by Tim Green
His mom’s eyes shifted around and she sniffed like she didn’t care all that much.
“Maybe in a way,” she said, brushing something off her sleeve. “Are you hungry?”
“Sure,” he said.
He set the table while she stirred a pot of chili on the stove. There was corn bread in the oven. They ate and talked about the small things that happened to them during the day, cleaned up, and played a cutthroat game of Monopoly until it was time for bed.
She didn’t seem worried about losing her job. It was like she knew something, and maybe she did. Maybe Mr. Langan wouldn’t fire Coach McFadden and she knew that.
As he lay there in the dark, though, the warmth of the evening with his mom began to fade. Happy thoughts were sacked by doubts. And, when he heard the lonely sound of the Midnight Express, he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to do something special, to be someone special. Or were the Coach Renfros and Coach Krocks of the world always going to be there to put him down, while men like his father and Seth Halloway walked away?
Troy didn’t want to give up, but lying there by himself, it seemed like he had no choice. It wasn’t until the next day, at football practice, that Tate came up with an idea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE SUN HAD ALREADY dropped below the trees and it was mercifully cool out. The smell of cut grass was in the air, and somewhere in the neighborhood next to the field, a lawn mower droned on. Whistles sounded from the field next to them, a high school girls soccer game in full swing.
Coach Renfro’s voice cut through it all. It had been a brutal practice with lots of running and lots of hitting. Now it was time for Bull in the Ring. The whole team would circle up around one player. Coach Renfro would call out a name, and whoever it was had to run as fast and as hard as he could at the one player in the middle of the ring, the bull. The bull had to keep his feet chopping and turn quick to take on the hitters from wherever they came. Coach Renfro sent them at the bull pretty quick, so the bull also had to recover fast to get low enough to take on the next hitter.
Nathan was the most feared hitter as well as the most feared bull when he was in the ring. But when he was the bull, if you could get him before he turned to face you, or before he got his pads low, you could survive.
While they jogged in place, waiting for a turn to be called, Tate explained her plan.
“It’s easy,” she said. “You don’t have to be there. You just gotta get your mom to help.”
“Great,” Troy said. “Just what she wants. She’s already almost got fired because of me.”
“You wanna hear the plan, or you wanna complain?” Tate asked over the cheers that erupted as Jamie Renfro ran out into the ring, knocking a smaller kid who was the bull onto his back. Jamie’s dad switched the bull to the team’s middle linebacker and called out Nathan.
Nathan growled and ran at the kid, knocking him so hard that he spun around before falling down. Nathan howled with his fists clenched and jogged back to his spot, grinning at Troy and Tate.
“Nice,” Troy said, slapping Nathan high five, then turning to Tate. “Okay. Tell us the plan.”
“You sit in the stands and watch,” Tate said with a shrug, her feet pumping up and down in an easy rhythm. “You got a phone. She’s got a phone. You tell her the play, she tells Seth. It all works.”
“How’s Seth supposed to hear her?” Nathan asked, removing his mouthpiece for a moment to speak more clearly.
“McGreer!” the coach screamed.
Troy didn’t know if Tate realized it, but Coach Renfro always sent her out against Jamie and his two closest friends, while Nathan never got a shot at them. Jamie was out there now as the bull.
Tate sneered, lowered her shoulder, and out she went, crashing into Jamie Renfro only to be lifted up into the air and knocked back. She returned bouncing on her toes, though, happy just to have stayed on her feet.
“How does any middle linebacker get the plays they call?” Tate said, huffing and getting back into her place between Troy and Nathan as if nothing had happened.
“You mean the hand signals?” Troy said.
“Sure,” Tate said. “Seth has to look at the sideline to get the plays anyway. Just have him teach your mom a few signals and she can let him know what play is coming.”
“Too bad my mom won’t even talk to him, let alone do some secret mission,” Troy said.
“Why?” Tate asked.
Before Troy could answer, the coach yelled his name.
“Troy!”
