by Tiki Barber
This was so unfair! The Eagles were only two wins away from being state champions—the best team in the whole state of Virginia, home of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and . . . and . . . Tiki and Ronde Barber. . . .
Suddenly, Ronde awoke with a start. “Aaah!” he cried out softly, sitting up and blinking his sleepy eyes. “What happened?” He looked around the darkened room, confused.
“Go back to sleep, dude,” Tiki told him. “You were dreaming.”
Ronde blew out a relieved breath. “Whoa,” he said, then yawned. “I was being chased by a bunch of spotted eagles that wanted to peck me with their beaks.”
“Nightmare,” Tiki said.
“You got that right.”
“Go back to sleep, Ronde.”
“Okay.” And just like that, he lay down again, and was out like a light.
Tiki shook his head and smiled. Ronde never did have any problem falling asleep. All he had to do was put his head on the pillow and close his eyes.
Tiki usually slept just as well, but not this week. Not tonight.
Again, he found himself pained by the unfairness of it all. After all the hard work he’d done in practice, all the pounding he’d taken during the games . . . After having to be the team’s kicker when Adam got suspended . . . After a whole seventh-grade season of sitting on the bench while the team won the district championship without him. All of that waiting, suffering, and doing battle on the field, just to get to this moment.
And now, to have it snatched away from him, just like that, by a stroke of pure bad luck?
No! No way! He just couldn’t take it!
He had to play this weekend, he just had to.
Hadn’t their mom always told them, “Don’t ever give up, boys. You never have to take things lying down. There’s always something you can do to make things better, for yourself and for everybody else.”
She was right! Why should he take this bad break lying down? He sat up in bed and madly tapped his feet on the floor as he wracked his brain for an idea—some way of getting around this terrible thing that had happened to him. . . .
He felt his forehead—not too warm. His fever was already starting to go down. And he didn’t feel like hurling any more. So that part was okay. Maybe he could just tell everyone he was all better.
But those stupid, stupid spots! There they were, all over his face, chest, back, arms, and legs, for everyone to see. And nothing he could do would make them disappear in time to play the game. Nothing he could ever do, no future success on the football field, would make up for this terrible blow. Nothing could make up for . . . make up for . . .
“Makeup!” he cried, slapping his hands together. “That’s it!”
Ronde snorted and opened his eyes. “Huh? What did you say?”
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
And Ronde did, instantly. Tiki smiled and shook his head. By the time Ronde woke up on Saturday morning, Tiki was going to be all better—or at least, he was going to look that way!
The next day, while Mrs. Barber was at work and Ronde was busy watching TV, Tiki snuck up to his mom’s bathroom and opened her makeup drawer. He took out something called foundation, and tried sponging it onto a few of the spots on his face.
Then he checked himself out in the mirror. The makeup covered the spots pretty well—not completely, of course, but enough so that they looked like they were healing.
If Coach, and his mom, and everyone else saw him now, they’d think he was well enough to play, Tiki decided. Never mind that his recovery was too quick to be believable—he would deal with that, somehow, when the time came.
For now, he just pocketed the foundation and the sponge and hid them under his own mattress. His mom had so many others she’d never miss it. And on Saturday morning, he’d get up early, before anyone else, and perform a miracle cure that would get him into the big game!
Afterward, he might have to deal with people yelling at him for exposing them to chicken pox, maybe even making fun of him for wearing makeup. But he could take all the abuse, all the ridicule, if it meant he could play against Charlottesville West, and maybe win the big game for Hidden Valley.
He was sure he’d be punished somehow, if—no, when—his fakery was unmasked. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was winning the game, and after that, the state championship.
By Friday night, Tiki’s fever was long gone. His itching had calmed down some, but he still had scabs on his spots, and there was no way anyone would let him play tomorrow—not without his little “miracle cure,” that is.
He didn’t set his alarm. It would have awakened Ronde and blown the whole scheme. Instead, Tiki simply forced himself to get up early—so early it was still dark outside.
