by Tim Green
It was as if everyone around him was waiting to see how Cory performed on Saturday, and he knew as certainly as he’d ever known anything that his future at HBS—and probably everywhere—depended on how he played. No one said so, but if he didn’t play well, he knew the police would be turned loose on him like attack dogs. They’d tie him to the burglary, even though he was innocent, and run him out of HBS.
Saturday morning couldn’t come soon enough, and finally, it came.
Cory woke at first light. He dressed and wandered upstairs and out onto the terrace overlooking the pool. A squirrel scattered seed as it leaped from the birdfeeder, escaping into the trees. The sun winked at Cory through their leaves. A chill filled the air. Cory pulled the hood up on his sweatshirt and sat down in a big, soft chair. He took his feet down off the ottoman when he heard the door behind him open. It was Cheyenne, dressed in her bulky soccer sweat suit and clutching herself against the cold.
“Freezing out here.” She sat down next to him. “What are you doing?”
“Just thinking. What about you?” he asked. She’d been nice to him all week, but he couldn’t help feeling like it was some job her father had given to her.
“Nervous, I guess.” She stuffed her hands in the big front pocket. “We play Liverpool. They won the state last year.”
“And without your goalie,” Cory said.
She nodded. “Big day for you today too.”
Cory shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”
“See?” She gave his shoulder a gentle slap, then returned her hand to its pocket. She hugged her knees and set her head down sideways on them. “You’re cool. Two weeks ago you would’ve been nervous.”
“I am nervous.” He laughed. “But having everyone think you’re a street thug does something to you.”
“Cory, you grew up different from everyone here.” Her words were soft pillows stuffed with understanding and kindness. “People get that.”
He shook his head. No sense in trying to convince her he was innocent. He realized it didn’t matter. Maybe one day he could. He’d like that.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“Just the way you were looking, like you were frustrated with me.”
“You’re the best thing about all this.” Cory waved his arms around. “No, don’t laugh. I mean it.”
“Thank you, Cory. I like you.”
Their eyes met and she sent a chill up the knobs of his spine with her look.
“I . . . like you.” Cory wasn’t sure if she knew how much he meant it, or if she meant the same thing. The word “like” was wider than a football field.
“I have a quote for you.” She smiled.
“Shakespeare?”
“Who else?”
“Okay,” he said.
“‘We know what we are, but know not what we may be.’ I love that, even though it came from Ophelia, who was totally out of her mind.”
“That fits,” he said. “Since I’m totally out of my mind.”
She laughed and poked him before the door flung open and Jimbo spoiled their moment.
“Cory, you ready, dude?” Jimbo clapped his hands and huffed into them. “Perfect day for football, man.”
Jimbo slapped Cory a high five.
“And soccer.” Cheyenne stood up. “Which is the most popular sport on the planet.”
“Maybe for girls,” Jimbo said casually. “That sport is for TWMs—those without muscles.”
“Google George Elokobi, you meathead.” Cheyenne started toward the house. “He plays soccer in England and you only wish you had his muscles. And in case you still can’t read, women are now eligible for military combat units, so once again you’ve proven that ‘a fool doth think he is wise.’”
“You can take your Shakespeare and flush it.” Jimbo grinned and pointed to himself with a thumb. “There’s a reason men rule the world.”
That got her. Cheyenne threw up her hands with a growl and slammed the door behind her.
Jimbo laughed to himself. “She’s a mope, right?”
Cory just sighed.
“Oh, yeah,” Jimbo said. “I forgot. Anyway, you ready?”
Cory stood up. “I am.”
“Good; let’s go eat.” Jimbo snickered as Cory held the door for him. “I mean, it’s not like your life depends on playing well or anything. Haha. Just kidding.”
While Cory knew that Jimbo liked to kid, he also knew Jimbo wasn’t kidding now.
82
The locker room was quiet as an empty grave.
Cory pulled on his gear with trembling fingers and ragged breath. He was sitting with his helmet beside him in a long row of teammates like skydivers ready to jump.
