by Mike Lupica
Problem was, they both looked like scrubs at practice tonight.
Whatever Jeremiah had once known about the basics—taking the snap from center, pivoting smoothly and handing the ball off—he had totally forgotten. Gone. Without any defensive pressure, any pressure of any kind, he was messing up the transfer of the ball to Will about half the time. And the harder he tried to get it right, the worse things got for him. It turned out he could throw just fine, but the Bulldogs weren’t a throwing team first, they were a running team.
Johnny was a little better getting the ball into Will’s belly, but not much. And his throwing when he dropped back in the pocket was pretty much a horror. Will thought he was the one more likely to get better with time.
They just didn’t have time.
Playing without a quarterback was as bad as playing with ten.
At one point, while everybody else was taking a quick water break, Will stayed on the field with his dad and Mr. Keenan.
Joe Tyler said, “We could alternate them. Jeremiah throws it better, and Johnny can at least execute a simple handoff.”
“Yeah,” Dick Keenan said. “And the Castle Rock coaches will barely notice that we got one guy in there to hand it off and the other guy in to throw.”
They decided to go with Johnny, who promised everybody his throwing would get better in the three more practices they had between now and Saturday.
“Look at it this way, Coach,” Johnny said. “No way my throwing can get any worse in that time.”
They worked on defense for the rest of practice, trying to learn the blitzes Mr. Keenan had in that notebook of his, ones that he said were designed to keep Ben Clark guessing before every single snap.
“They’re gonna know they’re on the power play,” Mr. Keenan said at one point. “But we’re gonna make ’em wonder why it don’t feel like one.”
Another time he said, “The whole point of this is to have enough moving parts that they don’t get to exploit the fact that we happen to have a part missing.”
“And a few screws loose,” Joe Tyler said.
“That too,” Dick Keenan said. Will thought for a second he might even get crazy on them and smile.
But he kept himself under control.
At the very end of practice, darkness coming fast now, Will’s dad had them work on punting, worried that being short one blocker might get a punt blocked on Hannah in a big moment on Saturday.
So he moved a couple of guys around, put three up-backs in the backfield to block for her instead of the usual two, told the outside guys it was their job to protect the wings and give her time.
They practiced by having Wes long-snap the ball to Hannah with just three guys in front of her and everybody else—including Joe Tyler and Dick Keenan—coming at her on an all-out blitz.
They didn’t block one on her. On her last kick of the night, she totally showed off, saying she was going to try to kick one out-of-bounds but just bombing one out of the back of the end zone instead, as if she wanted to remind everybody of the leg that got her on the team in the first place.
Then she was telling her teammates that she kicked that ball the way they were going to kick Kendrick and his friends all over the field on Saturday, and then the practice that had started with them thinking about the loss of their quarterback had turned into all this trash talk and laughter.
Will took off his helmet, broke off from the rest of the Bull-dogs, started jogging toward the sideline.
That was when he got hit for the second time this season by a flying football that came at him out of nowhere.
This time he went down.
“What the . . . ?” he said, his head ringing, jumping up to see where the ball had come from.
It had come from Toby.
Will remembered him running off to retrieve the ball Hannah had just punted out of sight. Now he was standing in the distance, between the goalposts.
More than fifty yards away.
“I am so sorry!” he yelled to Will.
Running hard toward Will now, trying to explain as he did, saying, “Are you okay? I was just throwing it up there for fun, and then you ran right into it, and you didn’t hear me when I yelled for you to look out.”
All of a sudden, Will’s head didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had a few seconds ago.
“Did you say you threw it?”
“Yeah.”
“From the back of the end zone?”
Toby seemed to realize they were all staring at him now, along with the coaches.
Joe Tyler said, “How come you never told me you could throw a football like that?”
Toby shrugged.
“You never asked me,” he said.
CHAPTER 32
It had been an amazing day, Will thought when he was back in his room.
Like the season had been amazing from the start.
From the time he’d fumbled in last year’s championship game, turning one of the best days of his life into one of the worst, he’d dreamed about the day when he’d play the Castle Rock Bears again with the whole season on the line.
Now that game was less than a week away.
But if somebody had told him how he’d get here, how they’d all get here—how his dad would get here and Toby’s dad and even Hannah Grayson—Will Tyler would have thought somebody had made the whole thing up.
And on top of that, if somebody had also told Will they were going to try to beat the big, bad Bears of Castle Rock with just ten players, he would have had to borrow one of Tim’s favorite words:
He would have thought they were buggin’.
But here they were.
A girl had joined the team and then Toby had, too. Tim had left. Chris had broken his ankle at the worst-possible time, not that there was ever a particularly special time for something like that to happen.
Will and his dad had done this together. Somehow Toby and his dad had done the same thing. Only now they had to find a way to finish the job, against the best and deepest team in the league.
