by Tim Green
My mom dumped some beans into the coffee maker and it began to grind and hum. She took two mugs from the cupboard and set them down next to the coffee maker. “Ryan? Jackson? You boys want some sodas?”
We both nodded and she brought us two Cokes, then sat down at the head of the table. “Coffee will be ready in just a minute. Milk? Sugar?”
“Just black, thank you,” Coach Cowan said.
“I’m trying to get our coach to run a spread offense.” I watched Coach Cowan closely, to see if he really cared what I thought or if he was just there on a social call to try and be our friend, protecting his job in case things went my way. “I play quarterback.”
I could tell by the way he looked that he was sizing me up all over again. “You fast?”
“Real fast,” I said. “And smart.”
To my surprise, Coach Cowan scratched his chin and nodded his head. “Yeah, you got that look in your eyes, like you’re thinking a couple steps ahead. You remind me of Kellen Smith.”
“Kellen Smith? Your fourth-string guy?” I squinted and looked over at Jackson, who shrugged.
Coach Cowan laughed. “Right, Kellen. You met him in my office the other day. He’s on our practice squad. Undrafted free agent out of Central Michigan. I can’t get Hamhock to move him onto the active roster no matter what I say.”
“Why would you?” I was shocked that the young man I’d seen in Coach Cowan’s office was a football player at all. “Move him, I mean?”
Coach Cowan got a serious look on his face and leaned toward me. “Kellen is small, like you, and smart . . . like you, right?”
I nodded and felt my cheeks get warm.
“Yeah, a perfect spread quarterback. Kellen’s mobile and makes decisions quick as a hiccup, but his arm strength is nothing to write home about, so there he sits, studying film with me on the outside chance he’ll ever get a shot. Hamhock would rather put the ball boy out there at quarterback than Kellen. Sometimes I think it’s just so I can’t be right.” Coach Cowan turned those hawkish eyes on me and his voice changed slightly, as if someone had given him a little jolt. “What offense does your team run now?”
“Two backs, a pro set,” I said. “Lucky if we even have two wide receivers on the field. Coach Hubbard likes to swap out a receiver for a tight end. He says with two tight ends you can build a fortress for a pocket to throw out of.”
I liked the way Coach Cowan shook his head in disgust, even though he didn’t come right out and say my coaches were stuck in the past. “That’s simple and straightforward, like checkers. I like chess.”
I nodded, wildly. “I know, and our coach wants to be a college coach or even an NFL coach one day.”
“He’ll have to get his head around some bigger ideas than a pro set and two tight ends if he wants that. It’s a different game these days.” Coach Cowan smiled at my mom as if he was apologizing for the football talk. It seemed like the perfect time. I didn’t even stop to think twice about it. I sprang my trap. “Maybe you could talk to him.”
“Who?” My mom was the one who asked, but Coach Cowan was looking.
The coffee maker stopped grinding and I spoke louder than I had to. “Coach Hubbard.”
“Dude,” Jackson said, “I don’t think Coach Hubbard’s gonna change his offense, do you?”
“If Coach Cowan makes the suggestion, I bet he would,” I said.
“That’s kind of devious,” Jackson said. “Don’t you think? Like, tricking him into thinking he’s gonna get something out of it, like it’s an audition for coaching.”
I waved my hand in the air. “It’s not devious; it’s a great opportunity to make his team better.”
“Ryan.” My mom frowned. “That’s not really fair to ask Coach Cowan. He has a lot to do. He came here to get off on the right foot, not to help coach your middle-school football team.”
“He doesn’t have to coach my team, just talk to my coach.” I spoke fast, wondering just how much Coach Cowan wanted to be my friend, wondering if he really thought I still had a chance to own the team.
As he opened his mouth to reply, I guessed I was about to find out.
40
“I love talking football.” Coach Cowan’s head bobbed up and down to prove his words were true.
“See, Mom?” I wanted her to get on my side.
“Well.” She let the gurgling coffeepot distract her.
“If you could go over a couple basic plays, I know Coach would put them in. How could he not?”
