper, “This is getting old, man. Can’t he see he’s playing the wrong quarterback?”

  The coaches went off to meet. The captains—center Conor Foley and linebacker Ford Bennett—got up and, for a few minutes, exhorted their teammates to do better. When the coaches came back into the room, Coach Cruikshank signaled Billy Bob to wait a minute as the players returned to the field.

  Jason lingered a little bit, slowing his pace so he could hear the conversation.

  “If we don’t make something happen first series, you’ll be in for the second one,” he heard Coach Cruikshank say. “Get ready.”

  Cruikshank then ran ahead to join the other coaches.

  “What does ‘make something happen’ mean?” Jason asked Billy Bob, who had picked up his pace enough to join him in the tunnel.

  “I hope it means that if we don’t score I’m in,” Billy Bob answered. “But we’ll see.”

  They saw right away. The Patriots took the opening kickoff of the second half and quickly went three-and-out, Ronnie Thompson overthrowing a wide-open Ray Solo on third-and-four. Solo almost made a spectacular one-handed catch but couldn’t hang on to the ball as he hit the ground.

  Culpeper had already changed quarterbacks. The starter—Terry Holland, according to the roster sheet Tom had grabbed before the game and shown to Jason—was out. Dave Brady, like Billy Bob a freshman, was his replacement.

  Brady quickly took Culpeper down the field to a go-ahead touchdown, finding receivers on short routes, using a three-step drop on most plays.

  “Guess Coach Johnson’s not the only one stubborn about playing a freshman quarterback,” Tom said as Brady scored from one yard out, running behind his fullback.

  “I think he may be about to get less stubborn,” Jason said, putting his helmet on to go in for the extra point. Once again, there was a blocker lined up wide on his side, meaning th
at when Jason went after the extra point there was a blocker gunning for him. As a result, he had to go way outside to try to get to the kicker, and didn’t come close. He had a feeling his kick-blocking days were over. Teams had scouted him based on the block against DeMatha.

  He jogged to the sideline and saw Billy Bob putting on his helmet.

  “Turns out ‘don’t make something happen’ means letting them score,” he said, grinning through the bar on the helmet.

  Once again, the offense clicked with Billy Bob at quarterback. His strength, Jason noticed, was his ability to make quick decisions—whether running an option or dropping to pass. TGP quickly matched Culpeper’s touchdown drive and then, when one of the Cornstalks’ backs bobbled a pitch at his own 23, Bennett fell on top of it. Five plays later, Billy Bob faked a pitch to Matt Quinn, cut inside the defenders who had bought the outside fake, and scored from the 6 for a 21–14 lead as the third quarter ended.

  Brady got Culpeper moving again, but on a third-and-six from the TGP 23 he was buried as he dropped to pass by a cornerback blitz. The eleven-yard loss put his team out of field goal range. The punt was downed on the 1-yard line.

  As Billy Bob prepared to go back on the field, Coach Johnson grabbed his arm.

  “Nothing fancy,” the coach said. “Fullback dive on first down, and then look to me. Even if we pick up almost nothing, May will kick us out of there.”

  Billy Bob nodded. Then, as he pulled his helmet on, Jason was convinced he winked in the direction of where he and Tom were standing.

  “Uh-oh, he’s up to something,” Tom said. He’d seen the wink, too.

  Billy Bob brought the team to the line and began barking signals. When Jason heard him call “Black!” he gasped. Black was the signal to listen for an audible. Unless the word White was coming soon to tell the other players he was bluffing, Jason knew that Billy Bob was about to ignore Coach Johnson’s order.

  He didn’t call White. Instead, he took the snap, turned as if to hand the ball to fullback Danny Nobis, and quickly pulled the ball out of his stomach as Nobis was buried at the goal line by about half the Culpeper team.

  Still holding the ball, Billy Bob dropped into the end zone. At least nine Culpeper players had been lined up in the box, all within two yards of the line of scrimmage to stuff the fullback dive they knew was coming. Billy Bob bounced on his toes and released a long, beautiful spiral down the field.

  Terrell Davidson, the second-fastest player on the team—behind only Jason—had taken off on a streak pattern, which was the play Billy Bob had audibled to a split second earlier. No one from Culpeper had gone with him, everyone buying the fake. The ball dropped perfectly into Davidson’s hands at about the 40-yard line, and he was gone. The only person on the field within twenty yards of him as he ran the last fifty yards was the back judge, who sprinted as best he could to stay close to him in case he should somehow fumble before he got to the goal line.

  He didn’t. The bench emptied to celebrate in the end zone, which did give the back judge something to do: throw a flag for excessive celebration. No one in a TGP uniform cared much. The ninety-nine-yard touchdown pass was a backbreaker, and everyone in the stadium knew it.

  Billy Bob came to the bench, accepting high fives from everyone. Until he got to Coach Johnson.

  “When I called the fullback dive, did I tell you that you could audible?” the coach demanded.

  “Well, no, Coach, but—”

  “No buts, Anderson!” Coach Johnson was screaming now. “Except for this: you can sit your butt down the rest of the night. I have no idea who you played for in middle school, but when you are told specifically to run a play, you run that play! Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. And just to be sure you don’t forget, you can report to Coach Cruikshank at five o’clock tomorrow morning to do a little running.”

  He turned to Coach Cruikshank, who looked almost as stunned as Billy Bob.

  “Coach, I’m sorry you’re going to have an early wake-up,” Coach Johnson said, “but maybe it will help you do a better job teaching your position players some discipline.”

