Paralyzed (6 page)

“Do you guys still want to catch the game?” I asked.

“If you do,” Dad said. “I think it would be good for you to go, but we'd understand
if you didn't want to. This must be a pretty weird Friday for you.”

“It is,” I said. “But I think I should go. I'm a co-captain. Even if I'm not playing, I should be there.”

I could tell my decision made Mom and Dad happy. Even though I was the one who put on the uniform every week, both of them really enjoyed the whole Lincoln football experience too. I was pretty sure they would have been disappointed if we'd all stayed home for what was possibly the biggest game of the year.

On the way to the stadium, I tapped Mom on the shoulder from the backseat. “No offense, Mom,” I said. “But I don't think I'll sit with you guys. As long as I'm here, I should be down on the field.”

Mom grinned. “I'm deeply hurt,” she said. “But I'll get over it.”

I knew from the lack of noise as I entered the locker room that the coaches were already delivering their pre-game message.

I rounded the corner into the main dressing room area, just in time to hear the last of Coach Clark's speech. “People, I know we're shorthanded out there on defense tonight without Reggie, but Bryce is ready to fill in. Help him out there. Be good teammates, stick together, play Lincoln football.”

I looked across the locker room at Bryce Clark, an eleventh grader who was the head coach's son. Bryce was a good player, but he was being pushed into a starting spot because of my absence. I hoped he wasn't feeling too much pressure. At the same time, I felt some resentment. He was taking my spot tonight, the spot I'd worked like a dog to earn since well before I got to Lincoln. And this was the biggest game of the season. It just wasn't fair.

As Coach ended his speech, the players began to chant, “Lions, Lions, Lions.” It was our usual ritual before we headed out the locker room door, through the
paper Lincoln banner and onto the turf. They were all so focused on the task at hand that nobody noticed me slip in. Nobody except Coach Molloy, that is.

He winked at me. “Good to see you, Reggie. I was hoping you'd come out tonight.”

I didn't know what to say in return. But Coach Molloy's words made me feel a little less awkward about being in the locker room without a uniform.

I followed the rest of the guys onto the field, walking with Coach Molloy, just behind Coach Clark. The stands were packed and the stadium lights illuminated the turf. The Lincoln and Franklin bands were taking turns running through fight songs, each trying to outdo the other. Even though I wasn't playing, I still felt jacked just being out there. Who wouldn't on a Friday night like this?

I heard somebody calling my name, and I turned around. Blake Marshall, a friend
from chemistry class, was motioning me over to the stands.

“That sucks about your suspension,” Blake said matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“Your suspension,” he repeated. “For that hit on the Milbury kid.”

“I'm not suspended,” I said firmly. “And I didn't hit that kid. He—”

Blake didn't let me finish my sentence. “Not suspended? That's what the paper said, dude. How come you're not dressed then?”

My face flushed. I didn't know how to answer that. “Injury,” I mumbled. “See you, man. I gotta go.”

I returned to the sidelines, shaken by the conversation. If Blake thought I was suspended, then lots of other people must be thinking the same thing. I wished they would make an announcement on the pa system saying that I wasn't suspended. But then what would they say?
“Number seventy-seven, Reggie ‘Stick-'em' Scott, is not playing tonight due to mental problems.” Yeah, right. I was better off with people thinking I'd been suspended.

Lincoln won the coin toss and elected to receive. Sammy Price, Franklin's kicker, sent the ball deep to begin the game, straight into the hands of Jeff Stevens. That was good for us. Jeff has size and good hands, but he also has deceptive speed for a big guy. The Demons had likely kicked the football his way because they didn't want the smaller quicker Ronnie Bright to catch the ball. I was hoping Jeff would make them pay for that choice.

Sure enough, Jeff caught the football on the dead run and headed to the outside at full speed. He found a couple of blocks early and managed to get all the way to midfield before being brought down by Sammy Price. If not for that one tackle, Jeff would have gone all the way.

