November Blues (10 page)

JERICHO TROTTED RELUCTANTLY ONTO THE
field behind the high school.
What have I signed myself up for?
he thought.
What was I thinking, telling Coach Barnes I'd play football?
At least the summer practices were not full-fledged workouts, he tried to convince himself—more like conditioning and physical fitness stuff. He stretched a little, took a huge gulp from his water bottle, and nodded to the other guys who were doing the same. Aside from Luis, the quarterback, the only boys he knew well were Rudy and Cleveland, who had pledged the Warriors with him. No one had much to say, which was how Jericho liked it. He wasn't here to make friends.
I can't believe how hot it is
, he thought,
and it's still June. No one in his right mind should be out in this sun. What am I doing here? Now I remember why I gave it up in ninth grade.

Since the Ohio High School Athletic Association's rules
about preseason play were very strict, Jericho had figured he could handle the ten days of conditioning between now and the time the season officially started, but he hadn't planned on this heat. But the days when he didn't have practice were worse—those were the days that he had nothing to do but think. Vacation was the pits.

He looked up at the blazing sun, and a thought struck him. Josh had no idea what the weather was, or whether a hurricane or tornado had messed up some city, or that November was having his baby. Josh knew nothing. It was still unimaginable.

The coaches, clipboards in hand and whistles around their necks, started barking orders. “Gimme a lap around the field!” Coach Barnes yelled. Jericho and the others fell into place and started running.

He jogged at a steady pace. Jericho couldn't help remembering all the running and exercising he and Josh and the others had done to get into the Warriors of Distinction. Josh had bounded effortlessly through the whole process—that is, until the very last night.

Get outta my head, Josh!
Jericho thought, sweat starting to roll down his back. His brain felt crowded and jumbled, as if all the doors in his head were nailed shut. Then he almost panicked, fearing that his memories of Josh would fade. It was making him crazy.
Stay with me, Josh! I don't know how to do this without you, man!
Josh lived in that mess in his head now, and no matter what he did, Jericho could not escape. He ran even harder. He had no idea if he could sweat the pain away, but he was damn well going to try.

“Okay, men,” the coach called, “let's break down into groups and try some reaction drills. Backs, you go with Coach Crawley. Linemen, you stay with me.”

Jericho, the biggest lineman in the group, took his position in the front of the pack. Just before school had let out, the coach had taken Jericho aside.

“So you're coming out for my team—finally ready to step up and be a man,” he'd said with a grin.

“I guess.”

“I need commitment, Jericho. I don't want you out there if you can't give me one hundred and ten percent!”

“I'm ready, Coach. For real.”

“I dug up the tapes of your games when you were in junior high. There was a lot of raw talent there. You're a natural.”

“I am?”

“It's like riding a bike. You never forget the skill. You just have to get back in shape.”

“If you say so.” But Jericho had been doubtful. “I guess it's like playin' my horn. The music is always there—stuck in the back of my head.”

“Are you sure about leaving the band?” Coach Barnes had asked. “I talked to Tambori and he's really pissed that you've given up your instrument.”

“Yeah, I know. He thinks I have talent. I had a chance to try out for Juilliard, but I blew it.” Jericho avoided looking at the coach. “I always figured I'd be tryin' for a music scholarship. I guess stuff just changes,” he continued, thinking again of Josh.

“Well, I think you have real potential as a football player. I want you on my line—as a tackle. You do have an
opportunity for a football scholarship, you know. Colleges will be looking at you seniors, and even though you haven't played recently, you've got the size and the weight to be a great tackle. But do you have the heart?”

“Yeah, Coach. I got what you need,” Jericho had promised. But he still wasn't sure if he'd made the right decision.

 

“All right, now! Keep those feet moving! Come on—chop it up! Way to work, Jericho,” yelled Coach Barnes.

Jericho didn't acknowledge the compliment, but it made him feel good that he was the only man out there who the coach had mentioned by name.
Maybe it's because he knows I'm not sure if I want to be here. Maybe he's just trying to make me feel good so I won't quit and go back to the band.