Troy felt a fire spring up inside him. He ran at Jamie full bore, ready to cream him. Instead of taking Troy on, though, Jamie dropped to the ground, cutting Troy’s legs out from beneath him and sending him tumbling across the grass. Jamie and his friends laughed. Even Jamie’s dad couldn’t stop from chuckling and nudging one of his assistant coaches as he told Jamie in a loud voice that he was cheating.
That was all the father did, though. There was no yelling. No laps to run. Nothing.
Jamie was still laughing, looking at his friends, when Troy got up off the grass and barreled into him from behind, knocking Jamie down and leaving him in tears and gasping for breath on the fresh-cut grass. Jamie’s dad went ballistic. He screamed at Troy for the cheap shot.
“What about what Jamie did to Troy?” Tate said.
The coach spun on her. His face was purple and a vein popped out in the middle of his forehead.
“You can run with him!” he screamed, pointing at the far goalpost. “Take ten!”
“Ten?” Nathan said.
“You go with them! And make it twenty! Or turn in your gear!”
Tate tugged Troy’s arm and motioned her head to Nathan, and the three of them set out on a slow jog while all four coaches gathered around Jamie, helping him slowly up.
“Nice one,” Nathan said, grumbling under his breath when they were out of earshot.
“He shoulda done it,” Tate said, throwing an evil look at Nathan.
“I know,” Nathan said, and hung his head. “But twenty friggin’ laps.”
“Sorry, guys,” Troy said.
They rounded the goalpost before Tate swatted her leg and said, “So, you never told me. Why’s your mom mad at Seth?”
Nathan was huffing loudly and didn’t even lift his head.
“Money,” Troy said, smashing a bloody mosquito on his arm. “She thought that he thought she was asking him for money. She blew a gasket.”
Tate shook her head and kept running.
After their eighth lap, the rest of the team was turned loose. They got into their parents’ waiting cars and drove off. The sun was long gone and the mosquitoes were having a feast. Jamie left with an assistant coach and his son. Mr. Renfro stayed put, though, with his arms crossed over his chest to watch them run the laps. Then Tate’s mom got out of her car and marched over to him, probably to ask what was going on.
Tate wasn’t paying attention to her mom. She seemed lost in thought, and suddenly she said, “So we get them together.”
Troy watched Tate’s mom as she began waving her arms in the air and yelling at Mr. Renfro, something about it being a school night and him being a maniac.
“My mom and Seth…get together?” he said absently, still watching Mrs. McGreer.
“Together,” Tate said as they rounded the goalpost for the thirteenth time.
Tate’s mom yelled for them to get into her car, that it was time to go home. Mr. Renfro shouted something at her, waving his arms over his head. When she snapped something back at him, he spun around and walked away. Troy, Tate, and Nathan stopped their jog and started to drag their feet toward the parking lot. Nathan groaned. Tate’s mom had her hands on her hips, watching.
“Together, like a date?” Troy said, her words finally sinking in. “Are you crazy?”
“Don’t worry,” Tate said. “I know how this stuff works. Trust me.”
She reached down into her sock and pulled out a folded-up piece of neon green paper. She unfolded it and waved it
in their faces. It was the handout coach Renfro had passed out at the beginning of practice advertising the county punt, pass, and kick contest on Saturday afternoon.
“I was going to try this anyway,” Tate said, “but now it can really help us.”
“What the heck does that have to do with this?” Troy asked.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“LOOK AT FIRST PLACE,” Tate said, holding it closer so Troy could see.
Troy couldn’t kick or punt, so even though he could throw farther than any kid in his grade, he never bothered with the punt, pass, and kick contest. First place for the eleven-year-old group, besides a big golden trophy, was lunch with Falcons star linebacker Seth Halloway.
“It’s for kids,” Troy said.
“I know that,” Tate said. “But if I can win it, I bet I can get your mom to go with me.”
“How?” Troy asked. “What about your mom?”
“Look at the date for the lunch,” Tate said.
“The Saturday after. So,” Troy said.
