Crackback (2 page)

The lights are bright. The stadium's full. The pep band is playing “Come Together.” A warm evening—perfect for football. Everybody's pumped to finally have a game. I stand next to Zach as Coach Sepolski finishes his pregame talk.

“You've seen the polls. You know we're ranked third in the state. Yes, we've got a chance to be a good football team. Yes, we've got a chance to go to State. But it's only a chance. If you want to make it a reality, you have to start here.” Sepolski takes off his cap and wipes a towel across his bald head. “Play hard. Play smart. Let's have some fun.”

“Fire up.” Zach pounds my pads as we run onto the field. I jump over the white sideline for good luck. We both have eye black smeared under our eyes for the glare. I also like it because it makes me look tough.

“Corners and outside backers, over here,” Sepolski calls. Brooksy, Krause, Zach, and I crowd close. “Remember, Deer Rapids likes to crackback on the quick pitch.”

A crackback comes from the outside. If you don't see the block coming, it can destroy you as you turn.

Sepolski diagrams the block on his whiteboard. “Corners, shout out ‘crackback.' Linebackers, you have two choices. One, turn away from it, take the hit in the back, and the ref will call a penalty. Two, avoid the block and fill outside. Zach and Miles, call it out.”

We both nod.

Sepolski puts his fist out and we all put ours on top. “One, two, three,” he says.

“Eagles,” we yell together.

My stomach's flipping cartwheels as I scan the crowd. Mom, Dad, and Martha are sitting up by the press box. Mom and Martha wave and I lift my arm like I'm stretching. Dad tells them something. Probably to quit waving. He believes players should concentrate on the game.

“Manning, fly full speed, under control,” Sepolski says. “You've got contain.”

Contain's simple—run straight and don't get sucked in—but I'm still nervous. I tighten the Velcro on my gloves and take a deep breath.

The referee blows his whistle. Adams kicks off, and I run as hard as I can. Number 45 in red lowers his shoulder, but I fake inside and cut outside. The return man runs the other way and is tackled at the twenty-five.

The full moon rises above the concession stand, and the smell of hot dogs blends with cut grass. With the lights shining, I feel like I'm onstage. On the first play, the quarterback pitches to the tailback and the wideout cracks down.

“Crackback,” I holler. Krause turns to avoid the blocker. I rush to hold the end as the pulling guard charges like a bull escaping the rodeo. I know the running back will cut in off the guard's block, so at the last moment I lunge left. My shoulder hits his knee and turns him over.

“Good hit, Man.” Krause slaps my back.

“Way to call it out, Miles,” Sepolski shouts.

Suddenly the crowd, the lights, the cartwheels in my stomach disappear. That first solid hit puts me in a different place. Time slows and I focus on what's in front of me.

The wideout lines up with his hands by his face like he's a boxer. As if this will make him faster. I want to knock him out already. He looks to the middle of the field twice. My gut says pass, and I doubt their quarterback has the balls to go long on the second play of the game. I slide up to take away the slant.

“Hut one, hut two.” The quarterback drops.

“Pass,” linebackers holler.

The ball comes right at me. I take a step, catch it, and run for the end zone. Wide-open green field. Nobody can
touch me as I fly for the score. I hold the ball over my head and hand it to the ref.

The crowd goes crazy. “Interception return for a touchdown by Number 42, Miles Manning,” crackles over the speakers. The band launches into “We Will Rock You.” Perfect way to start the season.

Brooksy gives me a chest bump. “Way to go, Man.”

Zach slaps me on the helmet. “You got one. I'll get one, too.” He's all jacked up.

We sit on the bench, and I watch the cheerleaders shake their pom-poms. Kyra Richman sees me staring and waves. She looks good in her short skirt.

Everything clicks for us tonight. Our defense dominates. Stillwell chews up yards at fullback. Jonesy throws three touchdown passes. In the third quarter, Zach rips the ball away from the tight end for our second interception. By then the score is 35-3, and Coach Sepolski puts in the subs.

“Turner, Manning, over here,” two boys behind the bench call. I wave, but Zach ignores them.

“Way to go, Miles,” one of them says.

After the game, the locker room is loud. Jonesy shoots an old jock at me. I sneak up behind him and shove it in his face.

“That's so gay,” he says.

“What do you have for paint?” Zach shows me the red on his helmet.

“I've got more than that.” I show him two smears from a couple of helmet-to-helmet hits in the second quarter.

“Smart play on that interception, Miles.” Coach Sepolski shakes my hand. “Great players make great plays at crucial times.”

“Thanks, Coach.” The adrenaline's rushing through my body. We
can
be really good this year.

Then Coach Stahl comes over. “Don't get too excited, men. We've still got work to do.” He rubs his mustache. “Deer Rapids ran some traps to set up that field goal in the second quarter.”

Is he serious? “Yeah, Coach. We'll try to play better next week.”

Stahl turns and his mouth tightens. “I don't need any smart-ass comments, Manning. You've got plenty of room for improvement and so does this whole team. The minute you think you've got it all figured out, that's the minute you're in trouble.”

