Kid Owner (22 page)

The rest of the day was a blur. I have the dim memory of Jackson howling with delight and mocking me gently at the news I'd be going to the bonfire if we won. At practice, we had a simple walk-through, going over the last-minute details of our game plan without even putting pads on.

That night, I couldn't fall asleep. I didn't drop off until sometime very early on Saturday morning. The last time I remembered checking the clock from my tangle of damp sheets it said 3:12 a.m. I dreamed of winning and when I woke, even though I can't say I was rested, I was upbeat and ready to go. I choked back a yawn and poked my fried egg with the tines of my fork, making enough of a mess that my mom wouldn't know I'd eaten absolutely nothing.

“Is that all you're going to eat?” she asked.

“Big game, Mom.” I liked the sound of my voice. It made
football seem as important in our kitchen as it was across the state.

“I hope you aren't too nervous, Ryan. It's just a game—it's not life. If Dillon wins, you'll still own part of the Cowboys. Remember that.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Ry?”

“I'm not a kid anymore, right?”

“Well,” she said, “you're not a
child
. No, you're a young man.”

“So, I appreciate what you're trying to do,” I said, “but I think I'm old enough to know how big this is. I don't want to pretend that it's not and I don't want you to pretend. If I win this, my wildest dreams come true. If I don't, I lose.”

I let that word hang between us like dirty laundry, then I spoke quietly. “I hate it, but it's the truth and I don't want to pretend it isn't. Okay?”

She looked at me with a serious face and spoke in a quiet voice, too. “Yes, Ryan. I understand, and I'm proud of you.”

As we pulled into the school parking lot, my mom's phone rang.

“Oh, hi.” Her voice bubbled and her face blushed just a bit. “Yes, he's right here. I'm sure he'd be happy to talk to you.”

She gave me a funny look and handed over the phone. “Coach Cowan wants to wish you luck.”

My chest swelled. “Hello?”

“Hey, Ryan. You ready?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Make sure you take time to get your pre-snap reads. That strong safety is gonna give away the coverage with these guys every time, right? And watch out for Dillon. You'll know when he's blitzing. That kid's got no discipline whatsoever.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks, Coach.”

“We just finished practice ourselves and I'm gonna be there watching, so . . . make me proud.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

I handed back the phone, dizzy with excitement but wildly sick from nerves. My mom talked for a minute, then got off. “Well, that's impressive. Fun, right? The coach of the Cowboys wishing you luck.”

“Fun and scary. I mean, you know . . .”

My mom put a hand on my leg and squeezed. “Like I said, Ryan. It's just a game. You need to have fun.”

“The only fun in football is when you win, Mom.”

“Says who?”

“I don't know. Somebody said it.”

“Well, it's a game, Ryan.” She pulled her truck into the school parking lot. “I want you to win, but it is a game. It's not life or death.”

I didn't argue with her, even though I felt differently, so I grabbed the handle and flung the door open. “Okay, Mom. Thanks for the ride.”

“Ryan?”

I stopped before closing the door. “Yeah?”

“Go get 'em, Ry-Guy.” She made a fist and held it up. “I'll be cheering for you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I closed the door and marched toward the locker room.

I was pretty sure that it was going to be the most important game of my entire life.

Have you ever been bodysurfing, going along, riding out these awesome waves, and then all of a sudden the ocean just tosses you like a salad? You have no idea what's up or down, whether it's light or dark, if you can breathe or if you can't. When that happens, you know the next thing is that you're going to be bounced off the sand, seeing stars and hearing the crunch of your own bones.

That's what I felt like, dressing in the locker room with Jackson going berserk and the rest of the team feeding off his mania with chants and growls, barks and cheers. I floated on their excitement, out onto the field for warm-ups. The hot smell of the watered turf snuggled up inside my nose. A slight breeze steamrolled the thick heat and the sun stared down without a blink. Sweat poured from every spot of skin.

The home stands were nearly full, but the visitors' stands
overflowed with the orange-and-black Eiland colors, spilling them all the way along the fence to either end zone. Their colors looked mean and tough next to the Ben Sauer Middle blue and white. I spotted three cameramen and wondered if they were all local or if ESPN might have sent a camera as well. Either way, it only increased the pressure.

The Eiland team had white jerseys because they were visitors, but their black helmets and black pants with orange stripes made them look even bigger than they already were. I spotted Dillon immediately in the middle of their team circle, already leading warm-ups with military jumping jacks that ended in a ferocious cheer. Dillon leapt into the air, swinging his arms like weapons and bouncing off his toes like a frantic puppet.

I sought out Jackson and exchanged shoulder slaps. “We can do this, right?” I asked, more to convince myself that we stood a chance against these guys.

