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Chapter14
James
Idon’t care what Theo and Cameron say, playing football on Saturday mornings is not the same as under Friday lights. There’s a charge missing. This energy that a quarterback gets when the sky is black and those yellow posts glow against the dark night.
There are birds chirping right now. Lots of them. A whole damn flock. And it’s so loud I keep looking at the trees when I should be watching our defense.
“This game is yours. You ready?” My dad leans into me and pulls my shoulder pad toward him as he speaks right into my helmet. I leave the birds and meet his eyes, or what I think are his eyes because I can’t see them behind the sunglasses. Because the sun is out, and it’s not night.
“I’m ready,” I grunt. My dad moves on, shouting down the line at our defense as they force a third down.
I’m not ready.
I’m distracted, and while I’d like to blame the sun and the birds, they have zero to do with it. I’m sure my dad will want to blame the girl wearing my initials in glitter on her face for the lack of spirit I fear I might showcase when I get out there. But it won’t be her fault, either. All I can think about is Toby and the fact he got the ball first . . . again. And he scored in two minutes. People went nuts. The Penn guy nodded and wrote shit down on his pad of paper then made a call to someone, probably the university president. In my head, the conversation went something like this:
“Hey, Larry. Yeah, it’s me, Clueless Scout Man. We have to get this guy. Now look, I know his dad is basically our boss, but I still think we need to offer him a full ride. He needs to know how much we want him, otherwise he’ll go somewhere else. What is that you ask? Do other people want him? Larry . . .everybodywants him.”
In this fantasy, the president of Penn is named Larry. I’m not sure why I manifested this nightmare with a Larry at the helm, but I think it has something to do with latent resentment I harbor against the kid who stole my entire piñata from my fifth birthday. His name was Larry, and my mom made me invite him.
I try to amp myself up as our defense forces a kick. Our return team isn’t very strong, but the school we’re playing is shit, so I get to come in with decent field position. My dad flattens his hand on the back of his clipboard as I run out, his fingers spread wide to indicate play set five. I knock on my helmet to signal I’m ready and got his sign.
My dad wants me to show off my passing strength, but I’m missing Theo’s hands, so I turn to Devin and Cameron in the huddle and tell them run their asses off and get open.
We break and get to the line. I position myself, ready for the shotgun snap for a bit of running room. I start my count, and for whatever reason, our center, Jake, sails the ball over my head before I finish the sequence. It catches our line off-guard, which means I have about a second and a half to land on that ball before a thousand pounds of high school football player weight piles on top of me to punch it away.
“Damn it!” I growl, eyes scanning the field behind me, tracking the ball as it bounds left, then right. I dive on top of it and brace myself, praying my ribs don’t crack as the tackles come. It takes the referees nearly a minute to pull everyone off, fists beating at me to get to the ball the entire time.
I leave the pile shellshocked, tossing the ball to the referee as I jog toward the sideline, the world a little fuzzy.
“Can you go?” My dad makes a throwing motion with his hand. I nod, ignoring the trainer moving closer to the sideline, wanting to push for concussion protocol. My head is actually the only thing that doesn’t hurt. My lungs feel like pancakes, and my arms took about three dozen fists to the forearms and biceps.
My dad fans his clipboard toward me, which means run it again. But something doesn’t feel right. I scan the line and stop at Toby. He’s standing with his helmet dangling from his hands as he rocks side to side, a smug grin on his face. Realization slaps me in my face.
I don’t have the team.
I tried to convince myself that I could win them over, and maybe in time, I will. But as of now—right now—I have a handful. These are Toby’s guys. They’re the same. It’s a good ole boys club and my membership application has yet to be accepted.
My mind runs through options as I run back to the huddle, and I’m still not certain how to handle things when I pull everyone in tight. Again, I scan the faces of the guys here with me. I look for the weak links, but they’re all so deceptive.
“Come on, what’s the play?” Devin demands. I meet his stare, his eyes as hungry as mine. Maybe it’s not a matter of sorting out who is against me but finding the ones who are with me. Devin wants the ball. If I throw it, he’ll be there.
“Devin, you get open on the route for the long ball. They’re doubling coverage on Cameron since Theo’s out, so let’s use that. I want you to really break.” Devin nods and claps his hands, his hot pink receiver gloves glowing in the morning sun. I bet they would look even better at night.
“All right, let’s do this!”
We break, the play clock running, and I manage my time carefully, spending only one second on something more important to this play than anything else. I flatten my palm on Jake’s back and lean into him as his hands push the ball into the grass.
“Don’t fuck me again,” I grunt.
I slap my palm down with enough force for my true message to sink through—so hegetsit—then I back up and start my count. I’m ready for the ball to come at me instantly, but I hold on to the faith that my southside grit will wear Jake down. My pocket is going to give me up fast so I ready myself to move and burn as much time as I can before Devin hits his stride.
Jake snaps the ball on time and target, and our O-line leaves holes for the defense almost immediately. I swing back and to the right, leaving myself a good ten yards of room to run into my throw. I manage to break one tackle, but I don’t know that I’ll be able to get through the next one. Hoping I’ve given Devin the time he needs, I tighten my core and step into the throw of my life, launching the ball down the field a good sixty yards. I barely have time to witness it crest at the arc before I’m flattened on my back. I don’t expect to get a flag for roughing the passer, and if my pass fails I may shrivel up into the earth anyhow, so I lay with my hands wrapped around my facemask and my ears tuned to the reaction of the Welles home stands. If they explode, I can get up knowing I executed the biggest mic drop of my life.
The world switches to slow motion, and my eyes catch my dad’s movement first as he leaps and pumps a fist into the air, his mouth shouting, “Go!” The hundreds of students and alumni in the stands behind him all get to their feet as their hands shoot into the air, and then the frenzied wave of cheering breaks through and turns time back to normal.
“Dude, that’s the longest pass in Welles history, I swear,” Cameron says, leaning over my body and stretching out his hand. I grip it and let him yank me up.
