The Clutch

by Paul Hoblin

  Copyright © 2017 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Cover and interior images: © Pixattitude/Dreamstime.com (football player); © Eky Studio/Shutterstock.com (bolts and metal); © EFKS/Shutterstock.com (stadium background); © Kriangsak Osvapoositkul/Shutterstock.com (rust texture); © pattern line/Shutterstock.com (vintage scratched texture).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5. Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hoblin, Paul, author.

  Title: The clutch / Paul Hoblin.

  Description: Minneapolis : Darby Creek, 2017. | Summary: “After a spectacular performance in your first, and only, high school football game, sitting on the bench might seem like a letdown. But not for this player, who is secretly scared of letting everybody down.”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016040408 (print) | LCCN 2016055329 (ebook) | ISBN 9781512439809 (lb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512453447 (pb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512448696 (eb pdf)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Football—Fiction. | Self-confidence—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.H653 Cl 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.H653 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016040408

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-42229-25778-1/5/2017

  9780778721161 ePub

  9780778721178 mobi

  9780778723110 ePub

  Chapter 1

  The crowd’s chant gets louder and louder. “STREAK!” they yell, over and over. “STREAK! STREAK! STREAK!”

  I’m standing on the sideline with my Clover Ridge teammates, but I don’t dare turn to look at the bleachers. Coach Cole strictly forbids fraternizing with the crowd. That’s his word, fraternizing. I’m not exactly sure what it means. Maybe, so long as I don’t talk or make eye contact with them, I could turn around? Even if I could, I’m not in a hurry to find out.

  “STREAK! STREAK! STREAK!” the crowd continues.

  It doesn’t matter, anyway. I don’t need to look at the crowd to know what they’re chanting about.

  They’re chanting about me.

  I’m Streak.

  Or that’s what they call me, anyway.

  My real name is Jordan Bailey Jr. And I must be the most famous benchwarmer in the county.

  To be clear, when they yell “Streak!” they’re not asking me to strip off my clothes and run across the football field.

  They’re asking me to jog confidently to the huddle, tell one of the receivers to go deep, take the snap, and heave the ball as far as I can throw it.

  That’s what I did last year: chucked a perfect spiral that remained airborne for sixty yards. Or was it seventy? Or eighty? The pass gets longer every time Lance Brockman talks about it. He’s the one who caught the pass for a touchdown. He also happens to be my best friend. A few days later, he quit the team to defend my honor. (Long story.) That’s why he’s in the stands now, chanting on my behalf. (That’s a long story too.)

  Not that his chanting has ever done any good. Other than that one play last season, I haven’t taken a single snap. Almost my whole high school football career has been spent on the sideline, watching Curt Cole, the coach’s son, crouch under center.

  “STREAK! STREAK! STREAK!”

  My guess? Lance isn’t even watching the game right now. Instead of facing the field, he’s probably facing the crowd, getting them riled up, waving his arms like a conductor.

  “STREAK! STREAK! STREAK!”

  For the first time in a year, Lance and the crowd might get what they want. Our defense just intercepted a pass and took it to the house.

  I look at the scoreboard: Clover Ridge 17, Iron Lake 3.

  That we’re winning isn’t surprising. We’re one of the best teams in the state. More accurately, we have one of the best defenses in the state. Our offense? Not so much. I’d say we’re mediocre, and that’s being kind. Lance would say we’re an embarrassment. No, not we—Curt. He’s the embarrassment, according to Lance. Total rag arm. The result is that we win almost every game, but not by much.

  “STREAK! STREAK! STREAK!”

  This time, though, we’re up by two touchdowns, and there’s less than three minutes to play.

  It’s impossible to imagine Iron Lake scoring once, let alone twice. They’ve hardly gained a yard the entire second half.

  “STREAK! STREAK! STREAK!”

  My gaze is fixed on the field, but out of the corner of my eye, I’m pretty sure I see Coach Cole shuffling in my direction. Is he finally going to tell me to warm up? Is he actually going to put me in for the last series before the clock expires?

  That’s when the impossible happens. The Iron Lake quarterback throws a pass that could easily be picked off by two of our guys. Instead, they run into each other. The pass bounces off one of their helmets and lands in the intended receiver’s hands. Fifty-two yards later, it’s a 17–10 ball game.

  The crowd is still yelling, “STREAK!”—but Coach Cole ignores them. He sends his son back onto the field to run out the clock.

  For the first time ever, the chants become boos.

  Loud ones.

  I turn around without thinking.

  Lance’s face is red from anger, and he’s not alone. The crowd is unhappy. Their hands are cupped around their mouths so their voices will carry as far as possible.

  “BOOOOO!”

  Clover Ridge is about to win its sixth straight home game, but our fans don’t seem to care. They want to see me play, and they won’t be happy until they get what they want.

  In fact, there might only be one person in the whole stadium who is happy right now.

