by Tim Green
Coach handed me back the phone. “I guess we are going out for dinner?”
“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound too excited about a meal with the Cowboys head coach.
43
Even though it looked like I’d lost control of the Dallas Cowboys and the whole kid owner thing was going down the drain, lo and behold, a handful of kids appeared at our table in the lunchroom the next day. One of them was the brainiac friend of Izzy’s, Mya Thompson. Another, to my real surprise, was Estevan Marin. Estevan wanted to be a doctor like his dad and, although he wasn’t a star athlete, he was solid and well liked.
Griffin Engle was there, too. Griffin always kept to himself, a blond-headed quiet kid who made the girls giggle. Everyone respected Griffin, though, because he did well in school and was also the fastest kid in our grade.
No one said anything about joining us. We all just sat there acting like it was normal to be there. It felt nice to be part of a group and I assumed it was all because of the Cowboys. So I also assumed it wouldn’t last.
The popular table didn’t like it; I could tell by the whispers and the dirty looks they threw at the newcomers to our table. I heard Jason Simpkin in the hallway before science class picking on Estevan for “kissing up” to me and saying I wasn’t “worth a stack of pennies.”
Estevan didn’t even know I could hear through the crowded hallway, but my back straightened a bit when I heard his reply to Simpkin. “Stuff it, Jason. Ryan’s cool. I don’t care if he owns the Cowboys or not. He’s on our team.”
I was struck by the idea that maybe me owning the Cowboys wasn’t the reason people sat with us. Maybe they actually liked us? Maybe they saw things the way Izzy did, that thing about what people had on the inside. That felt pretty good, I can tell you.
Honestly? It made me feel bad for plotting all those plays for when I took over Estevan’s position as the starting quarterback. But he was cool with it. And really, nothing could make me feel bad enough to drop the idea. I just felt like it was my time to try and shine, and I’d been waiting more than a while. Even though the Cowboys might be slipping away, Coach Cowan’s visit gave me a new hold on the Ben Sauer Middle School’s seventh-grade team.
At practice that afternoon, Coach Hubbard whispered to me that he’d gotten a text from Coach Cowan. After giving me a wink, he put in the four new spread plays with me at QB. When we ran them in team period, they all worked, and I was able to convince Coach Hubbard to run some more. The whole thing made me light-headed with confidence. I felt like I could do anything and I even started changing things in the huddle like it was backyard ball instead of a highly organized offensive system.
“Jackson, this time, instead of blocking back on the Waggle play, we’ll run a back-side screen. Linemen, one hit, let your guys through, then set up a wall in front of Jackson.” I looked around at the faces of my teammates. Except for Markham’s look of disgust, everyone else looked eager and excited.
“Okay,” I said, feeling bold, “Waggle Right Screen Left on one . . .”
Markham stood straight up and hollered. “Hey, Coach! Zinna’s trying to change the play! He’s making stuff up!”
Everyone froze and Coach Hubbard chugged over to the huddle with his clipboard tucked under one arm. “What’s this?”
My mind spun fast. I knew I probably shouldn’t have changed the play on my own. I should have asked Coach Hubbard. He probably would have been okay with it. That gave me an idea. Maybe, if I gave him credit for it, he’d go along with the idea. I think his head was spinning so fast from all the new offensive stuff, he might not even remember what we had and hadn’t put in.
I jumped up and pointed at Markham. “Yeah, that’s what Coach Hubbard told me to do. He went over these plays with me yesterday. He’s working with Cody Cowan, you doofus. Coach Hubbard knows all this stuff. He taught it to me and asked me to put it in if you guys were ready. I guess everyone’s ready, Coach, except for Markham, who suddenly thinks he’s the coach.”
Markham’s jaw hung open and his yellow-rubber mouth guard peeked out at us.
Coach Hubbard hitched up his shorts, tucking the shirt in around his gut. “What’s your beef, Markham? You want to be a part of this offense or not? I’m sick of you griping. One more word and Sloan can start for you. Maybe you need to concentrate on defense.”
