Kickoff! (9 page)

“We made lots of mistakes today,” Coach Spangler said, “and we're gonna work all this week on our Xs and Os, to make sure we don't make the same mistakes again. Because next week we've got the Bears, and they're not gonna give the game away like these guys did. We've gotta play better, or we're gonna go down. Understand?”

Ronde understood, all right. He understood that it didn't matter how well he and Tiki knew the Xs and Os. If they had to sit on the bench the whole time, what difference would it make?

•   •   •

Later that afternoon the twins decided to take a break from their home football sessions and go bike riding instead. “Let's head all the way up Mill Mountain,” Tiki suggested.

Ronde knew it was a tough ride—uphill all the way. But you could see the whole city from up there, and he thought their mountain bikes could handle it. Besides, making it all the way to the top would be a real challenge—and it would be downhill all the way home.

“Yeah, man, let's do it!” he said.

Riding toward Mill Mountain Drive, they passed Jason jogging the other way. He was wearing a Hidden Valley Track T-shirt, and waved to them, smiling.

“Hey!” he said. “Check this out!” He stuck out his chest, so they could see the T-shirt if they hadn't already.

“Yo, man, you're on the track team now?” Tiki asked.

“That's awesome,” Ronde said, as the boys all shook hands. “How'd you get on the team so fast?”

“Are you kidding?” Jason said, still smiling. “It was a breeze. Only about fifteen kids showed up. I'm gonna be the new quarter-miler, starting next weekend.”

“Quarter mile, huh?” Tiki said thoughtfully. “I'll bet I could beat you in a quarter-mile race.”

“Says you,” Jason shot back. “If you're so sure, why don't you quit the football team like I did, and join up? It's got to be boring for you guys, sitting on the bench.”

“It is,” said Ronde.

“Oh, is it ever,” said Tiki.

“I mean, don't get me wrong—now that the track team has got me, they're not exactly desperate. But you guys are mad fast, especially at sprints. I'm sure they'd make room for you.”

Ronde was about to blow him off, but he could see that Tiki was giving some serious thought to Jason's words.

“Well, I've gotta keep moving,” Jason said. “See you at school.”

The boys started riding again, going uphill now that they were in the park. They didn't speak much—mostly because it took all their strength to peddle up the slope. But partly, it was because they were thinking about what Jason had said.

He'd looked so . . . so
happy,
Ronde thought. And why not? Jason had always been fast—almost as fast as him and Tiki. He had every chance to become a track star at Hidden Valley—and so did they, if they would only switch sports.

But that would mean giving up on their lifelong dream! How could they do that?

They rode until they reached the top of the mountain. Then they walked over to the giant neon star and put down their kickstands. Leaning over to the guard rail, they stared down over the city of Roanoke, spread out in the valley before them.

“It sure is pretty up here,” Tiki said.

“Yeah, man. It is.”

“Ronde?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think? About what Jason said, I mean?”

Ronde shrugged. “I don't know. You?”

“I don't know either . . . but it sure would be nice to get out there and compete every weekend.”

“I'll say.”

“You think we'll ever get in a football game? Really get to play some, I mean?”

“Not likely,” Ronde had to admit. “Not this year, anyway.”

“I'm not waiting till a year from now to play,” Tiki said, a hint of anger in his voice. “I'm fed up with sitting on the bench while everybody else gets in there.”

“How do you think
I
like it?” Ronde said, suddenly angry himself. “You got in the game before I did!”

“Well, then?”

“What, you want us both to just up and quit?”

Tiki tilted his head, but didn't answer.

“I'm not a quitter,” said Ronde.

“Hey, me neither,” Tiki said quickly. “I'm just saying . . .”

“Yeah, I know—we could be running the hundred-yard dash by next weekend.”

“Right!”

“It's tempting,” Ronde admitted. “But we would have to quit football.”

“We could try out again next season,” Tiki suggested.
“We'd have a better chance of making the starting team as eighth graders.”

“Not if we don't hang in there and pay our dues
this
year,” Ronde argued. “Coaches remember who stays and who quits. If we join the football team next year, we might not be starters until ninth grade! At least if we stay, we might get to start next year.”

“I guess you're right.”

“You think so?” Ronde asked, not too sure himself.

“Yeah. Let's just sit tight for now and see how things work out.”

“Cool.”

“But if we keep riding the bench much longer, I'm gonna explode.”

Ronde smiled. He knew just how Tiki felt. “No, you won't,” he said. “Hey, we've been dreaming this dream all our lives—it's too soon to give up on it, dog.”

“Right,” Tiki agreed. “So let's just say we'll give it one more week, and then see what's up.”

They slapped five on it and got back on their bikes for the long coast down the mountain. From here on in, the ride would be easy.

Ronde only hoped their football careers at Hidden Valley would go the same way—because it sure had been an uphill slog so far!

TIKI SAT IN SCIENCE CLASS, LISTENING TO MR.
Wheeler talk about different elements and their electrons. Every minute or so, Mr. Wheeler would throw out a question, like “Silver! How many electrons?” It was like he'd thrown a quick square-out pass that nailed the students right in the numbers.

Hands would shoot up, mostly in the front rows. Mr. Wheeler would scan them with his fierce eagle eyes and serious expression, then extend his arm, point a finger at one of the kids, and say, “YOU!”

Then the kid would have to spit out the right answer. If he or she was correct, Mr. Wheeler would pump his fist and go, “Yessss!”

If the kid was wrong, Mr. Wheeler would fake throwing a rolled-up ball of paper at his or her head. The class would giggle with nervous laughter, glad it wasn't them.

Tiki sat glued to his seat. He
wanted
to raise his hand—after all, he'd promised his mom he would—but he was terrified of actually
doing
it!

