by Tim Green
Bob McDonough looked out into the hall again, then frowned at Troy.
“Wait here,” he said.
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Troy put his hands against the smooth wood and rested his face against its cool surface, pressing his ear tight but hearing only the roaring noise of the crowd as something exciting happened out on the field. He felt the door handle vibrating, someone unlocking it. His heart jumped and he stepped back, smoothing his shirt.
But before the door opened, a woman’s voice behind him shouted, “That’s him! That’s the kid!”
He spun and stared into the angry face of the security guard.
Beside her was a police officer with handcuffs.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” BOB McDonough asked.
The police officer took Troy by the shoulder and put one hand behind his back, snapping open one of the handcuff bracelets.
“These kids were trying to get to Mr. Langan,” the cop said.
“We got them,” the security guard bellowed. “I stopped them all.”
“Wait,” Bob McDonough told them.
Troy stood frozen. The security guard folded her arms and scowled at him. Bob McDonough took the cop by the arm and led him around the corner, into the hall. The two of them whispered back and forth, the cop eyeing Troy until he nodded and put the handcuffs back on his belt.
“Come on,” Bob McDonough said to Troy, walking past him and back into the luxury box.
They walked through a sitting area with a table of food and a bar against the back wall. Two waiters hovered uncertainly. There were three tiers of seats going down on either side of a small set of stairs. Troy saw men in suits and, in the front row, Mr. Langan with his own young son and his dark-haired wife. The owner’s eyes were glued to the field.
The scoreboard said the Falcons were now even further behind, 24–17. Josh Lock dropped back. Every receiver was covered and the defensive linemen were breaking through. Lock darted one way, then the other, dodging defenders and weaving through his own players toward the line of scrimmage. Mr. Langan jumped to his feet along with the other seventy thousand people inside the Dome. The noise was so loud that Troy could feel it in his teeth.
Then a Raiders linebacker clipped Lock’s ankles and down he went for no gain. The air went out of the crowd. Troy swallowed and moved toward the owner.
“Wait,” Bob McDonough said, clamping his hand on Troy’s shoulder.
They stood, watching the Falcons’ offense sputter until they finally had to punt. What energy was left disappeared and the Dome seemed to deflate while everyone waited for the TV time-out to end.
“Okay,” Bob McDonough said, moving Troy toward Mr. Langan.
There was an empty seat, and the owner told Troy to sit down. He introduced his wife, Allison, and his son, Sam. Troy was confused. It was as if Troy had been invited, but the comfort of the owner’s politeness melted after Troy had shaken hands with Sam.
Mr. Langan turned to him with a serious face and said, “I like your mom, Troy, but why are you here?”
Troy’s throat got tight, and his first few words seemed to squeak out of his mouth. He told the owner about Seth, how the linebacker had asked for Troy’s help, that he didn’t know why but he knew things were going to happen in a football game before they did. He told him about meeting Coach McFadden and how Coach Krock threatened to make him look bad. And he told him why Seth Halloway was no longer in the game.
As Troy finished his story, the Falcons kicked off and the owner cast his eyes down onto the field. As the kickoff team came off, the defense ran on and Seth stayed on the bench.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Troy said, “but it’s true. Look. Why would he take Seth out? He was playing awesome.”
Mr. Langan looked at him for a minute, and Troy was certain he was going to be kicked out. But instead, the owner reached out to the low wall in front of him and lifted the receiver of a red telephone off its hook. He glanced at Troy once more before leaning forward and staring down at the field.
“Get me Coach McFadden, please,” Mr. Langan said into the phone.
Troy leaned forward too and watched the commotion in the bench area. The ball boy who had answered the red phone on the Gatorade table scrambled for the head coach. McFadden pulled off his headset and took several long, quick strides to reach the phone.
“Bart,” the owner said into the phone, “is Seth Halloway hurt?”
There was a pause before he said, “Then why isn’t he in there?”
The owner nodded and said, “Then get him for me.”
