by Tim Green
“I gotta win this thing.”
“I know you do.” She sounded so sad.
“I’m gonna call Coach Hubbard to work on our plan,” I said.
“Leave no stone unturned,” she said. “That’s the way to do things.”
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Mom told me because it was Sunday afternoon to make sure I apologized for calling him on the phone, and I did. Coach Hubbard said it was no problem, but told me that he was at a barbecue with his wife’s family and suggested that instead we meet before school started in his office the next morning.
I hung up, panicked, because this thing was more important to me than it was to my coach. I wondered if it was because he thought Simpkin would return. That would ruin everything, and I began to fret.
“Relax,” my mom said. “Just do everything you can do. He said he’d meet you early tomorrow. That’s good, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Better than nothing.”
I decided there was nothing I could do about Simpkin. I had to carry on as if that just wasn’t going to happen. I worked all night, reviewing and memorizing plays, and the next morning my mom dropped me off early as planned.
Coach Hubbard and I got after it. No messing around. We hit the grease board, diagramming Eiland’s defenses and drawing up our own plays against them, proving to each other like math formulas how they could work. We looked for weaknesses in their strategy, as well as ours, making little adjustments even beyond what Coach Cowan had suggested that could be the difference between winning and losing.
“If they move Dillon up to the line on the outside,” Coach Hubbard said, circling the X on the board that represented my half brother and drawing an arrow that moved him to the line, “you’ll have to check to the toss going the other way.”
“I can run the boot right at him, Coach.” My face felt hot with excitement. “I can juke him out or throw it right over his stupid head.”
Coach Hubbard’s shoulders slumped. He turned and looked at me. “Ryan, don’t let your pride get in the way. Dillon is the best player we’re gonna see this whole season. He’s big and fast as a cat. You see him, you run Jackson the other way. No questions, okay?”
I couldn’t hide my disappointment.
“Hey,” he said, “am I letting Coach Cowan help me with this plan? Yes, I am. Now, if I put my pride in front of my good sense, I’d tell him to leave me alone. But I want to win, and when you want to win, you put yourself second. Understand?”
I nodded but didn’t understand completely, to be honest.
I didn’t have time to think too much about it, though, because Coach Hubbard shut down the lights and played some Eiland game tape for me, pointing out the keys to their defense and rewinding plays over and over so I could get a feel for what they were doing and how it would look. It was impossible not to notice Dillon. He stuck out like a swollen thumb on a hand, big and bold and in your face. He flew around, smashing people and popping up from the ground to lord over his victims. Just watching him made me furious, but also that much more determined to defeat him.
After my session with Coach Hubbard, I marched around the hallways with my head high. When I saw Izzy, I acted like nothing was wrong even though I couldn’t stop being a little mad about her friending Dillon. At lunch everyone was talking about the big game. If we won, the student council was definitely going to have a bonfire that evening. Jackson made fun of Griffin when he learned that he’d asked Mya to be his date to the bonfire. Mya’s face turned red and she stared at the table.
“We’re really, really good friends.” Griffin looked defiant.
Jackson had a mouthful of milk and he snorted so hard it shot out his nose. “Really, really good? Dude, you sound like you’re talking about a piece of candy. Saturday is the biggest game of the season, maybe the biggest game of your life. You gotta be in the right frame of mind.”
I couldn’t help snickering, but I hid it behind my sandwich because of the furious look on Izzy’s face. I suspected the “really, really good friends” thing was code for boyfriend or girlfriend.
“Leave him alone, Jackson. The bonfire isn’t until after the game.” Izzy scolded him with a finger. “It’s nice, Griffin. I admire you for asking Mya. Who wouldn’t want to take Mya to the bonfire?”
I looked down and studied my shoelaces. I retied them three times before I got them just right and by that time Estevan and Jackson were entertaining everyone in the cafeteria by having a contest to see who could hold his breath longer. Both were turning different shades of red. Thankfully the bell rang before either of them passed out and I scrambled for my next class, glad to have escaped.
In gym class, I ignored the talk I overheard between two teammates about Jason Simpkin being cleared by the doctor to play again. I felt just a quick pang of worry before I shucked it off. I couldn’t waste my time thinking about Simpkin. I had Eiland to think about. I trusted that between Coach Cowan’s help and my extra work that Coach Hubbard was fully on my side.
Jason was small potatoes, right? I was in the big leagues now. In my mind, I was getting ready to play for all the marbles: not just owning the Dallas Cowboys, but my own football career, too. It was like if I dominated this game and we won, all my dreams would come true. I felt like I had it under control. Coach Hubbard’s upbeat excitement that morning had given me a turbo boost. I could tell I had nothing to worry about when it came to Coach Hubbard.
All was well until I walked out onto the practice field.
When I saw who was standing there having an intense conversation with Coach Hubbard, my knees buckled.