Markham looked like a whipped puppy, big-eyed and stupid. He shook his head and stuffed the mouth guard back behind his lips and bent down into the huddle again, steaming, but put solidly in his place.
“I got it, Coach.” I kept on pretending. “Just like you said.”
I didn’t dare look at Coach Hubbard because I knew that confusion would be covering his face.
We ran the Waggle Screen and Jackson ended up dancing in the end zone.
“Nice play, Coach.” Coach Vickerson slapped Coach Hubbard on the back and Coach Hubbard stood proud.
That was just the beginning. The rest of the day and the next, we practiced the spread offense plays with me in there, and every day we got better. Coach Cowan didn’t stop texting Coach Hubbard little snippets of encouragement and Coach Hubbard took great pride in sharing them with me.
On Friday, Coach Hubbard showed me a text he’d gotten that read, “Lead with the spread, Coach. It’ll boggle their brains.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Coach Hubbard said, nodding wisely at me.
Before practice began, he announced to the team that we’d be using the spread offense to start the game and catch our opponent, Carthage Middle School, off guard.
Everyone looked at me. Some patted my back as we began warm-ups. Even Estevan saw the sense in using such a potent weapon as the spread and he congratulated me, even though I could see he was disappointed.
Excitement swirled with fear in my gut and I could barely keep my lunch down. I looked at Jackson, who gave me a wide grin and two thumbs-up.
I was going to be the starting quarterback.
44
Izzy, Jackson, and I celebrated the good news by going back to my house after practice. We were hanging out at my pool waiting for dinner when Izzy suddenly yelped and looked up from her phone. “Oh my gosh, you’re not gonna believe this.”
“What?” Jackson and I said together.
We crowded around her deck chair and she played a link from the local Fox channel’s website. The title of the video was “Kid Owner,” so I thought it was about me, but when the image came up, it was Jasmine and my half brother, Dillon, ruling over the podium normally reserved for the Cowboys coaches and star players. Big blue Dallas stars covered the curtain behind them. John Torres and Bert Hamhock flanked the mother and son combo.
“What the—” I mumbled in shock.
You could see from cluster of microphones that all the local news stations as well as ESPN were there. Dillon wore a suit and tie, and stood nearly as tall as his mom. She had on a matching dark-blue pinstriped business outfit of her own over a white ruffled blouse.
I got red-hot mad. They were having my press conference, or at least the one I had hoped to have.
Jasmine cleared her throat and surveyed the crowd of reporters like a queen ready to pass judgment. “Good afternoon,” she began in a hoity-toity voice. “You’ve all had fun with the term ‘kid owner.’”
She looked around some more and I thought I could see her soul boiling.
“So I’d like you to continue to use the term.” She turned and smiled warmly at Dillon.
“No way,” Jackson whispered.
Jasmine tousled Dillon’s hair and even though he shot her a dirty look, she continued to grin. “Because the Cowboys do have a kid owner. . . . Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the legitimate son of Thomas Peebles, my son, Dillon Peebles. Kid owner.”
Jasmine stepped aside and I must say I was shocked and a little impressed when Dillon stepped up to the podium and glared out at the crowd of reporters with those pale-blue eyes. “My father . . . was a nice person. That’s
how people knew him.”
Dillon’s voice quavered like a tall tower of Jell-O. He gulped and it looked like he might choke. He seemed to have suddenly lost his nerve. Delight bubbled up into my nose like a soda burp. The next thing I expected out of his mouth was a stream of vomit, but he surprised everyone.
“But that’s not how you win football games.” Dillon swallowed again, but he seemed to be regaining strength from his tough talk. “You win by making tough decisions, by being tough, and that’s what I’m going to do. With my mother’s guidance, I will make the Cowboys the franchise it was in the early nineties, when Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Irvin ruled the NFL. The Dallas Cowboys are America’s team, and America deserves a winner.”
Dillon stepped away from the microphone, hands trembling but looking pleased. His mother beamed at him as she regained control of the room, leaning into the microphone. “My son is too modest.”