“So, church,” Tate said. “My parents go to adult Bible study every Saturday from noon till two. You know my mom. She doesn’t make exceptions. That’s why half the time she misses our games.”
Troy looked at Mrs. McGreer, standing there under the streetlight on the edge of the parking lot, hands still planted on her hips. She was short and stout, with Tate’s olive skin and dark hair piled in a tight bun. An immovable force. Maybe the only person on the planet who could make Coach Renfro stop yelling.
“Maybe,” Troy said. “But you gotta win.”
“Win what?” Mrs. McGreer said, sliding open the door to her van so they could pile in.
“Just a contest,” Tate said.
“Punt, pass, and kick,” Troy said.
“I oughta punt, pass, and kick that Coach Renfro in the astronaut,” Mrs. McGreer said, climbing in and starting the van. “Practice this late on a school night.”
The three of them covered their mouths, stifling their giggles and nudging one another. Tate’s mom never swore, but somehow she always got her point across.
The problem, as they saw it, was passing. Tate could punt and kick better than any boy her age, but her arm strength had never been a source of pride. They had just two days to get ready, but Troy thought he could help. The next day after school, Tate and Nathan got off the bus at Troy’s stop. It was a warm and windy day with a clear blue sky. The pine trees waved and hissed over their heads as they walked down the twisty drive. Troy handed out cookies from the jar and poured glasses of milk for them around the kitchen table. Then they went outside to the bare spot and he lined Tate up facing Nathan, ten yards away.
“Okay,” he said, handing her the ball. “Throw it.”
She did. The ball wobbled its way toward Nathan, not even making it. Troy put his hand over his face but said, “We’ll be okay. You just gotta get some spin on it.”
“Spin?”
“A spiral,” Troy said. “If you can throw a spiral, you can get it twice as far.”
Nathan passed it back, delivering a wobbly knuckleball of his own that bounced off the dirt in front of them. Nathan smiled and shrugged. “I’m a lineman.”
Troy showed Tate how to hold the ball with the tips of her fingers on the laces and then how to put a spin on it by rotating her fingers and wrist at the same time.
“It’s in the wrist,” Troy said, zipping a pass to Nathan, who dropped it and said, “Ouch.”
Soon she got it, spinning the ball enough, not to create a tight spiral, but to get it wobbling in the right direction. Back and forth they threw it, dozens of times, until Tate said her arm hurt.
“Don’t throw out her arm,” Nathan said, “or we’ll be doomed.”
Troy nodded.
“Let’s see how far you can get it,” he said. “Then we’re done.”
They backed up to the pines and marked a line in the grit. Troy showed her how to get a bit of a running start and then heave the ball. Tate tried it and Nathan marked the spot in the dirt. Troy paced it off. Twelve yards. He frowned and brought back the ball, handing it to her.
“You gotta get mad, Tate,” he said. “When you need to really chuck it, you gotta get mad.”
“I’m not mad about anything,” she said.
“Think of something,” Troy said.
“What do you think of?” she asked.
Troy felt his face get warm. He didn’t want to tell them he thought of his father, of being left alone. He didn’t want to describe the vision of an imaginary figure walking out and slamming the door and tell them that’s when he’d chuck the ball with all his might.
“Just think of something,” he said.
“I know!” Nathan shouted, jumping up and down. He ran a few more yards away from them and turned his back.
“What are you doing?” Troy said.
“Give her the ball,” Nathan said, looking back and doing something with his hands in front of him where they couldn’t see.
Troy handed Tate the ball. Nathan dropped his pants halfway down his butt and bent over, half-mooning them.
“You idiot,” Tate said, scowling.
Nathan turned his head, grinning and sticking out his tongue, and spanked his backside.
Tate let out a roar and chucked the ball at him, crying out, “Jerk!”
“Pretty good,” Troy said, pacing it off. “Fifteen yards. Not that bad, Tate.”
“Happy to help,” Nathan said, pulling up his pants.
“You are an idiot,” Tate said.