But how?
Will sat on the windowsill for a while, staring out at Valley Road. No answers for him out there. No answer when he looked up at the stars in the sky. No answer when he stretched out on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
No way to make the sides even between now and Saturday.
He thought: We need an eleventh man.
The Bulldogs were so close to pushing the ball across the line, they just needed a little push, like the one Matt Leinart gave Reggie Bush in a famous USC–Notre Dame game that Will loved to watch on ESPN Classic.
One more time, Will knew he had to try something.
But what?
One more desperation heave, that’s what.
One more Hail Mary.
He got up off the bed and opened his laptop and sent Hannah a Facebook message.
A few minutes later she sent back a message of her own.
Luv it. Go 4 it.
Then Will was all the way back to the beginning, to where this had all started for him and the Bulldogs and his dad and everybody else:
He wrote one more letter.
CHAPTER 33
The last practice before the championship game was Thursday night at Shea.
It was Toby’s last chance to complete his crash course in being a quarterback, one more chance for all of them to become familiar with Mr. Keenan’s crazy defenses.
But that wasn’t what they were all talking about once they were together on the field. What they were all talking about was the latest edition of the Forbes Dispatch, which came out on Thursday afternoons.
They were talking about the story Hannah’s dad had splashed across the front page.
One written “by Will Tyler.”
Will had seen it as soon as he came home from school and had called Hannah right away.
“It was only supposed to be a letter to the editor,” he said.
“And that’s exactly what I told my dad,” she had said. “Bu
t he thought it ought to be more.” She giggled. “Besides, you know you can’t trust the press.”
The headline on the front page read:
A Team for Our Town
Then came Will’s byline, and underneath that, the letter—what he thought was a letter—he had written on Monday night. Since Hannah’s dad was the editor, Will had begun by writing
“Dear Mr. Grayson.”
Turned out to be the only thing Mr. Grayson had changed. Here was the rest of it:
I’m sure not everybody in town knows about it, but our twelve-year-old team, the Bulldogs, plays for the championship of the West River league this Saturday afternoon at Shea.
We almost didn’t have a team this season, because there wasn’t enough money in the town council budget, which everybody knows by now. But then we got lucky and New Balance came through for us (big-time!) and sponsored our team. Now we get another shot at Castle Rock, which beat us in last year’s championship game.
The reason I am writing this letter is pretty much the same reason I wrote to Mr. Rob DeMartini of New Balance right before our season that almost wasn’t:
Because we need a little more help.
No, it’s not money this time if that’s what you think. We just need for people in our town to get behind us in a different way, which means by being our eleventh man on Saturday.
And that’s not a mistake on my part. I know that usually in football, people talk about the crowd being the “twelfth man.” Well, that doesn’t apply in our case because we’re down to ten players now.
It’s why we hope Forbes can get behind us on Saturday, and maybe even Friday night, too.
My dad, Joe Tyler (he’s also my coach), told me that when he used to play at Forbes High, there’d be pep rallies in the Square on Friday night. He said that it was almost like the game started right there and you could hear the cheers all over town.
My dad says that maybe one more time Forbes could cheer that way for one of its teams.
My dad also says that one of the best things about sports is when it makes us feel as if we’re all in something together.
I guess that’s what I’m asking for now. And promising that if you help make the sides even, me and my teammates won’t let you down.
Sincerely,
Will Tyler,
Forbes Bulldogs
Joe Tyler had brought their copy of the paper with him to practice, even though Will had begged him not to. When they were all together on the field, the way they were before the start of every practice, he just held up the paper and said, “I don’t have to say anything tonight because Will said it all.”
Will knew he was blushing, could feel his face overheating, also knew there was nothing he could do about it except put on his helmet. That’s when Hannah said, “Not only does he have the right stuff on the field, now we find out he’s got the w-r-i-t-e stuff.”
“Tell me you didn’t just say that,” Will said.
“I had to,” she said.
“Hey, everybody listen up,” Will’s dad said now. “Before we get to work, I’ve really only got one announcement to make. I’d like everybody to show up at McElroy Square tomorrow night around seven o’clock. No pads or anything. Just your uniforms. Just one last chance for us to get together as a team before the big game. For a pizza party to end all pizza parties.”
Chris Aiello was with them on the field, on crutches, his ankle in a soft cast.
“Look what you started,” he said to Will.
Joe Tyler made a gesture that took in all of the Bulldogs, and then said to Will, “Yeah. Look what you started.” It wasn’t a pizza party.
And only the Bulldogs had been told to show up at seven o’clock. Everybody else in town had gotten the word—on the newspaper’s website and on the local radio station—to be in McElroy Square by six thirty.
When Will and his dad pulled up next to the Flyers factory, Will couldn’t believe his eyes.
The Square was already full of people.
“You were in on this,” Will said to his dad.
