Touchdown Kid

by Tim Green

  “I don’t think it’s gonna work that way, but you never know,” Gant said.

  The bell rang and their science teacher picked up his marker and began to write on the board.

  Cory opened his notebook and picked up a pen. “You know what else Ali said? He said, ‘Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion.’”

  56

  Cory heard the howling as he pushed open the locker room door.

  “Ohhhh! Ohhhh! The Ravens stink. The Ravens stink.” Garrison Green sounded like he was in pain. On his face, like a gas mask, was a jockstrap. He marched around the locker room, groaning and barking out his allegiance to the Patriots as the rest of the team laughed their heads off.

  “What’s that about?” Cory asked Gant.

  Gant snorted and rumbled with delight. “Every time the Patriots play the Ravens, Garrison and Parker bet a walk of shame. Whoever’s team loses has to wear a jock on his face, groan like he’s dyin’, and say his team stinks—and he’s gotta call them out by name—a dozen times.”

  Cory laughed but then cut it short and opened his locker. The whole thing about guys making fools of themselves reminded him of singing and swirlies, and that was something he wanted to forget, even if Mike was being nice to him now.

  Cory slipped the pads out of his locker and onto his frame. They felt awkward and tight after a week off, but he wasn’t about to complain. He needed to perform. Pushing the discomfort from his mind, he joined up with Gant and Garrison marching toward the field. The sound of the varsity’s crunching feet approached from behind like a storm. The sixth-graders stepped aside and watched them snake down the hill and out onto their field.

  Gant was awestruck. “They went down to New Jersey Friday night and beat Don Bosco by two touchdowns.”

  “Yeah, I heard they won,” Cory said. “Mr. Muiller was pretty pumped up, but who’s Don Bosco?”

  “You mean what is Don Bosco.”

  “Okay. What is Don Bosco?”

  Gant stared. “You’re kiddin’, right?”

  “Gant, give me a break.”

  “Don Bosco is one of the top twenty high school football teams in the country,” Gant said. “In New Jersey? No? You got a lot to learn, bro. You’re in the big time, now.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Cory worked the kinks out of his body. Agility drills left him gassed. The smell of baking grass made him queasy. Sweat trickled down the valley of his back beneath the shoulder pads. Either the grass or the dust made him itch, too. He burst from one individual-period drill to the next, making sure to be first. He thought he saw Coach P break into a reluctant smile, but he wasn’t certain. One thing he did know was that if he beat Mike to the front, Mike was politely lining up behind him. That was a relief.

  Cory started feeling fast and good and he forgot about the discomfort of the pads and the heat.

  When they got to the cut drill, Coach P whipped out his watch. “Okay, Mr. Touchdown Kid. I got times on all these other cupcakes, but let’s see what you got now that you’re playing on two good wheels. No excuses, right?”

  “No, sir.” Cory scanned the cones and went over in his mind the pattern he’d make through the drill. He wanted to plant his foot just outside the cone, minimizing the distance he had to go.

  “Ready?” Coach P held up his stopwatch. “On your movement.”

  Cory crouched into a stance and burst forward. He felt a bit sloppy in his turns but fast in the straightaways, and he leaned forward as he crossed the finish line.

  Coach P snorted and held the watch up where Cory couldn’t see it. “Hey, Jimbo. Take a look at your adopted brother’s time.”

  57

  Cory watched Jimbo squint through his face mask but couldn’t read his face.

  Cory circled the coach and stretched his neck. Coach P didn’t try to hide the watch from him, but before Cory could react, Jimbo said, “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow.” Coach P turned the watch face toward himself as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d been correct. He gave a short nod, then pushed the watch at Cory.

  It read 9.3.

  “You just might be a running back, son.” Coach P gave Cory a smile before he pocketed the watch and tooted his whistle. “Okay, you cupcakes, let’s get it going. Let me see some business.”

