Kid Owner (9 page)

Jackson leaned into me, nearly knocking me over. “Dude, that's John Torres.”

Flashing a full smile of bright white teeth was John Torres, the Cowboys' star quarterback, built like a lion. Torres wore a Cowboys sweat suit and carried a football. He was headed our way with an older man right behind him who was a thick, gray, and crusty old salt who looked like a real cowboy from the Wild West. I looked for Cody Cowan, wondering if the Cowboys' head coach had come, too.

When Torres reached an openmouthed Coach Hubbard, the star quarterback extended a hand. “What do we got here? A
football
team?”

“Yes . . . we . . .” Coach Hubbard sputtered. “I'm Coach Hubbard.”

“Nice to meet you.” Torres smiled and clasped Coach
Hubbard's shoulder. “Looks like you got a heck of a team here, Coach. And I'm looking for your man, Ryan Zinna.”

All eyes were on me. I felt my face warming and raised my hand like I was asking a question. All my complaints about Torres's performance against the Bears melted to nothing.

“Ryan Zinna!” Torres grinned even bigger and half turned to the man beside him, who wore a three-piece suit and brown ostrich-skin boots. “You know Bert Hamhock, our general manager?”

Torres looked back at Coach Hubbard. “Can we take my man here with us? You're done with practice, right, Coach? Is it all good?”

“Uh, sure, Mr. Torres.” Coach Hubbard puffed himself up. “It's all good. Thank you for coming by. Uh . . . would you maybe have a word for the team? We're 1–0 right now, so . . .”

“1–0? Wow, wish we were 1–0.” Torres looked around and his face turned serious. “I do have a word, Coach.”

Torres rose up to his full six-foot-six height and stared hard all around the team. “Seek the truth, fellas. Seek the truth.”

He turned to me. “Come on, Ryan. We heard from Mr. Dietrich that you were coming to the stadium, so we thought we'd just come out to see you first. We got some ideas for you. Coach, good luck with your season.”

John Torres put his hand on my shoulder as we walked toward the bleachers on the other side of the football field. I must have floated over there, because I sure didn't feel my feet touching anything. We sat down and John Torres kept his hand on my shoulder pad. I couldn't help looking over at Bryan Markham, whose face was a blend of confusion and hatred.

“You okay?” Torres asked me.

“I . . . yes. Sorry.”

Bert Hamhock forced a smile and sat down on the other side of me, speaking in his West Texas drawl. “We wanted to welcome you, Ryan, before things get too crazy, and we thought the best way to do it was just ride right on out here after practice. . . . The Cowboys practice, that is . . . and we caught you, so, good.”

I looked back and forth between them, kind of waiting. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Right.” Bert Hamhock slapped his knees. “Hey, no sense just sitting here like fans in the stands, you two oughta toss the ball around. What position are you, Ryan? Wideout?”

“Actually, quarterback.”

“Quarterback! Hear that, John? Couple of Qs chucking it around. How'd you like that, Ryan? Pigs in a mud puddle.” Hamhock glowed.

You bet I liked it. “Sure.”

“Here, you stay right there.” John Torres hopped up and jogged about ten yards down along the bleachers before he stopped and turned and raised the ball to throw it.

I held up my hands and when he lobbed it to me, I caught it!

He held up his hands and I threw it back.

“Move your hand back on the ball a bit.” Torres tossed it back.

I did what he said and the ball didn't wobble as much.

“That's it. See?” He tossed it back and I dropped it, but I didn't care. I was playing catch with John Torres and I glanced over at my team, which had broken apart and was heading into
the locker room with all necks twisted and all eyes on me.

Hamhock nodded as we kept the toss going. “This is great. See, we want you to feel welcome as hot apple pie on the sideboard, and like you can talk to me and John—me on the management side and John on the players' side—about anything you have questions about. We want to work
with
you. We know the season is starting out a little rough, but, you know, you have to stay the course with the
master
plan.”

I wanted to ask what the master plan was, but felt stupid for not already knowing. Even though I nodded like I understood and caught the next pass, inside I was boiling at my mom for keeping me in the dark. Again, I could see no reason why I shouldn't have been in the thick of things, meeting the players, calling the shots. Lawyers . . . they made me sick.

“So, do you have any? Questions?” Hamhock asked.

