by Paul Volponi
In my wallet, an investigator found a bunch of $100 bills.
“Guilty!” he said. Then Coach marked my name off the list.
Another investigator grabbed my car keys and shouted, “Guilty!” in a voice even louder than the first one.
That’s when I woke up with a start, trembling and soaked in sweat. I could barely breathe, staring into the shadows by Alex’s bed.
It was the worst nightmare I’d ever had. I would have rather been falling forever into some bottomless pit or running through the hallways at school in my underwear, lost and late for a final exam. Those would have been sweet dreams compared to this one.
Somewhere inside that terrible scene, I had seen Alex sitting on his bed, watching everything. I was frantic, wrapped up tight inside my sheets, struggling to get free. But Alex was completely calm.
“It’s not worth it, fam,” he said. “None of it is.”
After that, I had no plans of going back to sleep.
I couldn’t do anything about giving back the car, because it was in Mom’s name. But I swore on Alex’s grave, I’d never take another dime from Walter or anybody else, even if I had to keep my hands buried inside my pockets.
Chapter 23
Leading up to our game against Lincoln, I started throwing the football during practice again. I felt a twinge deep in the elbow joint every time I released a pass. Only, I wouldn’t tell anyone. I just dealt with it. I took care not to put any real mustard on my passes, though. I didn’t need the extra strain.
Pisano didn’t put up an argument over me going easy.
“You might only have a handful of big throws in you right now. Don’t waste them,” he told me. “Besides, you should save any pain for the game.”
I didn’t know how to explain it to him, but I was already there.
Cortez walked up to me after practice and asked, “How bad you hurt? The entire defense wants to know if we have to shut out Lincoln to win.”
“I’m not hurt. Just getting over being sore,” I told him.
“I’ve watched you sling a football for months now,” said Cortez, moving a step closer. “You were throwing at fifty percent today, max. I hope you’re holding something in reserve, because those soft passes won’t get it done against Lincoln.”
“Maybe Aiden Conroy will transfer back,” I said, making sure to smile. “He’s got a pretty strong arm.”
“Think I’d rather lose with you than ever win with him again.”
“I haven’t lost yet.”
“No. But that’s when you see what somebody’s really made of,” Cortez said. “When it all goes wrong.”
* * *
I saw Lyn in the cafeteria that day. She didn’t mention anything about that night at the movies, and neither did I.
“Hey, Damon told me he felt better after talking to you,” Lyn said. “Thanks for that.”
“Yeah? I wasn’t much help. He’d already quit.”
“I think you were the only real connection he felt to the team,” she said, taking a seat with an open spot next to it. “I’m pretty sure my brother felt like he’d be disappointing you.”
“How?” I asked, grabbing the other seat. “We were hardly on the field together anymore.”
“You two played together for what, five years? Damon’s always been on the line protecting you,” Lyn said. “I guess he thought that you were under a lot of pressure here. He didn’t want to abandon you.”
Until those words came out of Lyn’s mouth, I hadn’t seen it like that.
“I can take it. That’s what quarterbacks do,” I said. “But maybe I can help him train after my season’s over. I learned some things from the Gators’ strength coach about lifting weights the right way.”
“He’d probably enjoy it,” she said. “I think he’s been feeling like you’ve got too much going on lately to hang with him.”
“He’s right,” I said. “I haven’t even had time to hang with myself.”
I spent the rest of that lunch period with Lyn. I decided to leave football and dating completely out of the conversation. Instead, we talked about our classes, our teachers, and how she wanted to play softball for the Bobcats in the spring. Lyn had Mrs. Harper for math too. And we both started poking fun at her pointed hairdo.
* * *
That Friday night, we were playing Lincoln High at home. Both teams stood undefeated, us at 3-0 and them, 4-0. Lincoln was head and shoulders the best squad on our schedule. We’d beaten Eastside by five points, while Lincoln had routed them by thirty. The game was super-important because the winner would be a lock to host an opening-round playoff game on their own turf.