“You won’t say that,” Nathan said, “when you win.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THEY WORKED THE SAME way on Friday, and Tate threw it fifteen yards again. Since she didn’t turn twelve for another two weeks, Tate got to compete with a group of mostly fifth graders. On Saturday, after they played their football game with the Tigers, Tate, Nathan, and Troy took off their shoulder pads and trudged over to the field where the contest was being held.
The smells of grass and dirt mixed with grilling hot dogs and soda. Hundreds of parents and kids from all over Gwinett County milled about in the midday sunshine. In the middle of it all was a big white tent set up with tables underneath that were dressed up in red, white, and blue bunting. The trophies stood tall in gleaming rows, and Troy had a hard time taking his eyes off them. But when he looked over at Tate, he saw that her eyes were on the judges and a boy in a sleeveless T-shirt heaving a pass as the crowd cheered.
Nathan pulled a piece of notebook paper out of his sock. It was sweaty from the game, but on it they could still see his smudged calculations.
“Last year, seventy-six total yards won it for eleven-year-olds,” he said, pointing.
“Anyone we know?” Troy asked.
“Jamie Renfro,” Nathan said, twisting up his mouth. “Remember? He brought the trophy into the lunchroom at school.”
Nathan held the paper out for Tate and pointed to the numbers. “You can kick it farther than anyone—I say thirty-two yards. If you can get off a great punt, close to thirty, say twenty-eight, then you can win it with a decent throw. Heck, you did fifteen yesterday.”
They all looked at the numbers and the grand total of seventy-six, which Nathan had circled. A thirty-yard punt would be amazing, even for Tate. The kick, she could do. She was doubtful about the pass, but she signed in at the table and started stretching her kicking leg.
Each kid got three tries in every event. The judges took the highest one. Nathan checked the standings at another table, and when he returned, his face was sagging.
“Sheesh,” he said, shaking his head. “That guy in the cutoff sleeves got seventy-eight.”
Troy looked at Tate, who acted almost like she didn’t hear. The only way he knew she really did hear Nathan was that the tip of her tongue poked out between her lips. The only other time she did that was when she was taking a math test. It meant she was focused.
Tate’s kicking was great. Her kickoff went thirty-three yards, th
e longest of anyone, and her punt was twenty-nine. She was one of only a handful of girls, and when the crowd saw her kick, they cheered loudly, sensing a winner. Tate beamed at Troy and Nathan as she walked from the kicking station toward the passing area. All she had to do was come up with a big pass and she’d have it. Seth Halloway was in her grasp.
“Get mad,” Troy told her. He helped stretch her arm and then rubbed her shoulders, loosening them. “Sixteen yards, just one more yard than yesterday. Get really mad.”
Tate scowled and hefted the ball. The judge held up his little red flag, and Tate nodded at him. Then, with a shriek, she ran at the line and heaved the ball with all her might.
Fourteen yards.
Nathan let out a groan. The crowd’s applause was barely polite, deflated after her spectacular kicking. She came back with her head down.
“It’s okay,” Troy said, handing her a water bottle. “You’re getting warmed up.”
She nodded, but her lower lip disappeared between her teeth and her hair fell, covering the sides of her face. She clutched the shoulder of her throwing arm with her other hand. Troy lifted her chin and saw tears.
“What’s the matter?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
She picked up the ball. Up went the flag. She gave a growl and ran at the line. Twelve yards.
“You gotta be kidding,” Nathan said, and stamped away.
No clapping at all this time. The crowd sensed she was losing it.
Troy did his best to cheer her up, but it was no use. Tate’s arm obviously hurt her, and worse still, he could see that her confidence was shot. But when she turned toward the line, Troy saw that Nathan had worked his way around the crowd and behind the open field, where the judge stood with his small red flag. Behind the judge was a hedgerow separating the grass field from the adjoining neighborhood.
Nathan had wedged himself into the bushes. He had his thumbs jammed into his ears and his fingers spread out and wiggling. He stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes. Even under the circumstances, Troy had to laugh. He nudged Tate. She saw Nathan and shook her head.
