Kid Owner (13 page)

I couldn't hear Coach Hubbard's voice on the other end of Coach Cowan's cell phone, but I could imagine it trembling with excitement. He agreed to head right back to the school and meet us in his office to talk football “Xs and Os” was what Coach Cowan said. Jackson and I rode in Coach Cowan's Mercedes and I provided the directions. When we got there, Coach Hubbard's van was already in the parking lot and we walked right into the back of the school.

Coach Hubbard was one of those people who thought that if he could fit into a smaller-sized piece of clothing, then he really was that size. His legs swelled from the hem of his coaching shorts like cookie dough bursting from a tube, and his stomach stretched the belly of his collared shirt so tight that a crescent of pale white gut peeked out at us just above his belt line. I coughed and looked away, but Jackson stared right at
the sneaky gut and tugged his own shirt down as if to signal to Coach Hubbard.

Coach Cowan paid no attention. He was like a math teacher with his dry erase marker squeaking away on the board, creating angles and numbers, Xs and Os, until the entire space was covered in hieroglyphics. We were crammed into three desk chairs in the very front of our team room. Coach Hubbard scribbled notes in his book, wide-eyed and mystified.

Coach Cowan was talking fast. “. . . So, if they roll the coverage over your slot, your quarterback simply hits the back-side hook. If the linebacker plays off, he throws the check down. Both throws are very high percentage. See? You can stretch the field
and
have a back-side counter
without
making your quarterback throw dangerous passes.”

Dangerous passes were long passes. (Also, coincidentally, the ones
I
couldn't throw so well, but no one mentioned that.)

Coach Hubbard's mouth hung slack and a bit of drool spilled from the corner of his lip before he swabbed it with the back of a hand. “But . . . the back is set weak, so how can it be a strong set?”

Coach Cowan gave me a quick glance and bit his lip before nodding rapidly. “Okay, you're still hung up on the formation. I get that. This stuff is complicated and I've been doing it for a long time, so sometimes I get ahead of myself. Let me go back to the formation. . . .”

And on it went, the entire school empty all around us, but the team room's lights blazing bright like a forge of football knowledge. Coach Cowan finally stopped trying to get Coach Hubbard to grasp the big picture, or even very much of the
offense. He focused on teaching Coach Hubbard two run plays and two pass plays. And Coach Hubbard beamed with pride as he drew, all by himself, a Trips Left Chase Right Waggle. When Coach Cowan applauded, Jackson and I looked at each other and pitched in, too, clapping until our hands hurt.

“You got it.” Coach Cowan patted Coach Hubbard on the back. “Put it in, and you'll be off to the races. I can send you a new play every week, maybe two if you'd like.”

“I'd like two hundred!” Coach Hubbard was so happy, he wasn't thinking straight.

Coach Cowan laughed. “Let's go slow. Before you know it, you'll have the whole playbook down.”

The sun had set by the time we walked out of the school toward Coach Cowan's Mercedes and Coach Hubbard's minivan.

“You really think Jackson here could be my one back?” Coach Hubbard gave Coach Cowan a knowing and important look.

Coach Cowan read the eager look on my face and nodded. “Of course. Remember Ironhead Heyward?”

“The Saints runner?” Coach Hubbard rumpled his brow. “Gosh, I was about eight years old then.”

“Right, and you still remember him.” Coach Cowan jangled his keys. “Two hundred and sixty-five pounds. Ran a 4.5. You ask Bobby Hebert—”

“The quarterback?” Coach Hubbard's face glistened with sweat.

“Yes,” Coach Cowan continued. “You ask Hebert and he'll tell you Ironhead made that offense roll and that made Hebert into a multimillionaire. Sure, Jackson can do it. If he's as fast as you say he is.”

“Oh, heck yeah.” Coach Hubbard patted Jackson on the back like they were old friends.

“Thanks, Coach Hubbard,” Jackson said, smiling.