Despite his size, Jericho's reactions were quick and deliberate. Leading the group, he sprinted out when the coach's hand was raised, then returned to the back of the line, getting ready for the next drill.

“Over and under in a figure eight!” the coach bellowed. “At the sound of the whistle, the middle man hits the dirt and rolls to the right. The man to the right goes over him and rolls to the left. Hustle, men! Don't stop until you hear the whistle. Go!”

The rhythm of the physical leaps and runs and rolls had a surprisingly calming effect on Jericho. For an hour or so, his head was free of guilt and turmoil. Jericho began to hope that Coach Barnes, who had been drafted by the Cincinnati Bengals back in the day, might be the one to help him work out the kinks he felt inside.

“When you hear the whistle,” the coach said next, “spring up into a ready position and keep those feet choppin'! When I raise my hand, sprint, and I mean
sprint
to the side and get back to the rear of the line!” The whistle shrieked.

Jericho was already dripping with perspiration, and now, because the tackles and guards did their drills on the section of the practice field that overlapped the baseball infield, he felt like one big dirt demon.

Mr. Barnes cried out, “Let those pretty boy backs have the grass. The real men, those of you on the line, don't care about a little dirt! Do it again—this time with power! Sometimes winning is a dirty job. Let me hear you say Po-wer!”

“Po-wer!” the boys on the line shouted back enthusiastically.

After a couple of hours of drills and sprints, Jericho was relieved to hear the coach blow his whistle. “Bring it up and take a knee, fellas.”

Gathering in a circle around him, the players crouched, one knee on the ground, guzzling from their water bottles. “Okay, men, I want to talk about the upcoming season. The Douglass High Panthers have not had a winning season in five years. As a matter of fact, the last time this school was in the state play-offs was twenty years ago, when
I
was the quarterback of the team—and that's back when dinosaurs ruled the earth!”

The players chuckled.

“But this year we are going to turn it around. We are a small team, but we have good hustle and speed. You looked good out there today. We've got our strengths, and
I've spotted a few weaknesses, but that's what conditioning and practice are for. We've got time to get ready for a great season. The Panthers will prowl this year!”

“Panthers!” the players yelled together. “Panthers prowl! Panthers win!”

Jericho found himself caught up in the sweaty excitement of the boys and the coaches as he shouted with them.
Sorta like the chants we recited as we pledged for the Warriors of Distinction
, he thought, vaguely uneasy, but he brushed the thought away.
This is football. The real deal. Pathway to big-time college football and the NFL.

Coach Barnes continued, “I believe we'll take a lot of people by surprise. This season we're playing our usual opponents—Hazelwood and Fairfield and Lakota. We've got a bye for the first week, which is good because that gives us another week of practice.” He paused.

“Who's our first game with, Coach?” asked Luis.

“It's a team we've never played before,” the coach replied with a grin. “You're gonna need all your quarterbacking skills, Luis, as well as the rest of you.”

“So who do we play—the Bengals?”

“The Bengals might be easier to beat!” the coach joked. “Our very first game, September fourth, is against the Excelsior Academy from Cleveland.” He let that sink in.

“Excelsior the Excellent,” one of the seniors said, elbowing the guy next to him.

“Damn. Richest school in the state,” said the other boy, elbowing back.

“They've got ninety kids just in their
band
!” Jericho told them, remembering. “Every year they get brand-new gold
and blue uniforms that light up in the dark. They use lasers and smoke and electronic instruments, and their half-time show was on HBO
and
CNN last year.”

“Forget the band—what about the team?” Luis asked.

“More than fifty of the best-trained athletes in the state,” Coach Barnes told them honestly. “Parents move into that area just so their boys can go to that school. Boosters and alumni pay for everything. They have a stadium that's almost as elaborate as the one the Bengals use.”

“What's their record, Coach?” asked Jericho.

“They have gone to state finals eight of the last ten years, and for the past three years they have been undefeated. It's some kind of national record.”

“Nobody's beat them?” a freshman asked in disbelief.

