Gym Candy

by Carl Deuker

  Once we were in uniform, Coach Downs told us we had to stay within ourselves, to play under control. My mind was racing so fast, I had to suck in air to calm myself down. Felipe Perez, one of the linemen, looked over at me and shook his head. "Save some energy, Johnson," he said. "You're going to be worn out before the game starts."

  As game time neared, a sense of power filled me. It started in the back of my head and spread like a wildfire until I felt as if I were going to explode. Right then Lee Choi went to a locker and started pounding on it, pounding and screaming. Nobody had ever done anything like that before any of our other games. I looked at Choi, and then I started pounding on the locker in front of me, pounding on it like one of those insane Norwegian berserkers I'd read about in sixth grade. I spotted Drew. I could feel him holding back. Then a little smile came to his eyes and he went over to a locker and started pounding and screaming, and then Brad Middleton, the middle linebacker, joined us, and after that Heath Swenson started up, and soon everybody was pounding on the lockers and screaming, getting higher and higher. After a couple of minutes, Coach Downs put his fingers in his mouth and blasted out one of those ear-piercing whistles of his. "All right, gentlemen," he hollered. "Let's play football."

  We raced through the tunnel and onto the field. As I did my jumping jacks and sit-ups, I stole peeks up into the stands. My dad had told me he was doing half his shift to keep Lion happy but that he'd be in the stands by game time. I didn't see him for a while, but then I picked him out, and I got a rush that was like scoring a touchdown in the fourth quarter of a tie game. A little later a horn sounded, and then the Foothill band played "The Star-Spangled Banner."

  Game time.

  10

  You can scream all you want, but if you don't back it up on the field, it's just screaming.

  Foothill High was unbeaten; they'd crushed teams that we'd barely sneaked by. On Thursday, Coach Downs had shown us films of the game from the year before. Drager's longest run had been eight yards, and by the end of the game you could see in his body language that they'd beaten him.

  I wasn't going to let that happen. No matter how many times they pounded me into the ground, I wasn't quitting. "You never know when you might get a chance to break a long run," my dad had told me many times. "Always be ready."

  We won the coin toss and received the kickoff. Michael Tucker, a senior cornerback, ran it out to the twenty-seven, and then Drew and I trotted out onto the field, starters for the first time. He looked at me, his eyes lit up like Christmas. "Here we go, Mick," he whispered.

  Our first play was a power toss right. Drew's pitch was too slow, forcing me to break stride, which is why two Foothill players were waiting for me at the corner. I lowered my shoulder and drove into the first guy, but he held on until the second tackler brought me down. I gained two yards, maybe three. On second down I went straight up the middle with pretty much the same result. That set up third down and five for a first down. Drew threw a quick slant right on the money to our tight end. Bo Jones caught it but was tackled a yard short of the first down, forcing a punt.

  On the sidelines, I told myself to be patient. Two running plays don't make a game—I knew that. I'd break a decent run on the next series. All I needed was for the offensive line to give me a sliver of daylight.

  Foothill managed a couple of first downs but then got nailed for a holding penalty and punted the ball back. On first down, I ran a sweep left. When the blocking broke down, I reversed field, hoping to catch Foothill overpursuing, but their defensive end had stayed home. He wrapped me up around the knees and dropped me for a ten-yard loss. After that Drew threw a couple of dink passes that gained six yards and we had to punt again. Coming off the field, I kept my head up. Games are won and lost in your mind as much as on the field.

  Both defenses dominated throughout the first quarter and into the second, but just before halftime, Foothill marched down the field as if they were playing a middle school team. Everything that hadn't been working for them—slant passes, draws, screens—suddenly worked. It made no sense, but sometimes football is a crazy game. The Foothill quarterback took the ball into the end zone untouched on a bootleg from the eight-yard line—our defense had fallen for a fake to the tailback. Foothill's kicker missed the extra point, so at the break we were down six.

  In the locker room, Downs said the right things: how one touchdown was nothing, how we just had to keep fighting and things would go our way. The important thing was to stick to the game plan.