“Coach, I gotta tell you,” Coach Hubbard continued, “I appreciate this little session more than you know and I'm looking forward to staying in touch.”

“Well.” Coach Cowan clicked open the locks to his Mercedes with the push of a button. “If Ryan has anything to say about it, I know we will. He's a big fan of yours, Coach. That's why I'm here.”

Coach Hubbard blinked as this set in and I wondered what other force in the entire universe he imagined prompted this visit if it wasn't me. If he didn't already fully appreciate that before, he sure did now.

Coach Hubbard gently placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it warmly. “Best thing about this offense, Coach, is that it gives a player like Ryan the ability to use his brains out there, make those reads, get us first downs.”

“That it does.” Coach Cowan extended his hand to shake good-bye. “Some people don't get that. Glad to know you're not one of them, Coach.”

I don't think Coach Hubbard would have ever let go of Coach Cowan's hand. It seemed like he wanted to stand there shaking it forever, but Coach Cowan slipped away and he, Jackson, and I climbed into his SUV and he drove us back to my house. On the way, Coach Cowan flipped on the radio and we heard a couple of loudmouths talking about the Cowboys and how they wished Jimmy Johnson had never left the team in the nineties.

“You don't think the Jimmy is too old?” one announcer asked.

“Old? He's
still
got his hair,” the other announcer said. “Do you not watch the man every Sunday on Fox? Now
that's
a coach!”

I glanced over at Coach Cowan when the announcers—I knew them from their highway billboard as the Sportz Dogz—started tearing into the current coach . . . him. Coach Cowan remained calm, but I didn't when one of the Sportz Dogz rattled a paper and said they had just received word about the status of the new ownership.

“Well, well, well,” said the Sportz Dog with the newsflash, making everyone wait. “You're not gonna believe this.”

“Read that thing already, will you? I'm starting to wonder if you even
can
read
.
” The other Sportz Dog sounded as eager as the rest of us to hear.

That set them both off on a good chuckle.

“Okay, okay, okay. Here you go . . . in a surprise ruling late this afternoon, US Federal District Court Judge Abby Dobney ruled on the following injunction . . .”

“Injunction?” the other said. “Sounds like it hurts.”

“Only when I laugh.”

They broke out into more stupid laughter. “But seriously, an injunction is when a judge basically calls a time-out to stop the action.” He rattled the paper into the microphone. “Wow, some of you are really gonna be torked about this . . .”

“Read it already.” The other Sportz Dog sounded angry.

“I will.” The first Sportz Dog cleared his throat and I balled my hands into fists.

I stared at the satellite radio, listening hard.

“Judge Abby Dobney ruled in favor of Jasmine Peebles, granting her a preliminary injunction against any other possible claims to the Dallas Cowboys' controlling ownership. While the court believes ownership will be split among the parties, an initial review of the facts suggests Ms. Peebles will end up with a controlling interest. The court's preliminary finding allows her to continue to control the team until such time as a permanent resolution should be found. Whew. That was a mouthful.”

For some reason, both of those morons laughed some more. The first Sportz Dog rattled the paper again. “So, sounds like the kid still gets a slice of the team, but the stepmom, Jasmine Peebles, is running the show.”

“And our sources tell us that Jasmine Peebles is a Hamhock fan.”

“So maybe we get rid of Ivy Boy Cowan?”

“What's that? Some form of foot fungus?”

They busted out laughing some more.

I looked at Coach Cowan, whose jaw was set. I knew Ivy Boy referred to his Harvard Ivy League background.

“Doesn't sound good, does it?” Jackson asked.

The coach winced and snapped off the radio. “Well, it's just a
preliminary
injunction. Sounds like nothing is final. These court cases are like a football season. Lots of games left to play.”

“It's never good to lose the opener, though,” I said, trying to remember which famous coach I was quoting. “Sets a bad tone.”

“Well, sorry about that, Ryan,” Coach Cowan said.