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Maybe to remind Coach Hubbard exactly who and what he was, Mr. Simpkin had a dark-blue cap with gold letters reading PYFL COACH tugged down on his thick head. Built the size of Coach Hubbard, but more evenly proportioned with bulging arms and a neck of concrete rather than flab, Mr. Simpkin cut an imposing figure, the way you’d expect a rhino to impress you more than a hippo. Mr. Simpkin’s arms were short and stout and his thick hands fluttered at Coach Hubbard, adding punctuation to the words he spit through tight white lips.
They stared hard at each other and the players who were already out for practice had shied away to other parts of the field, so they stood isolated on the fifty-yard line. I was drawn to the scene the way people need to see what comes out of a crushed car in a traffic accident. I actually heard a few snatches of Mr. Simpkin’s snarled words, like “when I was at SMU,” “because of injury,” “pip-squeak,” “tough luck,” “this program,” and “my son.”
When the two of them realized they weren’t alone, they stopped talking suddenly and glared at me.
“Ryan, we’re having a private conversation. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Coach Hubbard sounded nothing like the man I’d met with in his office that morning.
Desperate to remind him of our unspoken deal, I blurted out the next best thing to invoking Coach Cowan’s name as I backed away. “I was just . . . those new plays you put in . . . to ask you about . . . against a cover two . . . I . . .”
They both battered me with their scowls until I turned my back and jogged off toward the end zone, where I distractedly played catch with Jackson while he prattled on too loudly about how unbelievable it was to have been in the Cowboys locker room! Normally, I would have enjoyed Jackson’s praises because of the respect it injected into my teammates by reminding them of my rise in the world of football, but now, with my fate being discussed by two thick-necked football coaches, none of that seemed to matter.
I realize that’s because the things you have aren’t half as important as the things you are. I wanted to be a football player. More than a kid owner?
Absolutely. Not even close.
I couldn’t tell anything at all by the way the two men parted company. Mr. Simpkin chugged away kicking up little puffs of dust from the dry turf. I watched him through the fence surrounding the field. He climbed into his Tahoe truck and backed out of his spot, the windshield flashing a b
linding light from the sun’s reflection before it disappeared from the parking lot. Coach Hubbard was busy with Coach Vickerson. The two of them were studying the practice plan and making notes beneath the hot sun.
Off to the side, Jason Simpkin sat on his helmet talking to Bryan Markham like he hadn’t a care in the world.
I had a bad feeling.
We warmed up, stretching and doing agility drills. Next was individual drills and Jason Simpkin stood tall, firing passes and making loudmouth remarks whenever he had a good pass.
“Feel that heat?” Simpkin snorted with laughter. “No more ducks, boys.”
I know he was referring to my wobbly throws that barely made their mark.
I reared back and did my best on the next throw. It wasn’t bad, a hard throw, but wobbly I have to admit. Simpkin snorted again. Everyone around us only watched and waited to see how things would play out.
We did team defense first, which was torture because the question I had wouldn’t be answered until Coach Hubbard called for the first team offense. Part of me couldn’t believe he’d risk the connection with Coach Cowan, the new and improved offense, and my kind regards as owner (in whole or part) of the Dallas Cowboys.
We toiled through team defense with Coach Vickerson making the calls and Coach Hubbard showing us the scout team cards so we could mimic Eiland’s offense. I took the first reps at quarterback on the scout team, but Simpkin didn’t even seem interested. It was like he knew what was going to happen, and still, I also knew Simpkin was the kind of jerk who’d act like he was the starter even if he wasn’t.
Defense ended and Coach Hubbard hollered for us to take a break at the water horse. We jogged off to where a long plastic pipe with holes punched in it sat, so ten at a time could take a drink. Simpkin muscled into the front of the group, swallowed big, then stood up with a huge belch too hard to ignore. He strutted around through the team like a tom turkey, his helmet raised and tilted slightly back like some kind of space-age crown. I looked at Jackson and rolled my eyes. Jackson only shrugged.
I was too uptight to do more than rinse my mouth with water. I thought whatever I did swallow might come right back up on me.
Coach Hubbard blasted his whistle. “Okay! First team offense, here we go!”
Estevan stood still, knowing he was the second-string quarterback whoever went in first. I took off like a jackrabbit, buckling my chin strap as I went, but saw Simpkin from the corner of my eye, running toward where the first team offense was to huddle up just like I was. We arrived at Coach Hubbard’s spot on the grass like whistled-in dogs, panting and eager.
I couldn’t read Coach Hubbard’s expression to save my life.
He looked back and forth between us both and consulted his practice plan, as if he needed it to find the answer.
When Coach Hubbard opened his mouth to speak, I swallowed so hard that I nearly choked on my tongue.
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I knew what Coach Hubbard was going to say before he said it.
He couldn’t even look at me as he cleared his throat. “Simpkin, you run with the first team. I can’t have a player losing his starting spot because of an injury. That’s just not how it’s done in any big program, even the pros and college.”
