Kid Owner (12 page)

If I could write the story I wish had happened, I'd tell you that my copied plays and the spread were a knockout success. But they weren't.
I
knew how to run the spread, and honestly, the plays we tried to run weren't that hard, but you'd have thought my teammates, and my coaches, were trying to recite the Gettysburg Address in Chinese. It was downright silly.

Guys went offside. Guys ran into each other. Guys dropped passes. Guys missed blocks. They tripped. They stumbled. They fell.

The spread died a quick death out there that very first day, and the sound of my own voice trying to pump it up began to annoy even me. It certainly annoyed Coach Vickerson. He had no patience for anything he didn't understand, and it was easy for him to laugh at Coach Hubbard when Jackson lined up at running back. Coach Hubbard raised his chin and said
he wanted to try something innovative. Jackson ended up slipping on the first play, fumbling on the second, and having my screen pass bounce—literally
bounce
—off his helmet on the third play. Coach Vickerson hooted and howled out loud.

“Enough innovation yet, Coach?” He gasped with laughter as he tore up a hunk of sod and tossed it for emphasis. “This isn't the winning edge, it's the edge of
doom
!”

Coach Hubbard's face went red and he gave me a dirty look like I had planned to embarrass him. “This isn't the Cowboys, Ryan. We tried, but I think it's time to go back to the old offense.”

I wanted to kick Coach Vickerson in the shin. He must have read my face because he turned his scorn on me. “Minna Zinna, you trying to mess with our offense so you can see over the line? Rolling out? One back? Four wide receivers? Don't you worry yourself. Estevan Marin may not own an NFL team, but he's not going to get hurt, and Simpkin will be back next week.”

Coach Vickerson turned to Coach Hubbard. “Come on, Coach. We got defense to work on.”

I trudged along to a fresh spot on the turf with my head hung when someone banged into me from behind. I spun and jumped up, ready for a shoving match. It was Markham, and he stood immovable as a granite block.

“What are you doing?” I spoke with the firm tone I thought fitting for an NFL owner.

“Cut it out, half-pint,” Markham growled. “I don't care if you own the entire state of Texas—you're a bite-sized dingle berry and you better thank your lucky stars you won't be out there playing quarterback Saturday, because I'll
help
the guy I'm supposed to block get in your face and smash you into the dirt.”

“That's garbage. We're on the same team, Markham.” I stayed standing straight, but my backbone was quickly turning to jelly.

“Team? You're not a football player.” Markham snorted. “You got to hang around the past few years and watch because no one wanted to listen to your mommy crying. Yeah, you might be the ‘kid owner'—or you might not be, right?—but you're not a
player.
”

“Markham!” Coach Vickerson shouted from the defensive huddle. “Get over here so we can run the play! Don't tell me you're under Zinna's spell, too! The Dallas Cowboys aren't gonna win this game on Saturday.
We
gotta do that!”

Markham gave one final snort and banged into my shoulder on his way past. I took my spot on the scout team offense with the other backup players, looking at the diagram of the play we were to run off a card Coach Hubbard held up high in our ragtag huddle. Suddenly it seemed like I'd made no progress at all. I tried, but I had failed. Now I might lose not only the Cowboys to a nasty woman but also my own middle-school team to a boneheaded coach and a bully. I bit my tongue for the rest of the practice, ran my sprints, and kept to myself as everyone changed in the locker room. Jackson gave me a sad look.

“What?” I asked.

“I
liked
being a running back in those new plays,” he said in a low voice.

“Would've been nice if you could've held onto the
ball.
That's an important part of it, in case you didn't know it.”

Jackson just nodded his head like it was a lesson learned. I snorted like Markham and realized what I'd done. They say
that kids who get bullied become jerks themselves, and I think sometimes that's kind of true. It's like playing hot potato. You want to get rid of it, pass it on, as fast as you can.

“I'm sorry, Jackson,” I said softly. I was disappointed in myself.

“That's okay.” Jackson shrugged it off. “Maybe we'll get it right tomorrow. Maybe they'll realize how smart you are with the plays and all that.”

“Maybe the sun will turn purple.” I looked up at an imaginary sky.

Jackson wrinkled his brow.

“I'm kidding, Jackson. I'm being sarcastic. They won't realize I'm smart because they can't see it. They're not even smart enough to know they're not smart. They see you and they see a big kid who should play on the line. They see me and they see a kid too short and small to play anything but receiver, set way out on the edge of the formation, as far from the action as humanly possible.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“They're the coaches.” I cut him off with a grouchy wave of my hand.

“I wish there was
another
coach, or a coach for the coaches or something. I don't know.”

I perked up suddenly. “Dude, you're brilliant!”

Jackson nodded enthusiastically and chuckled, then stopped and gave me a puzzled look. “I am? Why?”