Now I wanted to puke. After the news of the injunction came out, my mom said Jasmine Peebles was the kind of person who didn’t know what she wanted, only that she wanted whatever other people had. My mom was right.
“Dillon is an exceptional football player himself.” Her red lipstick glowed on the screen and her teeth shone like sharpened pearls. “He was his team’s MVP last season and he’s well on his way this year. He’s played in the Eiland Elite Youth Football Program since he was six years old.”
I looked across the deck chair at Jackson and narrowed my eyes. “Did she say ‘Eiland’?”
Jackson’s lower lip disappeared beneath his teeth and he nodded. “Yup, that’s what she said.”
45
“He plays for Eiland?” I was thinking about the way people said the name “Eiland”—like it was some kind of prayer—ever since I knew what a football even was. I was thinking how we faced them in two weeks, how they hadn’t lost a game in five years, and how Dillon Peebles was one of their star players.
“Are you okay?” Izzy leaned toward me with a look of concern.
“Fine. Why?” I gulped down some bile.
“You look like you might get sick,” she said.
Jackson hopped up off his side of the chair. “Dude, don’t yak on me. One red tide is enough. That was disgusting.”
“I’m not yakking on anyone.” I scowled at my friend. “This is perfect. We’re gonna stomp all over Eiland and now it’ll be even better. I can’t wait to see that big jerk’s face when I light them up and you run for about ten touchdowns.”
Dillon wasn’t the only one who could talk tough, but, unlike the reporters listening to Dillon, my friends didn’t seem to buy my version.
“Well, they haven’t lost in five years,” Jackson said.
“You really think you can beat them?” Izzy asked, looking worried.
“Of course,” I said. “That’s football. Anyone can beat anyone.”
They looked at each other and shrugged.
“Yes,” Izzy said.
“Sure,” Jackson said.
I could smell their doubt.
Izzy brightened. “I bet Coach Cowan could help.”
“Yeah.” Jackson nodded with excitement. “He could. Can you imagine him breaking down film on Eiland and coming up with some plays that just crushed their defense?”
It was a beautiful ray of hope.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s awesome.”
“Would he do it?” Izzy said. “Help you, I mean.”
“He’s already helping me.” I didn’t want to tell them why. I didn’t want to say that I thought a lot of the reason was that he might like my mom.
“So, let’s go get us a big win tomorrow,” Jackson said, “then talk to Coach Cowan the next time you see him about giving us some help. Good?”
“You know I’ll be there rooting. You can do this, Ryan.” Izzy held out a fist.
We all bumped fists and then got called in to dinner.
Not even Teresa’s grilled shrimp with mango salsa over rice could revive my appetite. I picked at it, but mostly just moved the food around my plate, hoping no one would notice. For whatever reason, the whole thing with Dillon taking over the team and playing for Eiland had me preoccupied and super nervous about my debut as a starter the next day, even though the two things had no connection. But I just couldn’t shake the feeling.
My friends left, and I slept badly that night. In the morning, I was jittery and still sick to my stomach.
“You okay?” My mom tousled my hair at the breakfast table, where I tried to sip a glass of juice. “I mean, you have a lot going on—school, football, the whole mess with the Cowboys and Dillon.”
“Not really.” I could admit that, now that my friends weren’t around. “I feel like it’s slipping away, you know?”
“You shouldn’t let that get to you. What will be, will be, Ryan. And maybe it’s for the best.”
I shrugged. “Honestly? I’m even more worried about the game today. I’ve never been a starting quarterback.”
My mom sat down across from me with a mug of coffee in both hands. She breathed in the steam and smiled. “It’s very exciting, Ryan. I know how long you’ve waited for this chance. I thought I’d be nervous—all those big kids chasing after you so they can smash you into the dirt—but I’m not.”
“Smash me into the dirt? Great, Mom.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“Well, you know how I’ve always worried about you getting hurt, but I looked into it. First of all, very few youth players die.”
I did a double take and studied her face. “Mom! Are you serious? Die?”