I’d never seen our stadium so packed or heard the Bobcat crowd get so loud. Somebody even told me the Alachua fire marshal was such a big Bobcats fan, he’d closed his eyes to the seating-capacity law.
The guys on Lincoln’s defensive line looked like they belonged on a college team, standing tall and probably outweighing our O-line by ten to fifteen pounds per man.
Lincoln had an all-state senior linebacker named Brian Newser, nicknamed Newser the Bruiser. I watched him for a while during warm-ups. He was charging around like an absolute madman, slugging his own guys harder than I’d been hit all year.
I stopped staring at the Bruiser when he started glaring at me. I’d put on my best game face, with every ounce of swagger I could muster. I wanted Newser to see what Coach G. had seen in me—a quarterback who understood calmness and execution. But in the end, I felt more like that male poodle three doors down from our house, the one Galaxy had backed down in a staring contest.
“That Bruiser’s a stud. Keep him in your sights,” Cortez told me before Lincoln kicked off to us.
“Any advice?” I asked him.
“Don’t let him get a clear shot at you. Duck and dive. And don’t let him see that elbow’s not right. He’ll focus in on it first thing, even if he has to get flagged for a late hit. I know I would.”
“So he’s a thug in a helmet and pads,” I said.
“That’s what all defensive players are, especially when we get a shot at the quarterback,” Cortez said.
My elbow was feeling better than I’d expected as I took the field. I prayed it wouldn’t feel any worse after taking my first real hit. We started out with the ball on our own nineteen-yard line. At the line of scrimmage, I nearly stood on my tiptoes to see over those Lincoln giants. Pisano had scripted our first three plays in advance—all runs. I was fine with that and didn’t even think about checking off to a pass. I handed the ball to our fullback without any pain. Then I watched the play develop from behind, away from the collisions and scrum. On guts alone, our fullback gained four yards, driving his legs forward and lowering his center of gravity once he’d met the pile.
“Way to be! We’re the tougher team!” I said, clapping my hands together.
Our next play demanded a pitch-out to the halfback, who was supposed to run it wide around the right end. As I barked out signals, my eyes met the Bruiser’s for a second. They were brown, fierce, and focused on the center of my chest, as if Newser could see right through it.
“Hut!” sprung from my vocal cords.
I pitched the ball, and our halfback sprinted to the right with it. But he met a wall of defenders not far from the line of scrimmage. So he reversed field and headed back in my direction. The Bruiser stayed hot on his tail, moving like a Mack truck in high gear.
Our tailback sprinted past me. Maybe it was stupidity on my part. Maybe I wanted to get broken into three pieces and sit on the sideline. But I had Alex’s double-infinity drawn on my cleats and a perfect angle on the Bruiser. So I lowered my right shoulder and stuck it square into his midsection. The crowd let out a roar as my body shook from the collision. But that all-state linebacker flew back almost as far as I did.
“I’ll meet you back here again, Gator Boy!” the Bruiser shouted.
As my teammates picked me up off the ground, I checked out every part of myself. Still all in
one piece, even my left elbow.
“Travis, next time, just get out of the way,” one of my O-linemen told me. “We can’t afford to lose you.”
I nodded at him and at Pisano, who was yelling the same thing from the sideline. But that block had me completely pumped.
Two plays later, I called my first pass in the huddle. I took the snap and then a quick three-step drop. My receiver turned open across the middle of the field. I released the ball nice and easy, without trying to overthrow it. Except for that twinge in my elbow joint, the pass felt good. I watched the ball spiral perfectly out of my hand. Only, I could see it slice through the air slower than usual.
Then, an instant before the ball reached my receiver, a defender cut in front of him and intercepted the pass. It felt like I’d been driving the Goodyear blimp over our stadium and the Lincoln D had let the air out. The defender returned it down to our seventeen-yard line. And I walked off the field looking at my left arm, wondering where the strength had disappeared to.