His return was enough to get us off to a terrific start. Lance Turner, our starting
quarterback, had looked unbeatable in practice. He carried that into the game. Three plays after the opening kick, Lance and Jeff Stevens were already celebrating a touch-down after the quarterback completed a twenty-yard strike down the middle to my best buddy. Even though I wasn't out there with them, my heart soared as Jeff crossed the goal line. This was an awesome start for us.

But things evened out in a hurry. The Demons were conference co-favorites along with Lincoln, and we quickly found out why. Vince Poynter, their starting quarterback, was a tall fluid athlete who could run and throw with equal ease. Whenever we bottled him up inside, Poynter dropped back in the pocket and delivered an accurate pass. And whenever we tried to get more pressure on his throws, he seemed to find daylight outside, running for big gains.

Our offense was clicking too. The game evolved into a terrific seesaw battle. With four minutes remaining in the fourth
quarter, we trailed Franklin 28–24 with the ball in our possession at our own twenty-five yard line. “Time-out!” Coach Clark yelled. We all huddled around him.

“Okay, guys, this is it,” Coach said, scanning the eyes in the huddle. “This is where we see what kind of character you have.”

The coach paused and let his words sink in before continuing. “Lance, I want you to run the L Series. Get out of bounds to stop the clock whenever you can. Protect the ball. No fumbles. Okay? Let's make this happen, gentlemen.”

All the players stuck their right hands into the middle of the huddle. “One-two-three, Lions!” we yelled.

The L Series was a sequence of plays we ran whenever we needed a score in the dying minutes of a game. It was a series of short passing routes and running plays. Lance usually threw quick patterns to Jeff, pitched out to Ronnie Bright or ran himself. They were our three most dependable
offensive players. It was a good plan on Coach's part.

Meanwhile, Franklin's huge defensive line dug in to try and stop the Lincoln drive. I could hear them taunting Lance as he bent over to take the snap. “Comin' for you, Turner,” one yelled. “Gonna be a Turner-over,” screamed another.

Lance ignored them and confidently called out the signals. He took the snap, dropped back two steps and nailed Jeff on a quick crossing pattern. First down. That shut up the wise guys on the other side of the ball.

Six plays later, we were at the Franklin twenty-five, knocking on the door with our crowd getting louder and louder. Lance turned, looked at Coach Clark and made the shape of a triangle with both his hands. Coach nodded. I knew what was coming next.

The triangle was the signal that we had arranged to use during this game for our
“special”—the one play our coaches felt could beat the Franklin defense for a long gain. We had saved the special for just such a moment, facing second-down-and-ten with just under two minutes left.

Lance dropped back and put the football at his side. It appeared he was going to hand it off to fullback Dexter Bart, who was steaming up the middle. I could see the Franklin defensive linemen and linebackers caught in mid-step, not knowing how to react to what looked very much like it was going to be a running play.

The deception was enough to throw the Demons off for just a split second. Lance deftly pulled the football back up to his shoulder just as Bart raced past him. As the quarterback rolled out quickly to his right, he scanned downfield to where Jeff Stevens was streaking toward the end zone.

Hot on Lance's heels was a crush of three Franklin defenders. It looked as though they were going to catch him for a big loss. But just as they converged,
he unloaded the football. As it hung in the air, the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.

In the end zone, Jeff Stevens was being closely pursued by Franklin defensive back Curt Hodges. Both players leaped to meet the ball. When they came down, Jeff had the football tucked in his arms. He sprang up quickly, raising his hands above his head. The crowd roared. Kyle Nance, our ninth-grade kicker, booted the extra point. Lincoln led 31–28 with only ninety seconds remaining.

Coach Clark quickly huddled us on the sidelines. “Okay, guys. The offense did its job. Now it's up to the D. Let's go win this football game.”

Once again, the team ran through its cheer, and our guys took the field. Nance sent the kickoff high and deep to Vince Poynter at the Demons' ten yard line. Poynter managed to avoid a couple of early tackles to get outside and use his long, easy stride to reach the Franklin forty-five yard
line before being brought down by a gang of Lincoln special-teamers.

There were now only eighty seconds remaining on the clock. Franklin still had a chance, but it would be able to get off only three or four plays before the fourth quarter ended. I was confident that our defense was up to the task. Suddenly, I wished I was out on the field with the rest of the guys, fighting for this big win.

