Crackback (4 page)

“Jonesy has a separated shoulder and is out for the season.” I get right to the news at dinner.

“What?” Dad asks. “How'd Sepolski get his quarterback hurt in practice?”

“He didn't know it was Jonesy.”

“How could he not know?”

“He thought it was Fox.”

“He can't keep his quarterbacks straight. Maybe he's losing it.”

I take some salad and pass it to Martha.

“Perhaps it was an accident,” Mom says.

“Accident!” Dad snorts. “An accident is something you can't control. A coach is supposed to be in control. Sepolski should know who's quarterback.”

How come Dad tells me to respect my coaches, but he gets to say what he wants about them? How come I don't get that freedom?

“The lasagna's delicious,” Martha says.

“Yeah, Mom, it's good.” I don't think she told Dad about the capsules.

“Kelsey said her sister is going to the homecoming dance.” Martha looks at me. “Are you going, Miles?”

“I don't know. I'm thinking about it.”

“You don't need that crap,” Dad says. “You've got football, school, your job. That's plenty. I've seen too many guys get so wrapped up in girls that they let football and homework go to hell. You'll have plenty of time for that later.”

What does he know? Why can't he lighten up?

“I'm sure there are nice girls who haven't been asked who would love to go.” Mom's concept of dating has no connection to the real world. “What about that Ritter girl?” Stephanie Ritter is on the chess team and hardly talks. “I'm sure no one has asked her.”

“I'm sure no one has either.”

“What do you mean?” Mom asks. “She's nice.”

“Let's drop this whole damn subject.” Dad raises his voice. “I already said Miles has plenty going on. He can wait.”

I push bits of noodle around my plate. Dad's not in charge of my life. It's not his decision. Why can't he just shut up?

Coach Sepolski gathers the defensive starters. “As you know, Jonesy's out for the season. Josh Stillwell's our new quarterback. It will take a while for him to adjust to the position. In the meantime, the defense has to step up.”

I scrape dirt off my cleats with a stick and try not to think about Jonesy.

“We're at Clifton tomorrow,” Sepolski says. “Let's have a strong practice to get ready.”

We jog down to the goalpost to work on blitzes. Fox is running second offense, and I feel sorry for him. First Sepolski thought he was sending Tyson after him; then he gets yanked as a starter after one day.

Sepolski comes into our huddle. “Manning, run the corner blitz. Don't show it early. Wait for the right moment, then explode.”

I creep up to the line, then back off a step when Fox looks over. “Down, set, hit.” As soon as I see movement, I burst forward. Nobody picks me up and I've got a free shot at Fox.

Sepolski blows his whistle. “We don't need anybody else hurt. Hossick, where the hell are you? You've got to pick up the blitz. What are you doing, dreaming about your girlfriend?”

Sepolski slaps me on the shoulder. “Good work, Manning. Way to time it.”

During water break by the shed, I watch the offense. “Down, set, hit.” Stillwell spins on a fake, then throws a tight pass to Brooksy in the flat. We're going to be okay.

Sepolski claps his hands. “Let's end with ten sprints.
Line up by position.” I line up with the receivers and the defensive backs at the forty-yard line. Coach blows the whistle and we run hard. As usual, Zach finishes first and I'm in the middle. On the final sprint, Coach Stahl is barking, “Don't give up, men. Don't give up.”

I push across the line and quietly say, “Oh, I give up.”

“That's the problem with you, Manning.” Stahl points. “You always give up. You look for the easy way out. You're too smart for your own good.”

He turns to the linebackers. “Don't give up, men. Don't give up.”

I have no idea why I said that. Maybe because the idea of sprinting four hundred yards and giving up on the final five seemed so idiotic. Who'd give up then? But why would I say it? Maybe I am too smart for my own good.

In the locker room, Zach shakes his head. “Why'd you do that?”

“I don't know. What Stahl said seemed so stupid. It just came out.”

“Well, what you did was stupid.”

I throw my helmet in my locker. I've got an empty feeling in my stomach, like everything's been sucked out. I sit on the bench with my head in my hands.

On game day, my locker is decorated with a blue and white sign that says: J
AIL THE
P
IRATES
. Clifton is the Pirates, which makes no sense because they're nowhere near an ocean. They don't even have a lake. I like it when team names have something to do with the town. Deer Rapids, for example, being the Bucks shows they're trying. Pirates for Clifton is lame.