“Heck, yeah, Ry-guy!”

They might be bigger across the board, but no one could rival Jackson's size and probably not his craziness either. I got caught up in the excitement and the nervousness and didn't look into the stands until I removed my helmet for the national anthem. When I did, my eyes went right over my mom and Izzy and Mya to the upper reaches of the stands. There, by himself, stood Mr. Dietrich. He held a straw hat over the heart of his flouncy white shirt. His reddish pants reminded me of strawberry taffy. His face was serious behind a large pair of sunglasses and his lips were unmoved by the patriotic song.

He may have seen me looking because when the song ended the first thing he did after replacing the hat on his bald head
was raise a pair of binoculars and direct them right at me so that I quickly pulled on my helmet. I worried that maybe I should have acknowledged him, but I worried even more when I saw Dillon across the field waving into the stands, turned, and saw Mr. Dietrich waving back with a smile. It was like the two of them knew how this would turn out before it even started. Worry is the wrong word for what I felt. I got sick, for real.

I made a break for the back of the bench and dry-heaved onto the strip of grass skirting the track. When I looked up, Coach Hubbard was scowling at me.

“You okay, Ryan?”

I nodded and he consulted his clipboard. “You got the first five plays memorized, right?”

I only nodded because the acid from my stomach had scorched the back of my throat and I didn't trust how my words would come out.

Coach Hubbard looked up and eyed me now with suspicion. “Right?”

“Yeah,” I croaked.

“Well, okay.”

We won the toss and that meant that I would be out of my misery sooner than later and that was better. The only reason I was even aware of how badly I was sweating was because I felt like I could barely get a grip on the ball as I took a few more practice snaps from my center. Our kickoff return team got stuffed by a mob of insane Eiland players, and I jogged out onto the blazing hot field under the thunderous boos from the black-and-orange section of the stands. I'd never seen fans booing in
a middle-school game before, but I'd never seen Eiland.

The first play was a rollout pass with receivers at two levels, a third breaking into the deep center field and a throwback to Jackson in an emergency.

It was an emergency.

An instant after I took the snap, I saw Dillon from the corner of my eye, coming like a lightning bolt, straight up through the gut of our offensive line.

I thought I could hear Dillon's breathing, even through the noise. I ducked and he shot over me like a missile. More Eiland defenders were coming though and Dillon pounced from the turf like a panther. In a panic, I heaved the ball back to Jackson.

He caught it and did his thing, rumbling up the gut, breaking a tackle and heading for the thinner defensive population on the far sideline. Players chased, but couldn't catch him until an Eiland defensive back tangled himself in Jackson's ankles. It was still a twenty-three-yard gain and now the Ben Sauer fans cheered like maniacs to let Eiland know that Highland football was something to be reckoned with, too.

Jackson went wild. He slapped high fives and shoulder pads and banged his helmet against mine in his joy.

“Easy, Jackson!” I glared at him. “I gotta think.”

Jackson just laughed.

“Okay, let's huddle up, guys. Come on! I love twenty yards, but we got a long way to go to win this thing. Get in here!” I surprised even myself with how I took control, and the flicker of the father I never knew danced across my brain. Maybe he had been that way?

I called the next play, a run to Jackson, and he took it to the seven-yard line. The third play was a draw play, fake the pass and hand it to Jackson, but I swapped it out with the fourth play, a swing pass I couldn't miss on. If the defense kept blitzing—and I knew they would—it would be wide open.

I went to the line and got up under the center. Dillon was no more than six feet from me. His eye twirled like pinwheels and he snorted and growled like a junkyard dog. I tried to ignore him, but a shiver jiggled my spine. It was like I knew he was coming for me on a blitz, and of course, he was. I thought maybe I should have stayed with the game plan and not skipped one of the plays Coach Hubbard had given me. It seemed the right thing to do, but now, not so much. The problem was that the play clock was ticking down. I had no time.

I barked out the cadence, took the snap, and started to roll out. My right guard fired out at Dillon's knees and should have cut him down like a blade of grass, but Dillon leapt right over the guy and before I could even think about making the throw, he had me by the collar with a mighty paw. Even knowing how fast Dillon was, I still couldn't believe he'd gotten to me as quickly as he did.

My feet left the ground and my body floated for the briefest moment in the air before that wave smashed me to the turf. I felt its shock in my teeth. Stars ignited and burst. I have no idea
what happened to the football, but I sensed the action moving away from me in the opposite direction at rapid speed like a fading dream.

I stumbled to my feet just in time to see the referee signal an Eiland touchdown on the other end of the field.

