the Big Time (2010) (5 page)

“
WHAT SAME THING ARE
you two thinking?” Tate asked.

Nathan said, “That Troy's dad—”

“Can represent me,” Troy said, finishing the sentence.

“Guys,” Tate said, “you just met the man.”

“It's his father, Tate,” Nathan said, rolling his eyes.

“You think I'm blind?” Tate said. “He still just met the man. Troy doesn't even know him.”

“He doesn't know any of these agents banging down his door either,” Nathan said.

“He knows Seth,” Tate said. “And Seth has an agent. Don't you think you'd want to be with someone you know you can t—”

“What?” Troy asked, glaring at Tate. “Trust? That's
what you were going to say, isn't it, Tate? Why wouldn't I trust my own father?”

Troy stared at her until Tate looked away.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'll keep my mouth shut. Can we talk about all this later? I mean, you've got to help the Falcons win this game, right? We shouldn't be distracting you. Mr. Langan asked us not to, remember, Nathan?”

“I'm not distracting him,” Nathan said, jabbing his thumb into his chest. “I'm helping him.”

“I probably should get focused on the game,” Troy said, realizing that less than three minutes remained on the clock before the team would come bursting through the smoke and flames at the mouth of the Falcons tunnel. “I'm not going to have to worry about contracts or agents or any of this if I can't keep helping them win. That's football, right? You're only as good as your last game. Come on, let's watch.”

Troy buried the card in his left pocket. They got up and stood right on the broad white strip of sideline at the midpoint of the field. The dome began to rumble. The announcer's voice shouted out a welcome to the fans and introduced the Falcons' defensive starters one by one. The tunnel exploded with fresh flames as each defender burst from the tunnel at the sound of his name, sprinting past a double row of cheerleaders. Seth was the last defender to be announced, and he got
the loudest cheers. The rest of the team came racing out of the tunnel behind him, accompanied by a surge of twenty-foot flames. The Falcons formed a twisting mass at the center of the field, shouting and jumping and hooting at the top of their lungs. Smoke floated toward the roof. The crowd went wild, and Troy and his friends had to plug their ears.

The team migrated to the bench area, but energy stayed high, even when the Falcons lost the coin toss. The fans cheered when the Packers chose to receive the kickoff. The entire crowd seemed eager to see Seth and the defense tear into the Packers with the help of their secret weapon who was no longer a secret. Troy stood next to Coach Mora at the edge of the sideline, while Tate and Nathan had to stay on the bench so they wouldn't get trampled. As the captains came off the field after the coin toss, the cameraman with the handheld camera jogged along behind them and practically stuck his lens in Troy's face. The red light went on, and Troy shifted on his feet and blushed.

“Oh, no,” Coach Mora said, grabbing the cameraman by the shoulder and gently shoving him away. “You guys stay out of his face. He needs to work.”

The cameraman disappeared up the sideline, outside the team's yellow line. The Falcons' kickoff team took the field. Seth appeared beside Troy, his eyes bugging out and a crazed smile plastered across his face.

“You ready, buddy?” Seth asked, holding up a taped fist.

“Yeah,” Troy said. The word came out so quietly, he was sure Seth couldn't hear it amid all the noise, so he nodded his head.

The whistle sounded. The game began. The Falcons' kickoff team smashed the Packers' returner, pinning the visitors deep in their own territory.

The defense now took the field, and Troy put his hands on his knees and focused on Green Bay: on their offensive personnel, the body language of the different players, the formations, the motion, the action. After every play Coach Mora would glance at Troy expectantly, waiting for his genius to kick in. Usually it took eight to twelve plays before the patterns became clear. A couple of times over the past weeks, Troy's ability had been stifled by pressure, and once by a lingering headache after Troy took a shot to the head in one of his junior league games.

Having his father suddenly appear in his life had no doubt created some extra stress and tension, but after only five plays Troy broke into a huge grin.

“Screen pass left,” Troy said to Mora.

Coach Mora gave him a startled look, then returned his smile before frantically signaling to Seth out on the field to let him know about the screen. Quickly, with a second series of hand signals, Mora told Seth to
put the defense in a blanket zone coverage that would shut down any screen. Seth paused for a moment, then began shouting instructions to his fellow players that Troy couldn't make out. The Packers approached the line. The Falcons scrambled to their places. Troy looked back at his two friends. His mom stood there now as well, and he gave them all a thumbs-up before turning his attention back to the field.

