by Paul Hoblin
I follow him to his office. He grunts to the chair on the other side of his desk.
I sit.
We sit there in silence. As usual, his face is red and sweaty. We haven’t even started practice but sweat drips off the brim of his cap. It darkens the gray tufts of hair by his ears. His sharp cheekbones are scarlet. It’s as if his blood really is boiling. Half of me expects the sweat drops to sizzle when they land on his desk.
“You’re going to take a few more snaps than usual this week,” he says.
“Really?” I say. The comment catches me so off guard I can’t help also blurting: “Why?”
Coach sighs. “Because I’m tired of this,” he says. On cue, the blood drains from his cheeks and then the rest of his face. I honestly didn’t know Coach was capable of being tired. “The only game I’ve ever liked to play is football,” he says. “But if your friend insists on playing the media game, I guess I’ll play too.” He shakes his head. “We’re undefeated and our fans are booing. You ever heard of such a thing?”
I don’t answer because I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to. He’s staring at the ceiling as he talks, still shaking his head.
Another sigh.
“So fine,” he says. “I’ll play along. I’ll talk to the media. Tell them you’re getting just as many snaps in practice as Curt. When they bring their cameras, they’ll see that’s the truth. They’ll report that you have just as good a chance of starting on Friday as Curt. How’s that sound to you?”
I don’t answer because I have no idea what to say. I’m stunned. I feel like I can’t move my body, my tongue, my mouth.
“That’s what I thought,” Coach says. “That’s what I’ve thought all along. I’ve been doing this a long time, son. I know a scared kid when I see one. You might have others fooled, but not me. You don’t want to have anything to do with football, do you?”
Is this another rhetorical question? Is he going to make me say it?
“Every time I look your way, you are hiding in a crowd of players. If I meet your eyes, you looked away. You’ve never acted like someone who wants the bright lights on them. I just have one more question, son. If you don’t want to play, why are you still on the team? Why didn’t you do the honorable thing and quit. It sure would have saved us a lot of grief.”
This is the second time in less than two days someone has described quitting as the honorable thing. Lance was talking about Curt, but Coach is right. I’m the one who should have quit.
“Forget it,” Coach says. “I’m not about to tell a kid who shows up for practice every day and keeps his mouth shut that he has to quit. Not you. Not my son, even though—believe me—I’d understand if he did want to quit.” The blood is boiling in Coach’s face again, but he lets out another sigh. “Maybe you could have prevented all this nonsense, but that doesn’t make it your fault.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m not sure he hears me, though, because I’m practically whispering. I’m surprised by how good it feels to have someone say this isn’t my fault, whether or not I believe him.
“So,” Coach says, “we’ll play the media game this week. We’ll pretend you have a chance to start on Friday. But between you and me, as long as Curt is able to stand, you’re never going to get on the field again.”
I’m almost positive I don’t say thanks again—not out loud—but maybe I do.
Because Coach says, “You’re welcome” as I walk out the door.
Chapter 11
As expected, the camera, the reporter, and Lance are all by the field again at practice.
“Streak! Hey, Bailey!”
Lance waves me over.
“They want an interview with the would-be star!” he yells.
I don’t move. I stand there trying to come up with an excuse to not have to go over there.
Luckily, someone blows a whistle to get practice started. Was it Coach Cole? Was he helping me get out of this interview? Maybe. Then again, it could have just as easily been one of his assistant coaches. Either way, I’m grateful.
I shrug my shoulders in apology to Lance and the camera crew, then jog toward the field with my teammates.
“The humble superstar,” I hear Lance explain to the camera. “They’re rare these days. It’s sort of refreshing, you know? But it’s also sad. The last thing Jordan wants to do is cause a fuss. That’s why I’m speaking up on his behalf.”
***
Coach keeps his word about giving me more snaps in practice.
Right from the get-go, Curt and I take turns playing with the first team. We go through all our running plays and then go through them again.
Then it’s time to go through our pass plays.
By now I’m feeling better about football than I have in a long time. I’ve got a good sweat going. Tuesdays are no-contact practices, so I don’t need to worry about getting crushed when I drop back to pass.
I take the snap and survey the field. The first thing I look for is the receiver running a post pattern. That’s a deep route. If he’s not open, then I’m supposed to check down for the receivers running shorter routes.
But the receiver downfield is open.
Barely.
He’s got half a step on the cornerback. To complete the pass, I’m going to have to lead him perfectly and put some zip on the ball.
I do both.
It’s been a long time since I planted my foot in the ground and really let the football fly. It feels great. I watch the ball race through the air, spiraling clockwise.
My pass hits the receiver right in the chest.
Literally.
He doesn’t get his hands up fast enough, and the football bounces off the front of his shoulder and drops to the ground. Maybe I threw the ball too fast for him? Maybe he’s not used to needing to have his hands ready so quickly? Maybe he didn’t even realize he was open? It’s safe to say that Curt would never have attempted a difficult throw like that. It’s also safe to say that our receiver is not very good.
“Did you see that pass?”
