Kid Owner

by Tim Green

  “Why? What critics?” I asked.

  “Well.” Hamhock smiled and winked. “Some people will complain about it, but most people are going to pop a champagne cork.”

  “Sir?” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “When you fire him.” Hamhock nodded like I was already in on the secret.

  I looked at John Torres, who tossed me the ball and grinned.

  “Fire who?” I asked.

  “Come on, little buddy, you gotta know what we’re talking about. People have been talking about it nonstop. They’re kind of expecting it with the change in ownership.” Hamhock winked at me again. “You’re gonna fire Coach Cowan.”

  28

  I’m the kind of fan where if there’s anything negative about my team, I just don’t listen. Those guys on sports talk radio, always complaining. Everyone thinking they can do better? I pay no attention.

  Every game the Cowboys went into was a game I expected them to win. I didn’t care who they were playing or how bad the Cowboys’ record was.

  But I was aware of the grumblings about Coach Cowan, and I also knew some people blamed the three-year play-off drought and the current 0–1 record on John Torres, while others blamed it on GM Bert Hamhock. Some said our star running back had lost a step. Most people ultimately blamed it on Thomas Peebles because he was the owner.

  And now I was the owner, and I got what these two guys were doing in a blink. Trying to win me over to their side of things before I visited the team, so I’d blame Coach Cowan for the team’s lack of success.

  But I threw it back to them and said, “I got to talk to Mr. Dietrich about all that. He’s overseeing my ownership, so I need to check with him. But I sure get what you guys are thinking.”

  I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with my trustee. I could only imagine their faces if I told them I would also be consulting Izzy. Torres’s brow clouded over and he looked to Hamhock for direction. It seemed my response wasn’t the one he was expecting, but I guess I’m not as easy to win over as Selena Gomez.

  Hamhock chuckled and put a hand on my shoulder. “Ryan, Dietrich came out on ESPN Radio this morning and said he was going to defer to you entirely, which is just what your father said in his will.”

  I looked up at Hamhock with a knowing smile, remembering what my mom had said about Dietrich. “I only met Mr. Dietrich yesterday, but I can pretty much bet that what he says and what he does might be two entirely different stories.”

  Hamhock grinned and glanced at Torres. “Get our new owner, will you? How old are you? Twelve going on forty-five?”

  I shrugged. “My mom taught me a thing or two.”

  Torres zipped the ball back at me. I had to duck as it glanced off my hands, striking Hamhock in the face.

  “Darn it, John!” Hamhock held his nose and glared at the quarterback through watery eyes.

  “Gosh, sorry, Bert.” Torres’s shoulders slumped.

  I felt at least partially responsible, but the GM wasn’t going to lay the blame on his new owner. “Sorry, Mr. Hamhock.”

  “Not your fault, kid.” Hamhock forced a laugh. “Not Johnny’s either. When you got a rocket arm like Johnny boy, it sometimes can’t be helped. So, what do you think, kiddo? Can we take you out to the facility and show you around a bit?”

  “Well, my mom’s probably waiting for me.” I nodded toward the parking lot beside the school. “Plus, I think we are already scheduled to see the team in a few days.”

  “Mom picks you up after practice?” Hamhock nodded like he already knew.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe go get changed and we can take you both out to the facility today. You and your mom. No time like the present,” Hamhock said. “We’ll wait and you can introduce us to her. Heck, all the ladies love Johnny Torres. Even the moms.”

  “Sure.” I turned to go, stopping to pick up the ball so I could toss it back to Torres.

  “Hey,” Hamhock said before I could throw it, “you better keep the ball. It’s yours anyway, right? See that? It’s a Cowboys ball. Get used to it, kiddo.”

  I couldn’t help smiling like a fool. Despite the hard choices I was going to have to make, I knew I was going to get used to it, and really fast, too.

  29

  Good things feel even better when you share them. Without a father and without brothers and sisters, I didn’t always have a lot of people to share things with. As I walked into the locker room, through the stares and whispers of my teammates, I made plans in my mind to include Jackson and Izzy in this most excellent adventure. I whispered my invitation to Jackson, who got so excited he blurted out his reply: “Go to the Cowboys facility? Dude! I—” and then fell into a fit of choking.