“Uh . . .” I was thinking hard. I wanted to ask what it was like to play quarterback under an offensive guru like Coach Cowan, who'd written five books on the subject, but didn't think that was very cool. I wanted to be cool. Then it just popped in my head—something kind of cool—and I focused on John Torres as I threw him the ball. “Did you really go on a date with Selena Gomez?”

He caught the ball, chuckled. “A couple.”

The minute my question came out, I wished I could've taken it back. Wow, did I feel dumb. My face got so hot I think I could've cooked an egg. Who cared about Selena Gomez? This was John Torres and the GM from the Dallas Cowboys. We were playing catch, at
my
school, and I asked about a date with Selena Gomez. I wanted to crawl in a hole.

“Oh, cool,” I said, nodding like I already figured that and desperate to fill the silence.

Hamhock huffed quietly. “Look, Ryan . . . you're a
football
player, obviously. So you know that sometimes a team and a coach aren't . . . well, it's like a sow at the supper table. It doesn't work. It's the chemistry. Sometimes it's just off. No one's
fault
, it just
is.
Now, we've got a heck of a team, led by one of the premier throwing quarterbacks the league has ever seen.”

Hamhock pointed a finger at John Torres.

“Well . . .” John sounded like he wanted to apologize for Hamhock being so bold, and he tossed the ball straight up before catching it.

“You are.” Hamhock held up the pointing hand to cut off an argument. “Your numbers haven't been what they could be because of the system you're in. No one has ever questioned your ability. Goose and gravy, John, you run a 4.6 forty, you bench-pressed 225 twenty-seven times, and you can throw the ball seventy-seven yards. Don't be modest, son. You'd take the blue ribbon at the state fair hands down every time.”

I knew all this about John Torres. He was so good, the Cowboys had traded up to get him as the third pick in the draft three years ago. So I nodded in agreement.

“Good, you see what we're getting at,” Hamhock said.

I didn't see exactly, but kept nodding my head, hoping I'd figure it out soon enough. I was starting to get nervous that being kid owner was a little more involved than great seats at every game.

“I know it won't be easy, but you've got me and John behind you, Ryan. That's why we wanted to get out here and have a
little visit. We're hoping we can help you through all of this. I don't think you need to tell people that, but that's what we'll do. We'll be like . . . like your older brother.” Hamhock nodded toward Torres, my new older brother, before pointing a thumb in his own chest. “And your Dutch uncle. Sound good?”

“Uh, sure.” What else could I say? I had no idea what a Dutch uncle was, but come on, I was standing right next to John Torres.

“You'll have your critics, we know that.” Hamhock twisted his face in disgust, dismissing my critics forever. “They're like patties in the pasture. You just step by 'em and try not to get their stink on you, but that's why we're here with you. It's
your
team now, and we're all part of it.”

“Why? What critics?” I asked.

“Well.” Hamhock smiled and winked. “Some people will complain about it, but most people are going to pop a champagne cork.”

“Sir?” I said. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“When you fire him.” Hamhock nodded like I was already in on the secret.

I looked at John Torres, who tossed me the ball and grinned.

“Fire who?” I asked.

“Come on, little buddy, you gotta know what we're talking about. People have been talking about it nonstop. They're kind of expecting it with the change in ownership.” Hamhock winked at me again. “You're gonna fire Coach Cowan.”

I'm the kind of fan where if there's anything negative about my team, I just don't listen. Those guys on sports talk radio, always complaining. Everyone thinking they can do better? I pay no attention.

Every game the Cowboys went into was a game I expected them to win. I didn't care who they were playing or how bad the Cowboys' record was.

But I was aware of the grumblings about Coach Cowan, and I also knew some people blamed the three-year play-off drought and the current 0–1 record on John Torres, while others blamed it on GM Bert Hamhock. Some said our star running back had lost a step. Most people ultimately blamed it on Thomas Peebles because
he
was the owner.

And now I was the owner, and I got what these two guys were doing in a blink. Trying to win me over to their side of
things before I visited the team, so I'd blame Coach Cowan for the team's lack of success.

But I threw it back to them and said, “I got to talk to Mr. Dietrich about all that. He's overseeing my ownership, so I need to check with him. But I sure get what you guys are thinking.”