Lance’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.
“This guy could throw a ball through a tire from forty yards out in a windstorm!” Lance says.
He’s not the only one who’s calling attention to my throw. The camera is aimed right at me. Teammates smile through their facemasks and clap me on the shoulder.
“I’m telling you,” Lance shouts excitedly, “if Coach Cole just gave him a shot, he could make throws like that all day.”
He’s over a hundred yards away, still on the other side of the fence, but I can hear him crystal clear.
I had completely forgotten about Lance and the camera. Until now. And now that I remember, I can’t seem to think about anything else. Even as we line up for another play, all I can think about is the camera. If I screw up, they’ll see me. If I play well, it’ll be harder for Coach to start Curt, not me.
The center snaps me the ball, but when I drop back, my mind seems to go blank. I see the receiver hustling up the sideline, but I can sense the camera on me. If I throw the ball deep, really deep, and if I throw the ball relatively on target, Lance will ooh and ahh over my incredible arm.
If I check down to the running back in the flats, Lance will praise my decision-making skills.
But I don’t do either. I mean, I do throw it deep—just not deep enough. I watch my pass float a pathetic twenty-five yards and then plop to the ground like a duck shot out of the air.
There’s silence.
Silence that Lance tries his best to fill.
“Hey, man, no worries. You’re a little rusty. Who wouldn’t be?” he yells to me before turning back to the reporters. “Keep the tape rolling, man. The next throw’s guaranteed to take your breath away.”
What if it doesn’t? I think. But then I realize I know the answer: they will go away. No more cameras. No more news stories. Maybe this could work to my advantage.
It takes me a little while to really focus back on throwing the ball,
but even when I do they aren’t all great passes. I make sure of it.
When two receivers run crossing patterns I don’t take aim at all before letting go of the ball. I overthrow them so badly it isn’t clear which of them is my target. My next pass is easily intercepted.
Not all my throws are terrible. Sometimes I do let the ball rip with ease. But every once in a while, I botch a pass pretty bad. Sometimes because I blank under the pressure, and sometimes because I don’t try. Every time the ball falls to the ground or is picked off by one of the defenders, I secretly have hopes that if I screw up enough, the cameras will disappear.
My teammates become more deflated with each throw. I don’t blame them. I feel the same way.
I wish I could spend the practice cutting loose on every play, throwing the ball the way I’m capable of doing and seeing what happens. And then, at the end of practice, I wish I could shake Curt’s hand and wish him good luck at the next game.
I wish the camera would go away. Lance too.
Chapter 12
It’s weird seeing Coach on TV. His face looks too big. It’s as red as usual but looks less intense. His voice isn’t as gruff. In fact, it’s barely audible.
He may not look angry, but my guess is that he’s furious. The reason he’s talking under his breath is to keep his frustration at bay. He can’t believe he has to answer these questions, all because of a player (me) who he knows doesn’t even want to play.
Mom turns the volume up, but it doesn’t help much. He’s still basically mumbling.
His words come in and out: “ . . . decided to give Bailey a closer look . . . Team first, individuals second . . . We’re trying to focus on the game ahead of us . . . Like I said, the kid’s going to get a shot, okay?”
The screen switches back to the studio. The reporter continues to sum up the interview with Coach. Her voice blares. Rather than turning the volume back to a reasonable volume, Mom turns off the TV.
Apparently she’d rather get the report from me.
“Is it true?” she asks. “Is he finally giving you a fair shot?”
I don’t want to lie to Mom again—I’ve done enough of that already. But I also don’t want to explain my meeting with Coach before practice, or the way I played during practice.
So I say, “I got half the snaps at practice today.”
It’s true, even if it’s not quite what she asked.
“In that case, I’ll see you on Friday,” Mom says.
“You’re coming to the game?”
She hardly ever goes to my games because she says it’s too painful to see me standing there on the sidelines being ignored by the coach.
“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Of course I’ll be there.”
“It’s away. At North Valley.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, Jordan. If you’re playing I’ll be there.”
“The thing is,” I say, “I didn’t throw very well today. I mean, there’s still a good chance I won’t play on Friday.”
Mom springs up from the couch. “Only one way to fix that,” she says. She heads to the closet and comes back with car keys in one hand and a football in the other. “You tell me the routes and I’ll run them,” she says, flipping the football to me.
We head for the car.
“Hey, Mom?” I turn to her.
“Yes, Jordan?” she says.
“Do you think Dad will be able to come on Friday?”
“You know he doesn’t like to watch.” Then, with a sympathetic smile, Mom adds “We’ll ask him tonight, okay? He should be back from the hospital by the time we’re done practicing.” She smiles bigger. “Otherwise,” she says, “it’s another TV dinner for us.”
Chapter 13
Curt starts at quarterback on Friday because of course he does. Coach Cole made it perfectly clear in his office. I have no chance of starting, no matter what he tells the reporter or even the team.
I know this, even if no one else does.
What I am surprised about is the lack of booing as we enter the stadium.