  The rest of the locker room was in awe and I soaked up their attention like a sponge, acting like it was no big deal that John Torres was waiting for me in an Escalade limo outside.

  I knew Izzy would be coming out of the girls’ locker room after her soccer practice, so Jackson called his mom to okay it with her, and then waited with me outside in the hallway.

  “Do you think John Torres will be coming to our games?” Jackson spoke in a dreamy voice.

  Before I could answer, Izzy burst into the hallway.

  Her face was still sweaty and flushed from her soccer practice. “Did you hear? John Torres is outside!”

  I began to snicker.

  “What?” She looked at me like I’d gone crazy.

  “I know.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I was playing catch with him. He’s waiting for me to ride over to the Cowboys facility with him and Hamhock, the GM.”

  “Waiting?”

  I nodded. “I gotta tell my mom, but I’m sure she’ll be cool with it. And I want you and Jackson to come with me.”

  “With you . . . and John Torres?” Her eyes got dreamy.

  Jackson was yanking on my arm. “Come on, Ryan. Let’s go.”

  “I’ll text my mom,” Izzy said as we walked. “She won’t care. She says life experiences should be part of your education.”

  The Escalade had pulled right up along the curb with the normal fleet of family vehicles making pickups for the after-school athletes. It was perfect. Right where I wanted it, in the middle of everything. Markham and Simpkin couldn’t miss it. The girls who Izzy used to sit with (many played soccer or field hockey) couldn’t miss it either. I escorted my friends, opening the door and telling John Torres and the GM who they were before leaving them to gawk and heading off to the big white King Ranch to explain to my mom what was going on. She’d already climbed down from the cab of her pickup and was moving my way on the curb when I intercepted her.

  “Mom, it’s John Torres and Bert Hamhock from the Cowboys.” I could barely catch my breath.

  “The quarterback?” Even my mom knew who John Torres was, and she strained for a look inside the SUV.

  “Yes, they’re taking me to the facility for a tour—if it’s okay with you—and I asked Jackson and Izzy.”

  “Wait, what? But we’re supposed to go next week for a formal meeting.”

  “Mom, I own the team.” I tried not to gloat. It was hard. How could she not go along?

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “This is awesome!” I said.

  She sighed heavily. “Let me double-check this with them, then I’ll follow you so I can bring you all home.”

  “Mom.” I drew the word out, punctuating it with a frown because I didn’t think a kid owner needed his mom to go along with him. “You don’t have to follow us.”

  “You’re twelve, Ryan.”

  “I know. Almost thirteen. I’m not a baby, Mom.”

  “No one said you were.” She pushed past me, heading for the Escalade. “But I’m still your mother and I’m following you. Good? Or would you rather head right home?”

  I knew that look in her eye. She meant it. “Okay. Fine.”

  The GM and John Torres saw my mom coming and they hopped out of the SUV. My mom said hello
and shook hands with them, making sure we were all set. With all my might I willed her to just leave, and finally she did. I got into the Escalade and took the captain’s seat next to John Torres. Mr. Hamhock sat up front with the driver, wearing mirrored sunglasses. Jackson and Izzy scrambled into the back bench. John Torres closed the door on the rest of Ben Sauer Middle School and off we went. On the highway, the big-time quarterback held out a hand and I slapped him five, the joy of that erasing the weight of my mom’s big white truck tailing us.

  We took the tollway north, straight out of town to where the new practice facility was, in the little Texas town of Frisco.

  I was simply soaking it up, breathing deep, and was totally surprised when Izzy chirped from the backseat. “Mr. Hamhock, I liked when you traded your third-round pick to move up in the second round last April to get Mark Fusco. We were a little shaky at the outside linebacker position and Fusco’s speed looks like it’s helping our pass rush, too.”

  Mr. Hamhock turned around in his seat and slipped the mirrored glasses down on his nose to study Izzy. I wanted to melt and my hand went to my brow as I shook my head in disbelief. Who was Izzy to comment on Bert Hamhock’s picks?

