Cody's Varsity Rush (6 page)

Cody lay on his back on a bench in the locker room, his chest heaving. He could feel his heart thundering not just in his chest but in his neck, in his head. On the last play of the first half, Maranatha's QB had attempted a desperation pass to the end zone, to the wideout Cody was covering. The pass was five yards short of the end zone, and Cody broke back to the ball, using his body to shield the receiver.

He locked the ball in his hands and took off like a sprinter down the right sideline. Seeing two defenders looming ahead near midfield, he angled back to the center of the field. He hurdled one of his own players—he thought it was Brett Evans—at the Maranatha forty-five and deftly sidestepped a wouldbe tackler at the thirty. He thought he was home free, but as he crossed the twenty, he was jerked back suddenly. Someone had clamped onto the back of his shoulder pads.

He tried to twist away, hoping to fling the defender off of him, but then someone hit him below the knees. As he fell, he hoped he wouldn't land on the ball.

He didn't. What he did do was wriggle from underneath the two Crusader defenders and sprint to the nearest referee, furiously signaling for a time-out. He had checked the clock before the play. Twenty-eight seconds had remained. Even with his adventurous romp across the field, he knew there was still time for a field goal attempt.

And Mark Goddard's kick was true, from twenty-nine yards out. He was no ATV, but he split the uprights to give the frosh Eagles a 10–7 halftime lead.

Goddard was standing by him now, blond hair plastered to his scalp. “That was some sweet pick and runback, Cody. Thanks for giving me another field goal try. I feel bad I shanked that one in the first quarter.”

Cody sat up slowly. “You put us ahead, Mark. Just keep your head down on your kicks and you'll be fine. As for the pick, the way that QB lofted it up there, I knew it was gonna be a can of corn for somebody. I was just lucky enough he put it near me.”

Coach Vance called for the players to gather near a whiteboard on a mobile easel that he had parked near the showers. He didn't look like a man whose team was winning. “Some of you,” he began ominously, “need to decide if you want to play high school football. Because your effort stinks. For example, Cody Martin makes a great pick and gets his skinny booty up the field in a big hurry. But does anybody make the transition from defense to offense and lay some blocks for him? Except for Mark Goddard and Brett Evans, the answer is no! Evans falls down because he wants to blow his guy up, not just impede him till Cody can get by. I can't fault that kind of effort. The point is, we should be up by a touchdown right now, not just a field goal.”

Cody dared a quick scan of the locker room. Heads were hanging.

Coach Vance sipped from a water bottle, then continued. “One more thing. Paul Getman.” The coach trained his eyes on the tight end/strong safety. “When the opposing QB throws the ball in the end zone, you don't tip it up in the air, going for the interception. Unless you are sure you can make the pick, you do what Martin did on the fourth play of the game—you knock the stinkin' ball down! Got that?”

Getman nodded, his eyes still trained on the floor.

The Coach diagrammed a few defensive adjustments, then sent the team back on the field. Pork Chop was waiting near the locker room entrance, smiling approvingly. “Cody Martin, you are blowin' stuff up. An interception, three pass deflections, and a sack on a corner blitz. You're a beast, my brother! Next time you come out to the farm for dinner, I'm gonna tell the Old Boy not to even cook your steak. You can just eat it raw!”

“Thanks, Chop,” Cody said.

“You did only one thing wrong,” Chop called from behind him as he jogged down to the field. “You shoulda scored on that I-N-T return. You gotta get your speed on next time!”

Cody chuckled. Chop was probably right. He shouldn't have been caught from behind, even if those guys hadn't run almost the whole length of the field, as he had. But the worst part of being caught wasn't that it exposed his lack of speed. When he had first felt that hand clamp on him, he thought it belonged to Gabe Weitz.
Yet another sign
, he told himself,
that
you are, one by one, losing your marbles
.

The Crusaders kept the ball on the ground for most of the third quarter. They did try one shallow crossing route to the tight end, but Cody and Brett dragged him down for just a short gain.

The scoreboard remained frozen at 10–7 as the game wound down to its final fifty-eight seconds. Maranatha began a final drive at its own thirty-eight, after Goddard shanked a punt.

Two running plays moved the ball to the Grant forty, but they also used up the Crusaders' final time-outs.

“They'll have to put the ball in the air now,” Brett told his teammates in the defensive huddle. “Be ready.”

“One more thing,” Cody said. He felt ten face masks turn in his direction. He wondered if he had ever said anything in a huddle before. He couldn't remember.

“What's up, Code?” Brett asked, prompting him.

Cody cleared his throat, hoping that some sound would emanate from his voice box. “Their QB is tired,” he said. “He's floating his passes. Look for 'em to run shallow patterns and try for a catch-and-run. Or catch-and-lateral.”

He saw his teammates nodding in agreement.

Maranatha lined up with no one in the backfield except for the quarterback. Two receivers flanked either side of the line. Cody took the inside receiver on the strong side. The receiver fired off the ball and ran a seven-yard down-and-in. Cody shadowed him, giving him more cushion than he normally would. He knew the team could live with a seven-yard gain to the middle of the field. In fact, such a play might run out the clock.