  That's what he said, but it's not what he did. All through the first half, he'd had me run the ball. I hadn't gained much yardage, but I could feel their defense wearing down. Soon I'd break a big one. But instead of sticking with the running game, Downs called for three passes to open the second half: a screen that gained a yard; a long bomb to DeShawn Free that fell incomplete; and a slant that was nearly intercepted. We had to punt again.

  The defense held Foothill to one first down, but our possession went like this: incomplete pass, incomplete pass, incomplete pass, punt.

  Downs had given up on the running game, had given up on me, but Drew hadn't. "The draw play should be open," he said as we stood on the sidelines, waiting for another chance. "I'm going to call it next series, no matter what Downs sends in, so be ready." A freshman quarterback making his first start changing a coach's play—that took guts.

  On our next possession, Drew threw two more passes, completing one, setting up third and five. We'd thrown on eight straight plays, and Downs sent in a ninth. "They're going to be blitzing," Drew said. "We'll run the draw."

  "You changing the play?" Perez said.

  Drew nodded. "I'm changing the play."

  Perez looked around at the other linemen. "Let's block this sucker."

  And they did. When I took the handoff, a huge hole opened right in front of me. In two strides I was past the linemen and the blitzing linebackers and was into the secondary. The strong safety came up and tried to tackle me high, but I fought him off. I cut left and juked the cornerback, and suddenly I was looking at seventy yards of empty space. The same feeling came to me that always comes when I break a long one. It was as if I were four years old again, out in my backyard, the little mini football cradled in my arm, the green grass underfoot, and the end zone straight ahead. I tucked the ball tightly against my side and took off straight for the goal line, my legs churning up the yards.

  At the Foothill twenty, someone dived for my ankles and caught my heel. I stumbled a little, almost went down, but then righted myself, and seconds later I was in the end zone. I didn't spike the ball—that's a fifteen-yard penalty in KingCo. Instead, I ran to our sideline, took my helmet off, and raised it to the section where my dad was sitting. He was on his feet, pumping his fist and cheering, as our kicker, K. J. Solomon, split the uprights with the extra point, putting us ahead 7–6.

  Our lead held throughout the third quarter and into the fourth. Downs had me running the ball again to eat up time. I'd pop free for a first down now and again, but we couldn't sustain anything. When Foothill had the ball, they'd march twenty or thirty yards, but then something—a penalty, a dropped pass, a missed block—would stop them. I remember looking up at the clock in the fourth quarter. Still 7–6, with six minutes and thirty-two seconds left. Was my touchdown run in the third quarter going to be enough to win it?

  After a short Foothill punt, I carried the ball twice, gaining seven yards and setting up a third and three near midfield. Downs called for a quick out pass to DeShawn Free on three.

  DeShawn must have thought it was on four, because he was late getting off the line of scrimmage, forcing Drew to hold the ball longer than he should have. Just as he stepped up to throw, Foothill's middle linebacker blind-sided him, jarring the ball free. It bounded crazily along the ground for five yards or so until one of Foothill's big linemen, number 73, scooped it up. He was slow, but he had a ten-yard lead and only fifty yards to run. He rumbled down the field, gasping for air, looking over hi
s shoulder every five yards. I was closing on him with every stride, but I never caught him.

  Our lead was gone.

  Worse, when I looked upfield, I saw Drew flat on the ground. Guys were standing over him and our trainer, an old guy named Mr. Stimes, was kneeling next to him. By the time I reached him, Drew was up, but he was clutching his right elbow, fighting the pain.

  Foothill hit the extra point, making the score 13–7. As they lined up to kick off, Coach Downs called me over. "Drew won't be able to get any zip on the ball, not with that elbow."

  "Feed me the ball," I said. "I can win it for us."

  I could see his mind working. Then he nodded. "Let's see what you've got."