As I walk to Halloran's class, Kyra Richman laughs with her friends. Why do they always travel in a group? If she weren't surrounded all the time, I could talk to her.

In history, Halloran tells us to take out our homework. I forgot to do it. I rip out a piece of paper, write my name, and ask Strangler for the answer.

“Indians,” he says. “Already here.”

Halloran circles the room collecting papers. He looks at my blue jersey. “Big game tonight,” he says. “Who are we playing, Miles?”

“Clifton.”

Halloran pretends he's not into sports, but I know he and Coach Sepolski are friends. “We talked about reasons immigrants came to America.” Halloran stands at the board. “What is the one group for whom none of these apply?”

Strangler raises his hand. “Indians.”

“Let's explore this.” That's one of Halloran's favorite expressions. “How many people wrote down ‘Indians'?”

I raise my hand, along with most of the class.

“Why Indians, Miles?”

“Because they were already here.”

“Yes,” Halloran says. “Indians or Native Americans were here when Europeans arrived, and they'd been here for thousands of years. But had they always been here?”

Lisa Williams waves her hand wildly. “They came across the Bering Strait land bridge. I saw a show about it on the
National Geographic
Channel.”

“That's one theory,” Halloran says. “Many Indians don't agree, but most archaeologists believe that ancestors of Indians came here thousands of years ago. Why would they have come?”

“For food.”

“For better hunting.”

“For more land.”

“Surprisingly, some of the same reasons that we listed on the board. There is one group, however, for whom none of these reasons apply.”

Lucia raises her hand. “Slaves,” she says softly, but we all hear.

“Yes,” says Halloran. He pauses. In the silence it sinks in how obvious this is and how I missed it.

“Africans,” Halloran says, “came to this country in chains and were sold as slaves. This is fundamentally different from any other group. They were forced to come here. They didn't choose to.” While Halloran talks, I look around the room at the white faces.

“The trip to the Americas was called the Middle Passage,” he says. “Research this and write a five-page paper for next Thursday.”

After lunch, Kyra dials her combination, and for once, she's alone.

“Hi, Kyra.”

“Oh, hey, Miles.”

“Bad news about Jonesy, isn't it?” I shift my books from one arm to the other and try to relax.

“Yeah, like it's bad, but I think we'll still be good.” She doesn't seem too concerned. You'd think as a cheerleader she'd show more sympathy.

“Kyra.”

“Yeah.” She takes her books from her locker.

“Well, homecoming is coming home. I mean coming up. Homecoming is coming up in three weeks. Homecoming.”

“Yes, Miles.”

“I…was…wondering,” I start out slow and then go fast, “if you'd go with me.”

Kyra smiles her perfect orthodontist's daughter smile. “That's like sweet of you, Miles, but I'm already going with someone.”

“Oh. Oh.” I want to disappear. “Who? Who?” I sound like a lost owl.

“I'm going with Josh Stillwell.” She tosses her hair back as she closes her locker. “He's the new quarterback, you know.”

As if I didn't know who the quarterback was. As I walk away, five of Kyra's friends giggle by the drinking fountain.

The best thing about football is smashing into guys. After my total humiliation with Kyra, I can't wait to unload on a Pirate. On the bus, I sit next to Zach. He's already heard about Kyra shooting me down. Her friends wasted no time in spreading the news.

“That's why I waited,” I say. “To pick the perfect time to be turned down.”

“You can't find out if you don't ask.”

“Yeah, right.”

Zach reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out four capsules. He drops two onto my palm. “A little Blast. It'll help you play great again.”

I remember my promise to Mom.

“Nothing to worry about.” Zach slaps my thigh. “Gives you that aggressive edge. That's what wins games.”

Zach's right. Football is about being aggressive, but I've never needed help with that. Zach puts the capsules in his mouth, takes a swig of water, and passes the bottle to me. I roll mine in my palm. Just caffeine, like drinking Red Bull. I pop them in my mouth, gulp some water, and swallow.

I look out the window at green fields of corn and wait
to feel different. Everything's the same. Mom doesn't need to know about it. She doesn't need to know everything I do.