Ronde had helped him a lot last night, going over the
periodic table with him until the electron numbers were burned into Tiki's brain.

He
knew
he had the right answers. But somehow, he still wasn't sure enough to risk being wrong. Not in Mr. Wheeler's class, anyway.

It wasn't that it hurt so much getting hit with a rolled-up ball of paper. It didn't—not for more than a second, anyway. It was the
embarrassment
that hurt. All those kids laughing at you . . .

Finally, toward the end of the period, Tiki managed to work up his courage. Remembering his mom's words about standing up and speaking out, he forced himself to lift his arm when Mr. Wheeler said, “Krypton—how many?”

Tiki had to prop his right hand up with his left, to keep it from shaking.

Mr. Wheeler noticed the new hand right away. “YOU!” he said, turning and pointing straight at Tiki. His angry eyes burned through Tiki like a laser.

Tiki stood up, opened his mouth to answer—and froze. For a short, dreadful moment, he actually
forgot the question!

But then he took a deep breath, and thank goodness, it came back to him.

“Well?” Mr. Wheeler demanded.

“Ei-eight,” said Tiki, in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

“What?” Mr. Wheeler said, cupping a hand to his ear.

“Eight,” Tiki said again, louder this time.

“I can't hear you!”
Mr. Wheeler thundered.

“EIGHT!!” Tiki thundered right back, feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

“Eight is correct!” Mr. Wheeler said, pumping his fist. “Yessss!”

Tiki felt a wave of relief flooding through him. He took another deep breath and started to sit back down. “Yessss!” he said under his breath, pumping his own fist in victory.

Mr. Wheeler came over to Tiki's desk. Towering over him, the teacher looked down and said, “Very impressive, Barber. You need to speak up more. Take note, class—Mr. Barber is on it. So . . . no more hiding for him.”

The class laughed, but Tiki didn't mind this time. Much to his surprise, raising his hand—and taking a chance on being wrong—had turned out to be a pretty good idea.

His mom had been right after all.

•   •   •

In English class, Ronde's mind kept wandering to what his mom had said. He had been embarrassed the other night, when she came home with bad reports from all his teachers. That had
never
happened before,
ever
—and Ronde was determined that it never happen again.

Their weekend assignment had been writing poems. Once before, in third grade, Ronde had written a poem
for class—but it was a really stupid one, and he'd thrown it in the wastebasket rather than show it to his mom.

This time, though, he thought he'd written something pretty decent. That is, he thought so until Ms. Jenkins called on the students to read their poems out loud, in front of the whole class.

After the first few of them got up to read, Ronde found himself squirming in his seat. Their poems were
good,
and Ms. Jenkins said so to each of them.

Would his poem be as good as theirs? Would Ms. Jenkins like it? What if she didn't compliment him after, like she had the others? Maybe she wouldn't get to him before the period ended, Ronde thought hopefully.

But then a little voice in his head—a voice that sounded a lot like his mom's—said, “Be brave and raise your hand, Ronde! Read that poem of yours proudly and don't give in to your fear—conquer it!”

When the next reader was finished, and Ms. Jenkins asked for more volunteers, Ronde bit down hard on his lip, squeezed his eyes shut tight, and stuck his hand up in the air.

“Yes. Ronde Barber, please come up!” Ms. Jenkins said, smiling broadly. She wasn't used to seeing Ronde raise his hand.

But Ronde wasn't smiling. He could feel his stomach going
urgle-gurgle-burble.
He could hear it, too. It was so loud, he was afraid the whole class would hear it and burst
out laughing. If they did that, he'd have to just curl up and die, right there in front of everyone.

“My poem is called ‘Courage,'” Ronde announced.

He could hear his soft voice trembling. Clearing his throat, he made a real effort to be louder, hoping that would keep it from shaking.

He recited his poem—too fast, but he couldn't help that. He just wanted to get this painful moment over with.

“I used to be afraid of heights,

Afraid of the dark, and things that bite,

And strange old ladies who always mumble,

And lions and tigers in the jungle.

Mosquitoes that bite, and bees that sting,

I was afraid of
everything!

But then one day I realized

That it might be very wise

To make believe I didn't care
—

And what do you know
—
I wasn't scared!

So if you pretend you're brave and strong,

You will find you can't go wrong.

So what, if your courage isn't real?

It's what you do that matters
—
not what you feel.”

When Ronde had finished, he looked all around the class. Everyone was staring at him. No one said a word.

Gee
 . . . 
was my poem that bad?
he wondered.

“That was beautiful, Ronde!” Ms. Jenkins said, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Class, wasn't that a beautiful poem?”

Ronde was really embarrassed, but proud at the same time—and most of all, relieved. Everyone was looking at him, true—but they weren't laughing at him. Not at all!

“Ronde,” said Ms. Jenkins, “would you mind if I submitted your poem to the school yearbook committee? They're always looking for good work by seventh graders. I think they might like to put this in this year's edition—would that be all right?”

Ronde was stunned.
My poem
—
in the school yearbook?
He'd never seen his name in print before.

“S-sure,” he said, giving Ms. Jenkins a smile before practically running back to his seat.

Ronde couldn't get over it—he'd written the poem on Back to School Night, after his mom had gotten on him and Tiki. But he'd never realized till he read it out loud—every word in his poem was true!

AFTER SCHOOL, AS THEY CHANGED INTO THEIR
Eagles uniforms in the locker room, Ronde told Tiki about reading his poem in front of the class. “You know, I think Mom was right about standing up and speaking out,” he said.

“Me too,” said Tiki, telling Ronde about what had happened in his science class.

“You know, I've been thinking about it,” Ronde said. “Maybe we should stand up and speak out to Coach Spangler.”

“Huh?”

“You know—about getting more playing time.”