  He walked away, and suddenly my legs felt like they weighed one hundred pounds each. I was tired, sore, beat up. Then I thought of the stakes: the league title, the spot in the playoffs. I thought of all the teams I'd played on, all the clinics and camps I'd gone to, all the hours and hours of practice beginning when I was four. It was for this. All that work was for this.

  Tucker brought the kickoff straight up the field to the thirty-eight yard line, giving us good field position. Foothill figured we'd be passing, so they were playing their linebackers deep and their safeties even deeper, making it a perfect time to run. On first down, I drove the ball off right tackle on the stretch play. Foothill's outside linebacker tripped, and their safety was late coming up, so I picked up twelve yards before I was gang-tackled.

  Two minutes and forty-eight seconds.

  We went without a huddle. Their linebackers and safeties were still playing deep. This time we ran the draw. Once I got past the linemen, I had eight free yards before I was dragged down at their forty.

  Two thirty left in the game, clock running.

  Foothill came up tight in their standard defense. They were done worrying about the pass; they were looking for me. I gained four yards on a toss sweep. Two minutes and two seconds left. I took a handoff straight up the middle for eight yards, running right through an outside linebacker, setting up a first down on the twenty-seven. One forty.

  Foothill put eight guys in the box, daring Drew to throw. I was supposed to carry the ball over left tackle, but there was no hole. I stumbled against one of my own linemen, bounced off him, then reversed direction and headed to the right. Somebody—maybe DeShawn—laid a great block on the one Foothill guy who had a clear shot at me. I looked up and saw an open field. If only I could have made my legs move faster. Just across the ten-yard line a Foothill player tracked me down. When I hit the turf, I landed smack on top of the ball, knocking the wind out of me. For a long second I just lay there. But the clock ... and with it the game ... was ticking away. I forced myself back to the huddle.

  The line judge raced to the hash mark and laid the ball down. The guys lined up, Drew took the snap, and he immediately spiked the ball to stop the clock.

  Second and goal on the eight-yard line.

  Sixty-nine seconds left.

  Downs sent in three plays so we wouldn't waste time huddling up. All three were for me. A draw play and two sweeps—the first right and the second left.

  I sucked in air. We broke the huddle and I took my position.

  "Hut! Hut!"

  Drew dropped back as if to pass, then slipped me the ball. It was the play I'd scored on earlier, but this time the Foothill linebackers didn't bite. I was lucky to fight my way back to the line of scrimmage before I went down.

  Third and goal from the eight.

  Fifty-six ... fifty-five ... fifty-four.

  Hurriedly, we lined up. As Drew took the snap, I broke for the outside. I watched the ball into my hands, squared my shoulders, and turned upfield, my eyes on the end zone. I thought I'd make it, even as I saw their safety close on me. I lowered my shoulder and hit him at the five. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down, but not before I'd fallen forward two more yards.

  Fourth and goal from the three-yard line.

  Thirty-four ... thirty-three ... thirty-two...

  We had enough time; we'd get the play off. Three yards—that's all I needed. Three yards.

  Everything slowed. I remember seeing the faces of the fans in the end zone, knowing that they were screaming but somehow not hearing them. "Hut!" Drew called, and I heard that. The center snapped the ball and I broke left. I caught Drew's pitchout in stride, my eyes on the end zone—it was so close I could taste it.

  I saw number 50, Foothill's best linebacker, shed his blocker; I felt him hit me. All I had to do was keep driving with my legs and they'd carry me forward. It was just him and me, and there was no way one guy could bring me down, not with so much on the line.

  That's when I felt the turf slipping out from under me. It was like being in a nightmare and wanting to scream but not being able to. I could feel myself going down, feel the ground rushing up at me. At the last instant, I reached the ball forward, trying to stretch over the goal line. I had to break the plane. I had to.

  And then I was down. I looked at the ball, looked at my hands stretched out as far as I could reach.

  I was twelve inches short.

