Kid Owner (8 page)

PRESENT . . .

Izzy stared with her mouth open. “Jackson beat the stuffing out of Bryan? I didn't hear about that.”

I shook my head, trying not to look too sad, and continued my story. “Nah, he just asked me if I'd farted.”

“What?” Izzy looked shocked and she let out a giggle.

I laughed. “I know. He said, ‘Little Man, did you just fart or something? 'Cause I swear I just heard a fart.'”

“Awesome,” Izzy said. “What'd Bryan do, then?”

“He just stuttered a little and muttered like the mutt he is,” I said, and then I explained Jackson just a little bit more to Izzy.

Jackson didn't care one bit about whether anyone thought it was beneath his age to swim in my pool. He might as well have been in Disney World with Space Mountain all to himself. He
jumped and splashed and hooted and flopped about. He
loved
the water and he loved my pool. I couldn't get him out of it, not that I wanted to.

We'd been swimming at my pool every day after practice ever since. We'd swim until dinnertime. My mom, thrilled that I had a friend who seemed to genuinely like me as much as the pool, treated Jackson like royalty, fixing us food and drinks and always inviting Jackson to stay for dinner. Could he eat? Like no one I'd ever seen. Even my mom's jaw went slack at the sight of him tearing through a second steak from the grill or polishing off an entire loaf of garlic bread.

The other nice thing about Jackson was his manners. He put me to shame. “Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. May I please have some more, ma'am? That was delicious, ma'am.”

When I met his mom—she'd come to pick him up in her small battered Chevy just before dark—it wasn't hard to see where he got his politeness from. She was a big, tall woman who spoke softly and with such sincerely appreciative words that my own mom couldn't see her without asking her in for coffee, tea, or a meal—none of which she'd ever accept.

And surprisingly, my mom, who was never one to let go of things, wouldn't argue.

In sixth grade I found myself kind of on the outside, especially late in the year. So, Jackson's sudden appearance was as welcome to me as it was to my mom.

When I told Izzy that part, I looked at her and sort of blushed. I don't know why. I guess I felt a little ashamed, even though I knew she liked me anyway.

Despite his size and prowess on the football field, Jackson
had a sensitive side. He liked it when we watched corny old Disney movies like
Escape to Witch Mountain
and
Swiss Family Robinson
, or even the animated stuff like
The Lion King
or
Beauty and the Beast.
I also found out—and only by something his mom blurted out one time—that Jackson loved music. Not Jay Z or Taylor Swift kind of music. Jackson
played
the violin, which was just bizarre to me. None of the kids I knew who played in the band or orchestra were killer linemen.

Jackson only let me hear him play that thing once, and he made me swear I wouldn't tell our teammates.

When I finished, I looked over at Izzy. She had this faraway look. Jackson had his face to the sun and his eyes closed, pretending not to listen, even though I knew he was.

“That's pretty cool,” Izzy said.

“Yeah, a lot of good stuff has happened these past couple of weeks,” I said.

She laughed. “I guess so. You're suddenly a billionaire, you own the best team in the NFL, and you've got a super cool best friend.”

I looked over at Jackson, and try as he might, he couldn't help busting into a huge grin.

I turned to Izzy. “And you.”

“Me, what?”

“I got you for a best friend, too.” I nearly choked on the words.

“Aww.” Izzy tilted her head. “That is so sweet. Thanks, Ryan.”

“Sure.” Maybe it was because I felt embarrassed, or maybe it was because there's just something wrong with me. You know,
that thing that makes you want whatever it is that you don't have, even if you should be enjoying the great things you do have?

Anyway, all I could think of in that moment when I should have been thinking about Izzy and Jackson and my mom and the Dallas Cowboys was how very bad I wanted to play quarterback. And, like most impossible dreams, I just couldn't see a way for that to happen.

How could I have known that the very next day someone would help me have a crack at that impossible dream?

And that the person would be Jason Simpkin himself.

The next day at practice, I was walking out onto the field when I saw Coach Hubbard off to the side. He looked like he wanted to talk to me the moment I reached the practice field, like he had something to say but didn't want to say it in front of everyone. His lips quivered, and his eyes darted back and forth from me to the ground and back.

