Guys Read: The Sports Pages (5 page)

Jake pushed through the locker room without a sideways glance. He didn't even see his teammates. His vision went inward, and his eyes glittered in the blaze. When he saw the IH coach in the stands with a foam cup of coffee and a clipboard, Jake's breakfast tried for a speedy retreat. A bit of vomit burned his mouth before he could swallow it down. He turned away and got his muscles loose.

Whistles blew. They ran. They stretched. They went through the banging and popping of pregame ritual, then the offense and the defense jogged to opposite sides of the field. The scoring system didn't matter to Jake. It wasn't about the offense winning the scrimmage. It was about him manhandling Bobby Lemke, pounding him into submission in front of the IH coach.

When he lined up across from his best friend on the first play, Bobby muttered, “Don't do this, man.”

Jake answered by firing out with all the force he could muster, smashing heads with Bobby, driving his paws up under Bobby's pads, and driving his feet like a paint-can shaker. Jake wheeled his butt at the last instant, and the runner slipped through the open space. Someone hit Jake from behind, cutting his knees and sending him to the bottom of a big pile of bodies. He took Bobby down with him.

Bobby got up and glared at Jake. “Bring it.”

The next play was a pass. Bobby raced around the outside, slapping Jake's hand, darting past him, and crashing into the quarterback. Bobby howled at the sun, and his defensive teammates swarmed him like a liberating hero.

Jake clenched his teeth and hands. He got back into the huddle, the flames now burning out of control.

The battle went on. Blood spilled. Sweat flew. Flesh got clawed up like hunks of sod, leaving bloody divots on both their arms and lower legs. When it was done, Jake's head spun, and he staggered to the cluster of players surrounding their coach, vaguely aware that the offense beat the defense by a narrow point margin. He removed his helmet and knelt down. He had no idea if he'd beaten Bobby or if Bobby had beaten him.

Coach Heath introduced Coach Commisso from Immaculate Heart. Coach Commisso had a thick black crew cut and eyebrows. A shadow of stubble shaded his face. He cast an iron gaze out over the team. Jake pulled up a handful of grass and stared at the back of Bobby's sweaty head and the dark crescents of matted blond hair.

Coach Commisso said, “I like what I saw just now, and I know why you guys usually win your district. Good work, boys. As you know, we like to offer scholarships to IH to four young players every year. It's a full ride to a very prestigious academic institution.”

Coach Commisso shared a secret smile. “And we've got a pretty good football team, too.”

Everyone laughed politely.

“There's a lot of talent out here, I'll say that. You.” Coach Commisso's eyes locked onto Jake. Everyone turned to look at him, and Jake's stomach knotted up tight.

“Jake,” Jake said. “Jake Simpson.”

“Jake. You've got a lot of promise. Great feet for a big man … and I like … I like your fire.”

Jake couldn't tear his eyes away, but he sensed Coach Heath nodding his head.

“I could see you at IH one day.”

Jake's chest tightened. He realized he'd forgotten to breathe. He forced himself to inhale and gasped.

“I'm gonna keep an eye on you. Sometimes we'll have a kid that doesn't work out, and then you could join your teammate here.” Coach Commisso angled his head toward Bobby.

The team cheered. Bobby just stared at the coach. His chest heaved. He gulped the air, still trying to catch his breath from the scrimmage.

Tears blurred Jake's vision. He looked away and sniffed them back. The fire sputtered. Coach Commisso was talking about Bobby, but Jake wasn't hearing him. The flame distracted him, steady now, hypnotic. In a daze, he held up his helmet and chanted with his team, changed in the locker room, and left the school without a word.

He rode for half an hour without knowing where he even was. When he looked up, he saw a sign:
LAWTONBERG 5 MI
. Jake kept going. The next sign said
2 MI
., and the flame inside him crackled and grew. Jake soaked in the saltbox houses crammed together along old, tree-lined streets. A yard sign read:
GO HUSKIES
.

He saw the speed zone for a school and pedaled faster. The school's dusty brick walls baked in the Saturday morning sun. The soft tweet of whistles reached over the building from the football field beyond. Jake circled the school, dodging broken glass and a rusted muffler that lay dead by the curb. The bark of coaching mixed in with the whistles.

Jake parked his bike and studied the playing field as he passed through the fence. The head coach had on a floppy hat worn by soldiers in the desert. He was a big man, a former lineman. Jake waited for a water break and walked out onto the field, extending a hand.

“Coach, I'm Jake Simpson. My family might be moving into the district next year. I'm a football player. Offensive line.”

The coach went up and down his frame with a practiced eye, and a smile spread across his face. He shook Jake's hand and shouted to one of his players.

“Givens, come here.”

The quarterback jogged over with the ball still in his hands.

“This is Jake Simpson.” The coach directed the quarterback to shake Jake's hand. “Boy this big might be just what we need next season to shore up our line and get us that championship, don't you think?”

The quarterback named Givens grinned and nodded.

Jake looked past them both at the huge banner above the stadium.

HUSKIE PRIDE

In his mind, he could see it happening, all of it, and it was like gasoline on the fire.