We just won 45-3. I can't believe Stahl won't let us enjoy it.

“You shouldn't be satisfied unless you hold the
opponent to zero. If they score, you should be thinking about what you did wrong.”

I look at the floor and hope he's finished.

“More concentration, Manning. Let's see if you can go out next week and hold Clifton scoreless.”

“Okay, Coach.” I pull off my pads.

Stahl swaggers into the coaches' room. What a jerk.

“Hurry up, Man,” Zach says. “Party time.”

Izzy's is packed by the time we get there. Every spot is taken, so we end up parking two blocks away in front of the beauty school.

“Confluence is number one,” the driver of a Jeep shouts. Kids wave foam number one hands out the windows.

“Way to go, Eagles. Way to go,” six senior girls sing as the driver hits her horn.

Zach orders two bacon cheeseburgers with fries. I get a fish sandwich, onion rings, and a strawberry malt. We sit outside to watch the show.

“You guys look ready for the play-offs,” Strangler says. He's the starting center on the basketball team. “You both got interceptions. Manning got a touchdown, though, while Turner just fell down.”

“Shove it, Strangler.” Zach gives him a push.

Brooksy and Megan join us.

“Good game.” Megan smiles at me.

“Thanks.”

“What was Stahl talking about?” Brooksy unwraps a cheeseburger.

“How the defense shouldn't be satisfied if we give up points.” I hold my thumb and finger to form zero.

“I thought we played great.” Brooksy takes a big bite.

“Stahl's pissed we were celebrating, rather than concentrating on the three points we gave up.” I dip an onion ring in Zach's ketchup. “Can you believe it?”

“He wants us to get better,” Zach says. “Coaches always talk that way.” Zach likes Stahl. He's taken weight training from him twice.

“Sepolski doesn't.” I crumple my wrapper and throw it at the trash.

“Sepolski's different,” Zach says. “Most coaches aren't like him.”

“I know, but why's Stahl always on me?”

“You think too much,” Zach says. “Stahl doesn't like that. He wants you to do it his way.”

“What if there's a better way?” I hold a spoonful of malt upside down to see if it'll stay on.

“That's what he doesn't like, players thinking about a better way.”

“Homecoming is in four weeks.” Megan changes the subject. “Are you going to the dance, Zach?”

“Yup.” He nods.

“With who?”

“You'll have to wait and see.”

“How about you, Miles?” Megan turns her blue eyes to me. “Are you going?”

“I'm not sure.” The malt slides off the spoon. I want to talk about something else.

“You should go,” Megan says. “It'll be fun.”

“Party at the Quarry.” Zach checks his messages as we walk to the truck. “Two kegs. Sophomore girls. Let's go.”

“Nah, I'm ready to go home.” Kyra won't be there, and I don't feel like drinking.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Zach and I signed the Conduct Code agreeing not to drink, smoke, or take drugs. Last year, we followed it together. This year's already different.

“Who're you asking to the dance?” I drum my fingers on the armrest on the ride home.

“Kate Meyer.”

“Nice.” Kate Meyer's a gorgeous sophomore who recently broke up with her senior boyfriend. She likes to party. She's probably at the Quarry now.

“Who're you going to ask?” Zach turns onto my street.

“I was thinking about Kyra Richman.”

“She's hot. Not going out with anybody. She likes stars.” Zach and I bump fists. “You played like a star tonight. That Blast helped jack you up.”

“Yeah.” I'd forgotten about the capsules. I'm not sure I want to start with that stuff. Besides, I played great.
What difference does it make if Zach thinks I took them when I didn't?

Dad's watching ESPN Classic when I walk in, even though it's after midnight. I don't know how he does it. He gets up at 5:00, works all day, and stays up late. That doesn't seem human.

“Did you lock the door behind you?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Did you listen to your coaches?”

“Yeah.”

“That Deer Rapids is one bad-looking team. Undersized, slow, totally predictable on offense. What a disorganized bunch.” Sometimes Dad likes to talk football, and after a win I can listen. “That trap caused some problems, though. What those ends need to do is go low, submarine the blocker, and come right back up in front of the tailback. That'll shut it down.”

“Yeah.” Dad used to play defensive end. He's six foot five and weighed 260 pounds in high school. He was the star of his high school team and started in college until he broke his leg senior year. He knows his football.

“When the play goes the other way, make sure you
cover your area.” Dad diagrams it with his hands. “You can move with the play, but be ready to get back on a reverse or a counter. There was a play in the third quarter when you got sucked over. If they'd swung it back, they'd have scored.”

He sounds like Stahl. Why's he always have to focus on the negative? “How about my interception?”

“Yeah, you were in position, but that quarterback doesn't have much of an arm, does he?”

“No.” I can tell this is about as much as I'm going to get. “Good night, Dad.”

“Night.” He turns up the volume.

Before falling asleep, I replay my interception. Stepping up. Grabbing the ball. Starting the year with a touchdown. Kyra saw that. Maybe she
will
say yes if I ask her. I'd love to kiss her. I wonder if I'd kiss okay.