Granted, this is an away game. But enough of our fans showed up to make their voices heard.
And there are a few jeers from the crowd. But the overall spirit is dampened by the thick rain pelting the fans, and now the players, in the face.
It’s falling from the sky in torrents. Thick, heavy, constant.
The rain drenches through my uniform in minutes. It whips across my face. I have to reach through my facemask to wipe my eyes as I stand on the sidelines.
Maybe that’s why Curt doesn’t have to deal with the fans’ wrath. They’re too busy wiping their own soaked faces.
Besides, by the time Curt has run the first few plays, they have to admit he’s playing really well.
This isn’t exactly passing weather. Both the ball and the field are too slippery. Water bubbles through the grass with every step. By the second quarter, there’s no grass left. Just mud.
Running backs slip and fumble the football. Linebackers attempt to recover the fumble and fumble it themselves.
The only one who’s not slipping and fumbling is Curt. His sturdy legs anchor him to the ground. He plants and cuts through the mucky field, gaining huge chunks of yards. While everyone else slips and sprawls face-first or falls on their butts, Curt churns through the mud without slowing or sliding.
At the half, we’re beating North Valley by four touchdowns. One of them was a fumble recovery. Curt scored the other three.
Because it’s an away game, we’re wearing our white jerseys. But as the game winds down, only Curt’s jersey is still (relatively) white. The rest of the players’ uniforms are coated in brown slime.
There are only a few minutes left.
The score: 38–0.
The game, clearly, is all but over.
But Curt isn’t letting up. He scampers up the field for twelve yards. On the next play he cuts across the fifty, the forty-five, the forty.
Fifty-eight seconds left.
It’s first and ten on North Valley’s thirty-eight yard line. All Curt has to do is take a knee and the game is over. But Curt keeps on playing. He runs an option play. He could pitch the ball to the running back, but he doesn’t do that either.
He tucks the ball under his arm and turns up the field.
Or he tries to.
For the first time all day, he slips.
No, that’s not quite right.
He doesn’t slip. He sticks.
His foot gets stuck in the mud. As a result, his leg bends one way, his body the other.
No, he doesn’t slip. He crumbles.
As the refs blow their whistles and players get up and shuffle back to their sides, Curt’s body is still lying motionless in the muck.
More whistles.
Coach Cole hustles across the field toward his quarterback. His son.
The trainer follows him.
There are a few moments where no one seems to know what to do. Coach and the trainer are talking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Finally, James and Lando, two of our offensive linemen, hoist Curt to his feet.
Taking short, careful steps, the two linemen help Curt off the field. Curt hops on his right foot; the other one dangles weirdly.
That’s when I look at his grimacing face. He’s usually so closed off, but right now his face is full of emotion. Pain. Frustration. Anger. Defeat. They’re all on full display.
I watch the whole thing, telling myself to look away. There’s no way he wants anyone to see him like this.
“Bailey,” a voice barks.
“Sir?” I turn to Coach.
“I need you to get in there and take a knee, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
I almost fall the first step I take. The stumble jars me out of my daze.
“Let’s go, Jordan!”
I try to find the voice in the crowd.
It’s my mom’s voice—I know that. But I can’t spot her. After all, everyone’s standing, applauding. At f
irst I think they’re applauding me, and maybe some of them are. But most of them are applauding Curt. They’ve probably been clapping for him since he began hobbling off the field. I was just too horrified to notice.
Now that he’s on the sideline, most of the fans sit down except for Lance, who’s actually grinning at me and yelling, “Streak! Streak! Streak!” It’s gross, frankly. Grosser than the muck I’m standing in.
I finally spot my mom. She’s standing too.
“You can do it, Jordan!” she shouts.
She doesn’t look happy, though. She looks determined.
I look at Curt limping off.
“Bailey!” Coach barks. “What are you waiting for?”
I turn back to the field.
We don’t bother to huddle up because everyone knows what to do.
Both sides line up.
I crouch under center and say, “Hike!”
The snap goes right through my hands and falls to the ground. I dive for the football. When I look up, though, I see that no one’s lunging at me. Both sides just stand there, waiting for me to recover the football so the referees can blow their whistles and the game can finally end.
Chapter 14
It’s Monday and they’re chanting again in the cafeteria. I had been avoiding the cafeteria—facing the whole school—for as long as possible, until I couldn’t walk around the hallway any longer. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but as I slipped in the back Lance spotted me and started chanting.
Only this time it’s not just about me.
“Curt’s hurt! Time to streak! Curt’s hurt! Time to streak!”
As usual, Lance bounds up and climbs on the table, leading the chants. People around him start joining in.
“Curt’s hurt! Time to streak!”
How does Lance do it? How does he make people feel okay acting this way?
“Curt’s hurt! Time to streak!”
His smile is as big now as it was on Friday after Curt needed help off the field. He turns to me beaming, like he expects me to be proud. But just like the last time he started the chanting in the cafeteria, my stomach is in knots. Just like last time I know what he wants me to do. Only now I’m not going to stick around for the rest of what I know is coming.