Coach Cowan shrugged. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, and he said, “As long as your coach is okay with it, I’m happy to talk to him.”
“When?”
“Ry-yan.” My mom drew out my name.
Coach Cowan shrugged. “Now?”
“Now?” my mom asked.
“After a cup of coffee?” Coach Cowan tilted his head. “I’m here and it’s a bit of a drive so I may as well do it now . . . if that’s okay. We’d have to ask your coach.”
I jumped out of my chair. “Coach Hubbard would eat his own dirty socks just to meet you, let alone get some ideas on the spread offense.”
Jackson shook his head, but grinned. “He’d definitely like to meet you.”
“What’s a spread offense?” my mom asked.
“It’s the new rage in football, Mom. Instead of the traditional two backs, two wide receivers, and one tight end for the skill players, you go with three or four wideouts to throw to and just one running back. It’s a passing offense. It’s fast and it’s furious.”
My mom huffed and gave me a look before turning to Coach Cowan. “I’m sorry—this is kind of awkward, what with Ryan maybe owning the team and you being coach. It’s really not necessary to go meet Ryan’s coach. Even if Ryan ends up somehow owning or partly owning the team, you showing up here is more than enough of a nice gesture. I’m sure you’ve got lots to do.”
I ground my teeth together and tried with all my might to signal to Coach Cowan that my mom was one hundred percent wrong. It wasn’t enough just to show up. If Coach Cowan helped me, I’d help him (if I could help him). I had to remind myself of that, which actually made it even better to have him in this spot because once he met with Coach Hubbard, my seventh-grade football coach would be a changed man. I saw the look in Coach Hubbard’s eye when John Torres showed up and I knew that as an aspiring coach, meeting Cody Cowan would be a life-altering experience for him.
Coach Cowan wasn’t a leader of men for nothing. He studied my face, then said to my mom, “Actually, after that cup of coffee, I’d enjoy it. I love talking to young coaches, especially ones who are interested in the spread offense.”
I grinned and high-fived Jackson, who smiled and shook his head again.
41
I couldn’t hear Coach Hubbard’s voice on the other end of Coach Cowan’s cell phone, but I could imagine it trembling with excitement. He agreed to head right back to the school and meet us in his office to talk football “Xs and Os” was what Coach Cowan said. Jackson and I rode in Coach Cowan’s Mercedes and I provided the directions. When we got there, Coach Hubbard’s van was already in the parking lot and we walked right into the back of the school.
Coach Hubbard was one of those people who thought that if he could fit into a smaller-sized piece of clothing, then he really was that size. His legs swelled from the hem of his coaching shorts like cookie dough bursting from a tube, and his stomach stretched the belly of his collared shirt so tight that a crescent of pale white gut peeked out at us just above his belt line. I coughed and looked away, but Jackson stared right at the sneaky gut and tugged his own shirt down as if to signal to Coach Hubbard.
Coach Cowan paid no attention. He was like a math teacher with his dry erase marker squeaking away on the board, creating angles and numbers, Xs and Os, until the entire space was covered in hieroglyphics. We were crammed into three desk chairs in the very front of our team room. Coach Hubbard scribbled notes in his book, wide-eyed and mystified.
Coach Cowan was talking fast. “. . . So, if they roll the coverage over your slot, your quarterback simply hits the back-side hook. If the linebacker plays off, he throws the check down. Both throws are very high percentage. See? You can stretch the field and have a back-side counter without making your quarterback throw dangerous passes.”
Dangerous passes were long passes. (Also, coincidentally, the ones I couldn’t throw so well, but no one mentioned that.)
Coach Hubbard’s mouth hung slack and a bit of drool spilled from the corner of his lip before he swabbed it with the back of a hand. “But . . . the back is set weak, so how can it be a strong set?”
Coach Cowan gave me a quick glance and bit his lip before nodding rapidly. “Okay, you’re still hung up on the formation. I get that. This stuff is complicated and I’ve been doing it for a long time, so sometimes I get ahead of myself. Let me go back to the formation. . . .”