Gant leaned into him with a nudge, whispering, “Hey, look.”
Gant fished a finger into the top of his sock and scooped out a bean. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but look . . .”
In Gant’s giant palm the bean sat, dead.
“What?” Cory was annoyed. Why would Gant pull out his destroyed jumping bean?
“No, watch,” Gant whispered, holding his hand just beneath Cory’s chin.
Cory watched for a full minute. Nothing.
“Gant, cut it out.” Cory pushed his hand away.
“No, watch.” Gant’s whisper was urgent and he brought his hand back up into Cory’s face. “I’m telling you.”
Cory huffed but watched.
The bean quivered, then jumped and went still.
“See!” Gant’s shout rang out against the empty tile walls.
Everyone stared.
Cory nodded and whispered, “Yes, I see.”
For some reason, Cory’s spirit soared. It was a sign. Gant didn’t have to say it. Cory knew why he wanted him to know that the bean was still alive, still kicking. He grinned at Gant and the two of them bumped fists with everyone else looking at them like they were two fools.
The door burst open, slamming into the lockers.
Coach P gave his whistle a blast. “Okay, you cupcakes! Let’s get to business!”
With a war cry they leaped to their feet and streamed out of the locker room. They gathered in military columns outside the school and marched down the hill to the varsity stadium with its towering lights and bright green artificial grass. The stands weren’t full, but there were plenty of people, enough to make some noise as the team jogged out onto the field to warm up. Cory saw his mom at the top of the bleachers, off by herself with Marvin by her side. He tried to ignore that and focus on his assignments.
West Genesee arrived and took the other end of the field, wearing white jerseys and gold pants that matched their helmets. They looked big and they chanted like Viking warriors, low and intense. Cory’s stomach began to crawl with nerves. Twice, he thought he’d lose his breakfast, but he somehow got through warm-ups and “The Star-Spangled Banner” before Jimbo and Garrison marched out for the coin toss. Puffy clouds filled the blue sky. A cool breeze tugged at Cory’s hair, but when the sun poked its face out, the temperature was perfect.
They won the toss and Cory put his helmet on, breathing deep. The kickoff return team swarmed the field.
Coach P grabbed him by the shoulder pad and thrust him into a loose huddle with the rest of the offensive players. “You start us off, Cory. Let’s see something. Got it?”
The whistle blew. The ball sailed end over end. An HBS player muffed it and fell down on the ball amid a crowd of bodies, but HBS retained possession.
Cory hustled out, noise in his helmet like ocean surf.
Coach P was shouting from the sideline. Cory looked and raised both hands questioningly until he realized Coach P was yelling at Jimbo, something about the safety. Jimbo called the play, a toss sweep. Gant grunted. “Let’s do this, bros!”
They lined up and Cory surveyed the West Genny defense. In the center of it all was a muscle-bound middle linebacker with a neck like a fire hydrant. His skin glistened with sweat and the red mouthpiece h
e wore made it look like he’d been chewing on a hunk of raw meat. Dark eyes peered out from behind the mask, sparkling with ferocious insanity. He wore number 56.
The linebacker paced back and forth as though caged in the space of grass across from Cory, and then he pointed. “Hey, Marco! Comin’ at you, chump! Yeah, you! Gonna make you hurt! You ain’t stealin’ no win from us. Even though I know you’re good at stealin’.”
Before Cory could think or speak, Jimbo began his cadence and took the snap. Cory bolted from his stance and snatched the tossed football from the air without breaking stride. His wide receiver had a solid block on the cornerback and the tight end chopped down the outside linebacker. Cory poured on the speed, knowing a big gain waited for him right up the sideline and he’d shut number 56 up good with a touchdown on the first play.
Whatever hit him, hit him so hard he saw stars.
83
Yelling and dancing and hooting and nasty laughter rained down on Cory. He blinked up at a blue patch of sky and then saw arms waving and number 56 smiling around that red mouthpiece.