“I think I have an idea.” I smiled.

My mom picked me and Jackson up from practice. When we pulled in through the gates to my house, there was a black Mercedes SUV in the circle.

“Who's this?” My mother spoke under her breath, pulling the truck right up behind the Mercedes.

I watched Coach Cowan climb out of the SUV. He wore not a warm-up suit, as he had at the Cowboys complex, but jeans, loafers, and a simple white button-down shirt. It was as perfect as it was unbelievable.

The Cowboys' coach marched right for my mother, extending a hand. “Felt like we got off on the wrong foot yesterday.”

My mother blushed, a rare thing for her, but in the sunshine, wearing normal clothes, Coach Cowan looked less like a caged predatory bird and more like a minor movie star, even
with those close-set dark eyes. He had a confidence about him that made you want to listen.

“It was a shock for me to see you all yesterday.” He turned now and shook my hand. “I didn't expect you to stop by, and I'm sure you know that Bert and I don't see eye to eye. When a team loses—especially a team like the Cowboys—people start pointing fingers.”

Before I could speak, he held up both hands. “I'm not here to do that, Ryan. I just want you and your mom to know that I'm not the aloof Ivy Leaguer some of the sports radio personalities are making me out to be. I wanted you to know that I'm somewhat of a regular guy.”

“Ryan may not even own the team, you know,” my mother said.

“Mom.” I scowled at her.

“Maybe he doesn't, but maybe he does.” Coach Cowan gazed right at her. “Funny things happen. Either way, it bothered me how I acted.”

“Well, would you like to come in and have some coffee and talk?” My mother had recovered from her blush and was back in control.

“Sure. Thank you. Coffee would be great,” he said, turning to face Jackson, eye to eye. “And your name is?”

“Jackson Shockey, Coach.” Jackson stepped right up to the coach, grinned and nodded and shook hands.

As we followed my mom into the house, Coach Cowan looked from Jackson to me and back again. “And you're Ryan's . . .”

“Teammate,” I said. “Jackson and I play football together, Ben Sauer Middle School's seventh-grade team.”

Coach Cowan's eyebrows went up and I couldn't help but wonder if that was because he was surprised that a boy my size could play football, or that a boy as huge as Jackson could actually be my teammate. My mom waved us to the kitchen table, where we sat down across from Coach Cowan.

“He's twelve,” I said. “Big, huh?”

“Real big.”

“He's fast, too. The fastest kid on the team.”

“Seriously?”

“The smartest, too. Can you imagine him running the ball in a one back set?” I folded my hands and laid them on the table.

The plan began with Jackson's idea of a coach for our coaches. Now the idea came to life right in front of me: Coach Cowan could help me
sell
the spread offense to Coach Hubbard. I could only imagine Coach Hubbard's face if he got to sit down with Coach Cowan, a real-life NFL coach. (If you know anything about coaches, they're even more impressed by NFL coaches than the players.) I had General Patton's flanking maneuvers fresh in my mind from history class. I could outflank Coach Vickerson with superior firepower in the form of Coach Cowan.

The only problem was, I had no idea if Coach Cowan would go along with it.

I had no idea if he'd even care.

A light seemed to blink on in Coach Cowan's eyes.

“You're like Ironhead, Jackson,” Coach Cowan said, sounding kind of excited.

“Ironhead?” Jackson rumpled his face.

“Ironhead Heyward,” Coach Cowan said. “Played for the Saints back in the nineties. I loved watching him. Big as any lineman, but fast. Used to knock people over like bowling pins.”

My mom dumped some beans into the coffee maker and it began to grind and hum. She took two mugs from the cupboard and set them down next to the coffee maker. “Ryan? Jackson? You boys want some sodas?”

We both nodded and she brought us two Cokes, then sat down at the head of the table. “Coffee will be ready in just a minute. Milk? Sugar?”

“Just black, thank you,” Coach Cowan said.

“I'm trying to get our coach to run a spread offense.” I watched Coach Cowan closely, to see if he really cared what I thought or if he was just there on a social call to try and be our friend, protecting his job in case things went my way. “I play quarterback.”

I could tell by the way he looked that he was sizing me up all over again. “You fast?”

“Real fast,” I said. “And smart.”

To my surprise, Coach Cowan scratched his chin and nodded his head. “Yeah, you got that look in your eyes, like you're thinking a couple steps ahead. You remind me of Kellen Smith.”

“Kellen Smith? Your fourth-string guy?” I squinted and looked over at Jackson, who shrugged.

Coach Cowan laughed. “Right, Kellen. You met him in my office the other day. He's on our practice squad. Undrafted free agent out of Central Michigan. I can't get Hamhock to move him onto the active roster no matter what I say.”

