Payback Time

by Carl Deuker

  As I watched, I figured it out. Bothell would fake something to the middle, forcing Angel to hold his position for a count, and then they'd run the play away from him. Simple, but effective. Somebody besides Angel was going to have to make a play.

  Bothell marched down the field, five yards on one play, six on the next, then another for eight. They were protecting the lead and they were running time off the clock. Six minutes left, then five, then four. Still the Cougars controlled the ball.

  Bothell had worked the ball inside the twenty and was facing third and four when McNulty rolled the dice, sending both safeties on a do-or-die blitz. The Cougar quarterback saw them coming, stepped up, avoided the tackle, and slung a bullet to his wide-out, who was running a post pattern over the middle. The guy caught the ball, took two steps, and then was crushed by a savage hit. The ball bounced onto the turf, and a Lincoln player fell on it. The Bothell guy stayed down for a long time, but finally he was helped to his feet and managed to walk off the field on his own. As he did, fans all around the stadium stood and applauded. Then the ref blew his whistle and Lincoln's offense came on the field. Two minutes left. Score a touchdown and they were headed to the playoffs. Anything less and the season was over.

  Right when he needed to be at his best, Horst threw his worst pass of the season. The pass hit the Bothell safety right on the numbers—absolutely a cinch interception. Maybe it was too easy; maybe that's why the guy dropped it, or maybe the guy was on defense because he had stone hands. When the ball hit the ground, the safety put his hands to the side of his helmet and dropped to his knees as the groans of the Cougar fans echoed through the stadium.

  That was the one bit of luck Horst needed. His next pass was a bullet for a gain of seventeen. After that Horst found Westwood on an out pattern for another nine yards, pushing the ball past midfield. Horst then ran for twenty-two yards on a quarterback draw before he was dragged down. First down—but with only thirty-three seconds on the clock. The Bothell guys were doing everything they could to kill the clock. Would there be time?

  The crowd was up as Horst brought the guys to the line. I thought he'd throw the ball to the sideline so the receiver could get out of bounds and stop the clock. Instead, he hit his tight end over the middle for eight yards. Bothell was in no hurry to unpile. Nineteen ... eighteen ... seventeen. Horst was jumping around, calling his last time-out, but the ref didn't blow his whistle until the game clock was down to fourteen.

  During the time-out, McNulty pulled Horst over to the sideline. He gave him the play, then put his hands on Horst's shoulder pads, and looked him in the eye. I knew what he was saying, even though I was fifty yards away. The ball had to go into the end zone. Anything short and the game clock would tick off the final seconds before there'd be time to run another play.

  The ref blew his whistle; Horst trotted back onto the field. The crowd was roaring—Bothell's fans screaming for a stop; Lincoln's begging for a touchdown.

  The huddle broke, and now Horst was under center. The ball was snapped. Horst rolled right, toward the wide side of the field, holding the ball as if he might throw, but also as if he might at any second tuck it under his arm and run. The cornerback ran parallel with him, holding back, holding back. Pass or run? Pass or run? Which was it?

  Horst seemed to tuck the ball and take off. The cornerback came up to make the tackle, and at that instant Horst stepped back and lobbed a pass over the cornerback's head to Lenny Westwood. Westwood caught it on the three-yard line, turned, and with two steps crossed the goal line. Lincoln 30, Bothell 28. It was the greatest comeback I'd ever seen.

  16

  AFTER THE GAME, Kimi and I went to Peet's. Neither of us wanted to talk about our investigation of Angel because neither one of us was getting anywhere. I wrote up that football game the way I saw it. Incredible Lincoln Come-back! was my headline. I started with Bothell's early blitz, and then described the second half defensive charge spearheaded by Angel. Finally I gave Horst props for putting points on the board. I picked two of Kimi's photos to send along—one of Horst and one of Angel. "Chet the Jet has to print what I wrote about Angel," I said to her after I hit Send. "There is no way they would have won without him."

  But he didn't. The article in the Saturday morning edition of the Times included every word I'd written about Horst but not one word about Angel.