For practice, I lean over and kiss my wrist, as if I were kissing Kyra's lips. I'd like to do more than kiss her. I picture that as I drift into the state between sleep and awake.

When I get up, Mom's typing on her laptop and Martha's watching Scooby-Doo. “That was a fun game last night,” Mom says. “You played well.”

“Thanks.” I fill a bowl with Frosted Flakes and find the sports section. “E
AGLES
P
ICK
O
FF
B
UCKS
” is the headline. Underneath is a picture of my interception. “Eagles star Miles Manning intercepts a pass and returns it thirty-one yards for the opening touchdown.”

Kyra will see that. Dad will, too.

“Manning's interception got us going,” Coach Sepolski says in the article. “That was a good first game, our best in years. This team has the potential to be something special.” I read the story three times to remember the good parts.

“Look, Mom.” I show her the picture.

“How exciting,” she says. “We'll send a copy to Grandma.”

“What is it?” Martha hurries over. “Number 42. That's you, Miles. I'll call Grandma.”

“Mom, can I ask you some homework questions?” I place my bowl and spoon in the dishwasher.

“Sure. Let me finish this first.” Her fingers fly across the keyboard.

“What about me?” Martha says. “Don't you have questions for me?” Grandma must not have been home.

“Oh yeah, I've got a whole set.” I pick up a blank piece of paper and study it.

Martha gets her Hello Kitty pad and pencil. “I'm ready.”

“Number one, what's the best musical of all time?”

“That's easy.
Cats
.” Martha writes it down.

I stare at my paper. “Number two, what's the second-best musical of all time?”

“That's harder. I would say either
Beauty and the Beast
or
The Lion King
.”

“If you were held over hot, burning coals until you had to choose, which would it be?”

“What kind of hot, burning coals?”

“Lava. Molten lava, two thousand degrees.”

“Celsius or Fahrenheit?” Martha asks.

“What difference does it make? Just answer the question.”

“
The Lion King
.” She writes it down. “
Beauty and the Beast
would be third.”

“Now, for the most important question. Who is the best brother in the world?”

Martha leans over to see. “That's not a real question.”

“It's as real as any of them.” I pull the paper away.

“The best brother in the world. Kurt.” Martha writes it down.

“Who?”

“Kurt in
The Sound of Music
. He's nice to Marta and Gretl. He never makes up fake homework questions. Yup, Kurt is the best brother in the world.”

“In that case, Smart Pants, your interview is over. The correct answer to the last question is Number 42, Miles Manning.”

“No, it's not.” Martha circles the answer on her paper. “It's Kurt.”

Mom's gone outside to pull weeds from her geranium pots.

“Ready for some questions?”

“Sure.” She digs among the plants.

“Where did your ancestors come from and why did they come to America?”

“Well, my dad's family came from Poland and my mom's came from Germany.”

I write this down. “Why did they come?”

“For opportunity, I guess. You should call Drew. He knows all that stuff.” Mom's brother, Drew, is a librarian in Boston and lives with his partner, Stephen. “Drew's researched the family history,” she says. “His number is in my address book on the desk.”

“Can't you call him?” I pick at my thumbnail.

“It's your homework, Miles.”

I haven't seen Drew or Stephen since Grandma's seventieth birthday, two years ago. Dad offered them fruit salad and made a big deal about the pansies in the window box. Nobody told him to stop and Stephen got angry. “I could send him an e-mail.”

“Miles, go get Drew's number.” Mom points with her trowel. “Call him.”

I find the number and dial it. Maybe nobody will be home. “Hello, Drew?”

“This isn't Drew. It's Stephen. I'll get Drew.”

That's bad. It's hard with two guys, but I should know my uncle's voice. Do Drew and Stephen think I thought Dad was funny at the party? I pace around the porch and bite my thumbnail.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Drew. It's Miles Manning.”

“Hi, Miles. It's been a while. How are you doing?”

“Okay. Drew, I've got some homework. Mom said you could help.” I open my notebook on the counter.

“What kind of homework?”

“Immigration. I need to know where my ancestors came from and why they came to America.”

“Well, different branches of the family came for different reasons. Grandpa Zaleski and Grandma, who was a
Kaczmarek, came from southern Poland. Grandpa came because he had an older brother here. Grandma came to marry Grandpa.”

I'm writing as fast as I can while Drew talks.

“On my mom's side, my grandma was Sofie Schmidt, who married Max Steinmitz. They'd grown up within twelve miles of each other in Germany but never met. Sofie came over with her older brother Joachim. He left Germany because he didn't want to be drafted. Your great-grandfather Max came to avoid conscription, too.”

Just like Halloran said. I can't believe it. “Drew, how do you know all this stuff?”

“I've done some research and been over to Germany and Poland. It's important for me to know where we're from.”

“Thanks, Drew.” I look at my page full of notes.

“No problem, Miles. Say hi to everyone, and call again.”

“Okay, I will.”

That was easier than I thought. I can't imagine it will go that well with Dad.