  Me.

  I may be too much of a coward to say it out loud, but the truth is that I never want to play football again.

  Chapter 2

  I sit on a bench in the locker room and wait for my teammates to leave.

  Well, all of my teammates except one.

  As usual, Curt is the last to leave.

  For one thing, Coach Cole is his ride.

  For another, he doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go except home. No, correction—he doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere else. When I first joined the team last year, I remember him getting invited to parties or to just hang out with the rest of the guys. He would shrug his shoulders and say he needed to get his rest. By the way he said it, it sounded like he was telling the rest of us that we should get our rest too. He sounded, in other words, like his dad. It didn’t take long for our teammates to stop inviting him anywhere—both because they knew what his answer would be and because they were afraid he’d nark on them to Coach.

  “Hey, Curt?” I say to him now.

  He’s sitting like he always does—his big shoulders hunched.

  He lifts his eyes an inch or two, just enough to see me, but he doesn’t say anything. Curt’s never been much of a talker.

  “Just wanted to say good game, man,” I tell him.

  This is what I’ve been waiting around to tell him. Thanks to Lance and all the chanting, I bet it’s been a long time since someone congratulated Curt for yet another win.
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  Curt doesn’t respond right away. He just looks around at the empty locker room.

  “Don’t worry,” he says finally, still not looking at me. “I won’t tell Lance you said so.”

  He gets up, his big shoulders knocking into me as he heads to Coach’s office.

  Sometimes he makes it really difficult to feel sorry for him. I know Lance gives the guy a hard time, but I really did mean it when I congratulated him.

  ***

  The house is dark when I open the front door.

  “How’d it go?” Mom says over her shoulder.

  The only light in the room is coming from the glowing TV screen. Mom is in front of it. On the couch, watching a baseball game on mute. It’s October—baseball play-off time. For the next month my mom’s eyes will be glued to the TV.

  “Fine,” I say. “We won.”

  “You mean the players who got a chance to play won,” she says, still staring at the screen.

  If it’s harsh, she doesn’t mean it to be. She’s actually trying to be sympathetic. She’s sad and angry that I’m not getting a chance to really be a part of a team.

  My bench warming is personal for her, and not only because I’m her son. She doesn’t just feel sorry for me; she feels sorry for her own athletic career. Mom was a star softball player growing up. She led her conference in batting average and RBIs for three straight years. Which is why, as a senior, she decided to switch over to the boys’ baseball team. She has always said she wanted a different challenge; she wanted to play the game she grew up watching on TV. The good news was that she made the team. Or at least she thought it was good news at the time. Looking back, she says the only reason the coach didn’t cut her was because of the media frenzy it would cause. This was over twenty years ago, so my mom’s decision to try out for a boys’ team was a big deal. At least one story had been written about her in a national newspaper. Still, it turned out the coach had no intention of letting her play in a game—probably because that too would have caused a stir. After being called a traitor and even worse for leaving the girls’ team, my mom spent the entire season sitting in the dugout.

  “Actually,” I say, “I almost did get to play today.”

  Mom turns away from the TV screen. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I try to make my voice sound as excited as hers.

  “Don’t leave me hanging,” she says eagerly.

  The living room light goes on.

  My dad, his eyelids heavy from sleep, stands by the switch. “Sorry, gang,” he says groggily. “Don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but can you try to keep your voices down? I have early-morning rounds.”

  Dad’s an emergency room doctor, so when he says early he means it.

  “Sorry, babe,” Mom says.

  “Yeah. Sorry, Dad.”

  He yawns and says, “You should get some rest too, Jordan.”

  “I will,” we say in unison.

  It’s a long-running joke we all make because both of us—Mom and me—are named Jordan. That’s right. I was named after my mother. Thus the Jordan Bailey Jr. My mom’s the Sr. When I was a kid I thought that was weird, especially since all my friends said so. And even more especially since my parents didn’t. After all, Mom and Dad explained, Jordan was both a girl’s and a boy’s name, right? That part actually made sense to me, and after they met her, kids stopped teasing me about being named after my mom.

  Growing up, I thought my dad was a nice guy, but it was my mom who was more fun to hang out with. She’s an elementary school gym teacher, so she always had ideas and equipment for some sport we could play.

  Frankly, I wanted to be just like her. For most adults, going to work meant doing something super serious and boring. But for Mom it meant playing games. Even now, Mom is staying up late watching baseball while Dad is standing half asleep by the light switch.

  He says goodnight and turns the lights back off as Mom turns to me.

  “Tell me everything,” she whispers.

  And I do. I tell her about the chanting, and about seeing Coach Cole headed my way. I tell her about the interception, and about the crowd booing.

  “You’re going to get your chance,” she says, trying but failing to whisper.

  I haven’t heard her sound this hopeful in a while.

  I let her believe that I’m as hopeful as she is. I let her believe that Jordan Bailey might finally get to play.