I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with my trustee. I could only imagine their faces if I told them I would also be consulting Izzy. Torres's brow clouded over and he looked to Hamhock for direction. It seemed my response wasn't the one he was expecting, but I guess I'm not as easy to win over as Selena Gomez.

Hamhock chuckled and put a hand on my shoulder. “Ryan, Dietrich came out on ESPN Radio this morning and said he was going to defer to you entirely, which is just what your father said in his will.”

I looked up at Hamhock with a knowing smile, remembering what my mom had said about Dietrich. “I only met Mr. Dietrich yesterday, but I can pretty much bet that what he says and what he does might be two entirely different stories.”

Hamhock grinned and glanced at Torres. “Get our new owner, will you? How old are you? Twelve going on forty-five?”

I shrugged. “My mom taught me a thing or two.”

Torres zipped the ball back at me. I had to duck as it glanced off my hands, striking Hamhock in the face.

“Darn it, John!” Hamhock held his nose and glared at the quarterback through watery eyes.

“Gosh, sorry, Bert.” Torres's shoulders slumped.

I felt at least partially responsible, but the GM wasn't going to lay the blame on his new owner. “Sorry, Mr. Hamhock.”

“Not your fault, kid.” Hamhock forced a laugh. “Not Johnny's either. When you got a rocket arm like Johnny boy, it sometimes can't be helped. So, what do you think, kiddo? Can we take you out to the facility and show you around a bit?”

“Well, my mom's probably waiting for me.” I nodded toward the parking lot beside the school. “Plus, I think we are already scheduled to see the team in a few days.”

“Mom picks you up after practice?” Hamhock nodded like he already knew.

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe go get changed and we can take you both out to the facility today. You and your mom. No time like the present,” Hamhock said. “We'll wait and you can introduce us to her. Heck, all the ladies love Johnny Torres. Even the moms.”

“Sure.” I turned to go, stopping to pick up the ball so I could toss it back to Torres.

“Hey,” Hamhock said before I could throw it, “you better keep the ball. It's yours anyway, right? See that? It's a Cowboys ball. Get used to it, kiddo.”

I couldn't help smiling like a fool. Despite the hard choices I was going to have to make, I knew I was going to get used to it, and really fast, too.

Good things feel even better when you share them. Without a father and without brothers and sisters, I didn't always have a lot of people to share things with. As I walked into the locker room, through the stares and whispers of my teammates, I made plans in my mind to include Jackson and Izzy in this most excellent adventure. I whispered my invitation to Jackson, who got so excited he blurted out his reply: “Go to the Cowboys facility? Dude! I—” and then fell into a fit of choking.

The rest of the locker room was in awe and I soaked up their attention like a sponge, acting like it was no big deal that John Torres was waiting for me in an Escalade limo outside.

I knew Izzy would be coming out of the girls' locker room after her soccer practice, so Jackson called his mom to okay it with her, and then waited with me outside in the hallway.

“Do you think John Torres will be coming to our games?” Jackson spoke in a dreamy voice.

Before I could answer, Izzy burst into the hallway.

Her face was still sweaty and flushed from her soccer practice. “Did you hear? John Torres is outside!”

I began to snicker.

“What?” She looked at me like I'd gone crazy.

“I know.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I was playing catch with him. He's waiting for me to ride over to the Cowboys facility with him and Hamhock, the GM.”

“Waiting?”

I nodded. “I gotta tell my mom, but I'm sure she'll be cool with it. And I want you and Jackson to come with me.”

“With you . . . and John Torres?” Her eyes got dreamy.

Jackson was yanking on my arm. “Come on, Ryan. Let's go.”

“I'll text my mom,” Izzy said as we walked. “
She
won't care. She says life experiences should be part of your education.”

The Escalade had pulled right up along the curb with the normal fleet of family vehicles making pickups for the after-school athletes. It was perfect. Right where I wanted it, in the middle of everything. Markham and Simpkin couldn't miss it. The girls who Izzy used to sit with (many played soccer or field hockey) couldn't miss it either. I escorted my friends, opening the door and telling John Torres and the GM who they were before leaving them to gawk and heading off to the big white King Ranch to explain to my mom what was going on. She'd already climbed down from the cab of her pickup and was moving my way on the curb when I intercepted her.

“Mom, it's John Torres and Bert Hamhock from the Cowboys.” I could barely catch my breath.