  Cory beamed and looked down to hide his smile. He ran through the cut drill two more times and wished Coach P had put a watch on them too, because he felt even faster. He had a new spring in his step, a new confidence, and it didn’t hurt that no one was harassing him about singing or shooting him dirty glances or fighting him for a spot in line. He gulped water at the horse during a break, and when he straightened up, there was Mike Chester.

  “Nice time,” Mike said.

  Cory still couldn’t believe this was the same kid who’d looked at him so hatefully only a week ago, but then he reminded himself of the power of Cheyenne. Even out on the football field in the midst of the sweat and the heat, the image of her made him wobbly.

  “Thanks.”

  “When Coach calls for first team, though, I’m still going out there,” Mike said without blinking. “I’m being a good teammate, but that doesn’t mean I roll over.”

  “Uh . . .” Cory didn’t know how to respond. He was totally off guard. “Okay.”

  “Okay, just didn’t want to get in a thing about it. Thanks.” Mike nodded and turned away, snapping up his chinstrap.

  In a strange way, it almost felt good that his rival had said what he said to Cory.

  “What was that about?” Parker jogged beside Cory as they headed for the inside run drill.

  “Nothing,” Cory said. “He’s just saying that when Coach calls for first team, he’s going to take the spot like last week. Doesn’t want to fight with me.”

  “For real?” Parker’s mouthpiece fell out of his mouth, but he snatched it before it could hit the ground. “Mike is being polite to you?”

  “I know,” Cory said. “But he is.”

  “Love you like a love song, baby.”

  “What?”

  “He’d shave his head if Cheyenne said she liked bald guys.”

  Cory laughed, thinking he’d shave his head too.

  The coach looked up from his practice sheet and blew his whistle. “Give me that first-team backfield and O-line in an I formation, on the ball!”

  Cory couldn’t help hoping for a miracle, that the coach would tell Mike Chester to step aside, but he didn’t. Mike lined up behind Parker, who played fullback, with Jimbo in front of them both at quarterback and Gant stepping into his spot at left tackle with the rest of the line.

  “Coach Tackitt, get me a defense out here!”

  Before Cory could think, a flood of players took up all the spots for a 4-3 defense. It was as if he weren’t there, and he ended up with the other dozen backups and a handful of scrubs lined up along the forty-yard line behind the offense, watching. He focused on Mike Chester, listening to the plays called, telling himself what to do, and matching that with what Mike did, both right and wrong. The first-team offense ran ten plays before Coach P called for the second team.

  Cory bolted from his spot, heading for the huddle.

  Just as he got there, a backup running back named Dante Quackmire—everyone called him Duck—arrived at the same spot. Duck was fast but much smaller than Cory. Neither of them gave any ground though. Cory couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t return from his injury as at least the second-team running back. He searched Coach P’s face to find out.

  The black dots of Coach P’s eyes darted back and forth between Cory and Duck, and his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth as though he was about to speak.

  58

  “Yeah, let’s see Cory run it.” Coach P pointed to the defense gathering like young chicks around Coach Tackitt. “Duck, you can play some scout team at free safety. You can work on your reads.”

  Duck’s face fell so far and so hard that Cory felt bad for the boy as he slumped and shuffled off to t
he scout team.

  Brady Swabb, the starting outside linebacker, patted Duck on the back. “C’mon, Duck. Who wants to play offense when you can be over here with the real hitters?”

  Coach P turned his eyes back on Cory, and now they were ice cold. “I wanna see some real business out of you, Cory. I can get Duck back here real fast.”

  Cory felt the chill. “Okay, Coach.”

  Coach P turned to Parker, who looked more like an offensive guard than the backup quarterback. “Gimme a pro set, split-slot left forty-eight sweep. Let’s see if this dog can hunt.”

  Cory trembled as Parker repeated the play and they broke the huddle. He looked over at Garrison, who stayed in with the second team because the backup fullback was nursing a pulled hamstring. “Good, right?”

  “If you mean do I got the cornerback, you better believe it.” Garrison’s words and smile came garbled through his mouthpiece. “I’m gonna flatten that cupcake.”

