Top Prospect

by Paul Volponi

  When I reached our front door, I turned around and saw Carter and Alex at the far end of the street. They were walking back after their first sprint with Galaxy beside them, still carrying the ball in his mouth.

  Carter’s Take

  Alex and I had just finished our first wind sprint when his face turned stone serious.

  “I’ve never been too good at keeping secrets,” he said, as I tried to catch my breath. “And I’ve got one that’s burning up inside of me right now.”

  “You know me. I don’t talk.”

  “This is really hard,” he said, then gave Galaxy a quick scruff behind the ear. Hesitating, maybe.

  I figured he needed to unload something about his mama—maybe it was her health, or maybe, God forbid, somebody from the NCAA heard about Walter’s money.

  “See how my knee’s come together over the last couple of weeks? Well, I’ve been doing something more than rehabbing,” he said.

  We began to walk, still about thirty yards from my house, with Mom smoothing out the dirt around her flower bed.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  Coming to a stop in the street, Alex answered, “I’ve been juicing.”

  “PEDs?” I craned my neck to see that no one else was in earshot. “What for? You were working like an animal to get back.”

  “Just wasn’t healing fast enough. I got too much at stake,” Alex said.

  He yanked the ball from Galaxy’s mouth and tossed it for the dog to retrieve.

  “I need to set this season on fire,” Alex continued. “Get myself in position for the draft. An injury like this could cost me millions.”

  I almost couldn’t believe what was coming out of Alex’s mouth.

  “What if you get caught, test positive? It could cost you everything.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “What I’m using is undetectable. Brand-new.”

  Galaxy came running back to me with the ball, all excited and jumping at my midsection.

  “Where’d you even get something like that?” I asked, grabbing Galaxy by his collar to calm him down.

  “Can’t say.”

  “You might get a tumor from taking that garbage,” I said, turning Galaxy loose. “I even heard it could stop you from having kids.”

  “I’m not going to be on it forever,” said Alex. “Another cycle or two, tops. Just long enough to make an impression on those pro scouts. Let ’em see I didn’t lose a step.”

  I still hated everything about it.

  “So I’ve got your word on this, fam?” he asked.

  I didn’t want to, but I nodded my head.

  “I’ll take it to the grave,” I told him, bumping my fist on his.

  The Gainesville Sentinel

  Section D/Sports – Columnists

  Gators Hoping to Name Their Punishment

  Karen Wolfendale

  According to NCAA officials, the hands of a few Gainesville University student-athletes may have been caught in the cookie jar. Head Coach Elvis Goddard contends that the allegations against these players in no way reflect the culture of his team.

  Last spring, the NCAA launched an inquiry into alleged violations by members of the Gainesville football program. The investigation focused on players’ receipt of “money handshakes” from boosters. At a press conference on Wednesday, Goddard and other members of the Gainesville athletic department announced they had finished an internal inquiry into the matter.

  “Any problems here are individual ones, where individual athletes may have decided to accept something extra from a willing booster,” Goddard said. “We’ve uncovered two instances where players may have been overpaid for their work as busboys at a charity dinner, and one instance where a player may have received too big of a discount on a flat-screen TV. We’ve reported this to the NCAA, and we’re going to penalize ourselves for these possible transgressions by young people who are bound to make mistakes along the way.”

  By staying out in front of the investigation and naming their own punishment, the Fightin’ Gators hope to avoid stiffer NCAA sanctions, which could include a bowl game suspension that would cost the university a chance at another National Championship and millions in revenue.

  The Gainesville football program will reduce its number of scholarships from 85 to 83 over the next three years. The Gators will also hold two fewer practices per year during this period.

  “I don’t know what happens when other men shake hands. I only know what happens when I shake your hand,” Goddard told reporters.

  “We believe the NCAA will ultimately agree with us and accept these self-imposed penalties,” the coach continued. “We’ve also written letters asking a pair of boosters, one who runs a local catering hall and another who owns an appliance store, to stay away from our program.”

