by Carl Deuker
I was walking down the sideline to be by myself when I heard a roar from our side. I looked up and saw Hunter streaking down the field, with Ingraham players trying to chase him down. Hunter cut back at the fifty and then made a stutter-step move at the thirty. He was inside the twenty before he was finally pushed out of bounds. Two plays later, Skeeter scored. Richie kicked his second extra point, and the score was 14–0 at the half.
I sat on the bench watching Colton and Ty make catches over the middle as Hunter led the team on another long drive in the third quarter, pushing our lead to 21–0 heading into the fourth quarter.
My uniform was still spotless when I got my last chance midway through the fourth quarter. With a third-and-one, Ingraham crowded the line, expecting Skeeter or Hunter to run for the first down. Instead, Lever called for play action. I did a stop-and-go down the sideline. I was wide open, but with the wind swirling more than ever, Hunter threw a low bullet. I waited instead of working back to the ball, and the safety cut in front and broke up the pass. I didn’t step on the field again.
But Richie did. The score was 21–6 with under a minute left. We had a fourth-and-one on Ingraham’s twenty-three-yard line. I figured Skeeter would pound it up the middle. Even if he didn’t make a first down, the game was ours.
Instead, Coach Lever sent Richie out to try a forty-yard field goal. I didn’t get it. We didn’t need the points—it almost seemed like running up the score. But then I figured it out. Lever wanted to give Richie a shot at a long field goal in tough conditions when it didn’t matter. If he could make it, he’d have more confidence when he was facing a kick that did.
The snap wasn’t that good, so Richie didn’t get all of his foot into the kick. The ball wobbled in the air, and it had a little hook to it. I leaned forward, holding my breath. Had it crawled over the crossbar, or was it short? I couldn’t tell. Then the officials stepped forward and raised their arms.
Good!
On the field, guys surrounded Richie, patting him on the back, slapping his helmet, and bouncing off the field with him.
Twenty minutes later, we were taking the bus back to the school parking lot. Hunter was way up front, talking to Coach Lever. He’d had another great game, running for over one hundred yards, passing for two hundred. Everyone around me—including Richie—was in that victory glow. So what if I hadn’t contributed to the win. Other guys on the team hadn’t done much, and they were laughing. I decided to forget about my own game and enjoy the ride.
When we got off the bus, Anya and a handful of kids from the chess club were waiting for us. We walked to El Camion on Fifteenth and split a couple of orders of nachos.
As we ate, we talked a little about the game, but then Heather, one of the new girls in the club, mentioned what Allishya Soderheim had worn to school that day. “Did you see how low cut her sweater was? And that push-up bra?”
Richie opened his eyes in a fake innocence. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You guys wish we all dressed like that,” Anya said, half smiling and half scowling.
“Guys wish we had boobs like that,” Heather said, a similar half scowl, half smile, on her face. Then she looked around at the other girls at the table. “Actually, we wish we had boobs like that.”
Everybody laughed. I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t wish that, at least not for Anya.
When I went downstairs the next morning, my dad was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. “Pretty solid win against a good team.”
“It’s because of Coach Lever,” I said. “Guys say he stays late every night watching game films. Every week, he tweaks plays we’ve already learned. Little things, but they make a big difference.”
My dad tapped the newspaper. “The writer thinks Hunter Gates is the difference.”
“That’s what Hunter thinks too, but it’s not just him.”
There was a pause. “How about you? Make any plays?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I got two balls thrown to me. The first one blew around in the wind and I couldn’t adjust. The second one got knocked down.”
My dad opened his hands. “That just means you’ll get four next week,” he said.
But I didn’t. Not in game three, not in game four, not in game five, not in game six. We won them all, moving up to number sixteen in the state rankings. That was a big deal; if we could finish the season at sixteen, we’d qualify for the playoffs.