The Packers ran exactly what Troy had predicted: a screen to the left.

But instead of the blanket zone Mora had called for, the Falcons' defense rushed with an all-out blitz, with most of the team gushing up through the line. Troy shot a look of disbelief at Mora, who winced in anger. The Packers' linemen let the Falcons' defense right through. The quarterback retreated, drawing them farther up the field like a pack of dogs mad for a rabbit. Only a handful of Falcons dropped into coverage. Seth stayed close to the line, floating toward the Packers' running back, who had pretended to fall down before getting up and sprinting for the sideline to catch the screen. Most of the defense was too far up the field to possibly catch him, but the instant the quarterback threw to the running back, Seth made his move, darting for the ball, leaping for the interception and what would surely be a Falcons' defensive touchdown.

The ball floated in the air. The Packers' runner settled his hips and cupped his arms to catch it. It was
all or nothing. If Seth caught it, he would score a touchdown for the Falcons. If he missed, none of the other Falcons' defenders were in position to keep the runner from the end zone.

Seth leaped into the air.

BEFORE SETH'S FINGERTIPS EVEN
touched the ball, Troy felt a sickening shift in his gut.

The ball nicked off Seth's fingers.

Seth twisted, landed on one leg, and collapsed.

The Packers' running back adjusted for the tipped ball. It dropped into his arms like bread into a basket. The runner turned and charged ahead. Only a couple of Falcons could even get close, and they were tangled up by plenty of Green Bay blockers. The runner waltzed into the end zone for a touchdown. The hometown crowd booed.

Seth staggered to the sideline. Coach Mora jumped all over him, grabbing hold of the back of Seth's shoulder pad and tagging along with him all the way to the bench.

Troy followed.

“What the heck was
that
?” Mora asked, his face red. “I called a Double Cat Zone so we'd have plenty of backup on that screen, and it looked to me like a doggone Cyclone Blitz call. Did you run a Cyclone?”

Seth slumped down on the bench, slammed his helmet on the carpet in front of him, and threw back his head, shaking it with rage. “Yes! I ran a Cyclone, okay? I messed up.”

Mora's face contorted with disbelief. Quietly, he asked, “You ran your own play?”

Seth glared at him. “I was trying to make something happen.”

Mora barked out a laugh. “You made something happen all right.”

“All right,” Seth said through clenched teeth. “I messed up. Relax. It's early.”

Mora nodded and said, “Okay. Relax. I can do that. But remember this, Halloway. I'm the
coach
. You're the
player
. So, I call the plays. You got that?”

“Okay,” Seth said. “Got it.”

Mora stomped off. Troy gave Seth a sympathetic look, then shrugged and followed. That wasn't the end of it, though.

The trouble had only begun.

SETH CALLED COACH MORA'S
defenses from that point on, that much was certain. But because of his injured knees and lack of speed, his ability to make the plays a middle linebacker has to make just wasn't there. Once, Seth burst through the line and barreled into the Packers' running back behind the line of scrimmage, but the runner simply stiff-armed him, knocking Seth to the ground. The running back kept going for a twelve-yard gain. Another time, Seth shot untouched around the end of the line on a blitz only to have the quarterback outrun him to the sideline and complete a touchdown pass.

Coach Mora's face darkened from red to purple, and early in the fourth quarter Troy heard him mutter and saw him signal Seth to the sideline.

“That's it,” Mora said, meeting Seth as he came off the field. “Your knees are killing you, Seth. I have to make a change.”

“Change?”

“Lengyel!” Mora said, barking over his shoulder. “Halloway's down.”

“I'm not
down
,” Seth said, whipping off his helmet, his words garbled by the mouthpiece he then spit out into his hand. “I can go.”

“Not in this game, you can't,” Mora said. “We're down by ten. Look at the clock.”

Troy glanced up. Only eleven minutes remained in the fourth quarter. Enough time to pull out a win, but not if the Falcons' defense couldn't hold on the next series.

“I can do this,” Seth said, sticking out his chin.

“Seth, you know the plays,” Mora said, sad and quiet, “and you still can't do it.”

“You're better off with me in there and knowing the plays than having Lengyel in there not knowing,” Seth said.

“Who says Lengyel won't know?” Mora said. “He's been studying my signals. He can handle it.”