  Cory gave a short nod like he was all in. He’d do his part too, even though half the scout team was now made up of top players. Mike was at the strong safety position, the only player on the field who’d get a clean shot at him.

  Cory was determined to shine, no matter what. “Let’s do this.”

  They got set and the ball was snapped. Cory took the toss, following Garrison toward the sideline. From the corner of his eye, Cory saw the line give way like a wet paper bag. The defense poured through. Brady Swabb, the speedy outside linebacker running low and hard, led the way.

  He sprang forward.

  Garrison blasted the cornerback, knocking him toward the sideline but also eliminating Cory’s ability to get to the outside. Mike read the play and was closing fast at the perfect angle. Half the defensive line was in hot pursuit. There was no room for Cory to cut one way or another. The only thing to do was meet Mike at the line. It was a no-win for Cory; Mike had a free shot and ten yards of momentum, top speed. In the moment before the collision, Cory felt it all slipping away and knew what it must be like for the circus trapeze artist to fly gracefully into space, dazzling everyone, only to see the swing fly just out of reach.

  The only difference between Cory and the trapeze artist was that the circus performer had a net. He’d live to try again. Cory knew he wouldn’t get a second chance. It was maybe a fraction of a second, but it would alter his universe.

  59

  Cory lowered his shoulder without thinking. He ripped up under Mike’s pads, exploding into him, planting a foot, and breaking to the outside where the gap between him and the cornerback was widening.

  His rival flew, hands flying.

  Cory darted forward, away from the herd of linemen. The cornerback reached out for him. Cory slapped his hands away like an angry mom protecting her cookie jar. He planted again and cut straight upfield.

  No one could catch up to him, but Duck had an angle from his spot at free safety and he had payback on his mind. Cory feinted at him and switched the ball to his outside arm. Duck dove low, aiming for Cory’s knees. Cory planted and jabbed and stabbed his free hand down into Duck’s helmet, driving his face into the dirt, slipping free from his arms, and surging all the way into the end zone at top speed.

  He didn’t shuffle or dance or spike the ball. Cory turned with it tucked under his arm like a grocery package and jogged all the way back to the huddle. He delivered the football to Coach P and moved to his spot where the huddle could soon form around him.

  No one said a word.

  Cory worried that he’d done something wrong, but it was just surprise that kept them quiet until Gant recovered his senses and let go a war whoop and nearly knocked Cory over before hugging him and lifting him into the air.

  “That’s my bro!” Gant chortled. “Touchdown Kid! Scholarship players . . . represent!”

  “Gant, put him down before you twist his other ankle!” Coach P was not amused.

  Gant set Cory down, but he shook with joy in the huddle and practically danced all the way to the line of scrimmage. Cory fought back a smile, then got serious.

  Parker took the snap and dropped back. Cory’s job was to block the outside linebacker, protecting the quarterback on a pass play. Brady Swabb raced around the edge of the formation. Cory got low and exploded up into him. Pads cracked. Cory felt a jolt, but Brady staggered sideways before slipping an arm over Cory’s pad and racing toward Parker.

  Parker threw the pass downfield a second before Brady got there.

  “Not bad, Marco. That’s good business.” Coach P looked down at his script, moving on. “I like a back that blocks.”

  Cory glowed with pride.

  There were two more pass plays before Cory got his next chance. It was a lead play, right up the gut of the defense. On the snap, Cory tucked in behind big Garrison Green, who rumbled like a freight train through the four hole in the right side of the line. Garrison hammered the middle linebacker. Cory cut away from the block, toward the sideline, only to be blown up—literally blasted into the air.

  He never saw it coming.

  His legs were over his head and he crashed to the dirt, twisting his neck. A bolt of electric pain shot down his right arm.

  Mike Chester stood above him, bellowing and victorious with fists raised high.

  Cory lay still, not to be dramatic, but because he couldn’t get up.

  60

  “What’d you do, you piece of crap!” Gant shot into the picture above Cory, wispy white clouds and a flat blue sky his backdrop.