The Maranatha QB cocked the ball behind his ear and let it fly. Cody knew the ball wasn't intended for his man the moment it cleared the line of scrimmage. He hoped Getman, playing safety behind him, had
his
guy covered.

Suddenly, Cody found himself leaping in the air. He didn't think about it; he just jumped. There was no way he could have known that Getman's man had slipped behind him.

He felt the pebble-grain leather graze his fingertips. At first, he thought the ball would dance out of his grip, but he was able to tip it once, then secure it. His right foot touched the ground first, then his left. He paused for an instant, looking for a running lane. He had a few yards of open green in front of him to his right. He bolted in that direction.

As he ran, an image of Craig Ward flashed in his mind, and he dropped immediately to the ground. He covered the ball with his body, waiting to hear a referee's whistle.

After the two teams lined up and shook hands at midfield, the Eagles surrounded Cody and escorted him to the locker room, congratulating him and hammering him across the shoulder pads all the way.

Coach Morgan was waiting for him at the locker room entrance. “Mister Martin,” he said. “Come with me.”

Cody followed the coach down the hallway between the men's and women's locker rooms, his cleats clacking across the tiled floor.

At the hallway's halfway point, Coach Morgan turned to him. “That defensive holding penalty you committed in the first quarter? That was not an intelligent play. And you tried to arm tackle the fullback in the third quarter. He ran right through you. You must work on those things, understand?”

Cody nodded.

“But,” Coach Morgan said, resting his hands on Cody's shoulder pads, “I believe those were the only two mistakes you made the entire game. You kept their receivers smothered. You made two big interceptions. One easy, one difficult. I'm equally impressed with both. Too often, players muff an opportunity when it appears easy.”

Cody fought the suspicion that he was on one of those hidden-camera shows. This one would be called “Yeah,
right
!” It would build up people's egos, then smash them and trample them to the ground.

Coach Morgan was speaking again, and Cody silently chastised himself for missing his words while he was off in fantasy land. “. . .that was the most pleasing aspect of your game. Craig Ward did that last year, you know. Made a game-saving interception, then got himself on the ground. There's no sense in running around getting cute and trying to run out the clock when you're protecting a lead. I've seen too many weird things happen. Fumbles, muffed laterals, last-second penalties.”

“I saw that Craig Ward play,” Cody said, nodding excitedly. “It was last year's homecoming. That's why I did what I did. I remembered him. And I remember Doug Porter saying to me after the game, ‘That Ward is one smart football player!'”

Coach Morgan glanced at his watch. Without looking up, he said, “That's what Doug Porter would be saying now, if he'd seen you play today.”

Morgan slipped past Cody and strode down the hallway. He slowed for a moment and looked over his shoulder. “Come see me tomorrow before practice. I have something I need you to do.”

Cody had no shortage of offers for rides home, but he decided to walk. It was only a fifteen-minute trek, and the late-afternoon air felt good on his hair, still damp from the shower. He wondered what his dad's excuse would be this time for missing an important game. Probably, “Tuesday? Who plays football on Tuesday? I'm used to Friday and Saturday games. Sorry, buddy, I guess this one just took me by surprise.”

Cody shook his head. He had thought things were changing. His father had become more involved toward the end of baseball season, but now it seemed old patterns were reestablishing themselves. His father hadn't been to a single practice, information meeting, or scrimmage. And now he had missed the season opener.

He decided to think about something more uplifting—like his conversation with Coach Morgan. What was the “something” the coach needed him to do?
It has to be something important, right? Cody tossed the
possibilities around in his head. Maybe he wants me to
at least practice with the varsity—give the receivers
someone new to work against. I guess that would be
okay. Of course, maybe all he wants is for someone to
hold the Dial-a-Down markers during home games.
Whatever it is, it
'
ll be cool. Because Coach Morgan is
cool.

Martin Morgan looked about the same age as Cody's dad, forty-two. Built more like a marathon runner than a football player, Morgan had led the Grant High football team ever since Cody could remember. Unlike most of his opposing coaches, he was quiet. He didn't stalk the sidelines barking at his players, the officials, or the opposing team.

And he didn't wear a headset to communicate with other coaches. “He doesn't need guys feeding him information from the press box; he just has a feel for the game,” Doug Porter had once explained to Cody and Pork Chop. “He understands football. He makes in-game adjustments like nobody's business. And he talks straight too. He doesn't blow smoke and he doesn't take cheap shots at his players, either.”

I would love to play for Coach Morgan
, Cody thought as he walked up his driveway.
But just not
now. Maybe in one or two years—and about twenty
pounds from now!

The TV was on when he entered the front door. He was surprised to see his father in his easy chair, curtained behind his
Wall Street Journal
. The scene was typical, just not at 4:30 in the afternoon. Luke Martin was a workaholic who rarely arrived home before 7:00 p.m. And where was his dad's hopelessly old Geo? Had he actually put it in the garage?

“Hey, Dad,” Cody said casually. “You're home early.”

In return, Cody received only a Neanderthal grunt.

Okay, then
, he thought.
Dad
'
s not in a talkative
mood
.
Maybe something went bad at the office today
. He paused a moment, waiting to see if his father would lower the paper and offer a more hospitable greeting. But the paper barely rustled.