“Because you wasted a trip to visit me.” I couldn't help being a grump, even though I knew he must be as upset about this news as I was.

“I didn't waste anything. You'll still end up with something. Even these clowns said that.”

“A
minority
owner, with no say and no swing.”

“Whoa. That's sounding a little spoiled, no?” Coach Cowan laughed and snorted. “Lotta kids would be happy with a couple hundred million dollars' worth of an NFL team.”

“Yeah, Ryan—that's kinda awesome anyway,” Jackson added.

“I don't need money, Coach. I thought I
owned
the Dallas Cowboys. That
made
me someone. Coach Hubbard was going to build his offense around me.”

“Your coach didn't care if you owned the team. He seemed pretty open to running the spread, Jackson at running back,
and you at QB. I think he may still do it. It's not controlling the Cowboys, but it's something.”

“Coach Hubbard will forget the plays you taught him by the time he brushes his teeth tonight, let alone be able to learn the new ones.” All I could do was lean my head against the window and groan.

“Not if I keep in touch with him,” Coach Cowan said.

“You'd do that?” My mouth fell open. “Why?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged. “Whether or not you own the Cowboys or are kind of my boss doesn't matter. I like you, Ryan. You're a good kid. And you remind me of Kellen. I like quarterbacks like you guys. I was like that, too.”

We were halfway home when my mom called. “There are TV trucks on the street. Tell Coach Cowan to drive right past them. I've already told them the first one to set foot on our property will spend the night in jail.”

“Jail?” All I could think was that I needed as much positive press as I could get. Maybe it would influence the judges. I had no idea how all that worked, but it didn't seem wise to threaten the TV reporters. Besides, I was aching for a little attention.

“Yes,” she said, “jail. I'll not have them harassing us.”

“Mom, maybe I should just talk to them. Have that press conference?” I gave Coach Cowan a hopeful look. “People are all talking about it anyway. Coach and I just heard it on the radio.”

“We are
not
commenting, Ryan.” Her voice left no doubts. “
If
you end up running the team—which still sounds absolutely crazy—but if, then we'll script a press conference and
you can make a statement. We are not going to let the media control this.”

We reached the end of my street and I could see the trucks.

“Put Coach Cowan on, please,” my mom said.

I did and I watched him nod as he slowed down and turned around. “Yes, of course. I understand. Sure. I think that would be really nice. Yes, we'll meet you there.”

Coach handed me back the phone. “I guess we are going out for dinner?”

“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound too excited about a meal with the Cowboys head coach.

Even though it looked like I'd lost control of the Dallas Cowboys and the whole kid owner thing was going down the drain, lo and behold, a handful of kids appeared at our table in the lunchroom the next day. One of them was the brainiac friend of Izzy's, Mya Thompson. Another, to my real surprise, was Estevan Marin. Estevan wanted to be a doctor like his dad and, although he wasn't a star athlete, he was solid and well liked.

Griffin Engle was there, too. Griffin always kept to himself, a blond-headed quiet kid who made the girls giggle. Everyone respected Griffin, though, because he did well in school and was also the fastest kid in our grade.

No one said anything about joining us. We all just sat there acting like it was normal to be there. It felt nice to be part of a group and I assumed it was all because of the Cowboys. So I also assumed it wouldn't last.

The popular table didn't like it; I could tell by the whispers and the dirty looks they threw at the newcomers to our table. I heard Jason Simpkin in the hallway before science class picking on Estevan for “kissing up” to me and saying I wasn't “worth a stack of pennies.”

Estevan didn't even know I could hear through the crowded hallway, but my back straightened a bit when I heard his reply to Simpkin. “Stuff it, Jason. Ryan's cool. I don't care if he owns the Cowboys or not. He's on our team.”

I was struck by the idea that maybe me owning the Cowboys wasn't the reason people sat with us. Maybe they actually liked us? Maybe they saw things the way Izzy did, that thing about what people had on the inside. That felt pretty good, I can tell you.