“Handle what?” Seth said.

“Me, signaling in the defense and the play they're going to run,” Mora said.

The crowded sideline was what Troy imagined a battlefield was like: players rushing back and forth, in
and out of the battle depending on its needs. The PAT block team ran out but failed. The kickoff return team surged on, then off the field after a successful return. Then the offense gave a war cry and flooded out. The other Falcons players around them gathered like a silent forest, surrounding Seth, Troy, and Mora, intent on seeing how the conflict would play out.

“If I'm not in there,” Seth said, growling through a tight smile and pointing out at the field, “you're not going to know what plays they're running.”

“Why?” Mora asked, his face crumpling in confusion.

“Because,” Seth said, directing a taped and bloody finger at Troy, “if I'm not in, Troy's not in either.”

“Troy?” Mora said. “He works for the team, not you.”

“I found Troy,” Seth said, nodding to himself. “If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have him here. We wouldn't be making this run at the playoffs. The whole staff would probably have been fired by now, including you, so don't tell me about Troy working for you.”

Coach McFadden, the head coach, pushed his way through the forest of players and into the opening where the action was. Mora explained the situation, and McFadden turned to Troy.

“Well, Troy?” McFadden asked. “Is that true? Are you and Seth a package deal?”

TROY FELT A MIXTURE
of anxiety, frustration, and regret.

With everyone now aware of his gift, people expected the Falcons' defense to dominate. He recalled the cameraman's attention before the kickoff and the cheers people in the stands had given him as he walked through the tunnel at halftime. If they lost this important game, he had to believe the enthusiasm all the fans, TV announcers, and agents had shown him would diminish. All the talk about big contracts and other teams bidding for his services would fizzle.

Worst of all, the thrilling little fantasy that had taken hold in his mind—having his dad represent him, the two of them working side by side to come up with some momentous deal—would melt into a soup of confusion.

“Troy,” Seth said, breaking through his thoughts, “come on. Tell them.”

Troy felt his eyes moisten, but he bit the inside of his lip to pin down his emotions. He knew how much Seth had gone through to get ready to play. Aside from the extensive treatment of ice and heat and the drainage and cortisone shots, Troy remembered the scandal of steroid accusations. Seth had been forced to undergo testing to prove he didn't use the drugs.

Now, after all that, it appeared Seth just couldn't get the job done anyway.

Miserable, Troy looked at the star linebacker and said, “Seth, I can't. They're paying me. My mom says a couple more weeks and I'll have college taken care of.”

Troy didn't know which felt worse: the sound of his own simpering excuses or the wounded look on Seth's face before he dropped his head and shuffled over to the bench. Two trainers came forward, got under each of his arms, one on each side, and led him, hobbling now, toward the locker room.

“Thatta boy,” Mora said, patting him on the back. “It's football. A team sport. You can't worry about one guy, no matter how much you like him. Come on, Troy, don't look like that. You've got an agreement with the team. When Seth cools down, he'll tell you himself you're doing the right thing. Trust me.”

GRIFFIN LENGYEL WAS BIGGER,
faster, and stronger than Seth.

Using Troy's knowledge of the plays, Lengyel looked unstoppable. The defense crushed the Packers. The offense did its part by scoring a pair of touchdowns on passes to Michael Jenkins and Joe Horn. The Falcons ended up winning, 35–31. As the team celebrated, waving their arms to the roaring crowd on their way into the tunnel, Troy's mom put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him tight.

“Mom, I—”

“I know,” she said, leaning over and speaking into his ear to cut through the noise, “I heard. Don't worry. You did what you had to. Seth will be okay. I promise. Now listen, I didn't tell you before, but I think you
should talk to the press. It'll keep them from hounding us. We can make a decision in a day or two if we want to do any of the shows like
Good Morning America
or
The Tonight Show
, but this will let us knock off all the sports reporters in one shot. I didn't want to say before the game because I know you have to concentrate. You okay with it?”

“Sure.”

“It's going to be a little crazy in there,” his mom said, “but it'll be better than them following you around and chasing you through the hallways at school.”

“They can do that?” Troy asked, his eyes widening.

“Not really,” his mom said, “but they will be a pain unless we manage them properly. It starts with you talking at the press conference. There'll be a lot of questions. I'll be there to make sure they don't start asking the same things over and over, and I'll cut it short if you get too uncomfortable. You just tug your ear if you want me to end it. You got that?”