“Your lights out, Chicken Little? The sky fall on you? Hahaha!”
Gant appeared and shoved number 56. All that did was rile up the officials and make number 56 laugh louder.
“I told him so! I told you I was comin’. Can’t be more fair than that! Not like I’m sneakin’ around like no burglar. Hahaha!”
Jimbo helped Cory sit up and to his feet.
“An’ I’m comin’ again!” Number 56 grabbed his own face mask and jerked it straight, then laughed some more and stomped off. “So buckle up!”
“That’s enough jabbering!” An official reached for his flag. “Unless you want a fifteen-yard penalty . . .”
Another ref put his hands on either side of Cory’s helmet. “You okay, son?”
“Yeah,” Cory said. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” said the ref. “That was some hit.”
Cory grunted and hustled back into the huddle.
“What was that?” he asked Gant. “He said something about the burglary.”
“All that social media stuff, bro. People talk.” Gant shrugged. “Don’t let him get inside your head.”
The next play was a pass. Cory’s job was to release up through the line and run an out pattern. The ball was snapped and he took off. When he dashed between two linemen, he took two more steps before number 56 knocked him off his feet with a crushing blow. He was so busy laughing at Cory, he neglected the wide receiver sprinting across the middle of the field to catch Jimbo’s pass for a first down.
Number 56 wasn’t bothered by the first down. He hovered over Cory and muttered so the refs couldn’t hear him. “All game. All game. Comin’ for you, Marco. Make you my girlfriend.”
Gant appeared and helped Cory up. Gant was furious. “What’d he say? What did he just say?”
“I must have broken his back in another life or something.” Cory shook his head. “He’s crazy.”
“I’ll show him crazy.” Gant snarled and made two fists. “That was no tackle. He’s headhunting my running back? My bro? Jawing at you? Uh-uh. That don’t happen. Not with Gant it don’t.”
“What are you gonna do?” Cory looked over his shoulder and saw number 56 pointing at him and nodding his head.
Gant yanked Cory toward the huddle. “You just watch the Gant.”
84
The next play was a fullback dive behind Gant.
Cory faked a toss sweep but kept his eyes on his giant friend. Gant left the lineman in front of them unblocked, zipped past him, and charged number 56 like a mad bull. Gant hit him so hard he flew through the air, arms pinwheeling, until he crashed onto his back. The man Gant was supposed to block blasted Garrison Green at the same time and the whistle blew.
Cory darted to stop Gant, who hovered over the top of number 56. “It’s on! You and me and that’s just the first taste!”
The ref got to Gant first and pushed him back. Cory grabbed Gant’s arm and kept him going toward the huddle.
From the sideline, Coach P screamed a red-faced scream. “Gant! You blocked the wrong man!”
Gant chuckled and talked under his breath. “No I didn’t.”
Jimbo knelt in the huddle and called the play, a short swing pass away from Gant.
“Perfect.” Gant slapped his helmet twice and looked hard at Cory. “Catch the pass and cut it back, like a reverse.”
“Gant,” Jimbo snapped, “you’re not running this offense.”
Gant leaned into the huddle and glared down at Jimbo. “Shut your piehole, Jimbo. You want another touchdown pass, don’t you?”
Everyone went silent.
Jimbo finally muttered something and called the play again as if nothing had happened before he broke the huddle. Gant grabbed Cory by the arm as they marched to the line. “Do what I said. Cut it back my way and take it to the house, bro. I got 56.”
They all lined up.
The West Genesee middle linebacker scowled at Cory, but he wasn’t jawing.
The ball was snapped. Cory took off to the sideline, turned and snatched up Jimbo’s pass, and then turned back hard, reversing field and running for the opposite sideline. From the corner of his eye he saw number 56 rocketing toward him, chasing him down like a Discovery Channel cheetah on an antelope.