The Lincoln offensive line loomed as large as its D. On their first play from scrimmage, two linemen double-teamed Cortez and blocked him onto his back.
After that, Lincoln marched the ball down our throats for a 7–0 lead.
Pisano had called some conservative plays, probably because of my arm. And I was being careful to not leave the ball hanging out there. But after Lincoln scored another touchdown, on a play where their running back knocked over Cortez and another one of our defenders like they were bowling pins, that changed. We had to open up our offense to try and stay within reach. That meant using routes that stretched their defense.
By the second quarter, I was throwing my passes harder and harder, trying to get more zip on them. But no matter how much pain I withstood, my passes didn’t have enough velocity. And the more I put into them, the more they started to stray offline.
I had a receiver open on a deep slant and a wide five-yard window in which to deliver the ball. My eyes lit up at the sight of it. But when I tried to muscle it there, the ball sailed on me, and I got intercepted for a second time.
I was almost completely deflated. And it wasn’t just me, either. Lincoln had outplayed us in every phase of the game.
We headed to the locker room, down 24–0.
Our once-rocking stadium sounded more like a graveyard now, and lots of Bobcats had their heads down.
“If you’re going to get your butts whipped, at least keep your heads up! That way you can see it coming!” Pisano exploded in our locker room. “This second half isn’t about winning and losing now. It’s about who’s ready to be a man and who’s not!”
Cortez had his defense huddled in the corner. He pointed at himself for not getting it done. I wasn’t sure what to say to my receivers. Finally, I looked at them and said, “Just keep getting open.”
Early in the third quarter, the Bruiser knocked our best running back out of the game, dropping him like a bag of crushed ice. Without him to worry about, Lincoln started blitzing me on every play. That meant seven defenders were trying to steamroll me into the ground. Twice, I swear the stadium lights disappeared as the pocket collapsed and Lincoln’s defensive line swallowed me alive.
The pressure was unreal. I could barely get the ball out of my hand, even to throw it away. Every time I got knocked to the ground, I had to focus on protecting my elbow as much as trying to complete a pass. And I knew my state QB ranking was taking a big hit too.
Deep down, I hoped Pisano would pull me from the game. He never did.
Late in the final quarter, we had a fourth down and two yards to go at midfield. Pisano wouldn’t punt the ball back to Lincoln. He probably didn’t want them scoring on us again. So he signaled for me to stay on the field and go for the first down.
Pisano sent in a dive play, with our replacement running back taking the ball right into the teeth of the defense. That was fine with me. But at the line of scrimmage, our center went brain-dead and snapped the ball at my feet. On instinct, I dove for it—along with half the Lincoln defense.
It was like outracing a bunch of jackals to a single piece of meat, even though I had no hunger left in me. I got to the football first and tucked it beneath me when the Bruiser slammed into my left elbow. A bolt of pain shot through my entire body. Then it happened again and again as other players piled on top, some of them Bobcats.
I almost cursed Damon for that miserable snap. Then I remembered he didn’t play football anymore. The ref found me at the bottom of the pile with the ball clutched to my chest, and Lincoln took over on downs.
We lost, 38 to 6. My elbow throbbed nonstop for the next seven hours. Once I got home, I took two Tylenol out of our medicine chest and swallowed them down, without telling Mom about the pain or those pills.
@TravisG_Gator My 1st loss in a HS uni. Bad taste in my mouth.
Chapter 24
By Saturday night, I’d taken enough Tylenol that I had to go out and buy another bottle. I couldn’t risk Mom going into the medicine chest and discovering we were almost out. I skipped work at the dealership that day so I could ice my elbow while Mom was out of the house.
Carter and the Gators were in South Bend, Indiana, for the weekend to play the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. That meant I couldn’t get any help from Harkey with my elbow. I stayed in my room most of the day, resting it. I told Mom I was working on a project for school. She even brought dinner to me on a tray when I didn’t come out to eat.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to watch the game in here tonight,” Mom said. “I like having someone to root with.”