  Gant jammed his hands into Mike’s torso, flicking him out of the scene like a booger. Gant gathered himself and bent over, hands on knees. “Cor, you okay?”

  Coach P appeared, red faced and shouting. “Gant! Take a lap! You don’t hit your teammates after the whistle!”

  Gant straightened, standing as tall as his coach and rumpling his face angrily. “That was a cheap shot, Coach! We’re supposed to protect our backs.”

  Coach P went purple. White flecks of spit flew from his mouth as he yelled, “I said a lap! Now get on your horse and ride!”

  Gant’s shoulders sank. He turned and jogged off.

  Coach P knelt down beside Cory. “You okay, son? What hurts?”

  Cory’s numbness became a prickly tingle. “My neck. I’m okay.”

  Cory tried to sit up.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Coach P pinned him down. “You just lie still till we figure this out.”

  The head coach looked up but kept his hands on Cory. “Coach Tackitt, take my practice sheet. Move the drill and keep going. I got this. Let’s go! Get back to business!”

  Mike Chester appeared now. “Cory, you okay? I’m sorry, man . . .”

  “It was a clean hit, Mike,” Coach P said. “That’s football. He’ll be okay, right, Cory?”

  Cory had no idea, but he wasn’t going to argue. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “Okay, ’cuz I just . . .”

  “It’s okay, Mike. Get back to business now. I got this.” Coach P spoke with a kindness Cory didn’t know he had, and Mike disappeared. Coach P had his phone out now. “Kayla? Yeah, it’s me. Can I get you on the sixth-grade field? I got a neck . . . No, I’m not sure how bad.”

  Cory panicked, because if someone said it, it might make it true, and he tried to sit up again. “Coach, no. I’m okay. Honest.”

  “You just relax. Kayla will tell us if you’re okay or not, not you. Not me.”

  Cory blinked as the sun burned through the edge of a cloud. He could smell the grass and the sour scent of Coach P’s sweat, maybe his breath too. He heard his own breathing and concentrated on his hands and feet. He could feel them now. That was good. He wiggled his fingers, then his toes. Everything worked. He took a deep breath and let it out.

  Soon he heard the sounds of practice and knew that football kept going—with you or without you. The choke hold of fear tightened and a gurgle escaped his throat.

  “You okay?” Coach P looked concerned.

  “Yeah, Coach.”

  Kayla Rice
arrived and Cory struggled to sit up again.

  “Don’t move.” Worry crept over her face and her voice had an edge.

  Fear ate into Cory’s bones.

  She tested his hands, having him squeeze, verifying that he could feel her touch on the backs of his hands. She asked him where it hurt and how he felt.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “It hurt my neck, but I’m okay now.”

  “He got dumped pretty good,” Coach P said.

  The trainer went over him again, shining a penlight in his eyes, asking him questions about the date and the president, and finally probing his spine with her fingers before she sat him up slowly and looked at Coach P.

  In the tone reserved for a funeral parlor, Coach P asked, “What do you think?”

  Cory had that sick feeling that always washes in before the bad news. And he had to ask himself, “Why can’t things just go right?”

  61

  Kayla Rice straightened up and held out a hand to help Cory up. “I think he’ll be okay. If he’s up to it, you can put him back in.”

  When Cory got to his feet, the trainer scolded him like he’d already done something wrong. “But if you feel anything, dizzy, shots of pain, confusion, you tell Coach and we’ll get you out.”

  “No, I’m all right.” Cory was scared that he might be seriously hurt, but he was more scared of losing everything.

  Kayla’s phone rang. She answered it, said she had to go, and jogged off toward the varsity field. Coach P put a hand on Cory’s shoulder pad. “You good?”

  “I wanna go back in, Coach. I’m fine.”

  Coach P nodded toward the huddle, where Duck had slipped back into Cory’s spot. “Okay. Let’s see some business.”

  Cory tapped Duck on the back and directed him with a thumb. “Coach wants me in.”

  The player opened his mouth to complain, but then he saw Coach P’s face and slouched off.