Mr. Langan kept his eyes on the bench area and the phone tight to his ear. Troy watched as the head coach marched over to the sideline where Krock was directing the defense, giving hand signals to the backup middle linebacker. When Coach McFadden got there, Krock shouted at him and waved him away. Bart McFadden walked back to the Gatorade table alone.
As the owner listened, his brow wrinkled until he was scowling darkly. He thanked Bart McFadden and hung up. Then he looked at Troy before standing and heading up the stairs. When he reached the top, he turned back to Troy and said, “Are you coming?”
Troy jumped out of his seat and dashed up the steps.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
NO ONE ASKED TO see their passes now. Bob McDonough moved through the Dome, a dozen paces in front of them, clearing the way. As they passed the security checkpoints, Troy felt the guards’ eyes boring into him and he wondered what had happened to Tate and Nathan. He wanted to ask Mr. Langan, but the dark look on the owner’s face left Troy’s tongue in a knot.
Right out onto the field they went, marching up the thick white sideline. Troy had to hustle to keep up. Krock was angled away from them, signaling to the Falcons’ defense, which now had its back to the far goal line. But instead of going to Krock, Mr. Langan went straight over to the bench. Seth Halloway stood up and tossed half a cupful of Gatorade into the big trash can.
“Is it true?” Mr. Langan asked.
Seth looked from Troy to the owner and nodded.
“Krock wants us to lose,” Seth said. “Troy knew what they were going to do. That’s how I made those plays.
“I know it’s bizarre,” Seth said, shaking his head, “but it’s true. He’s, like, some kind of football genius.”
At that moment, the crowd began to boo. Randy Moss was in the end zone again. Mr. Langan’s mouth twisted up.
“Come on,” he said to Seth.
The two of them marched over to Krock, picking up Bart McFadden on the way. Troy followed.
“Coach?” Mr. Langan said, folding his arms across his chest. “I want Seth back in the game.”
Krock’s eyes widened and their brows shot up.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Langan,” he said. “I know you’re the owner, but I’m the defensive coordinator. Halloway’s not running the defenses I’m calling, and like we say back home, that dog don’t hunt. You can’t run a football team like that. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to,” Mr. Langan said. “You’re fired.”
Krock’s mouth dropped. He looked at Seth, then the owner, before stabbing his finger at Troy.
“This kid? This kid is trouble,” he growled, white flecks of spittle spraying from his mouth. “You’re crazy. All of you! You don’t fire Carl Krock because some snot-nosed kid thinks he’s a mind reader.”
Mr. Langan glanced back at Troy and said, “This has nothing to do with Troy. I make the decisions with this team. You’re done.”
Krock clenched his fists and took a step toward Troy.
“Don’t you even think about it.”
“Mom,” Troy said. His mother stepped between him and the coach, her chin up high.
“I’ll tear your eyes out,” she said.
Krock stopped and shuddered, his face turning bright red. Finally, he tore his headset off and smashed it to the ground. He pushed past them, then stopped and pointed back at Troy.
&nb
sp; “You’re done too,” Krock growled at him. “Don’t think you’re not.”
Krock stormed out of the bench area. A reporter came up to him with a microphone. Krock grabbed the man by his shirt and shoved him back into his cameraman, knocking him to the turf. The crowd of reporters and cameramen stepped back and made a lane for Krock as he limped toward the locker room tunnel, snarling and showing them all his fist.
Troy turned back to Mr. Langan, Seth, and Coach McFadden with an expectant smile, but they were talking in a tight group and not paying attention. Troy nudged the carpet with his toe, waiting for them. His mom put her hand on his neck and gave him a squeeze.
On the field, the Falcons’ offense had sputtered and they were letting the clock run out to halftime. Just as both teams streamed off the field toward their locker rooms, Seth peeled off from the little group on the sideline and walked toward Troy.
Troy looked past him at Mr. Langan. The owner’s eyelids were closed halfway, and he put his hand to his chin, considering Troy.