Mostly I stood on the sidelines while other guys scraped and clawed out the victories. When I did play, it was always to run deep routes that pulled a cornerback and a safety with me. I was never wide open, not with two guys covering me, so Hunter threw underneath to Colton or Ty every time, or else he hit Skeeter with a swing pass. “You’ll get your chance,” Coach Lever said. “Just be patient.”
At school, those were good days. Richie and I were part of an undefeated football team. So what if I was just a decoy? So what if Richie hadn’t kicked a game-winning field goal? The Fear the Fag stuff had been pushed under the rug. We were headed to the state playoffs, so we walked the halls with a little swagger.
On the Monday after our sixth victory, the intercom beeped during English class, and Richie was called to the office. His face went pale and my chest felt hollow—had something happened to his mother?
It turned out that the Seattle Times wanted to feature him in an article. “The reporter saw that I’d kicked some field goals,” Richie said at chess club, “and she remembered my name from the architecture contest and from some violin competitions.”
“And that’s why she wants to interview you?” I said.
Anya looked at me in amazement. “Hello, Brock. How many football players are concert violinists, win architectural design contests, and play top-notch chess?”
My dad was making his way to his van as I came downstairs Wednesday morning. “There’s an article about Richie in the sports section,” he said as he left. “It’s on the table. That kid is truly amazing.”
CROWN HILL’S WONDER BOY the headline read. Below was a picture of Richie standing behind his model, a football in one hand and his violin in the other. The article described his achievements in violin, design, math, chess, soccer, football, and even Chinese.
I was happy for him at first, but as I read the article a second time I started to feel sick. It was too much, and it was too much right in your face. The reporter made it seem as if Richie was the only student at Crown Hill who accomplished anything.
At school, the resentment was there, just as I feared it would be. Kids in the hallways called him “Wonder Boy,” shouting out, “Cure cancer yet?” “Going to Mars this weekend?” “Seahawks make an offer?” Everything was said with a smile, but all of it had a needle.
Richie knew it, too. At the end of the school day, as we were walking to practice, I could feel how tense he was. That’s when Hunter came over. “How did you get that article?”
“What?” Richie said.
“Did you call the Seattle Times? Tell them how great you are?”
I moved between them. “He didn’t call anybody.”
Hunter turned his eyes to me. “That article should be about me. What’s he got—three field goals and some extra points? That’s nothing. We’re undefeated because of me.”
Richie pushed me aside. “Maybe people aren’t interested in a one-trick pony like you. Maybe they want to read about somebody with real talent.”
Hunter stared, amazed. “What did you call me?”
“A one-trick pony. Do you know what it means, or would you like me to explain it?”
Hunter drew himself up. “Don’t push me, Fang.”
Richie pointed his finger at Hunter. “You’ve got that backwards. Don’t you push me, because I’m done with being pushed.”
Hunter’s mouth fell open in amazement. “Are you threatening me?” He turned to me again. “This is unreal. Has he lost his mind?”
“Let’s go, Richie,” I said, pulling him away. When we r
eached the parking lot, I took Richie by both shoulders and shook him. “What are you thinking? He’s bigger, stronger, and meaner, and he’s got a slew of friends just like him. You can’t take him on. Just keep your mouth shut and stay clear.”
Game seven was going to be a nonleague contest against Bellevue at their field. They were Goliath, the school that had won eleven state titles in the last fifteen years.
Monday’s practice had a weird feel to it. Skeeter kept fumbling; Hunter was wild; Colton and Ty didn’t catch the passes that were on target. As for me and Hunter—the long passes were never where I thought they would be. It was proof that what Richie had said was true: if you’re tight, you can’t play.
Coach Lever tried to get us to relax, but nothing worked. An hour into practice, he blew his whistle, called us back into the locker room, and had us sit down.
He paced for a while and then stopped and looked us over. The room was dead quiet. “Okay—Bellevue has won a couple dozen state titles. Good for them. But you’re not playing a couple dozen teams. You’re playing one team. Their guys put their pants on just like you do.” He paused, scratched his neck, and then smiled. “You know what? I bet some of those Bellevue boys have tiny peckers.” We all looked up, not sure we’d heard him right. He held his thumb and his forefinger about half an inch apart. “Peckers this big.” Everybody laughed. “You’re not afraid of guys with tiny peckers, are you?”