Gant appeared from nowhere and destroyed the middle linebacker. Cory burst forward and juked a cornerback. He accelerated, lowered a shoulder, and blasted through the strong safety. A linebacker hit him and he spun, falling, but caught himself with one hand before taking off again. The far-side cornerback had the angle to cut him off from the end zone. Cory had plenty of time and he threw a perfect stiff-arm, guiding the cornerback’s face into the turf as he sidestepped and surged into the end zone.
His team sprinted to the goal line and buried him in hugs and backslaps.
Cory was back.
And that meant HBS was back.
85
There was another touchdown pass on a screen from Jimbo, and two touchdown runs added onto that—four touchdowns in all for the Touchdown Kid. He tore it up.
Jimbo threw for four total touchdowns against a haggard and depleted West Genny defense, and HBS’s crosstown opponent only put thirteen points of their own on the board to HBS’s forty-six. The sideline was like a pool party, with guys joking and laughing and everyone getting some licks in on the other team out on the field. Only Mike Chester wore the face of a boy who’d failed a big exam. After the final whistle, Mr. Muiller climbed right over the fence and marched onto the sideline to grab Jimbo and raise him in the air.
Coach P looked on with a proud glow.
“I know where there’s a barbecue with some thick cowboy steaks waiting to happen for a certain sixth-grade team,” Mr. Muiller announced to the tune of thirty-something cheers.
As the team lined up to shake hands, Mr. Muiller turned to Cory and hugged him tight, pulling his sweaty-wet head against a soft polo shirt. “You were spectacular, Cory. I believed in you and you made me so proud.”
“Thank you.” Cory felt comforted by the strength of the big man’s hands.
Mr. Muiller raised Cory’s face and looked down into his eyes with an intensity that bordered on scary. “I don’t care what happened with all that break-in nonsense, Cory. I’m behind you. No matter what. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.” Cory grinned and joined his team.
It finally felt like home.
86
Cory changed into jeans and a T-shirt in the locker room and headed outside with Jimbo and Gant. Jimbo played them a merry tune with fart noises, flapping his arm with the other hand in his armpit. The three of them were laughing when they burst through the door. Cory wasn’t surprised to see his mom standing with the Trimbles and the Muillers, but his laughter faded away at the sight of Marvin’s big round face. Before anyone could say a word, Cory’s mom stepped forward.
“Great game, Cory.” She hugged him quickly, then took his shoul
ders in her hands. “I know you want to celebrate, but first, I need to take you someplace.”
“Mom, why? Where?” Cory looked at Mr. Muiller, but Jimbo’s dad only shrugged.
“It’s a surprise, Cory. You have to come.” Cory’s mom took his hand and held it tight while she said good-bye to the other adults.
“Please join us for the barbecue. It’s at the Trimbles’, but you’re more than welcome,” Mr. Muiller said, nodding toward Marvin. “Both of you.”
“Thank you.” Cory’s mom gave no indication of whether she planned to go or not, and she dragged Cory toward her car while his new friends and family watched.
“Mom.” He spoke under his breath and tried to shake free from her grip without making a scene. “Where are we going?”
“Get in.” She opened the rear door, but Marvin stepped forward.
“Why don’t you let the star player ride in front with you?” Marvin slipped into the back seat, sliding in sideways to allow his large frame to sit.
Cory stood frozen for a moment while his mom gave him an I-told-you-so smile.
“Thanks, Marvin,” Cory said, meaning it, and he got in front.
“You embarrassed me,” Cory told his mom before looking back past Marvin and out the rear window to see everyone staring as they pulled away.
“This is important, Cory. You’ll understand when we get there.”
“Get where?”
His mom glanced over at him with an unbending face. “You’ll see.”
87
Cory had no idea where they were going, because they might have been headed back to the Westside or they might have been headed to the mall or a restaurant as they drove down Erie Boulevard. When they pulled into the town police station, his heart nearly stopped.
“What are we doing here?” Cory was frightened and sickened in equal measures. “Mom?”
“You’ll see.” His mom’s face told no secrets. “It’s nothing bad.”
“Nothing bad? How could this be good?” Cory’s voice rose to a frantic pitch.