Ronde was fast asleep. So was their mom, who was able to sleep because she had to take one day off from work today. This morning she’d be driving Ronde to the bus, and then follow along with the caravan of moms, dads, brothers, sisters, fellow students, teachers, and other fans of the Eagles, all making the long trip to Charlottesville to watch the biggest game their team had ever played.
Tiki reached under his mattress and brought out the tin of foundation and the sponge. Then he tiptoed into the bathroom, and softly shut the door behind him before flipping the light switch.
Yep. The spots were still there, all right. Better, but not better enough. He opened the tin, and one by one, covered the spots with just enough makeup to look natural. It took a long time, because the spots were pretty much everywhere. Then he had to blend it all in so it wasn’t noticeable. At least, not very.
Did he look natural enough to fool people? He thought so. In this light, at least, he seemed almost all better, and certainly not bad enough to be contagious.
Good. Now to get back in bed and pretend to sleep. He shoved the tin and the sponge under his pillow and closed his eyes.
He drifted off to sleep once or twice, but not for very long. Soon he heard his mom moving around in her room. Then she went downstairs, and five minutes later, she called the boys down to breakfast.
Tiki stayed in bed until Ronde had gone downstairs. Then he quickly got dressed—in street clothes, not the pajamas he’d been wearing all week.
“Mom!” he cried. “Mom! Ronde! Check this out—I’m better !” He waited as the two of them ran upstairs to see what he was talking about.
“Whoa!” Ronde said, breaking into a huge smile at the sight of his brother’s face. “You really do look better! Can you play in the game?”
“Can dogs bark at mailmen?” Tiki replied, and the two boys slapped five.
Their mom, however, seemed to hold back a little.
“Hmmm,” she said, checking Tiki out closely—a little too closely for comfort, Tiki thought. “That really is amazing.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Tiki said excitedly.
“Unbelievable,” she said. “I never heard of anyone getting over chicken pox this fast.”
“It’s a miracle!” Tiki told her. “Now I can play today!”
“Hmmm . . .”
“I knew I was getting better last night when I—what are you doing, Ma?”
She was bending over the bed, examining his pillow.
Uh-oh.
“What is this brown stain on my nice white pillowcase?” she asked, frowning. She picked up the pillow, and discovered the makeup and sponge hidden beneath. “Tiki Barber, what in the world have you been up to?”
“Um, me? Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me, now.”
“I . . .”
She took a hanky from her pocket and wiped his face. Makeup came off on it, revealing Tiki’s “miracle cure” for the fraud it was.
Tiki was stuck. Nailed. Way busted. There was no way out now but to tell the awful truth.
So that’s what he did. His mother listened sympathetically, but Ronde burst out laughing.
“Ha! Tiki wears makeup! I can’t believe this—man, you are gonna be the laughingstock of the whole tea
m. No, the whole school!”
“No, I’m not. Because you’re not going to say a word about it.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Ronde said, laughing again.
“You’d better keep your mouth shut!” Tiki shouted, jumping on Ronde and wrestling him to the ground. Ronde kept laughing, but to Tiki, it was anything but funny to think that everyone would know how low he’d sunk to get himself on the field.
“Stop laughing!” Tiki ordered.
“I can’t!” Ronde said, even as Tiki sat on top of him, holding his arm behind his back.
“Ow! Ha-ha! Ow!”
“Tiki, stop that right now!” Mrs. Barber ordered, in a tone of voice that stopped both boys in their tracks. “Get off your brother.”
Tiki slowly got off. “It’s not funny,” he said. “I only did it for the team.”
“I know you did, baby,” his mom said, hugging him. “But it won’t help the team if you show up and play at half-strength.”
“I know,” Tiki mumbled. “But—”
“Did you ever hear of Typhoid Mary?” she asked him.
“Typhoid who?”
“She made a whole town sick, with a disease a lot worse than chicken pox. I know how much you want to win, baby. But your health, and everybody else’s, is even more important than winning. Don’t be a Typhoid Mary.”