“No,” a couple of guys called out.
“Come on, I want to hear it.”
“No!” we all screamed.
He held up his hands to silence us. “All right. So stop playing scared.”
It worked—a little. When we returned to the practice field that day and the next couple of days, we weren’t quite so tight, but we were still a long way from loose.
Then came the injury. It happened after practice on Wednesday. Recruiters had been watching Hunter all through those weeks. They came from schools like Central Washington or Portland State. A coach from Nevada was there that day. He stood off by himself, clipboard in hand.
When practice ended, I stayed after and ran long pass routes while Colton ran short ones. Everything was going fine. Hunter was sharp; his passes were right on target. Then, just when we were about to quit, Colton stepped into a hole. His ankle rolled under his foot, and he collapsed in pain. Mr. Rosen raced out, and so did Coach Lever. I stood next to Hunter and watched as they helped Colton hobble off the field.
Before practice the next day, Coach Lever came over to me. “You told me you wanted passes over the middle?”
I nodded.
“Well, your wish just came true. There’s no way Colton’s going to be ready. And there’s no way we’re going to be able to throw long against Bellevue, not with their pass rush. So you’re going to start, and you’re going to be running quick slants and curls. Everything fast. Okay?”
I nodded, but inside I was panicking.
Bellevue’s defense was ferocious. I’d seen the film. Nobody hit like they did. I’d gone the whole season running long clearing patterns. The only time I’d hit the ground was when I’d tripped. And now Lever was sending me into the teeth of the hardest-hitting defense in the state, maybe in the country.
I ran nothing but slants and curls that practice, with Coach Lever watching me. “You can do it,” he kept saying, clapping. “Just watch the ball into your hands.” I was so nervous that I dropped a bunch of easy balls. Each time, Hunter turned away, disgusted.
When practice ended, I heard Coach Lever call my name. “Come with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
He took me to his office, where he had me sit in a chair as he booted up his computer. “I put this together last night after Colton went down. This is footage of Jerry Rice, the greatest receiver of all time.”
I watched as Rice caught a pass from Joe Montana, took one step, and then fell down. Then I watched him make another catch and do the same exact thing. Then another and another and another. One step and then down. Sometimes he didn’t even take a step.
Coach Lever stopped the film. “You don’t like contact, Brock. Some guys do and some don’t.” I started to argue, but he put his hand up to silence me. “Hey, it’s no big deal. It’s smart—why put your body on the line unless you have to? Whenever Jerry Rice sensed he was about to get crushed, he got down and he protected the ball. Rice played a long time, and his brains aren’t scrambled. Third and inches, fourth and inches—okay, then I expect you to fight. Otherwise, make the catch and get down. You don’t have to be the bravest guy in the world. You just have to be brave enough.”
On Friday—game day—the atmosphere at school was electric. As I walked the hallways, kids called out, “Good Luck” and “Beat Bellevue.” Posters were taped up on the windows and walls. Everybody believed we could pull off the upset—and why not? We hadn’t lost all year, and we had Hunter Gates.
When I was in the hallways, feeling the excitement, I thought we could win too. But when I was alone, dread would hit me. At the big moment of the game, would I pull in my arms or fumble? Would the ball bounce off me for an easy interception? I visualized a thousand ways I could blow the game.
Seattle teams play their games at the Memorial Stadium at Seattle Center, which is sixty-five years old. Everything at Bellevue High School—the cars in the parking lot, the locker rooms, the bleachers, the turf—was shiny new. I wished the game were being played at dingy Memorial Stadium.
The Bellevue band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” a horn sounded, and Richie headed out to the field to kick off. That’s when Hunter came over and motioned with his head toward the stands. “At least twenty college coaches are up there. Eastern and U Dub and Wazzu for sure. You can’t be a wuss, Brock. Not tonight. You’ve got to step up.”