I
t wasn't as if Maximilian Funk didn't know that things were going to go badly. After all, there's no good that can come out of being a new kid in school, especially when you've just moved halfway across the country, especially
especially
in the middle of the year. Nothing says
Give me a wedgie and hang me from the flagpole
like waltzing into a new middle school in February at a time when there are no other new kids to hide behind.

He knew things were going to go badly. If he knew just how badly they were actually going to go, though, he would have faked some illness that would keep him out of school for the rest of the year. Like Ebola.

So Max slowly got ready for his first day at Willard Middle School, spending more time than anybody ever had trying to decide whether it would be better to wear a sweater and T-shirt or a sweater and button-down shirt. He just wanted to get it right. Max had spent his middle school life thus far working hard to be the sort of kid no one ever noticed, except perhaps to say “Oh, I didn't see you there.” Because there were only two ways to get noticed in middle school, and Max was never going to be the kid who got noticed in a Good Way, like if he were a basketball stud or did something amazing like winning an ice cream–eating contest or solving one of Mrs. Bjork's extra credit word problems. So that left the Bad Way. Better not to be noticed at all.

When he got downstairs, his mom presented him with a Minnesota Twins cap, flashing him a huge I-know-I-ruined-your-life-but-I-bought-you-this-fabulous-hat-so-it's-all-better-now smile. “Now you'll look like a native,” she proclaimed.

Max frowned. He did not wear baseball caps. Baseball caps only served to emphasize his ears. Which were already doing a fine job of emphasizing themselves.

“Mom,” he said, not trying to keep the exasperation from his voice, “baseball hats are for jocks. I can't stride in there pretending I'm a jock.” Middle school kids could smell posers like a T. rex could smell a lame triceratops. It was a biological fact.

“You
are
a jock!”

“I play
tennis
, Mom.”

“That's a sport!”

“Trust me. It's not the same thing.”

“Come on, honey. Don't be nervous. Everyone's going to love you.”

“It's February, Mom. Nobody cares.”

“Of course they care!” she said. “You have so much to offer them!”

Max tried to keep from rolling his eyes. Every mother thought her kid was extraordinary. By definition, at least 75 percent of them had to be kidding themselves.

“Anyway,” she added, putting the cap on his head, “this town's nuts about baseball. Just tell everyone at school you're from Beau Fletcher's hometown. They'll think you're a celebrity!”

Max sighed. Beau Fletcher was the veteran All-Star third baseman for the Minnesota Twins, a two-time MVP, future Hall of Famer, and the greatest thing to come out of New Hartford, NY, ever. People in New Hartford said Beau Fletcher's name with this dazed reverence, like he'd invented soup or something. It didn't matter whether he was a nice guy or anything. All that mattered was that he hit a jillion home runs. After Beau donated some money to help rebuild Roosevelt High's athletic fields, there was a movement to rename the school after him. After all, what had Franklin Delano Roosevelt done for them lately? In New Hartford, Beau Fletcher mattered so much that the universe needed to make people who didn't matter at all just to keep everything in balance.

People like Max.

And then it was time to go. Max's dread followed him to the car. It huddled its overgrown body into the backseat and kicked Max's seat the whole way to school. It lurked behind him as he went up the steps to the school and through the doors and down the hallway following the signs to the main office. And then, right before Max went in, it wrapped him up in an icy, immobilizing embrace—and then disappeared suddenly, leaving him all alone.

And that's when everything changed.

Because in the main office stood a woman, and next to her was a girl. And she was the most beautiful girl Max had ever seen. The girl had long, thick, wavy hair like a mermaid might have. And it was a rich, dark red, the kind of color that should only exist in a Crayola box or maybe a very special kind of slushie. And her eyes, her eyes were green like emeralds. Or Kryptonite.

Max's ears flushed.

“This is your official new student buddy,” the woman, who had apparently been talking for some time, said. “Molly Kinsman. She's in sixth grade too.”

“Hi, Max,” Molly said, smiling a smile that would need no orthodontia. “I'm going to show you your classes and stuff, okay?”

Max opened his mouth but couldn't come up with a response. This was the sort of girl who would never pay attention to him unless she was assigned to. Her eyes were so green. Who did they remind him of?

“Ready?”

“Catwoman!” he thought. Except he said it out loud. His mouth hung open.

The girl blinked. “What?”

“I mean, yes,” Max said. “I'm ready. Thanks. Thank you. Ready, Freddie!”

He closed his mouth. Molly gave him a curious look, then led him around the school. She chatted as she showed him his locker, the gym, the library, the cafeteria. And Max just followed, nodding and grunting like an ape desperately trying to hide the fact that it'd just been body-switched with a sixth-grade boy. But, he reflected, at least nodding and grunting was better than babbling. If he started talking, who knows what ridiculous thing would come out of his mouth next?

Molly dropped him off at his homeroom. “So, come find me in the cafeteria at lunch, okay?” she said brightly. “You can sit with us.”

And then she turned and left, her invitation hanging in the air.

Max stared. Did she really want to hang out with him? Or was this just part of her job description?

Max sat through his first three periods wishing he were a different sort of person, the kind who might impress a girl like Molly, the kind who had anything interesting about him at all. If Molly thought he was cool, then surely the other kids would too. And then they wouldn't string him up on the flagpole by his underwear. There was a lot at stake.