“Aw, Ma,” Tiki said. “It’s only chicken pox.”
“I’m not going to argue with you anymore,” she said flatly. “Except to say that even if you played today, and the Eagles won, how are they gonna win the championship game next week if you make half the team sick?”
Tiki had no answer. There was none.
“And Ronde,” Mrs. Barber went on, “put yourself in your brother’s shoes. Would you have done any different?”
Ronde’s smile vanished. The thought of being in Tiki’s shoes was not funny at all.
“Tiki’s right,” she continued. “Don’t you say a word about this to anybody. Ever. You hear?”
“Yes, Ma,” Ronde said, looking at the floor, then back up at Tiki. “Don’t worry, bro,” he said. “I’m gonna personally make sure you get to be in another game this season, and you can win that one for us. Okay?”
“That’s a deal,” Tiki said, fighting back tears. “Go get ’em, Ronde. Win this one for me. Keep our season alive till I can get back.”
“Count on it.”
Ronde and Tiki gave each other their secret handshake—the one only the two of them knew, and that they used only at their most special moments. “We’re gonna win this one,” Ronde said. “I guarantee it.”
CHAPTER TEN
YOU WILL NOT LET THEM PASS
NOW, WHY DID I GO AND OPEN MY BIG MOUTH? Ronde wondered. He’d guaranteed his twin a victory. Guaranteed it. As if any one player on a fifty-man football team could guarantee anything.
Nevertheless, he’d promised, and now it was up to him to deliver somehow.
Ronde figured that the Charlottesville West Raiders would be hard to beat. They’d gone undefeated all season, and were considered the favorites—except, of course, in Roanoke—to win the state championship. In fact, most of their victories had been lopsided, if not embarrassing, for the losing teams. This Ronde knew from studying their season box scores, which had been posted in that week’s Roanoke Reporter.
Ronde also noticed that in their few close games, the Raiders hadn’t scored much. They’d won by holding their opponents to no more than three points.
That told Ronde that their defense was better than their offense. He figured that without Tiki, the Eagles would have a hard time scoring points. That left them only one way to win—he, and the rest of the defense, would have to hold the Raiders scoreless, or pretty close to it, anyway.
It didn’t help that the game was being played in Charlottesville, a two-hour bus ride away. The Raiders’ bleachers and field seats were all stacked with their fans, yelling and screaming and hoisting signs and pom-poms and banners in the air. The Eagles fans were making as much noise as they could, but they were hopelessly outnumbered, and they were drowned out by the wall of noise from the amped-up Raiders crowd.
Ronde was back at cornerback today, covering the Raiders’ star receiver, Shadeik Stratford. Stratford was number one in the state in receptions, touchdowns, yardage, and every other measurement known to man.
No, this was not going to be easy. But Ronde had made a promise, and he intended to keep it.
The Eagles got the ball first, and Cody, following Coach Wheeler’s game plan, tried to keep it on the ground, going to John Berra and Luke Frazier in Tiki’s absence. Neither of them was used to carrying the ball very much. They did manage a couple of first downs and ate up a lot of time on the clock, which was a big part of Coach Wheeler’s plan. He figured that the less time the Raiders had the ball, the better.
When the drive stalled, Adam punted it a long way, pinning the Raiders deep in their own end. From there, they too had to run the ball, and Ronde knew it. He left his man to the safeties, and darted over to join Sam Scarfone in stuffing the run. Sam was still weak from his bout with chicken pox, and he needed all the help he could get. With Ronde backing him up, the defense forced the Raiders to punt.
Ronde ran it back to near midfield, and once again, the Eagles had the ball. They stayed on the ground, even though it soon became clear they weren’t going to get very far that way. Finally, Adam tried a long field goal that missed.
Now, with the first quarter almost over, the Raiders got to work for real. The first pass that came Stratford’s way was a post pattern. The receiver didn’t even bother to fake Ronde out, figuring he could just outrun him. But Ronde, small though he was, was every bit as fast as Stratford. Not only did he keep up with him, he beat him to the ball, and came down with a spectacular interception!