  11

  Foothill ran a quarterback sneak, the final seconds ticked away, and then their guys started grinning and laughing and piling onto one another, celebrating their perfect season, their trip to the playoffs. I watched for a little—we all did—and then dragged myself into the locker room and changed into my street clothes. The whole time, I kept reliving those final seconds, kept feeling the turf give way. If only the field had been better. If only my spikes had been longer. The victory had been right there.

  Finally I headed out. Downs had said that if we wanted, we could go home with a parent and skip the team bus. In the parking lot, I looked for my dad. Half of me hoped he hadn't waited, but he was there, standing by his Jeep. I got into the passenger seat. "You want to get something to eat somewhere?" he said.

  I shook my head.

  We drove over the Evergreen Bridge and took I-5 toward Green Lake. The whole way, neither of us spoke. When we reached Phinney Ridge, I broke the silence. "You saw what happened, didn't you?"

  "I saw what happened."

  "I mean with the turf. How the turf came out from under me? You saw that, right?"

  He looked over, shaking his head. "Don't do it, Mick."

  "Don't do what?"

  "Don't go making excuses. That's BS. That's just total BS."

  "I'm telling you what happened. I'm not making excuses."

  "What happened is, the linebacker stopped you," he said. "What happened is, he was stronger. It was one-on-one, and he beat you. That's what happened." He took a breath and exhaled. "Look, Mick—it's okay to lose as long as you learn from it. So learn from it. You're close, but you're not there. You've got speed; you've got quickness; you've got knowledge of the game. More power in the red zone—that's the last thing."

  I felt the anger rise, but I didn't answer.

  When we got home, I showered and then climbed into bed. No way could I fall asleep, though. I let my eyes run over the posters on the wall. Walter Payton, Jim Brown, Eric Dickerson—the greatest of all time, and I had thought that someday I'd be one of them.

  What a joke that was. With my teammates watching, with my dad watching, with every eye in the stadium on me, I'd failed. Completely and utterly failed. I'd been so sure of myself, so certain that if I got my chance, I'd make the most of it. How stupid! How like a third-grader! As if I were the only guy on the field with dreams. That linebacker who stopped me—number 50. Before the game he had probably dreamed of making the big hit to save the game for his team. So why did his dream come true and mine go up in flames? What had he done that I hadn't? Why had I failed? Why had I come up a foot short?

  There was an answer. I tried to keep it from coming, but there was no holding it back. You don't have the talent, a voice whispered—my voice.

  I looked at the posters on my walls, and I wanted to tear them all down and throw them away. It was as if the gre
at running backs were on one side of a door and I was on the other, and the door had been slammed shut in my face, slammed shut and locked tight.

  PART THREE

  1

  Monday I hung out with Drew and DeShawn at lunch and in between classes, and they kept telling me the loss to Foothill wasn't my fault. "It's just because your run was the last play that everybody remembers it," DeShawn said. "If it hadn't been for what you did earlier, we wouldn't have had a chance to win. Besides, did you see the arms on that guy who hit you? They were like my legs. I swear to God, he had to have been on steroids. I think half their guys were."

  "You think so?" I said, looking first at DeShawn and then at Drew. "You think they were on steroids?"

  Drew shrugged. "I don't know. You hate to call somebody a cheater without any proof, but some of those Foothill guys were just too damn big."

  For the rest of the day, my mind kept going back and forth. Was number 50 a cheater? Were a bunch of them cheaters? Had they stolen the victory? Or was I being a poor loser by making excuses?

  ***

  Toward the end of the day, a rumor started going around that Coach Downs was quitting. "Probably they'll blame that on us, too," Drew said, only half joking.

  Downs was a PE teacher as well as head football coach, but he had a sub Tuesday and another one Wednesday, and both days he'd had meetings with the principal and the athletic director. Then on Thursday came the announcement: All football players were to attend a meeting after school.

  At two-forty I went into the commons and pulled up a chair at a table where Drew and DeShawn were slouched, heads down. Our table was way in the back and in the far left corner, away from everybody. I looked over at Matt Drager and Aaron Clark. They were sitting front and center, right where we'd have been if I'd scored the winning touchdown.