  I was even more surprised when Hamhock burst out into a grin. “Well, little lady, not a lot of people even remember that trade. They like Fusco’s two and a half sacks this season, but they forget that we would have lost him to the 49ers without that trade. You’ve got a sharp eye.”

  “Yes,” Izzy said. “I know it won’t mean much to you—I mean, you’re doing it for real, I know that—but I’m in three fantasy leagues and I won two of them last year. I’m hoping for a clean sweep this season.”

  I went from embarrassment to pride and I gave Izzy a puzzled look. She just shrugged and said, “You never asked, and boys don’t like getting beat by a girl in football, even fantasy football.”

  I thought about that and nodded in agreement as we pulled into the Cowboys’ new facility.

  I looked out the window in awe. It was as if an alien race had landed and built a base of operations. Futuristic glass, mirrors, and chrome swept across the horizon. Lush grass football fields bordered the indoor stadium, built for the Cowboys to practice in when the weather went bad and for local school teams to play when they had a big game. There was a force field of energy you’d expect from such an otherworldly site when we got out of the Escalade. I swear you could feel the power of the whole complex.

  We parked and waited for my mom to join us. Even her semi-sour face as she shook hands a second time with John Torres and the GM couldn’t break the magic spell. I stood tall and proud as we marched into the front entrance where Super Bowl trophies sat on pedestals in a half circle off to one side. People in the lobby pointed and stared as we marched past the reception desk and the uniformed guard into the back offices.

  The hallway was lined with display cases. Inside were framed pictures and helmets signed by Cowboy greats like Roger Staubach, Too Tall Jones, Emmitt Smith, Troy Aikman, and Larry Allen. I acted like it was no big deal. Jackson’s eyes were as wide as if he’d entered the gates of heaven, and Izzy’s mouth hung slack.

  “I can’t believe this.” Izzy looked around, took a quick selfie, and then stared at me. “Ryan, this is so cool.”

  Hamhock marched us right to what looked like an important corner office, past a secretary with just a nod, before swinging open one of the big wide double doors and barging in.

  When I realized whose office we’d waltzed right into, I was so mad at Bert Hamhock I wanted to shout.

  30

  Coach Cowan sat at his desk, watching game film on his computer.

  I looked at Hamhock, remembering that this was the coach he’d just told me I should fire. I wanted to give the GM a nasty look, but even though I was feeling bigger than I’d ever felt before in my life, I guess my mom’s influence still had a hold on my behavior. I couldn’t just scowl at a grown-up.

  Beside the coach sat a smallish young man I nearly overlooked. He wore an army T-shirt and had a crew cut that made him look like a recruit from nearby Fort Hood. When Coach Cowan saw us, he jumped up. By the look on his face, I guessed he probably knew Hamhock wanted him fired. His glance went from Hamhock to John Torres before falling on me. It was like he’d eaten a pickle but was trying to hide it.

  The coach stood just under six feet tall. His dark hair was parted on the side and he had the sharp nose of a hunting bird with dark, probing eyes. I knew he’d been a quarterback at Harvard, but only a backup, and he looked like a Harvard guy to me, despite the sweat suit. He looked smart, a cut above. I could certainly see that his demeanor didn’t match the rough-and-tumble, backslapping ways of the GM.

  “Uh, hello.” He extended a stiff hand and I shook it. “I’m Coach Cowan. Welcome. I see you’ve . . .”

  Coach Cowan scowled at Hamhock and clenched his teeth.

  The GM only smiled back and let out a little huff of laughter before resting his hand on my shoulder. “Since Ryan owns the team, I thought, why not take John out to meet him? Who doesn’t love John Torres?”

  Torres looked at his feet. Coach Cowan became even more irritated. He opened his mouth to speak but checked himself and cleared his throat.

  “I was just going over some film from Sunday’s game with Kellen.” Coach Cowan turned to the young man, who stood red-faced, looking around at the rest of us. I’d never heard of him, and obviously he wasn’t important enough to be introduced.