Seth made a pounding motion in the air with his fist and, grinning, said to Troy, “They’re gonna try it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
MR. LANGAN WALKED OVER and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance after halftime.”
Troy’s mom cleared her throat and said she was supposed to get the first-half statistics from the press box for the coaches.
“Go ahead,” the owner said. “Troy, you want to go into the locker room and listen?”
“Sure.”
His mom hurried off.
“Oh my gosh,” Troy said when he was alone with the owner. He felt like he’d been hit by a bolt of lightning. “My friends.”
“Friends?” Mr. Langan said.
Troy explained what happened to Tate and Nathan, how they helped him get past the security guards.
“The police took them?”
Troy nodded.
“Oh. I think I know where they’ll be,” Mr. Langan said with a frown, signaling to Bob McDonough. “Come on.”
Troy followed the team’s owner and his security director down the sideline and into the tunnel. They followed the concrete tunnel a quarter of the way around the Dome until they came to a door where a policeman stood guard.
“Any customers?” Mr. Langan asked the officer.
“Just a drunk who took off his clothes and tried to get out on the field, and a couple kids who tried to break into the luxury suites,” the officer said.
“Good,” Mr. Langan said. “I think they’re the ones we’re looking for.”
The officer opened the door for them. Inside the large concrete room was a desk where a policewoman sat reading a book. Across the back wall were several mini jail cells. In one, a drunken man in boxer shorts lay sprawled out on his back. He was singing the national anthem so loudly that his big gut shook like a mountain of Jell-O.
In the next cell, Tate sat in the corner with her hands over her ears. Nathan had a tin cup in his hand and was rattling it against the bars, shouting at the drunk to be quiet.
Troy figured the policewoman was reading a pretty good book, because Mr. Langan had to shout at her several times above the noise before she looked up, then jumped to her feet in surprise.
“What?” she asked.
“I said, I want you to let these children go!” Mr. Langan shouted.
“I can’t do that,” the officer said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but I got orders.”
Troy saw Mr. Langan’s face turn red, like he was about to explode, when a police captain walked in with Bob McDonough. The captain shook Mr. Langan’s hand and apologized. He told the officer to set Tate and Nathan free.
“Sheesh,” Nathan said, running his hand through the bristles of his crew cut and rolling his eyes. “Get me outta this crazy place.”
The drunk continued his bawling and the officer went back to her book. On their way out into the tunnel, two more officers arrived, dragging an older man between them. The man’s face was painted red and black, and he talked in an endless stream of words with his finger pointed in the air, telling them how they had to let him see Josh Lock before he was abducted by aliens.
“See what I mean?” Nathan said as they headed down the tunnel, following the owner.
“I thought they’d take you to the hospital,” Troy said.
“He blew his cover,” Tate said, glancing bashfully up at Mr. Langan, “and his lunch. All that popcorn too.”
“You woulda blown your cover too,” Nathan said. “Sheesh, and your lunch. They were gonna do a tracheotomy. That thing where they cut a hole in your neck so you can breathe? When I saw that knife, I blew my lunch and my story, but I’m sorry, I wasn’t lettin’ no ambulance jockey cut a hole in my neck.”
Tate gave Nathan a look of disgust, rolled her eyes, and said to Troy, “It was a pocketknife. They tricked him. Man, did it smell. All over the paramedic.”
Mr. Langan was smiling, but he cleared his throat and asked them if they wanted to stand with Troy on the sideline.
“Sure,” Nathan said, “but can I get a dog down there?”
He pulled some wadded bills out of his pocket and said, “I got money.”
“I thought you were sick,” Tate said.
“Naw,” Nathan said. “I gotta reload. A hot dog and a soda and I’ll be fine.”
Mr. Langan laughed and asked Bob McDonough if he could find something to reload Nathan, then he looked at his watch and said they better get out on the field, as halftime was almost over.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
THE THREE OF THEM followed the owner out onto the field, and only Tate didn’t seem slightly embarrassed with the way everyone, even the players, moved out of their way. Mr. Langan said that it would be best if Tate and Nathan stayed back behind the bench with Bob McDonough. Nathan slapped Troy a high five and Tate pecked his cheek.