Coach Vickerson blew the whistle and started us on our stretching routine. Coach Hubbard kept looking over my way and pacing. Finally, he wandered over while we were all laid out on the ground, one foot extended straight, the other crooked going back, doing hurdler stretches. “Hey, Zinna. How's it going today?”

“Great, Coach.” I blinked into the sunshine. “Ready for a big win Saturday.”

“Saturday? Yes. We all are . . . Ryan.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Uh, did you see the Cowboys game yesterday?”

“Yeah. Tough loss.” I felt a little jolt of electricity go through me because I already knew where we were heading.

Coach Hubbard chuckled. “And they talked about
you
. . .”

“Yeah,” I said, sounding like it was no big deal, “that kid owner thing.”

“Yeah . . . that. Well, congratulations on
that.
Pretty special, huh?”

“Yup.” I switched legs when Coach Vickerson blew the whistle and reached for my other toe. “My mom wants everything to stay the same. Hopefully it'll be a good thing, though. I think so.” I let that hang. Even though he called me Ryan for the first time ever and now knew I owned the Dallas Cowboys, I wasn't going to start badgering him about playing quarterback instead of receiver. At least, not yet.

I went through practice same as every other day. When we did tackling drills, I threw my body around like a missile. When we did blocking, I got low, exploded into people, and chugged my feet like a madman. As time went by, the whole Dallas Cowboys thing got lost in the sweat and the crack of pads. During offense, I went with the receivers, doing my best with balls bouncing off my hands like marbles on the lunchroom floor. I hated that and had to contain myself from marching right up to Coach Hubbard and demand being switched to quarterback. I felt like I could do it, too, but held back.

When we switched over to defense, I lined up at the free safety position. The offense passed on my first play in, two
long routes for the receivers, a post and a go. I got right where I was supposed to be, over the top of both routes, then broke on the ball when it went to the post, but the ball sailed right over my head. The receiver caught it for a touchdown and I wanted to scream. I'm too short to play free safety and if my coaches didn't already know that, that play just proved it to them.

I should have been playing cornerback, but we already had a lot of cornerbacks. I chewed on my mouth guard, grinding the rubber on the end into a flat useless tab. I was dying to change things around, dying to take control of my football career, but something told me the time wasn't quite right.

And then, it happened

It was the second play of team period, which is kind of like a live scrimmage. Jason Simpkin rolled out on a bootleg pass. Michael Priestly came hard up the middle on a blitz. No one touched him, and Priestly built up a head of steam and launched himself. Simpkin got the pass off before Priestly slammed him, right in the ear. I think they heard the hit halfway across town. Simpkin went down like a wet blanket and flopped onto the grass, unmoving. Coach Hubbard hurried over and knelt beside him, shouting for Coach Vickerson to get the trainer. Simpkin stirred.

We had a teammate get a concussion during the first week of contact, so I knew the drill and I knew what it meant. Simpkin would have to sit out for a week at the very least. Estevan Marin would step in at first team quarterback. Simpkin got up and was helped off the field by the trainer. The coaches returned to business.

Now we'd need another quarterback. No team—not even a seventh-grade middle-school club—would go into a game without a backup quarterback.

And I had an appointment with destiny.

I saw them talking about me, Coach Hubbard with his paw hung over the shoulder of Coach Vickerson, his head bobbing up and down and the younger coach nodding in agreement before the parted.

“Ryan!” Coach Hubbard barked. “Zinna!”

I hopped to it and stood at attention in front of them both. “Coach?”

“Get in there with the second offense. We need you to be ready in case something happens to Marin. We have no idea how long Simpkin's gonna be out.”

“Got it, Coach!” I bolted into the huddle and wondered only briefly if he would have given me the shot if I hadn't been the owner of the Dallas Cowboys. I thought not. I thought they would have picked Griffin Engle, our tailback—who was fast and a really good athlete overall—to fill in, but it didn't
matter. This was my chance. Second-string QB didn't guarantee I'd get on the field, but it did mean I'd get reps in practice.