I noticed immediately that Franklin had lined up slightly differently with its backs deeper behind the line. In a second, I knew why. Vince Poynter dropped back five yards behind his center and called for the snap. The Demons were going into the shotgun formation for the first time in the game.

The long snap gave Poynter the time he needed to get outside our rush and find the sidelines. By the time we had brought down the graceful Franklin quarterback, he had crossed midfield.

The Demons remained in the shotgun the rest of the game. But after the initial surprise factor, it didn't work nearly as well. With the clock down to twenty-five seconds, Franklin found itself in a desperate fourth-and-ten situation with the ball at our forty. It was too far for a field goal, so the Demons had no choice but to make one last stab at a first down.

Poynter dropped back once again, taking the long snap. But this time, he didn't head to the outside or throw the football. Instead, he faked left and ran straight up the middle. It was a naked quarterback draw, and Bryce Clark was in a perfect position to bring down the Franklin quarterback.

Clark rushed toward Poynter, ready to make the tackle. I could almost feel his heart beating as he zeroed in on the quarterback. He could end the game with this one hit. It was that simple.

Except for one problem. As Clark rushed toward Poynter, the smooth Franklin
pivot juked with his hips and stuttered his step ever so slightly. The motion was just enough to cause Clark to mistime his tackle. He missed his target altogether. As Poynter squirted by the fallen Lincoln middle line-backer for a key first down, I heard the crowd groan. If the Lincoln stadium had been a gigantic balloon, this missed tackle was a devastating pinprick.

Bryce Clark was still lying on the field after Poynter was finally hauled down at our twenty-five. I felt badly for him. He was the coach's son, so he took enough heat just for that. But tonight the eleventh-grader had been asked to fill a very difficult position against an extremely good team.

Poynter's first down meant it had all come down to one play. Franklin needed a field goal—about a thirty-five-yarder, including the snap distance—to tie the game. There was only time for one more play before the fourth quarter expired. Sammy Price, the Demons' senior kicker, trotted confidently onto the field.

The teams lined up. It seemed like an eternity before the ball was actually snapped. It went to Poynter, who pinned it perfectly and allowed Price to lay a solid boot into it. Again, the crowd was quiet as the ball sailed toward the uprights. I hoped desperately that it would sail wide or fall short. But Price was an all-district kicker. The ball split the uprights cleanly. The horn sounded to end the game. We had tied Franklin 31–31. So why did it feel so much more like a loss?

The disappointing way that the Franklin game had ended bothered me, but not as much as the other news hanging over me all weekend. Dad had delivered it casually on Saturday morning.

“You'll have to miss some school Monday morning,” he said. “Dr. MacIntyre's office called today. It's great he can see you so soon.”

Yeah, great, I thought. On Monday, some-one was going to start dissecting my brain.

All weekend, I thought about little else. What kinds of questions was he going to ask me? Would he hypnotize me like some of those quacks on TV? I wasn't feeling too comfortable about it at all.

Dad must have sensed my mood at dinner Sunday night. After we had all cleaned up, he asked me if I wanted to shoot a few hoops down at Tipton Park.

We'd been shooting for just a couple of minutes when Dad grabbed the ball and put it on his hip. “Are you nervous about seeing Dr. MacIntyre?” he asked.

“I guess. Were you nervous when you asked for help?”

“I wasn't so much nervous as I was a total wreck,” Dad said. “But I'll tell you, after talking about it with somebody once, I felt a hundred percent better.

“Just go in there with an open mind,” he continued. “He's not going to be performing weird experiments on you or anything like that. You're going to be talking, like we are now.”

I hoped he was right. I went to sleep that night stewing about my appointment, but the next morning, I felt a little better. I figured if Dad could do it, so could I.

Mom drove me to the Gower Medical Center where Dr. MacIntyre had his office. It was about twenty minutes from home and right beside Gower General. She dropped me off there before heading to work. After my appointment, I planned to take a city bus to school. If everything went according to plan, I might be able to get to Lincoln for third-period math. Oh joy.