  I took my normal run—I weighed 176 now—and with every step I grew angrier. In the other games, Angel had only been in for a few key plays. I'd always given Chet the Jet a bit of slack because of that. But this time Angel had dominated the entire second half. To leave his name out of the Times was bad journalism.

  Back home I made the call before I showered. I didn't want the anger to wash away with my sweat. He picked up on the first ring. "Chet Jetton."

  "This is Mitch True."

  "Make it quick. I'm busy."

  "Okay. I'll make it quick. Why don't you print my articles the way I write them?"

  "Why don't I print your articles the way you write them?" he repeated sarcastically. "You're lucky I print anything you write. And those fifty bucks? If it weren't for the photos Kimi takes, you wouldn't get that. Do you even go to the games?"

  "Of course I go to the games."

  He snorted. "Then what is it with you and this Angel Marichal kid? You got a thing for him? Coach Morris faxes me a stat sheet after each game."

  I was totally confused. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about the official statistics of the game. What coaches share with one another and with the press. On the defensive side, it lists things like tackles made, fumbles forced, and interceptions. What you write about Angel Marichal never jibes with the stat sheet. It's never even close. So that means that at midnight I'm sitting at my computer cutting sentences from your story so that it matches reality."

  "My reports are right. It's the stat sheet that's wrong."

  "Rob Morris has kept the stats for Coach McNulty for three years, and he's solid. You, on the other hand, are in your first season and have no track record with me."

  "But you could call—"

  "I have called. I've called McNulty and Morris. They both tell me that Angel Marichal is a decent substitute, but nothing special, and that's why he hasn't started a single game all year. So here's the deal, Mitch. Don't include Angel Marichal in any article you write for the rest of the season. If his name ever shows up prominently on Morris's stat sheet, I'll call Morris and he can fill me in on Marichal's epic achievements. Got it?"

  The phone clicked.

  I sat, seething. McNulty and Angel were marching side by side to a state title by pulling off a season-long play fake on the coaches and players of the other teams. In January, Angel would be gone from Lincoln. In June, McNulty would follow him. Maybe they'd get away with it; maybe I'd never be able to prove anything. But I was going to keep trying.

  17

  RIGHT WHEN THE ANGEL INVESTIGATION STALLED, the volleyball team exploded. On Tuesday night I sat in the stands and watched them get trounced by Woodinville. As usual, the two factions on the team spent way too much time arguing with one another and with the refs. But the big story was what happened Wednesday night. The team had spent the night at a hotel in Bellevue. Chelsea Braker brought two bottles of whiskey, and all the seniors got drunk. Terri Calvo passed out in the hotel lobby, and Rachel Black was wandering around in front of the hotel in her nightgown. Six of the girls ended up at the police station.

  I heard about all this from Kimi on Thursday before school.

  "What were they doing at a hotel in Bellevue?" I asked.

  "It was Coach Thomas's idea. After the Woodinville loss, she thought the team needed time together away from the coaches to build spirit. So she rented the hotel rooms for them, and then she left."

  "She left?"

  "She thought the girls would bond better without any coaches."

  "And the hotel was okay with Ms. Thomas leaving?"

  "She didn't tell them."
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  "Wow," I said. "What a story. For sure we can sell this to the Seattle Times. We'll scoop Chet the Jet, too. He can't know anything about this." I took a breath. "All right, here's what we do. First, we arrange interviews with the hotel manager and Ms. Thomas and the police. You get photos of the hotel—"

  "Mitch," she interrupted. "I'm not taking any photos for this, and I don't want you to write anything."

  "You can't be serious. We have to write about this."

  "These are my friends. They're humiliated already—don't make it worse."

  "Kimi, we have—"

  "Just think about it. For one day. How can one day matter?"

  My mind was racing, but I forced myself to slow down. "Okay. I'll think about it. For a day."

  Back home, I plopped down on the sofa, confused. The stuff with Angel was headed nowhere, but this volleyball disaster was a story. The girls were certain to be suspended from the team and from school. And Ms. Thomas? She'd probably lose her job and might even be banned from teaching. How could I ignore a story that big and call myself a reporter?