  Coach Cruikshank said nothing. Instead, he put an arm around Billy Bob’s neck and guided him back to the bench while the TGP fans were cheering the extra point that made the score 28–14. Jason followed the coach and his roomie and stood a few feet away while Coach Cruikshank knelt in front of Billy Bob to talk to him. Billy Bob had gone from being mobbed coming off the field to radioactive after Coach Johnson’s tirade. No one, other than Jason, wanted to be anywhere within earshot of the coach and the player.

  “We’ll talk about this in the morning,” Coach Cruikshank said softly. “Coach has to make sure all of us know who’s in charge.”

  “Like we don’t already know?” Billy Bob said, anger and hurt in his voice.

  Coach Cruikshank put a finger to his lips. “Not now,” he said. Then he dropped his voice a little bit lower and added, “Great call. Great play. Leave it at that.”

  He patted Billy Bob on the shoulder, stood up, and walked away. Jason sat down next to him.

  “He’s right, you know,” Jason said.

  “About what?” Billy Bob said.

  “Great call. Great play.”

  “Leave it at that,” Billy Bob said, his wide Southern smile returning, if only for a moment.

  20

  Benching Billy Bob had no effect on the outcome of the game. The ninety-nine-yard touchdown pass had broken Culpeper’s spirit, and the home team showed little life on offense during the remainder of the fourth quarter. Even with Ronnie Thompson back in the game, the Patriots were able to pick up enough first downs on the ground to keep the clock moving, although they didn’t score again. TGP won by the same 28–14 margin that Billy Bob had created with his unauthorized audible.

  Walking off the field with Billy Bob and Tom, Jason couldn’t help but point out one statistic. “Three drives with Billy Bob, three touchdowns,” he said. “Rest of the game with Thompson—”

  “Zip, I know,” Tom said. “You know what, though? All Johnson cares about is this stat: three-and-oh, one-and-oh.”

  That was TGP’s record: 3–0 overall, and 1–0 in conference play.

  Mr. Gatch came into the locker room and made a big production of presenting the game ball to Coach Johnson in honor of the school’s first conference victory.

  Coach Johnson then gave a game ball to John Graves, the cornerback whose interception return had provided the team’s only first-half touchdown, and to Terrell Davidson, the wide receiver who had caught six passes—including Billy Bob’s last pass of the night.

  As they stood in the crowded little corner where they had to change back into their street clothes, Billy Bob’s sense of humor returned.

  “Now we know for sure Johnson’s a racist,” he whispered, loud enough only for Jason, Tom, and Anthony to hear.

  “We do?” Jason said.

  “Yeah,” Billy Bob said. “He gave a game ball to the black wide receiver, but nothing to the white quarterback.”

  They laughed so hard at that one that heads turned in their direction.

  There was one issue before they left. Not surprisingly, several media members had asked to speak to Billy Bob. Equally unsurprising, they had been turned down. Ed Seaman, the communications director, who looked and sounded like the perfect Southern gentleman, turned up in their corner as they were all putting their shoes on.

  “Anderson, there’s some folks out there who are gonna want to chat with you,” he said. “You just tell ’em polite as can be that Coach doesn’t want you talkin’ tonight. If they try to ask why, just tell ’em they should ask Coach.”

  Billy Bob, sitting on one of the benches, stood up and smiled. “Whatever Coach wants, Mr. Seaman,” he said. “I’m here to serve.”

  If Mr. Seaman picked up on the sarcasm in that answer, he didn’t show it.

  Sure enough, when the four freshmen walked into the cool night air, there were
a couple of TV camera crews and a handful of others with notebooks and tape recorders waiting. Jason knew that Coach Johnson always spoke to the media while the players were showering and changing, so he wondered why Coach Johnson hadn’t already told them that Billy Bob was off-limits.

  Jason waited for Billy Bob to do as he had been told by Seaman. He, Tom, and Anthony surrounded Billy Bob to provide him a path to the bus.

  “Can’t tonight, fellas,” Billy Bob said. “Really sorry. Coach’s orders.”

  They were walking fast now, Anthony leading the way, Tom trailing, and Jason by Billy Bob’s side. Two off-duty state troopers always accompanied Coach Johnson to and from the field and the bus, but they were nowhere to be found.

  One of the reporters yelled, “Seriously, Anderson? Not even for a minute?”

  Billy Bob looked back over his shoulder and smiled. “Got a very early wake-up in the morning,” he said. “Need my beauty sleep.”

  No one seemed to have an answer for that one.

  Once the friends were safely on the bus Jason said to Billy Bob, “You know, if they show that last answer on TV or even on the Internet somewhere, you’ll probably be in more trouble.”

  “Heck with it,” Billy Bob said. He held his thumb and forefinger about a quarter-inch apart. “I came this close to stopping and talking.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Tom said, sitting across the aisle. “But I also don’t envy you. I have a feeling Jason’s right.”

  * * *

  Jason was right. He was sleeping when Billy Bob crept back into the room at a little after six the next morning. Jason heard the door open and rolled onto his side to see Billy Bob collapse onto his bed.

  “So it went well, then?” he said.

  Billy Bob groaned. “Want the good news or the bad news?” he said, his voice an exhausted croak.

  “Start with the bad.”

  “I have to run four more days this week. Ten times up and down the steps of the stadium, just like this morning.”

  “What’s the good news?” Jason asked, a little bit baffled.

  “I get tomorrow off. Because it’s Sunday.”