I wanted to stand up to him, to say something like You take care of your game and I’ll take care of mine. Instead, I nodded, my heart pounding like he was an elementary school principal who’d caught me running in the hall. “I will, Hunter. I promise.”
We won the coin toss. Coach Lever opened the offense by sending Skeeter Washington up the middle twice. The guy was tough, fighting for three yards both times, setting up third-and-four. Hunter called the play—play-action pass. It was Colton’s favorite route, but now I was running it.
Hunter’s eyes were on me as we broke the huddle. On the sidelines, I could feel Coach Lever watching me too. This was my first test. Fail it, and I might get yanked from the game.
The snap was on two. I took two steps forward and made my cut. The pass was low, at my knees, but I caught it and squeezed it tight as I went to the ground. I heard the whistle just as I took a grazing hit across the back. I looked down the line—just enough for a first down. On the sidelines, Coach Lever pumped his fist my way. Hunter clapped his hands together.
We kept driving, putting together two more first downs. I made another catch, this time on second-on-seven, again on a slant. Hunter was a little off—the pass was slightly behind me—but my catch was good for five yards.
It looked like we’d go right in for a score, or at least a field goal try. On a first-and-ten inside the Bellevue thirty, Coach Lever called for a screen pass. It would have worked, too, but Hunter’s pass had way too much steam. It caromed off Skeeter’s shoulder pads, high into the air, and came down into the waiting arms of one of the Bellevue linemen, who rumbled about twenty yards before he was hauled down at midfield. The Bellevue band played the fight song as the Bellevue fans went crazy.
The sudden reversal shell-shocked our defense. They were late getting on the field, and they weren’t set when Bellevue snapped the ball. The QB faked a handoff to the fullback, dropped back three steps, and fired a pass down the sideline to a wide-open receiver.
Eight seconds.
Touchdown.
The Bellevue fight song again; more wild cheering.
Coach Lever paced the sidelines. “It’s just one touchdown. Stay calm. Plenty of time.”
&nbs
p; Then came more trouble. On the kickoff, one of our linemen was flagged for a block in the back, pushing us back to the ten-yard line. The call was for me to run a quick out. I was open, but Hunter’s pass was terrible. Short, wobbly, with no zip. Maybe somebody hit his arm; I didn’t see. The cornerback covering me jumped the route, made the interception, and was dancing in the end zone seconds later. Again that Bellevue fight song; again more high-fives in the stands.
Bellevue 14, Crown Hill 0.
It got worse. Hunter fumbled a snap the next time we had the ball. Four plays later—touchdown Bellevue. Then another Hunter interception, this time when he tried to pass as he was being sacked.
We didn’t put together a decent drive until five minutes before the half. This time, it was all running plays. Skeeter left, Skeeter up the middle, Skeeter right. Quick hitters, pitchouts, draws. All Skeeter.
Bellevue was in a prevent defense, pretty much giving up four or five yards, letting us march down the field, figuring we’d screw up somehow and turn the ball over, or we’d run out of time and have to try a field goal.
We pushed the ball to the twelve-yard line; we had a third and inches with less than a minute left. Coach Lever called a time-out. “We’re going to run a bootleg,” he said to us as we huddled around him. “Brock, you’re coming across the field. If you’re open, Hunter will hit you with a TD pass. If you’re not open, Hunter will run for the first down. Everybody got it?”
I trotted back onto the field. On two, I broke straight upfield and cut across. I was open, wide open, but Hunter couldn’t pull the trigger. The sideline was coming up when he finally released the ball. I knew that if I kept going, I’d catch it out of bounds, so I made myself hold up. I reached over the sideline for the ball, caught it, tapped my foot, and then felt a bulldozer smack into my back. I went down hard, flipped over twice, but maintained possession of the ball. I looked to the ref. He stared at me for a long moment, and then his arms went straight up: Touchdown!