  I was stretched out, feeling miserable, when my cell phone rang. It was Alyssa. "Forget the volleyball story," she said, as if reading my mind.

  "What?"

  "None of the girls are eighteen."

  "So?"

  "They're minors, Mitch. It's against Lincoln Light policy to print the names of minors who get arrested. The Seattle Times won't run any names either."

  "Alyssa, are you just saying this because you're friends with them?"

  She snorted. "They're Kimi's friends, not mine. I'd love to run the story. Call Mr. Dewey if you don't believe me."

  18

  CITY HIGH SCHOOL KIDS basically think suburban high schools are filled with arrogant, spoiled kids who have tons of money. And of the suburban high schools near Seattle, Cascadia—Lincoln's opponent in the district title game—is the most hated. Girls' softball or boys' tennis, the Cascadia Coyotes act as if it is their God-given right to win. Whenever there is some poor sportsmanship—kids throwing things at the opposing players, parents cursing out refs—Cascadia is involved. Their school colors are silver and black, and their uniforms are identical to those of the Oakland Raiders, which fits perfectly.

  The game was at Sammamish Stadium, Cascadia's home field, in the foothills above Bellevue. I didn't bother to ask Kimi if she needed a ride because I knew she'd be going with Marianne and Rachel.

  I drove by myself, arriving an hour early. Memorial Stadium, our home field, is a dump, but the Coyotes' stadium is new and plush, like a miniature Qwest Field. The concourses are wide, and they don't smell of pee because homeless people don't live there during the week. Instead of long, hard benches, the seating areas are furnished with contoured seats.

  I found a place on the fifty-yard line about fifteen rows up, pleased that my butt slid in without squeezing. When I arrived, a sea of empty seats surrounded me; by game time, the stands were packed. Most of the people around me were Lincoln fans, but Cascadia had so many supporters that they spilled over onto our side, too. Halloween had been earlier in the week, and some of the Cascadia kids were wearing werewolf masks. It was clear they were planning on turning the game into one long party.

  I was hoping for a close, back-and-forth game; I was afraid I might see a Cascadia blowout; but I wasn't at all ready for the way the first three quarters actually went down. The game was boring. It was as if both teams had used up all of their energy to reach the district championship and were running on fumes.

  Or at least, Cascadia was running on fumes. Lincoln had about one pint of gas. They managed a touchdown in the first quarter, a field goal in the second, and another field goal in the third. Horst didn't make any great passes; Angel didn't play much, and when he was out there, he didn't make any great stops. I felt as though I were watching a practice game in August.

  Halfway through the fourth quarter, with the score stuck at 13–0, a Lincoln drive stalled ... again. Kenstowicz punted and the Cascadia return man caught the ball, took one step, slipped, and went down on his own twenty. The Cascadia fans—or those who were awake—groaned.

  I looked up at the clock: four minutes remained. I opened my laptop and starting composing my story for Chet the Jet, trying to think how I could add spice to what had been a bland game.

  And that's when everyt hing changed. On first down, the Cascadia QB took the snap and pitched the ball to his tailback. The runner broke left, cut back, and he was clear. He gained forty-eight yards before he was finally run out of bounds. Cascadia's students and parents—silent for so long—started shouting like madmen. On the very next play, Cascadia ran a pass play off a double reverse. The wide-out was alone on the ten-yard line when he caught the ball, and he walked in for the score.

  After the extra point split the uprights, everybody in the stadium knew an onside kick was coming. McNulty had his hands team out there—receivers, running backs, even the quarterbacks. The Lincoln guys crowded up, alert. The Cascadia kicker approached the ball. He kicked the top half, and the ball tumbled forward, end over end.

  Somebody—I couldn't tell who—came forward to field it, but the ball hit off his shoulder pads. A mad scramble followed, guys digging deep to make the play. There was a huge heap of arms and legs scrabbling for the ball. The refs blew their whistles furiously and started pulling players off the pile. In the stands everyone was silent, expectant. Finally, from the bottom of the pile, a player jumped up holding the ball aloft in triumph and prancing to the sideline like a thoroughbred ready to race.

  He was wearing silver and black.