“Nobody. And they don't just win, they defeat their opponents by several touchdowns.”

“Oh, man!” Cleveland groaned. He was playing halfback this year.

The coach continued, “And every time they score, they celebrate by shooting off fireworks and a cannon. It's quite intimidating,” he told the boys, a small smile on his face.

“They're gonna kill us!” said Cleveland.

“What kind of attitude is that?” the coach asked. “I thought we were grooming winners out here today!”

“Groomin' us to get stomped on,” Cleveland muttered.

“I don't want to hear talk like that, men. That team uses intimidation to terrorize their opponents. The lights, their new uniforms, their band—it's all designed to make you feel like a loser when you run onto that field. But we're not going to let that change our fighting attitude!”

“I still don't understand why we gotta play them,” Luis said, scowling. “Especially on
their
field. We've never played them before.”

“We're playing them for several reasons. One, since it's a nonconference away game for us, we get a nice little check from their gate receipts. They're likely to have twenty thousand people in the stands.”

“This is gonna be humiliating!” a player named Roscoe said with a frown. “Why do we wanna sell our souls for some cash?”

“I would have scheduled you for this game even if they paid us nothing. I want you to see the professionalism and polish of a first-rate team. I want you guys to see what it's like to stay in a luxury hotel where you have to use table manners to eat!” He laughed. “I want you to experience the roar of a large crowd.”

“Laughing at us?” Roscoe asked, his voice full of doubt.

“No, cheering for us,” replied the coach with assurance. He continued to wear that strange, confident smile.

“How you figure they be cheering for us?” Jericho asked. “Face it. We're from a nobody school in the inner city.”

Ignoring him, the coach demanded, “Stand up, men. Stand up tall!” The boys got out of their crouches and looked at the coach closely. He seemed to be glowing with enthusiasm.

“They are going to cheer for us because”—the coach took a moment to look at each of the players—“because we're…going to beat them!”

“Beat them?”

“Starting today, starting this very moment,” Coach
Barnes said clearly, “we become winners! Champions! Believers in our skills and abilities!”

“Defeat the Mighty Excelsior Wildcats?” The guys on the field looked at the coach in disbelief.

“You trippin', man!” Roscoe grumbled.

“Take a lap, my young friend. As a matter of fact, take two! In order to succeed with us, you must believe with us.” The coach pointed to Roscoe and jabbed his thumb toward the fence. Roscoe started to protest, but then he got up and began to jog slowly.

Another guy complained, “We're gonna look like animals going to slaughter when we walk out on that field.” Jericho, who had no intention of running another step, couldn't believe the kid was stupid enough to complain, especially after he'd seen what Roscoe was doing.

“Join Roscoe,” the coach commanded. “Anybody else want to say we can't win? I've got all day to sit here and watch you run.”

No one else said a word.

The coach then burst out with, “A-gile! Mo-bile! Hos-tile! Say it with me, Panthers. Feel it!”

“A-gile! Mo-bile! Hos-tile!” the team chanted, but the enthusiasm wasn't there.

“Maybe we need to run a little more to find our passion,” the coach threatened. “I said, ‘Panther Pride! A-gile! Mo-bile! Hos-tile!' Say it like you mean it!”

“A-gile! Mo-bile! Hos-tile!” the boys repeated, louder this time.

“Good. Now we can start the process of learning how to be winners. You ever hear the story of David and Goliath?
The tortoise and the hare? These are tales where the underdog, the one that everyone expected to lose, and lose big, turns the tables, defeats the odds, and wins! Do you hear me? They won!”

“How?” shouted Cleveland, a hint of defiance in his voice.

“Through courage and cunning. Through skill and agility. And that's what we are going to learn to do this summer. We are going to learn to be champions! Are you with me, men? WE WILL WIN!”

Hesitantly at first, then more and more confidently, all the boys on the team joined the wave of the coach's enthusiasm. “WE WILL WIN!” they chanted. “WE WILL WIN!” Jericho joined the rest of them, yelling and screaming and hooting the name of the school and their team, but he doubted it could really be done.