And on it went, the entire school empty all around us, but the team room’s lights blazing bright like a forge of football knowledge. Coach Cowan finally stopped trying to get Coach Hubbard to grasp the big picture, or even very much of the offense. He focused on teaching Coach Hubbard two run plays and two pass plays. And Coach Hubbard beamed with pride as he drew, all by himself, a Trips Left Chase Right Waggle. When Coach Cowan applauded, Jackson and I looked at each other and pitched in, too, clapping until our hands hurt.
“You got it.” Coach Cowan patted Coach Hubbard on the back. “Put it in, and you’ll be off to the races. I can send you a new play every week, maybe two if you’d like.”
“I’d like two hundred!” Coach Hubbard was so happy, he wasn’t thinking straight.
Coach Cowan laughed. “Let’s go slow. Before you know it, you’ll have the whole playbook down.”
The sun had set by the time we walked out of the school toward Coach Cowan’s Mercedes and Coach Hubbard’s minivan.
“You really think Jackson here could be my one back?” Coach Hubbard gave Coach Cowan a knowing and important look.
Coach Cowan read the eager look on my face and nodded. “Of course. Remember Ironhead Heyward?”
“The Saints runner?” Coach Hubbard rumpled his brow. “Gosh, I was about eight years old then.”
“Right, and you still remember him.” Coach Cowan jangled his keys. “Two hundred and sixty-five pounds. Ran a 4.5. You ask Bobby Hebert—”
“The quarterback?” Coach Hubbard’s face glistened with sweat.
“Yes,” Coach Cowan continued. “You ask Hebert and he’ll tell you Ironhead made that offense roll and that made Hebert into a multimillionaire. Sure, Jackson can do it. If he’s as fast as you say he is.”
“Oh, heck yeah.” Coach Hubbard patted Jackson on the back like they were old friends.
“Thanks, Coach Hubbard,” Jackson said, smiling.
“Coach, I gotta tell you,” Coach Hubbard continued, “I appreciate this little session more than you know and I’m looking forward to staying in touch.”
“Well.” Coach Cowan clicked open the locks to his Mercedes with the push of a button. “If Ryan has anything to say about it, I know we will. He’s a big fan of yours, Coach. That’s why I’m here.”
Coach Hubbard blinked as this set in and I wondered what other force in the entire universe he imagined prompted this visit if it wasn’t me. If he didn’t already fully appreciate that before, he sure did now.
Coach Hubbard gently placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it warmly. “Best thing about this offense, Coach, is that it gives a player like Ryan the ability to use his brains out there, make those reads, get us first downs.”
“That it does.” Coach Cowan extended his hand to shake good-bye. “Some people don’t get that. Glad to know you’re not one of them, Coach.”
I don’t think Coach Hubbard would have ever let go of Coach Cowan’s hand. It seemed like he wanted to stand there shaking it forever, but Coach Cowan slipped away and he, Jackson, and I climbed into his SUV and he drove us back to my house. On the way, Coach Cowan flipped on the radio and we heard a couple of loudmouths talking about the Cowboys and how they wished Jimmy Johnson had never left the team in the nineties.
“You don’t think the Jimmy is too old?” one announcer asked.
“Old? He’s still got his hair,” the other announcer said. “Do you not watch the man every Sunday on Fox? Now that’s a coach!”
I glanced over at Coach Cowan when the announcers—I knew them from their highway billboard as the Sportz Dogz—started tearing into the current coach . . . him. Coach Cowan remained calm, but I didn’t when one of the Sportz Dogz rattled a paper and said they had just received word about the status of the new ownership.
“Well, well, well,” said the Sportz Dog with the newsflash, making everyone wait. “You’re not gonna believe this.”
“Read that thing already, will you? I’m starting to wonder if you even can read.” The other Sportz Dog sounded as eager as the rest of us to hear.
That set them both off on a good chuckle.
“Okay, okay, okay. Here you go . . . in a surprise ruling late this afternoon, US Federal District Court Judge Abby Dobney ruled on the following injunction . . .”
“Injunction?” the other said. “Sounds like it hurts.”
“Only when I laugh.”