“Sure,” Troy said, tugging his ear to show her. “Like this.”

“Right,” she said, “okay, otherwise, just be honest, and don't be afraid to say you don't know something. They're going to want you to tell them exactly how you do it, but you and I know that's not so easy, so you just do your best. Give them that weather analogy you tell people about how when a cold front and rain head for each other, you can predict snow, and don't worry
if they don't get it. That's their problem. And, if anyone says anything that makes you feel bad, just say to them ‘That's not very nice.' Trust me, coming from a kid, they'll leave you alone.”

“That's not very nice,” Troy said to himself, practicing.

Inside the concrete tunnel, they passed by the locker room and in through another metal door, where reporters already stood packed in front of a small raised stage with a podium and a Falcons banner behind it. The spotlights suspended from a track along the ceiling blinded Troy temporarily. He shaded his eyes until they adjusted. His mom spoke into the microphone on top of the podium, introducing him as the Falcons' “game management consultant” that was the official title the team had come up with, but Troy didn't like it. When he stepped to the podium and the first question from a FOX reporter addressed the new title, he remembered his mom told him just to be honest.

“Game management consultant?” the reporter said. “Is that what you call yourself?”

“No,” Troy said, frowning. “I guess I call myself what my gramps and my friends call me.”

“What's that?”

“Football genius.”

The entire place erupted with laughter and clapping. Troy blushed and dipped his head but enjoyed the response all the same. As his mom predicted,
the reporters couldn't stop asking him how he did it. Finally she stepped in and told them they only had a few more minutes before Coach McFadden would address them.

“What about Seth Halloway?” a reporter from ESPN asked. “You must have been frustrated, giving him the plays and him not being able to make a tackle.”

Troy looked at the reporter, then at his mom, who nodded her head. He leaned into the microphone and said, “That's not very nice.”

Everyone laughed, and the reporter's face turned cherry.

“Troy,” an ABC reporter said, “is it true you're a free agent after this season?”

Troy furrowed his brow.

“Out on the open market,” the reporter said. “I heard your agreement with the Falcons is only for this season. Do you have plans afterward to test the open market? And, if so, how much do you think you can get?”

Troy said he wasn't sure and he didn't know.

“You got an agent yet?” another reporter asked.

“No,” Troy said, “not yet.”

“But you'll get one?”

“Or maybe just a lawyer,” Troy said, avoiding his mom's eyes. “Whatever's best.”

“Does your deal take the Falcons through the playoffs?” a reporter asked. “Do you have a bonus if you help them win the Super Bowl?”

Troy looked at his mom and tugged his ear. She stepped back to the podium, leaning over his shoulder, and said, “Troy is set through the season with the Falcons, however far it takes them. Okay, thank you all; we've got Coach McFadden coming in now.”

The concrete room exploded with questions from all sides. Troy's mom took Troy by the arm and led him down the small flight of steps and out the side door, leaving the storm of shouting and confusion behind. Coach McFadden brushed past with Troy's mom's boss, Cecilia Fetters, and gave Troy a pat on the shoulder.

“Heck of a job out there today, son,” the coach said before disappearing through the door.

Troy followed his mom down the relatively quiet tunnel. Only some police officers stood outside the locker room, while a small stream of stadium workers, cheerleaders, and Falcons employees flowed past. Nathan and Tate sat on a golf cart, waiting with grins over all the up-close excitement.

“Everyone ready?” Troy's mom asked.

“Don't you have more work?” Troy asked, knowing that his mom typically couldn't leave the stadium until the last of the players had gone.

“I'm on a new assignment,” she said, running her hand over the back of his head and sending a chill down his back. “You.”

“You work for Troy now?” Nathan said. Somewhere he'd found a box of popcorn, and as he asked the question,
a piece of popcorn escaped his mouth.

“Don't get carried away,” Troy's mom said. “Mr. Langan just doesn't want him getting cornered by some reporter somewhere without backup. That's me.”

As they turned to go, Seth emerged from the locker room door, already showered and in his street clothes of jeans and a button-down shirt. Both his knees had been packed and wrapped in ice. When he saw them, he pulled up short. His eyes were sunken with exhaustion and pain.

“Troy,” Seth said, his voice raspy with emotion. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” Troy said, looking down and waiting for a scolding.

Seth said, “I mean, alone.”