“I just have to finish what I’m doing,” I said, pointing at some unfinished homework assignments on my desk.
“Are you sure you’re not feeling blue over losing yesterday?” she asked. “You don’t look like the Travis I know. You’re looking a little defeated.”
“It was just one game,” I said. “Honestly, I’m more worried about next week.”
Mom kissed me on the forehead.
“You feel a little warm. You might be running a slight fever. Keep an eye on that, all right?” Mom said as she left my room.
“I will.”
Carter played a sensational game that night. He had four receptions in the first half. The TV analyst even called him “an emerging pro prospect.”
I heard those words before Mom did, because she was watching in HD, which has about a two-second delay.
“Listen for it!” I screamed to her.
“That’s my oldest boy!” Mom hollered after she’d caught up. “Air high five on that one, Travis!”
“You got it!” I yelled back.
But my elbow was wrapped up in a heating pad. So I left Mom hanging out there, even if she didn’t know it.
The Gators pummeled the Fighting Irish, 38 to 9.
* * *
Dad didn’t call me Saturday. I hadn’t heard from him since our fishing trip. I left him a message on Sunday, but he never phoned back.
I went to school the next day with my elbow aching unless I held it completely still. They served pizza in the cafeteria for lunch. That was good for me. I could fold over a slice and eat with just my right arm.
I started to dread the idea of going to practice. I knew Pisano would be riding us hard over getting blown out. But once I got there, to my surprise, he pushed everybody to the limits with extra drills except me.
“Nothing but short, easy tosses for a few days,” Pisano told me, once he’d stopped screaming at the team. “That funny bone’s a tricky thing. I want it to be stronger for the Orange Park game.”
“That’s the life of a quarterback,” Cortez said back in the locker room. “We win, he gets girls wearing his jersey. He throws interceptions, we do punishment pushups.”
And to a man, everyone who heard him agreed.
* * *
Two days later, report cards for the first marking period came out. Only, a parent had to come to open-school night to pick it up.
I walked through the
main entrance that night with Mom. We stopped at the guidance office first, to see Ms. Orsini and get my report card. I figured I had done okay in my classes. Still, it felt like torture, not knowing my grades and having to bring Mom along. There wouldn’t be enough time for her to digest any bad news before she met my teachers.
“Ms. Gardner, we’ve spoken before. What a pleasure to meet you in person,” Ms. Orsini said, smiling and shaking Mom’s hand. “I want you to know it’s wonderful to see Travis every day. Besides being his guidance counselor, I’m his US History teacher. I’m really pleased with the attitude he brings to class. In fact, I think being a football fan has given him some unique knowledge.”
I wanted to hug Ms. Orsini for saying that, and I started to breathe a little easier.
“Well, that’s a surprise to hear,” Mom said, with a widening smile.
“That’s right. You know that team, the Oklahoma Sooners?” I asked Mom, who nodded her head. “They get their name from the Land Rush of . . . uh . . . uh . . .”
Ms. Orsini filled in the blank for me: “Eighteen eighty-nine.”
“Yeah, that’s why they’re called the Sooners. They snuck onto the land too soon to claim it,” I said with confidence, like I’d made the right audible at the line of scrimmage.
“Let me give you Travis’s report card,” Ms. Orsini said, finding it in a stack of them. “I gave Travis a B-plus in my class, so there’s still room for improvement. His other grades this semester are good, except for math, where he seems to have some personal conflict with the teacher.”
I looked over Mom’s shoulder to find my cumulative average at the bottom. It was a B. I could have done a touchdown dance right then. Next, I searched for Ms. Harper’s math grade: a C-minus.
“I’ve heard about it from Travis. I’ll be sure to speak with her tonight,” Mom said.
“I also wanted to comment on Travis’s ability to handle everything that’s been put in front of him,” Ms. Orsini said. “He seems to be doing an incredible job with all of it—the pressure of living up to his scholarship, media attention, his popularity here, his studies. It can’t be as easy as it looks, Travis. Can it?”