  Now that Coach Goddard has put the cookie jar on the top shelf, we’ll see if any resourceful “young people” find a kitchen chair on which to stand.

  Chapter 13

  Two weeks before the Bobcats’ first game of the season, and one week before classes at Beauchamp started, Coach Pisano made his decision on a starting quarterback.

  “Aiden! Travis! My office, five minutes!” Pisano shouted after blowing the whistle to end practice.

  His voice shook me, even though I was standing twenty yards away. Realizing Pisano had said Aiden’s name ahead of mine shook me even further.

  Everybody on the team knew what that meeting was about. The handful of players who supported me, including Damon, slapped me on the back as I headed toward the locker room. The landslide of guys who were pulling for Aiden did the same to him, creating a sound like a steady drumbeat.

  I didn’t stop to take off my jersey or pads in the locker room, just changed my cleats for sneakers and then headed out into the hall. I took the long way around, walking almost the entire main floor to Pisano’s office. When I got there, Aiden was already waiting outside the open door. Only, Pisano hadn’t arrived yet. It was just the two of us.

  “You going to tweet about this? How I got the starting job?” Aiden asked, dressed in black shorts and a gold T-shirt that read Beauchamp Varsity Football.

  “The only reason I tweet is because Coach G. wants me to,” I answered, like I was trying to hold Aiden off in a blocking drill.

  “Yeah, Coach Goddard. He’s the only reason we’re standing here,” Aiden said. “If he didn’t give you that fake scholarship, there’s no question I’d be the starter. You know that, right?”

  Aiden was staring me down, waiting for an answer, when I heard Pisano coming down the hall. He was barking at an assistant coach over something that had happened at practice.

  I hesitated, letting Pisano’s voice get louder and closer.

  “Go deal with it. Right now. And I do mean deal with it. I won’t waste practice time on it again,” Pisano told his assistant before turning his attention to us. “Step inside, boys.”

  Pisano didn’t sit behind his desk. Instead, he sat on top of it, with his bare legs dangling off the front. I was too nervous to look him in the face. So my eyes dropped down, settling on his bobcat tattoo.

  “Quarterback’s always a difficult decision to make,” Pisano said. “I’m a firm believer that a team needs a leader at that position, one clear starter to shoulder the load.”

  I was completely ready for Pisano to pick Aiden. I even pushed my toes into the floor, bracing for it.

  That’s when Pisano said, “Travis, you’re going to lead the Bobcats this season.”

  I looked up to see his finger pointing right at me. I was so psyched. Something inside me wanted to grab one of the footballs on the floor of Pisano’s office, just to feel it inside my hands.

  I’d nearly forgotten Aiden was standing there until Pisano said his name.

  “Aiden, you’ve earned a lot of respect from your teammates,” he said. “The way to keep that respect and build on it is to accept this. To help Travis get up to speed with all of the details he needs to lear
n about our system.”

  “Sure, Coach,” Aiden said, with his voice breaking just a bit. “Whatever the team needs.”

  Then Aiden stuck out his hand to me and I shook it. Standing there in my shoulder pads and jersey, with the starting job mine, I suddenly felt twice his size.

  @TravisG_Gator Bcame the Bobcats starting QB 2day. So grateful. It was a great competition. Now I’m #ready2lead

  My first week of classes was awesome. Three different middle schools feed into Beauchamp High. So there were new ninth graders I’d never met and who wanted to meet me. I ate in the cafeteria alongside juniors and seniors, mostly from the football team.

  Those first few days were more social than academic, with teachers telling you their class rules and giving out books. Except for the bell schedule, it didn’t even remind me of middle school. More like having a free pass to an amusement park where one of the biggest attractions had my name and face on it.

  Aiden Conroy wasn’t my only hater at Beauchamp, though. Maybe half the football team accepted me as the starter, while the other half wanted me to crash and burn.