She looked genuinely shocked. “I . . . I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m not doing a good job of trying to show my support. I know this is so important to you. I just wanted you to know that I am rooting for you.”
I nodded. “I’ve got to just go do this thing.” I pushed back from the table and went upstairs to my room, where I dry-heaved in my bathroom until my stomach felt like a clenched fist.
I staggered downstairs and said nothing as she drove me to the school. When I got out, she leaned over the seat. “I won’t ask for a kiss or anything, but good luck, Ryan. Go get ’em. I’m going to do a little shopping, but I’ll be back for the game by kickoff, and I’ll be watching.”
I couldn’t even talk, so I just nodded again. I closed the door, slung my sports duffel bag over my shoulder, and turned for the school as my mom’s truck rumbled off.
I staggered into the locker room like a zombie, trying my hardest to keep a tough-guy look plastered onto my face.
What I saw hanging from the handle of my locker made me almost certain that what was about to happen would be a total disaster.
46
Jackson hadn’t arrived yet. I was pretty certain that if he’d been in the locker room, whoever did what they did to my locker wouldn’t have dared. But Jackson was running late and there it was, taped by one corner: a pink-and-white baby diaper.
I wanted to cry, really, but knew if I did that, it would be the end for sure. I wasn’t upset that someone was suggesting I was a baby girl. It was the lack of respect that hurt me. How could someone—a teammate—insult their own starting quarterback on the day of a big game? It cut me to the core.
Instead of tearing up, I bit the inside of my cheek and marched right up to my locker. I tore the diaper down and chucked it in the trash before dumping my bag on the bench and going about my business as if nothing had happened. As I pulled the shoulder pads over my head, Jackson arrived, wild-eyed, snorting steam, and ready for action. I stole a look at Bryan Markham. He sat polishing his helmet and grinning at Jason Simpkin, who was dressed in street clothes, since he still couldn’t play because of his injury. Neither of them looked my way, so I couldn’t be totally certain it had been them who’d hung the diaper, but that would have been my best bet. I knew Estevan was upset about not starting, but we were friends. Plus, he just wasn’t that kind of kid.
My limbs felt like they’d been frozen and had yet to thaw. M
y hands trembled as I buckled up my chin strap, putting my helmet on before everyone else, knowing that I was giving in to the urge to hide but unable to stop myself.
“Let’s do this thing, baby!” Jackson smacked my shoulder pads with both fists and my head swam. “Wahoo! Big dog’s gonna eat today! Touchdown Daddy! Dancin’ in the end zone!”
I shuffled off, ignoring my friend as best I could, struck by the term “baby” even though I knew he had no idea about the diaper. He was caught up in his own craze and I just couldn’t seem to find my rudder. I was drifting and floating and lucky I could even get myself out onto the field, where a handful of teammates and coaches from both teams hung around on the grass, sizing each other up from the corners of their eyes. In the stands, hundreds of people were already waiting for kickoff. This is Texas and Ben Sauer Middle School feeds into Highland High School, one of the top programs in the land, so there was a huge audience.
“Ryan!” Coach Hubbard shouted, pointing at me. “Come here!”
I jogged his way and tried to listen as he licked his lips and ran through the plays, bug-eyed with nervousness. He actually made me feel somewhat normal. He wasn’t as shaken as me, but he was a close second. Coach Vickerson, on the other hand, joked and laughed with the Carthage Middle School coaches like they were old buddies.
Coach Hubbard peered past me nervously. “So, how you feeling?”
I cleared my throat to keep from squeaking. “Good, Coach.”
He looked at me with obvious disbelief. “Yeah. Good. This spread . . . I like it. If we get the run game going, it’ll be tough to stop.”
I nodded and spilled out what I knew like the nervous ninny I was. “That’s what the spread does. You take what they give you. They always give you something. Every defense. If we can run the ball with one back—and you know we can after what Jackson did in practice—then they’ll have to choose. Either they line up more guys in the box to stop Jackson or they play enough guys to cover everyone who goes out for a pass and keep a free safety in the middle. You have to pick one, unless they sneak a twelfth man onto the field.”