“That’s for Tiki!” he yelled to the booing crowd, holding the ball up for them to see whose it was now.
Coach Wheeler doggedly kept the Eagles on the ground, eating up the clock. Finally he let Cody loose, and the quarterback found Fred Soule for a long gain, into Raider territory. Then it was back to the running game, until Adam nailed a short field goal, and the Eagles took a 3–0 lead.
If only the final gun would sound right now! Ronde thought. He knew how lucky he’d been to take the Raiders by surprise with his speed. Surely next time, the QB would throw it high, where only Stratford could grab it.
That’s exactly what happened on third down. Ronde knew he couldn’t jump as high as Stratford, so he timed his leap for when the receiver was coming back down. With his arm thrust skyward, Ronde knocked the ball loose before the completion was made! Once again, the Raiders had to punt.
Ronde could sense the other team’s frustration. He knew they’d be coming after this punt big-time. So when he caught the ball, he waited an extra second to let them get really close—then took off, darting straight forward, splitting two defenders before they knew what was happening.
By the time he was brought down, he was in Raider territory again. Unfortunately, this time the Eagle running game went exactly nowhere. The only good thing was, they managed to eat up enough time so that the first half ended before Charlottesville could mount another drive, keeping Hidden Valley ahead, 3–0.
“I’ll take it, I’ll take it!” Coach Wheeler said with a smile as he welcomed the team back into the visitors’ locker room at halftime. “Way to go, Ronde! What a first half!”
He high-fived Ronde, who also accepted the backslaps and helmet smacks that were raining down on him.
“Take it easy!” he complained. “The game’s not over yet!”
“Exactly!” Coach Wheeler said. “Guys, this second half is going to be the toughest thirty minutes you’ve ever played. Cody, we’re going to go play-action on our first drive—see if we can sucker them in. Defense, we’ll be running a lot of blitzes. Let’s see if we can rattle their cage a little. I don’t think they’ve been behind at the half all year.”
; “They haven’t,” Ronde confirmed. He knew that much from the box scores. He also knew what the Raiders must feel like in their locker room right now. They would be nervous, maybe even a little uptight. If the Eagles could score on them again, and put them in a hole, the mighty Raiders might just start making dumb mistakes.
Ronde suddenly felt dizzy. He’d been running his head off the whole first half, and now he needed to sit down. Grabbing a drink and downing it in two big gulps, he found an empty bench and lay down on it. After a couple minutes, he still didn’t feel like himself, so he went into the bathroom to throw some cold water on his face.
He took off his helmet and turned on the faucet. Then he saw himself in the mirror—and froze.
SPOTS! There were spots breaking out all over his face!
No. Nononono! This cannot be happening, he thought.
“Ronde? You in there?”
Ronde jammed his helmet back on before anyone could see the state he was in. “Yeah?”
It was Adam. “Second half’s about to start. You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ronde told him, as if nothing was wrong. As if nothing had changed.
Funny . . . he hadn’t felt sick until just the moment before. Or maybe he had felt sick all day, and just put it down to nervousness. Either way, now he was going to have to tough it out, playing through the second half without ever taking off his helmet.
Later, after the game, he would act as surprised as everyone else. For now, there was no chicken pox, no spots—there was nothing but the game . . . and his solemn promise to Tiki.
The second half began with Adam kicking off. Ronde raced down the field, heading straight for Shadeik Stratford, who, in addition to being the Raiders’ top receiver, also ran back kickoffs. Ronde got to him just after the ball did. He grabbed Stratford around the legs, and although the big receiver shook him off, the delay was fatal. Stratford went down under a pile of Eagles.
The Raiders were back in their own end again, but this time, they worked their short passing game to perfection, staying away from Stratford—and Ronde. Good thing, too, because Ronde was still feeling weird—he couldn’t decide whether he was hot or cold, and every once in a while, a wave of queasiness would rise in his stomach, and he’d have to force it back down.