They broke out into more stupid laughter. “But seriously, an injunction is when a judge basically calls a time-out to stop the action.” He rattled the paper into the microphone. “Wow, some of you are really gonna be torked about this . . .”
“Read it already.” The other Sportz Dog sounded angry.
“I will.” The first Sportz Dog cleared his throat and I balled my hands into fists.
42
I stared at the satellite radio, listening hard.
“Judge Abby Dobney ruled in favor of Jasmine Peebles, granting her a preliminary injunction against any other possible claims to the Dallas Cowboys’ controlling ownership. While the court believes ownership will be split among the parties, an initial review of the facts suggests Ms. Peebles will end up with a controlling interest. The court’s preliminary finding allows her to continue to control the team until such time as a permanent resolution should be found. Whew. That was a mouthful.”
For some reason, both of those morons laughed some more. The first Sportz Dog rattled the paper again. “So, sounds like the kid still gets a slice of the team, but the stepmom, Jasmine Peebles, is running the show.”
“And our sources tell us that Jasmine Peebles is a Hamhock fan.”
“So maybe we get rid of Ivy Boy Cowan?”
“What’s that? Some form of foot fungus?”
They busted out laughing some more.
I looked at Coach Cowan, whose jaw was set. I knew Ivy Boy referred to his Harvard Ivy League background.
“Doesn’t sound good, does it?” Jackson asked.
The coach winced and snapped off the radio. “Well, it’s just a preliminary injunction. Sounds like nothing is final. These court cases are like a football season. Lots of games left to play.”
“It’s never good to lose the opener, though,” I said, trying to remember which famous coach I was quoting. “Sets a bad tone.”
“Well, sorry about that, Ryan,” Coach Cowan said.
“Because you wasted a trip to visit me.” I couldn’t help being a grump, even though I knew he must be as upset about this news as I was.
“I didn’t waste anything. You’ll still end up with something. Even these clowns said that.”
“A minority owner, with no say and no swing.”
“Whoa. That’s sounding a little spoiled, no?” Coach Cowan laughed and snorted. “Lotta kids would be happy with a couple hundred million dollars’ worth of an NFL team.”
“Yeah, Ryan—that’s kinda awesome anyway,” Jackson added.
“I don’t need money, Coach. I thought I owned the Dallas Cowboys. That made me someone. Coach Hubbard was going to build his offense around me.”
“Your coach didn’t care if you owned the team. He seemed pretty open to running the spread, Jackson at running back, and you at QB. I think he may still do it. It’s not controlling the Cowboys, but it’s something.”
“Coach Hubbard will forget the plays you taught him by the time he brushes his teeth tonight, let alone be able to learn the new ones.” All I could do was lean my head against the window and groan.
“Not if I keep in touch with him,” Coach Cowan said.
“You’d do that?” My mouth fell open. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Whether or not you own the Cowboys or are kind of my boss doesn’t matter. I like you, Ryan. You’re a good kid. And you remind me of Kellen. I like quarterbacks like you guys. I was like that, too.”
We were halfway home when my mom called. “There are TV trucks on the street. Tell Coach Cowan to drive right past them. I’ve already told them the first one to set foot on our property will spend the night in jail.”
“Jail?” All I could think was that I needed as much positive press as I could get. Maybe it would influence the judges. I had no idea how all that worked, but it didn’t seem wise to threaten the TV reporters. Besides, I was aching for a little attention.
“Yes,” she said, “jail. I’ll not have them harassing us.”
“Mom, maybe I should just talk to them. Have that press conference?” I gave Coach Cowan a hopeful look. “People are all talking about it anyway. Coach and I just heard it on the radio.”
“We are not commenting, Ryan.” Her voice left no doubts. “If you end up running the team—which still sounds absolutely crazy—but if, then we’ll script a press conference and you can make a statement. We are not going to let the media control this.”
We reached the end of my street and I could see the trucks.
“Put Coach Cowan on, please,” my mom said.
I did and I watched him nod as he slowed down and turned around. “Yes, of course. I understand. Sure. I think that would be really nice. Yes, we’ll meet you there.”