  The head coach then looked at John Torres with what I thought was more displeasure than John Torres was probably used to. “John, we’ve got to get you looking at that second and third wide receiver.”

  Coach Cowan’s voice changed when he talked about football. There was no hesitation. It made me think of a hooked fish being released back into the water.

  John Torres looked at Hamhock and I realized that while Coach Cowan and the quarterback and the GM were all Dallas Cowboys, they were clearly on different sides, and if it was a secret, it was a poor one.

  Hamhock snorted and called the head coach by his first name. “Cody, you’ve got to let John throw the rock, stretch the field. That’s what he does, not dink and dunk it all afternoon. He’s got a rocket. You gotta use it, Coach. You want the Cowboys to see the play-offs this year? Launch the rocket.”

  The GM and the head coach stared at each other for a few awkward minutes. I looked over at Izzy and Jackson, who looked uncomfortable, and just shrugged. Finally, my mom spoke up. “I’m sure Ryan will be relying a lot on Mr. Dietrich, so I don’t think anyone has to worry about changes.”

  That got their attention, and mine, too. I wanted to ask her what she thought she was doing, but owning the Cowboys hadn’t made me that bold. She forced a smile at them. “Where is Mr. Dietrich?”

  Hamhock coughed. “I understood from Mr. Dietrich that he really plans to defer to Ryan on running the team. No offense to Mr. Peebles, your ex-husband, ma’am, but a lot of people think your son here might be just what we need. A fresh perspective.”

  Hamhock sent me a winning grin and a wink, like we were in this together. I couldn’t help but like the man. Who didn’t like a guy who toted John Torres around with him?

  “Because even a twelve-year-old boy could run a team better than my ex-husband?” My mother frowned, but I couldn’t tell if she was really mad.

  No one else seemed to be able to tell either, but finally Hamhock did something between a cough and a laugh and said, “We better let the coach get back to his film.” The look Coach Cowan gave me was intelligent, serious, and doubtful. I was the owner, so I stared blankly back, doing my best not to look too confused, and gave him a nod.

  On our way down the hallway, Hamhock lowered his voice and leaned my way. “I just figured we should get that out of the way. He’s nothing to be scared of, just a man, like you and me. Before you break a bronco, you look it in the eye.”

  My mom huffed. “Mr. Hamhock, let’s not get carried away, please.”

 
; “Ma’am?” He gave her a dumb look.

  “He’s twelve.”

  Hamhock bit his lip and nodded. “I have to say this, though. His dad kinda always got things the way he wanted. Anyone didn’t do things the way he wanted? That dog just didn’t hunt. So, if Mr. Peebles wanted Ryan here calling the shots? Ma’am, my bet is Ryan here is gonna be calling the shots. Now, that’s just me.”

  I wanted to hug the man.

  But my mom wasn’t about to let that be the last word on the subject.

  “Funny,” she said, “my experience with Thomas was entirely different.”

  “Mom,” I whispered. “Please.”

  My mom shook her head as Bert Hamhock led us into an office twice the size of the head coach’s, with leather furniture and a big desk topped by a huge slab of polished green marble. One wall was all glass and it looked out over the grass practice fields as well as one corner of the indoor stadium. The other walls boasted heads of animals, most of which I couldn’t name. The skin of a zebra lay stretched and flat beneath a glass-topped coffee table between two couches.

  Jackson seemed drawn to an animal with curly horns, and he walked over and reached out to touch one while Izzy frowned.

  “Well?” Hamhock opened his arms, signaling that all this was mine. “Impressive, isn’t it? These are your digs.”

  “What?! Really? My office?”

  My mother clucked her tongue.

  We heard laughter from behind a door that I hadn’t even noticed in the bookcases behind the desk. The sound of voices, muffled by the door, leaked into the owner’s office. More high-pitched laughing followed.

  The lock clicked. The handle turned. The door was flung open.

  I turned and saw the faces, and I thought I might throw up.

  31

  Dillon Peebles, my dead father’s other son, looked just as sick as me. Maybe there was a flash of fear in his eyes, too, like I might be some kind of rabid dog. He looked to his mother for guidance.