“Why would you?” I was shocked that the young man I'd seen in Coach Cowan's office was a football player at all. “Move him, I mean?”

Coach Cowan got a serious look on his face and leaned toward me. “Kellen is small, like you, and smart . . . like you, right?”

I nodded and felt my cheeks get warm.

“Yeah, a perfect spread quarterback. Kellen's mobile and makes decisions quick as a hiccup, but his arm strength is nothing to write home about, so there he sits, studying film with me on the outside chance he'll ever get a shot. Hamhock would rather put the ball boy out there at quarterback than
Kellen. Sometimes I think it's just so I can't be right.” Coach Cowan turned those hawkish eyes on me and his voice changed slightly, as if someone had given him a little jolt. “What offense does your team run now?”

“Two backs, a pro set,” I said. “Lucky if we even have two wide receivers on the field. Coach Hubbard likes to swap out a receiver for a tight end. He says with two tight ends you can build a fortress for a pocket to throw out of.”

I liked the way Coach Cowan shook his head in disgust, even though he didn't come right out and say my coaches were stuck in the past. “That's simple and straightforward, like checkers. I like chess.”

I nodded, wildly. “I know, and our coach wants to
be
a college coach or even an NFL coach one day.”

“He'll have to get his head around some bigger ideas than a pro set and two tight ends if he wants that. It's a different game these days.” Coach Cowan smiled at my mom as if he was apologizing for the football talk. It seemed like the perfect time. I didn't even stop to think twice about it. I sprang my trap. “Maybe you could talk to him.”

“Who?” My mom was the one who asked, but Coach Cowan was looking.

The coffee maker stopped grinding and I spoke louder than I had to. “Coach Hubbard.”

“Dude,” Jackson said, “I don't think Coach Hubbard's gonna change his offense, do you?”

“If Coach Cowan makes the suggestion, I bet he would,” I said.

“That's kind of devious,” Jackson said. “Don't you think?
Like, tricking him into thinking he's gonna get something out of it, like it's an audition for coaching.”

I waved my hand in the air. “It's not devious; it's a great opportunity to make his team better.”

“Ryan.” My mom frowned. “That's not really fair to ask Coach Cowan. He has a lot to do. He came here to get off on the right foot, not to help coach your middle-school football team.”

“He doesn't have to coach my team, just talk to my coach.” I spoke fast, wondering just how much Coach Cowan wanted to be my friend, wondering if he really thought I still had a chance to own the team.

As he opened his mouth to reply, I guessed I was about to find out.

“I love talking football.” Coach Cowan's head bobbed up and down to prove his words were true.

“See, Mom?” I wanted her to get on my side.

“Well.” She let the gurgling coffeepot distract her.

“If you could go over a couple basic plays, I know Coach would put them in. How could he not?”

Coach Cowan shrugged. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, and he said, “As long as your coach is okay with it, I'm happy to talk to him.”

“When?”

“Ry-yan.” My mom drew out my name.

Coach Cowan shrugged. “Now?”

“Now?” my mom asked.

“After a cup of coffee?” Coach Cowan tilted his head. “I'm here and it's a bit of a drive so I may as well do it now . . . if
that's okay. We'd have to ask your coach.”

I jumped out of my chair. “Coach Hubbard would eat his own dirty socks just to
meet
you, let alone get some ideas on the spread offense.”

Jackson shook his head, but grinned. “He'd definitely like to meet you.”

“What's a spread offense?” my mom asked.

“It's the new rage in football, Mom. Instead of the traditional two backs, two wide receivers, and one tight end for the skill players, you go with three or four wideouts to throw to and just one running back. It's a
passing
offense. It's fast and it's furious.”

My mom huffed and gave me a look before turning to Coach Cowan. “I'm sorry—this is kind of awkward, what with Ryan maybe owning the team and you being coach. It's really not necessary to go meet Ryan's coach. Even
if
Ryan ends up somehow owning or partly owning the team, you showing up here is more than enough of a nice gesture. I'm sure you've got lots to do.”

I ground my teeth together and tried with all my might to signal to Coach Cowan that my mom was one hundred percent wrong. It
wasn't
enough just to show up. If Coach Cowan helped
me
, I'd help
him
(if I could help him). I had to remind myself of that, which actually made it even better to have him in this spot because once he met with Coach Hubbard, my seventh-grade football coach would be a changed man. I saw the look in Coach Hubbard's eye when John Torres showed up and I knew that as an aspiring coach, meeting Cody Cowan would be a life-altering experience for him.

Coach Cowan wasn't a leader of men for nothing. He studied my face, then said to my mom, “Actually, after that cup of coffee, I'd enjoy it. I love talking to young coaches, especially ones who are interested in the spread offense.”

I grinned and high-fived Jackson, who smiled and shook his head again.