Honestly? It made me feel bad for plotting all those plays for when I took over Estevan's position as the starting quarterback. But he was cool with it. And really, nothing could make me feel bad enough to drop the idea. I just felt like it was my time to try and shine, and I'd been waiting more than a while. Even though the Cowboys might be slipping away, Coach Cowan's visit gave me a new hold on the Ben Sauer Middle School's seventh-grade team.

At practice that afternoon, Coach Hubbard whispered to me that he'd gotten a text from Coach Cowan. After giving me a wink, he put in the four new spread plays with me at QB. When we ran them in team period, they all worked, and I was able to convince Coach Hubbard to run some more. The whole thing made me light-headed with confidence. I felt like I could do anything and I even started changing things in the huddle
like it was backyard ball instead of a highly organized offensive system.

“Jackson, this time, instead of blocking back on the Waggle play, we'll run a back-side screen. Linemen, one hit, let your guys through, then set up a wall in front of Jackson.” I looked around at the faces of my teammates. Except for Markham's look of disgust, everyone else looked eager and excited.

“Okay,” I said, feeling bold, “Waggle Right Screen Left on one . . .”

Markham stood straight up and hollered. “Hey, Coach! Zinna's trying to change the play! He's making stuff up!”

Everyone froze and Coach Hubbard chugged over to the huddle with his clipboard tucked under one arm. “What's this?”

My mind spun fast. I knew I probably shouldn't have changed the play on my own. I should have asked Coach Hubbard. He probably would have been okay with it. That gave me an idea. Maybe, if I gave him credit for it, he'd go along with the idea. I think his head was spinning so fast from all the new offensive stuff, he might not even remember what we had and hadn't put in.

I jumped up and pointed at Markham. “Yeah, that's what Coach Hubbard told me to do. He went over these plays with me yesterday. He's working with Cody Cowan, you doofus. Coach Hubbard knows
all
this stuff. He taught it to me and asked me to put it in if you guys were
ready
. I guess everyone's ready, Coach, except for Markham, who suddenly thinks
he's
the coach.”

Markham's jaw hung open and his yellow-rubber mouth guard peeked out at us.

Coach Hubbard hitched up his shorts, tucking the shirt in around his gut. “What's your beef, Markham? You want to be a part of this offense or not? I'm sick of you griping. One more word and Sloan can start for you. Maybe you need to concentrate on defense.”

Markham looked like a whipped puppy, big-eyed and stupid. He shook his head and stuffed the mouth guard back behind his lips and bent down into the huddle again, steaming, but put solidly in his place.

“I got it, Coach.” I kept on pretending. “Just like you said.”

I didn't dare look at Coach Hubbard because I knew that confusion would be covering his face.

We ran the Waggle Screen and Jackson ended up dancing in the end zone.

“Nice play, Coach.” Coach Vickerson slapped Coach Hubbard on the back and Coach Hubbard stood proud.

That was just the beginning. The rest of the day and the next, we practiced the spread offense plays with me in there, and every day we got better. Coach Cowan didn't stop texting Coach Hubbard little snippets of encouragement and Coach Hubbard took great pride in sharing them with me.

On Friday, Coach Hubbard showed me a text he'd gotten that read, “Lead with the spread, Coach. It'll boggle their brains.”

“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Coach Hubbard said, nodding wisely at me.

Before practice began, he announced to the team that we'd be using the spread offense to start the game and catch our opponent, Carthage Middle School, off guard.

Everyone looked at me. Some patted my back as we began warm-ups. Even Estevan saw the sense in using such a potent weapon as the spread and he congratulated me, even though I could see he was disappointed.

Excitement swirled with fear in my gut and I could barely keep my lunch down. I looked at Jackson, who gave me a wide grin and two thumbs-up.

I was going to be the starting quarterback.