Coach Sepolski gathers us in the locker room. “Clifton's a good football team and they're always tough at home. Fellas, this is your time. Set the tone of the game. Play hard. Play smart. Have fun.” Coach's hand chops the air. “Dedicate this game to Jonesy. Go out and win it for him.”

“Yeahhhhhh.” The yell rips through the room. I'm ready to hit a Pirate so hard he'll have to hunt for his teeth. I want to push their tailback out of bounds and drive him into the metal fence that surrounds the field.

Coach shakes hands with each guy as we leave the locker room. We line up behind Jonesy, who leads us onto the field through a tunnel of screaming cheerleaders. Kyra Richman keeps her eyes on Josh Stillwell. I spit at her feet.

I grab Jonesy on the sideline. “I'll get you a Pirate.” Is that the Blast or am I just psyched?

A roar rises from the crowd when we kick off. I sprint straight for a Pirate blocker and hit him as hard as I can. He crashes over backward.

“Reverse.” The play's coming back my way. I've kept my contain lane, so the runner cuts in. I grab his white
jersey and spin him around. The pursuit races in and we gang-tackle him at the twenty-one.

“Way to contain, Manning,” Sepolski hollers.

On second and nine, Coach signals a blitz. I go up to the line, like I'm playing bump and run. When the quarterback looks over, I back off a couple of steps. He checks the other way. “Hut one.”

I race in free. The quarterback's following a receiver on Zach's side. No one picks me up. I lower my shoulder and hammer him before his arm moves forward.

“Fumble.” Tyson jumps on the ball.

Zach pounds me on the shoulder. “Way to lay a lick, Man.”

Clifton coaches and trainers rush to check the quarterback.

“One Pirate for you, Superstar.” I point to Jonesy as I bounce off the field.

“Awesome blitz, Man. I watched you all the way. That's one screwed-up Pirate.” He pushes me with his good arm.

Our ball at the Clifton twelve. Nice way for Stillwell to start. Two running plays gain six. On third and four, Coach calls a pass to Brooksy in the flat.

“Down, set, hit.” Stillwell spins and Brooksy is wide open. Stillwell tosses a strike. Touchdown.

“Yeahhh.” We're rollin'. We're going to be okay.

Clifton brings in a new quarterback. I want Coach to call the blitz so I can knock him out, but we play it straight. Three downs and the Pirates punt.

We keep giving the offense good field position, and Stillwell looks sharp. At halftime we're up 21-0, and we roar into the locker room. “Let's hold them to zero,” I shout. Coach Stahl nods.

Jonesy uses his left hand to diagram pass patterns for Stillwell. It must be hard for him not to be playing.

When we go up 28-0, Coach pulls first defense and puts in the second string. He stays with first offense, though. I'm sure he wants Stillwell to get more work with them.

“Watch the hook and go,” Zach calls to Bachman, his backup.

“Tell them to sharpen their cutlasses,” I yell. I'm still buzzing from the Blast.

Bachman looks confused and Zach waves him off. “Hook and go,” he says.

Jonesy and I are pretending to swordfight when Coach Stahl notices. “Don't celebrate early,” he says. We haven't given up any points, but he has to warn us about something. I'm glad to see Jonesy laughing.

On the first play of the fourth quarter, Stillwell drops
back on a center screen. It's a timing play, and he waits an extra second for Monson to get open. Stillwell plants to throw, and the Clifton end slams into his leg. Everyone on our bench stares in silence. Stillwell squirms in pain as coaches and trainers push to get to him.

Instantly the energy of the game changes. On their sideline, Pirate players exchange high fives. Celebrating someone getting hurt is wrong. Then I remember. That's exactly what I was doing with Jonesy in the first quarter.

Across the field, Dad stands along the fence. He hadn't told me he was driving all the way over here. He's shaking his head as Stillwell is wheeled to the ambulance. People in the stands clap politely. What are they clapping for? Relief their son isn't hurt?

Coach Stahl walks over. “That's why we don't celebrate early. Anything can happen in a football game.”

Our celebrating had nothing to do with Stillwell getting hurt, but I don't respond. I look over at Jonesy, who's rubbing his eyes with his head down. Who's our quarterback now?

“Fox,” Sepolski hollers. “Get in there.”