  I guess Cortez didn’t belong in either one of those categories. He was a senior defensive tackle—a mountain of a kid with muscles on his muscles, and the team leader on defense. No coach had assigned him that position. He’d earned it over four years and had even played on the Bobcats with Carter two seasons ago.

  “What I don’t like about freshmen is that they get rattled easy,” Cortez told me after cornering me alone at practice. “They play good one game and then disappear the next.”

  “Not me,” I said. “I’m consistent. I—”

  Cortez cut me short and said, “Everybody’s consistent until they get hit.”

  Then he shot an arm out to my shoulder and moved me backward two feet.

  “Ever been sandwiched by a pair of senior D-linemen? Each with three years and seventy pounds on your lightweight frame?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ve lifted a lot of weights with your brother. Out of respect for him and the fact that Coach P. picked you, I’m going to support you for now.”

  “I really appreciate—”

  “Don’t appreciate anything,” he said without taking his arm away. “Just win for us.”

  During our scrimmage that day, I was wearing the quarterback’s bright red practice jersey. It stood out like a stop sign, so every defensive player knew not to hit me. I took a snap and started going through my progression of reads, looking for an open receiver, when Cortez beat a double-team and came motoring at me full-tilt. My whole body tensed, and my fingers locked around the ball an instant before he pulled up—just a few inches away.

  “See,” he said with his face mask pressed up against mine. “It all looks different when you’re about to get hammered.”

  Chapter 14

  Some other kids at school seemed to be jealous of what I had. They either snubbed me in the hallway or cut in front of me on the lunch line. I just tried to let it all roll off my back.

  Then there was my math teacher, Mrs. Harper, who had a major chip on her shoulder. Five years ago, Carter had her as a freshman. But she’d been at Beauchamp much longer than that. She was almost a senior citizen and completely out of touch, with a weird pointed hairdo that made her look like the grandma of Wolverine from X-Men.

  “Travis Gardner, rest assured you won’t get any special treatment from me because you’ve already secured a college scholarship,” Mrs. Harper told me as I first passed her desk. “That’s the beauty of a mathematics grade. Numbers don’t lie. They’re not influenced by popularity. Your brother Carter understood his obligations as a student. I hope you have the same work ethic.”

  That part about my work ethic ticked me off more than anything else.

  Besides PE, history had always been my favorite subject. That class looked like it could be a blast. The history teacher, Ms. Orsini, was also my guidance counselor. She was young and fun with a bobbed haircut that swung around her face nearly every time she moved her head.

  She’d fooled us all during our first class when she asked, “Where’s the Sea of Tranquility?” Kids guessed almost everywhere in the world without getting it right. After we’d run out of places, I even tried, “Inside the Devil’s Triangle.”

  But that was wrong too.

  “It’s on the Moon. And it’s not filled with water. It’s a large, dusty crater. It’s interesting how we can be deceived by a name.”

  After class, on my way out the door, Ms. Orsini said, “Travis, I hear you have a lot of big things going on in your life. Drop by the guidance office one day and let’s talk about them all. I’d love to hear what’s on your mind.”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking there’d be worse ways to spend my time at school.

  Lyn Wilson had started at Beauchamp High at the same time as me and her brother, Damon. She wasn’t in any of my classes, but we shared the same lunch period.

  “Damon told me you’re starting quarterback,” Lyn said when I saw her in the cafeteria. “That’s great.”

  “Yeah, too bad your bro won’t be snapping me the ball,” I said.

  “I don’t think he minds being on the bench. He’s not into football the way he used to be,” she said. “He’s getting interested in bodybuilding.”

  “I saw all the weight he lost,” I said, then changed gears. “Did you go to softball camp this summer?”

  “Three weeks. I loved it.” She made a windmill motion with her right arm. “Worked a lot on my fastball.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t want to hit against you.”

  “That’s right. I’d dust you back off the plate.”