  Chapter 3

  Once again, I hear the chant: “STREAK! STREAK! STREAK!”

  The difference is that I’m not at a football game. I’m at school.

  Lunch, more specifically.

  A minute ago, I stepped into the cafeteria. As soon as Lance saw me, he glanced over at Curt, and I knew that what was going to happen next wasn’t going to be good. He looked around the table and started chanting. What began as a few of the football players soon spread across the cafeteria. Now most of the students are chanting.

  I make my way through the crazed crowd to the long table where all the football players eat. By this point, Lance is standing on top of the table, leading the cheers. He waves his arms and starts yelling “STREAK!” again. Instantly everyone joins in.

  “What are you doing?” I yell, staring up at him. He’s six and a half feet tall and all muscle just standing on the floor. He looks like a giant standing on the table like this.

  “What?” he says, his arms still waving to the beat of the chant.

  “Is this really necessary?” I ask him.

  I think he must have understood me because he quiets the crowd by lowering his arms.

  “Streak speaks!” he says.

  I don’t get it, but a lot of other people do.

  “SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!” they chant.

  Before I know what’s happening, Lance crouches down, grabs under my armpits, and lifts me onto the table with him.

  He signals to the crowd, and the cafeteria goes quiet. I look out at all the students. They look back at me. Even the students that weren’t cheering before are listening now. It seems that they are all interested in what is going to happen next. What “the great Streak” is going to say. I look around at them, trying to find just one face that isn’t staring back at me—one person who’s sitting there, eating their lunch and minding their business.

  And then I do find someone who is definitely ignoring the commotion.

  He’s at the end of the table I’m standing on.

  Curt Cole’s bulky body is hunched over his tray. He’s either pretending not to hear the chants or protecting himself from them like he protects the football during a quarterback sneak.

  Lance elbows me in the ribs. “They’re waiting, man,” he says under his breath.

  All of the sudden I’m even more flustered. No, not just flustered. Mad.

  What does Lance want me to say?

  Lance elbows me again.

  “Ummm. Thanks,” I finally say. “Enjoy your lunches.”

  There’s more silence. Apparently I’m supposed to say more. But I can’t think of anything.

  Lance grabs my right arm and lifts it into the air. “I guess when you have a golden arm like this, you don’t need to say many words!”

  The crowd erupts in more cheers as I scramble off the table, still fuming. If Lance doesn’t get off the table, I tell myself, I’ll pull him down.

  Luckily for him, he does get off the table. In fact, he jumps off it . . . and over one of our teammates. A couple of the guys high-five Lance as he slides into his seat next to me.

  I wait for everyone to turn back to their food before I punch Lance in the arm.

  “Hey, what the . . . ?” he says, rubbing his arm.

  “What are you doing?” I demand.

  “What are you talking about, dude? I’m fighting the good fight, just like I always do.”

  “Do you have to do it in front of Curt?” I say under my breath.

  I mean, the guy’s just trying to eat his lunch.

  “It’s in front of Cu
rt at the games too,” Lance points out, not at all under his breath. “The dude sucks.”

  “Keep your voice down,” I tell him. “You’re practically shouting. Curt’s like eight feet from us.”

  “Good. I hope he hears me. Maybe he’ll finally do the honorable thing and fall on his sword.”

  “Fall on his sword?”

  “Quit, dude. Or at least hand over the starting job to you.”

  “That’s why you’re being such a jerk? Because you think it will convince Curt to step aside?”

  “Well,” he says, finally lowering his volume, “that and because I need to get the guys riled up for all of the cameras at practice this afternoon.”

  “What do you mean, the cameras at practice?” I practically choke on the words.

  “Some dude from the news is coming. Somehow they found out about all the chanting and booing last night and—”

  “Somehow?” I interrupt.

  Lance shrugs his hulking shoulders and raises his eyebrows. “I may have sent in an anonymous call,” he says. “Local town fights for quarterback justice, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “And they bought that?”

  “Who wouldn’t? How often does the home team get booed while winning?”

  He says this with pride, like he’s really accomplished something, which makes me even angrier. But it also leaves me a little in awe. Lance might be a jerk, but he’s also the best hype man I’ve ever known.

  “Anyway,” he continues, voice lowered confidentially, “the anonymous caller told them to find me to get the scoop. I told them to meet me at the field.”

  “Is that even allowed?” I say. “Are they allowed on school property?”

  Lance shrugs his shoulders again. “I’m sure they’ll figure it out.” He claps me on the shoulder. “You know how the principal loves publicity. And as long as they’re looking for a story, I might as well make you the star you’re meant to be.”

  Chapter 4

  It was Lance who convinced me to join the team last year.

  School hadn’t started yet, but football practice had. The team had a new coach. Back then, Lance didn’t have much to say about him. It was the quarterback he was worried about.