Dillon jumped into the air, celebrating with his teammates and holding my fumbled football high in the air for everyone—fans, cameras, Izzy, my mom, and Mr. Dietrich—to see.

He may as well have ripped out my heart and held that high, too.

The really good things about ourselves, or the really good things we do, we like to pretend came from our own personal well of talents and gifts. Usually, it's not the case. Usually, what makes us special can be attributed to our mom or dad. I think my own relentlessness came from both. It's just how I'm hardwired. I didn't learn it or develop it because of some great teacher or coach who sat me down and told me, “This is what you have to do if you want to have a chance to succeed.” I'm just that way.

So, even though it looked like everything was going against me and that the entire day—and then my whole life—were going to fall apart, I dug in my heels. It actually made me more determined, and the doubt I saw in my teammates' eyes enraged me.

I grabbed Jackson's mask, yanking his glum and sweat-soaked face so close he had to blink and wince at the tiny flecks
of spit jumping from my mouth alongside my words. “Don't you dare quit!”

I released him and he stumbled back. The other players on my team and even Coach Vickerson stepped back to give my crazy rant room to breathe. I shook my finger all around.

“We are
not
going to lose this thing! That was one bad play! We
will
not lose!” I glared at them until their faces softened with the possibility that this wouldn't be a blowout; then—head held very high—I marched through them to get a slug of Gatorade before replacing my helmet, moving to the edge of the field, and cheering on our kickoff return team.

Griffin Engle got pummeled deep in our own territory again, but I bounced out onto the field like a cricket in a frying pan, shouting and clapping my hands. “Let's go! Let's go! Here we go!”

I think there is a joy in fighting that's not quite like anything else—fighting for something that's right, fighting against a wrong, or just fighting for something. Sometimes it hurts, yes, but there's something so primal about it, like there's this secret inner part of our hearts and brains that was built just for that.

So, we battled.

I stopped worrying about looking good for my mom, or Izzy, or the fans, or even Mr. Dietrich, and instead eagerly agreed with Coach Hubbard that we had to give the ball to Jackson almost exclusively.

In the huddle, on our first play back on offense, I snarled at Jackson. “They need a taste of the Big Dawg! You gonna eat?”

Jackson's eyes rolled in his head and he bellowed like a lunatic. Our teammates shifted in discomfort, not sure if he'd lost
his mind completely. I called a run play, right up the gut. We broke the huddle and I whispered to Jackson. “You see that Dillon? He's looking right at you. He's
growling
at you! What are you gonna do about it?”

Jackson couldn't even speak. A howl tore through his chest and he smacked his own helmet. I went to my spot behind the center.

Dillon crept up close to the line, sneering at me. “Gonna wipe you up again, Tiny!”

“Nice.” I sneered right back, knowing that he was about to get a mouthful of Jackson Shockey.

“Blue 27!” I shouted. “Blue 27! Set! Hut, hut, hut!”

I took the snap and handed it to Jackson.

I should have carried out the fake, but I just couldn't. I had to watch. Jackson shot through a gap and Dillon met him in the opening.

SMACK!

Helmet to helmet, they hit. Dillon literally flew through the air. More defenders poured toward Jackson, but he quickly dipped his shoulders and blasted through them, too, leaving a trail of bodies until he got tripped up and dragged down by three Eiland players. He burst from the pile, an exploding volcano, and stomped back to the huddle, pointing at Dillon all the while. “I'm comin' for you, hotshot! I'm comin' for you. Big Dawg gonna eat all day!”

I have to say that I loved it.

Passing became a counter to the steady diet of runs up the middle, off tackle, and around the end. We gave Eiland more than they wanted of Jackson Shockey. The only touchdown I
had was on a play action fake to Jackson. I pulled the ball from his gut, stuck it to my hip, then bootlegged around the end, tossing an easy pass over the head of Dillon Peebles before he smashed me into the turf. I got up with a hunk of sod hanging from my face mask. I peeled it away, filling my nose with the fresh hot scent of dirt and grass, and saw Griffin holding my touchdown pass up in the end zone.

“That's all you got?” I laughed right in Dillon's face.

Still, for every score we had, they answered with one of their own. While Dillon was a defensive player first—fast, aggressive, and mean as a snake—he also played tight end for the Eiland offense, and had two touchdown catches. Added to that was a running back quick as a hiccup, built low to the ground, and powerful enough to shake half the tacklers who got ahold of him.

Back and forth we battled. The game was close and we were down by three with time running out when Jackson exploded around the right side of the line. He made it past midfield when two Eiland cornerbacks tangled themselves up in his legs like shoelaces tied together. Still Jackson lurched forward. That's when Dillon Peebles caught up to him.