  And I couldn’t tell if she was joking with that or warning me not to bother asking her out again.

  * * *

  At practice, I worked super-hard on my play-fake. Over and over, I’d take the snap, turn around, and put the ball into the running back’s stomach. Then, at the last possible moment, I’d pull it out, hiding the ball behind my back. That would slow down a pass rush, making the defense think we’d picked a run play. The safety might even creep up closer to the line, looking to help out on the tackle. Then there’d be less pressure on me and more open receivers. Pisano asked Aiden to show me a few things to polish it up.

  “It’s all about having a good base,” Aiden told me in a condescending voice, putting his two legs into the ground like nothing in the world could move them. “When you go to pull the ball out, you’d better have your balance. Or else it’ll be a disaster.”

  Aiden worked on that with me for about twenty minutes. When we were done, I tried to give him a pound. Only he left my fist hanging out there. I ran that play-fake during our scrimmage, with Pisano watching on the field from just beyond the D-line.

  “Not bad,” said Pisano. “Two things a quarterback needs to survive—a good play-fake and a short memory about the mistakes he makes.”

  Even Cortez, who completely froze in his tracks on a couple of those fakes, gave me a nod of approval. That same day, the team’s equipment manager handed out uniforms. I got the number I wanted, the one I’d always worn: twelve. Within five minutes of coming home with my Bobcat jersey, I’d texted a photo of me wearing it to Dad, Carter, and the Gainesville media department, for my Twitter account. I must have looked at myself in the mirror with it on for over an hour, going through different poses with the football and trying to get my expression just right as I imagined my first Sports Illustrated cover—somewhere past confident but less obnoxious than cocky.

  * * *

  Our first game of the season took place on a Friday night in early September, under the lights at Beauchamp. In Florida, Saturdays are all about college football. They belong to Coach G. and the Gators. But on Fridays, high school football is king. Anytime the Bobcats take the field at home, nearly the entire student body, along with half of Alachua, turns out to watch. We opened up against Santa Fe High. That’s the school where Alex played. The Gators were starting their s
eason the next night at home. So Carter and Alex had come with Mom to see me play. I ran up to them near the stands, about an hour before game time.

  “Are you rooting for Travis tonight or your old school?” Carter asked Alex in front of me.

  “Sorry, lil bro,” Alex said, shaking his head. “I hope you throw five touchdown passes and make all the newspapers. But I want to see my Raiders score six TDs.”

  “I thought we were fam,” I teased Alex.

  “We are. But on the field, football trumps family. That’s how blood brothers can whip each other’s butts and still go home to the same dinner table. It’s off the field that fam wins out.”

  “Sounds smart,” Mom said, looking at me and Carter. “At home, it should always be family first, not competition.”

  I blew Mom a kiss and started backpedaling toward the field, not wanting to hear a longer lecture from her.

  Then I pointed at Alex and said, “I’m going to kick Santa Fe tail tonight. You’ll just have to smile and suck it up.”

  All through the warm-ups, my nerves were tighter than I’d let on to anyone. I heard one of our players say he thought he’d seen Coach G. in the stands. I didn’t believe it for a second, not with the Gators playing a game in twenty-four hours. Still, it gave me goose bumps.

  We won the coin toss, and Pisano wanted the football first.

  After the thump of the ball coming off the Santa Fe kicker’s shoe, our special teams returned the kickoff to our own thirty-six-yard line. I put on my helmet, tightened the chinstrap, and listened to the applause as I jogged onto the field.

  On our first play from scrimmage, I stepped to the line and looked over the Santa Fe defense. Their coach must have been convinced Pisano would take the pressure off me and begin by running the ball. He was right. Santa Fe had eight of their eleven defenders crowding the line, ready to stop our runner cold. So I decided to call an audible and change the play at the line.

  “Omaha! Omaha!” I hollered out left and then right. “Eighteen rocket! Eighteen rocket! Hut!”