  The Cascadia fans exploded. Sure, Lincoln led 13–7, but the Coyotes were in position to steal the game. One more touchdown and Cascadia would be headed to the state semifinal game while Lincoln would be going home.

  McNulty didn't mess around with Clarke; he put Angel out there at middle linebacker. And the Coyote coach didn't mess around, either. He went for the knockout on first down. The quarterback lateraled to the halfback on what looked like a sweep play. Instead of trying to make the corner, the tailback drifted back from the line of scrimmage, his eyes downfield. Our cornerback had come up a couple of steps when he'd seen the pitchout, but now he was racing back. The Cascadia receiver was wide open—if the pass had been on the money he'd have scored easily—but halfbacks don't have the arms of quarterbacks. The ball hung in the air just a little; the wide-out had to wait a beat for it to come down, and that extra second gave our cornerback enough time to run him down and tackle him at the eight-yard line.

  The Cascadia fans were hopping up and down and hugging one another. I looked up at the clock: three minutes remained. Plenty of time.

  On first and goal, Cascadia ran their fullback up the gut for two yards before three guys tackled him. On the next play, the Coyotes' wide receiver ran a fade pattern into the corner of the end zone. It was a timing play, run far away from Angel, but the ball was overthrown. On third down, Cascadia tried a pass to their tailback in the flat. He caught the ball, but Angel and two other guys dropped him in his tracks for no gain.

  Fourth down.

  Cascadia called time-out. The players huddled around the coach. This was it, their last chance. The ref blew his whistle, and the team huddled at the fifteen. They broke the huddle and trotted to the line of scrimmage.

  The quarterback leaned over center, tapped once, and the center snapped the ball. The QB rolled right; Angel streaked toward him on a blitz, but Cascadia had kept the fullback in to help block—Angel wasn't going to get to the quarterback.

  I looked to the end zone. Half of Lincoln's defenders were playing zone, but the other half were playing man-to-man, leaving no one in the center of the field. Someone had blown the coverage. Was it Angel? The center had to be Angel's area. The Coyote tight end moved into the open space.

  All the Cascadia QB had to do was lob the ball to him, but the pressure got him. He short-armed his pass, throwing it at the tight end's feet. The tight end was
a big guy, and he reached down, trying to pick it off his shoe tops. For a moment I thought he had it, but the ball bounced off his fingertips, turning end over end in the air, almost as if in slow motion. The tight end was trying to gain control, but he kept bobbling the ball—and then our safety leveled him, and the football was on the ground, bounding harmlessly away.

  Lincoln was headed to the Tacoma Dome, two wins away from being crowned state champion.

  The Cascadia fans snarled their way down from the bleachers while the Lincoln fans stayed in their seats to cheer the team. I saw Kimi taking pictures of the players holding up their helmets and saluting the crowd. Horst was in the front, with Warner and Westwood at his side. Angel was far in the back, the only player still wearing his helmet.

  The celebration lasted fifteen minutes. After the cheering ended and the players disappeared down the tunnel into the locker room, I walked out into the parking lot. Some drunken Cascadia guys were screaming and swearing as they ran around the parking lot, looking ridiculous yet scary in their Halloween masks. I kept my head down—no way I was making eye contact with any of them.

  When I got to the Focus, the man next to me—a guy about my dad's age—had his trunk up and was pulling out his spare tire. "Did they get you?" he asked.

  "What?" I said.

  He motioned to the cars near us. About half a dozen of them had their trunks up. "Those Cascadia morons slashed a bunch of tires. They got me, and you've got a Lincoln parking sticker in your back window, so I thought they might have gotten you."

  I walked behind the car. Sure enough, the back passenger tire was sitting on the rim.

  "Flat?" the man called out.

  "Yeah."

  I opened the trunk, only to discover the spare tire was the wrong size. I carried it over to the man. "This won't work, will it? It looks tiny."

  He shook his head. "In the old days, you got a real tire. Today all they give you are these miserable things." He pointed to the spare tire of his Honda Civic. "Mine's the same. That thing will work. You can limp home with it, but don't try to go on the freeway. Thirty-five miles an hour, maybe forty, tops. Do you know how to change a tire?"