Troy blushed and turned away to look up at the scoreboard. The Raiders were leading 31–17, and they were going to receive the kickoff.
Seth appeared, swishing water in his mouth before leaning over and spitting it into a garbage can. Troy’s mom arrived too, and folded her arms across her chest. Out on the field, the Falcons’ kickoff team crouched down with their hands on their knees, ready to go.
“We set?” Seth asked.
The whistle sounded and the action began.
“If it’s okay with you,” the owner said to Troy, “you and I can stand with your mom and she can give the signals you’ve worked out to Seth and we can see if this really works.”
“It works,” Seth said, his voice urgent. “He knows.”
“Well,” the owner said, putting his hand on Seth’s shoulder pad, “we’ll see. Go ahead and get in there and let’s win this game.”
Seth bent down so he was face-to-face with Troy.
“We’re on, buddy,” Seth said, gripping Troy’s shoulders. “Let’s show them.”
Seth snapped up his helmet and jogged out onto the field.
With Mr. Langan next to them, the players cleared a path and Troy and his mom got right up to the edge of the field. He stared out at the Raiders’ offensive formation and explained to the owner that he needed to get into the rhythm of the game.
“The Raiders probably made some changes at halftime,” Troy said. “Everyone usually does.”
After each play, he looked up at Mr. Langan’s expectant face, winced, and shook his head. He was aware that his mom was there beside him too, her face lined with anxiety. Troy wanted so badly to show the owner what he could do that his head began to pound.
The Raiders’ offense was on the move, and after each play, Seth would look over at them, but everything was different from the first half. Troy felt the knot in his stomach tighten, and he thought he was going to have to run back to the garbage can to get sick. He took a deep breath and let it out. The Raiders ran eight plays straight and ended up kicking a field goal.
Seth jogged off the field with the rest of the defense, patted Troy
on the back, and said, “You’ll get it. Relax.”
Seth looked the owner in the eye and said, “Halftime adjustments. He’ll get it.”
Mr. Langan put his hand to his chin and nodded his head without saying anything.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE FALCONS’ OFFENSE TOOK the field.
Inside the bench area, right in the middle of it all, Troy could feel the energy. Coaches yelling for players to go on or come off. Players arguing, or celebrating with hugs and cheers and shoulder slaps, sweat dripping from their faces and limbs, spattering each other when they spoke. Blood ran from noses and deep cuts that went unnoticed by them, and up close Troy could see the crimson stains that speckled their jerseys and pants.
It was like stepping into the battle scene of an action movie. The Falcons’ offense moved a little but ultimately stalled and punted. Seth and the defense took the field, and Troy’s focus shifted back to the Raiders’ offense.
On the second play of the series, there was a scream at the end of the play. Everyone froze. One of the Falcons’ linebackers was lying on the turf right near the sideline, rocking slowly like a leaf on the roadside before it gets lifted away. The crowd went quiet, and Troy could hear the player howling in pain.
The doctors and trainers ran out and surrounded the injured player. The ref blew the whistle, signaling a TV time-out. Troy edged closer, fascinated and horrified at the same time. The linebacker’s elbow bulged in a funny way and the forearm jutted sideways at a crooked angle. The trainer knelt and held the player’s shoulder. The grim-faced doctor took his lower arm in both hands and gave it a quick, firm tug. Troy heard the joint pop back into place. The player grunted and his eyes rolled back for a second before he got up and staggered to the bench.
A whistle blew and the game resumed. The next few plays only confused Troy even more, and he felt the tight grip of fear in his stomach turn to panic. Was his gift like a loose lightbulb that sometimes would work but sometimes wouldn’t? Seth kept looking anxiously over at Troy, but Mr. Langan kept his eyes on the field now and seemed to have given up.