“I was,” Joe Tyler said. “But we can still go for pizza afterward if you want.”
Will was still staring at the crowd.
“I didn’t even know there were this many people left in Forbes,” Will said.
“Maybe,” his dad said, “there’s still more life to this old town than we thought.”
When his dad got out of the car, he was facing the factory. Then looking up and pointing. And smiling.
Will saw what his dad saw then, the huge banner stretched across the top two floors, saw lights shining in the windows up there, if only for this one night.
The banner read:
Go Bulldogs!
“Now it really does seem like old times,” Joe Tyler said.
Across the street, at the head of the park near the old World War II monument, they saw where the temporary stage had been erected, a microphone at the front of it, a long row of chairs behind it.
As Will and his dad made their way into the park, they saw a man waving at them from the stage.
“Who’s that?” Will said.
“That, pal, is Mr. Rob DeMartini of New Balance. He called and told me he was flying in this afternoon. Said he figured this was as good a time as any for the two of you to finally meet.”
Will was surprised at how young Mr. DeMartini was, not looking much older than Joe Tyler. Dark hair and a nice smile.
“At last we meet,” Mr. DeMartini said, shaking Will’s hand.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
“No, actually, I can’t believe you’re here,” Mr. DeMartini said.
“We didn’t exactly make things easy on ourselves,” Will said.
“Your dad’s been keeping me up to speed every week,” Mr. DeMartini said, “including what happened to Chris. No worries, that will just make beating Castle Rock even sweeter.”
Now Mr. DeMartini pulled Will aside, so it was just the two of them.
“But whatever happens tomorrow,” he said, “you kept your word, Will. You made all of us at New Balance proud.”
Before long the rest of the Bulldogs had taken their places on the stage. When they were all there, the crowd cheered. But Will wasn’t looking out into the crowd, he was looking at his dad, who was staring up at the banner again. And somehow in that moment Will could see the kid his dad had been once, understood what nights like this must have meant to him.
Mr. DeMartini stepped to the microphone now, introduced himself, explained how New Balance had come to sponsor the Bulldogs, then said, “This team is everything we want our company to stand for. We tell our people every day that we want them to be the best. And these kids behind me expect to be the best tomorrow against Castle Rock.”
The crowd cheered again.
“Everybody in my business knows about the Forbes Flyers,” he said, “and what they meant to this town once. Maybe that’s why it’s nice to see those lights back on across the street, even if it’s only for one night.”
Another cheer.
“And tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “the Bulldogs are going to make Forbes feel like a winner again, and do the thing that sports still does best: make a memory.”
Now the crowd made a sound that maybe only Will’s dad, and Toby’s dad, understood. Maybe because the people here sounded happy.
Then Will’s dad was at the microphone, introducing the Bull-dogs one by one.
He saved Will until last.
“Finally,” he said, “I’d like to introduce my son, Will Tyler, with an old line of Yogi Berra’s that kind of fits the occasion. From the bottom of my heart, I want to thank my son for making this night necessary.”
He motioned Will up to the microphone then. Will shook his head. But then Hannah was pulling him out of his seat, saying, “You’ve so got this.”
Will bought himself some time by adjusting the microphone, but then he decided he didn’t need a speech, he was going to keep it simple:
“Beat Castle Rock,” he said into the microphone.
He didn’t yell, but the crowd did now, making a sound in McElroy Square that Will was sure they could hear on the other side of the river.
Will hoping in that moment that the Bulldogs hadn’t heard anything yet.
CHAPTER 34
When Will came downstairs, already in uniform, his dad was holding the New Balance box like it was an early Christmas present.
“Mr. DeMartini dropped this off while you were in the shower,” Joe Tyler said.
Will took the box from him, opened it and smiled. New football shoes. Exactly like the ones he’d been wearing all season, except for one added feature:
The wings on the sides.
The New Balance version of the old Forbes Flyers.
“How . . . ?” Will said.
“Well,” his dad said, “he might have had a little help with the design.”
“It’s like they’re the last Forbes Flyers in existence,” Will said.
“No,” his dad said. “Actually, the last Forbes Flyer would be you.”
Will put on the shoes. They felt as if he’d been wearing them all season.
He stood up. Time for them to go.
They walked out the front door and got into the car for the short ride to what Will, even at twelve, already knew was the best place in the world: the big game.
It was as if the crowd from the Square had come straight from there to Shea Field. By the time they were ten minutes away from the kick, the bleachers were full on the home side of Shea for the first time this season. Not only were the bleachers full, the Forbes fans were stretched out four and five deep from both ends.
The Castle Rock fans had to use the smaller bleachers on the other side.
Hannah said, “Must have been that long speech of yours last night that got people to come out.”
“Funny.”
She shrugged. “As always.” Then she pointed to his new shoes. “Cool kicks,” she said.