“The
quarterback
?” Even my mom knew who John Torres was, and she strained for a look inside the SUV.

“Yes, they're taking me to the facility for a tour—if it's okay with you—and I asked Jackson and Izzy.”

“Wait, what? But we're supposed to go next week for a formal meeting.”

“Mom, I own the team.” I tried not to gloat. It was hard. How could she not go along?

“Yes, I know that.”

“This is awesome!” I said.

She sighed heavily. “Let me double-check this with them, then I'll follow you so I can bring you all home.”

“Mom.” I drew the word out, punctuating it with a frown because I didn't think a kid owner needed his mom to go along with him. “You don't have to follow us.”

“You're twelve, Ryan.”

“I
know.
Almost thirteen. I'm not a baby, Mom.”

“No one said you were.” She pushed past me, heading for the Escalade. “But I'm still your mother and I'm following you. Good? Or would you rather head right home?”

I knew that look in her eye. She meant it. “Okay. Fine.”

The GM and John Torres saw my mom coming and they hopped out of the SUV. My mom said hello and shook hands with them, making sure we were all set. With all my might I willed her to just leave, and finally she did. I got into the Escalade and took the captain's seat next to John Torres. Mr.
Hamhock sat up front with the driver, wearing mirrored sunglasses. Jackson and Izzy scrambled into the back bench. John Torres closed the door on the rest of Ben Sauer Middle School and off we went. On the highway, the big-time quarterback held out a hand and I slapped him five, the joy of that erasing the weight of my mom's big white truck tailing us.

We took the tollway north, straight out of town to where the new practice facility was, in the little Texas town of Frisco.

I was simply soaking it up, breathing deep, and was totally surprised when Izzy chirped from the backseat. “Mr. Hamhock, I liked when you traded your third-round pick to move up in the second round last April to get Mark Fusco. We were a little shaky at the outside linebacker position and Fusco's speed looks like it's helping our pass rush, too.”

Mr. Hamhock turned around in his seat and slipped the mirrored glasses down on his nose to study Izzy. I wanted to melt and my hand went to my brow as I shook my head in disbelief. Who was Izzy to comment on Bert Hamhock's picks?

I was even more surprised when Hamhock burst out into a grin. “Well, little lady, not a lot of people even remember that trade. They like Fusco's two and a half sacks this season, but they forget that we would have lost him to the 49ers without that trade. You've got a sharp eye.”

“Yes,” Izzy said. “I know it won't mean much to you—I mean, you're doing it for
real
, I know that—but I'm in three fantasy leagues and I won two of them last year. I'm hoping for a clean sweep this season.”

I went from embarrassment to pride and I gave Izzy a puzzled
look. She just shrugged and said, “You never asked, and boys don't like getting beat by a girl in football, even fantasy football.”

I thought about that and nodded in agreement as we pulled into the Cowboys' new facility.

I looked out the window in awe. It was as if an alien race had landed and built a base of operations. Futuristic glass, mirrors, and chrome swept across the horizon. Lush grass football fields bordered the indoor stadium, built for the Cowboys to practice in when the weather went bad and for local school teams to play when they had a big game. There was a force field of energy you'd expect from such an otherworldly site when we got out of the Escalade. I swear you could feel the power of the whole complex.

We parked and waited for my mom to join us. Even her semi-sour face as she shook hands a second time with John Torres and the GM couldn't break the magic spell. I stood tall and proud as we marched into the front entrance where Super Bowl trophies sat on pedestals in a half circle off to one side. People in the lobby pointed and stared as we marched past the reception desk and the uniformed guard into the back offices.

The hallway was lined with display cases. Inside were framed pictures and helmets signed by Cowboy greats like Roger Staubach, Too Tall Jones, Emmitt Smith, Troy Aikman, and Larry Allen. I acted like it was no big deal. Jackson's eyes were as wide as if he'd entered the gates of heaven, and Izzy's mouth hung slack.

“I can't believe this.” Izzy looked around, took a quick selfie, and then stared at me. “Ryan, this is so cool.”

Hamhock marched us right to what looked like an
important corner office, past a secretary with just a nod, before swinging open one of the big wide double doors and barging in.

When I realized whose office we'd waltzed right into, I was so mad at Bert Hamhock I wanted to shout.