I looked around at my teammates.

Bryan Markham didn't even try to hide his disgust. He snorted and spit a loogie on the grass in front of him. Everyone else, except for Jackson, stared and blinked in disbelief at the sight of Minna Zinna taking over their huddle. Jackson? His face glowed and he grinned so hard that it looked like it must have hurt. He might have been happier than me, and that's saying something.

“Come on, Ryan. Let's do this.” Jackson spoke like it was just the two of us getting ready to launch a bottle rocket in my backyard.

“Let's ease you in here with something simple, Ryan.” Coach Hubbard looked at his clipboard, selecting a play. “Thirty-two Dive.”

“Coach, I can run the dive, but there isn't a play I don't know.” I turned to look directly at him. Honestly, owning the Dallas Cowboys made me feel like . . . like Superman. Things that hadn't been possible before were now. I felt like I could say what I wanted. I felt bold and confident and . . .

Coach scratched his ear and glanced down at his list of plays on the practice schedule. “Okay, Blue Right 94. Hit the 4. Got that?”

I didn't even reply and went straight to the huddle, called the play, and marched to the line like General George Patton crossing into Germany at the end of World War II. I barked the cadence, took the snap, rolled right, and threw a wobbling duck to the 4 route. It wasn't pretty, but I completed the pass.

Jackson hooted and slapped me high five, then hugged me all the way back to the huddle.

“Well . . .” Coach Hubbard looked at Coach Vickerson and shrugged. “First down. Good play, Ryan. Get a little more spin on that ball if you can.”

Playing quarterback isn't always about being this super athlete. It's about knowing the offense, making the right decisions, and being able to get the ball to the open receiver. The really smart quarterbacks run the West Coast Offense, or the spread, whatever you call it, lots of passing, chipping away at the defense. You don't have to have a cannon for an arm to win games. I thought of John Torres and the way he held the ball against the blitz in yesterday's game. Even an arm as big and strong as his can't help you if you don't get rid of the ball quick.

I knew I could make all the right decisions. I was already quick. If I could just explain all that, I knew I might be able to convince Coach Hubbard that we should adapt Ben Sauer Middle's offense to some version of the Spread.

I don't know if it was luck or destiny or if Coach Hubbard was actually tuned into the possibilities, but he called a pass on the next play, too. I went to the line and read the defense. By the way they were lined up, I was sure it was a shallow zone with two safeties over the top on both sides. The play Coach Hubbard called wasn't the best for this kind of coverage. I had no choice but to run it, though.

I barked the cadence, took the snap, and dropped back. My two primary receivers ran crossing routes, but both were covered, as I expected. I checked them just in case one got wide
open, but when they didn't I hit my check down pass to Griffin Engle, right away. He grabbed it and shot right up through the middle of the field for a twenty-yard gain. It was an easy pass, and the right decision.

Next play was a run. I made the handoff smooth and clean and Griffin gained seven. The following play Coach Hubbard called another pass. I dropped back and when the blitz freed up the middle, I darted outside the pocket. Instead of panicking like the newbie quarterback I was, I directed Griffin to the sideline, pointing my finger. The cornerback let him go and rocketed my way, thinking he'd have a free hit. Just before the defender reached me, I dumped the ball up and over his head. Griffin snatched it and went up the sideline and into the end zone.

My teammates cheered. Griffin tossed me the ball with a wink. Jackson slapped my back and nearly knocked me over.

I didn't stop after my first series either. I made the right decisions on every play, and even though my passes were nothing to write home about, I continued to move the offense up and down the field by completing short throws to the open receivers, making clean handoffs on the running plays, and encouraging my teammates like I was already the star quarterback I'd always dreamed I'd be.

I thought things couldn't have gotten any better for me. But, at the end of practice, just as we completed our last wind sprint—which I finished first, by the way—a big black Escalade limousine pulled into the school parking lot beside the field, its chrome grill glinting in the sun.

Coach Hubbard held his whistle halfway to his mouth,
ready to call us all in together, but everyone froze and stared at the big black SUV.

And when the rear door opened and we saw who had arrived, no one could believe it.