I stood frozen. I could feel the fury building up inside of me like hot lava, melting everything else away, vaporizing my manners, my self-control, and my good sense.
“You got it, Coach.” Simpkin jogged off to take over my huddle.
Then it happened. I blew a gasket. I lost it.
“Simpkin’s dad got to you?” I screamed. I whipped off my helmet and slammed it on the ground. “I saw it! I know!”
“Excuse me?!” Coach Hubbard’s face was red with rage and he brandished his clipboard at me like it was a battle-ax. “You’re way out of line! You don’t own this team! You’re out for the day. Keep it up and you’ll be out for the Eiland game! Now, hit the showers!”
“Ahhhhh!” I pulled my hair and shrieked with rage and stomped off toward the locker room without my helmet, without my starting job, and without a thread of sanity to keep me from trashing my locker like a cyclone. If I didn’t play in that game, I’d lose the Cowboys for sure. I had to win that game, not Ben Sauer Middle School. If I was on the bench, it would be like a forfeit. Mr. Dietrich had been clear about that.
I went wild.
I yanked everything out and threw things as hard as I could against the opposite bank of lockers, screaming all the while. As the snowstorm of papers from my science folder cascaded down from their explosion on the ceiling, my vision cleared and I realized my life was in total ruin.
Did I cry?
Let’s just say I sniffed and wiped something from my eyes that could have been sweat. It was like an oven in there.
I went into the bathroom and puked in the toilet and it seemed to empty me of a lot of poison.
Anyway, I picked up the mess I’d made in the locker room and steeled myself to do the right thing, which was to march out onto the field and apologize to my coach and hope and pray that he’d make me do a thousand up-downs until I puked myself (again) and then let me back onto the team. I wasn’t going to be known as a quitter or a whiner or some spoiled brat. If I had to ride the bench forever and endure the sneers of everyone, I wasn’t going to quit. They wouldn’t be able to say that about me.
My helmet lay where I’d thrown it. The team was in full swing of the offensive practice, with Jason Simpkin running the old offense like he hadn’t missed a beat. As I reached down into the grass and wiped the dirt off my mouth guard, Simpkin launched a pass close to fifty yards in the air to a wide receiver in the end zone. It was something I could never do and it stung like soap in my eyes to see.
I walked over to Coach Hubbard. He ignored me until I tapped him on the arm. He signaled a play to a smirking Jason Simpkin before he took a deep breath and spoke without looking at me. “I thought I sent you to the showers.”
“Coach, I’m sorry. I never should have yelled at you. I don’t know what happened to me. I lost it. I’m . . . Can I come back?”
Coach Hubbard made me stand there, suffering. He looked at his sheet and signaled in another play to the huddle as if I didn’t exist. Simpkin threw another long touchdown pass.
Coach Hubbard sighed. “Take five laps and then get out there on the scout team at cornerback.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And Zinna, if you ever talk to me that way again, you are done.”
I nodded and bolted for the perimeter of the field before he could change his mind, taking off like a jackrabbit for the second time that day.
I ran until I was dizzy. A knife of pain jabbed my ribs and my lungs felt like bags of acid. If I had anything left in my gut, I would have lost it, but I already left my lunch in the locker room. I was gasping and wheezing, but I jumped right out onto the field to relieve the scout team cornerback. He happily jogged off to the sideline for a break.
I noticed now that Jackson was on the scout team playing defensive end, and between plays I whispered to him. “What happened? Why are you not on offense?”
He shot me an angry look. “I mouthed off about how you should be our starting quarterback, and they benched me.”
“What?” My voice was barely more than a hiss.
“I didn’t go for that bull.” His nostrils flared and he glanced over at Coach Hubbard, who was busy instructing Simpkin on something while the rest of the offense watched. Coach Vickerson marched away from us after having shown the scout defense the card for the next play. “I told them you were the only quarterback who could beat Eiland.”
I felt an uncomfortable mix of joy and horror. “Well . . . thanks.”
“You’d have done it for me, too,” he said.
I swallowed, thinking of the touchdown I’d stolen from Jackson and how I’d been mad at him for getting all the attention after our game. “Jeez, Jackson. You’re the best. I feel . . . kind of bad.”
“What are you talking about?
” he asked. “Why?”
I swallowed. My mouth was all dry, but I felt like I had to tell him. “Well, I changed the play during the Hutchinson game so I could score instead of you. I got bent out of shape that you were like the hero. That’s not a good friend.”
He grinned and slapped my back. “Aw, you’re just a competitor. I don’t care about stuff like that. There are enough touchdowns to go around.”
I nodded in amazement. Jackson was the best friend ever. All I could do was whisper another thanks before I got into my position.
“Okay,” Coach Hubbard suddenly shouted at the whole team. “Five plays to end it. Live scrimmage! LIVE SCRIMMAGE! I WANT TO SEE SOME HITTING! WE GOT A BIG GAME SATURDAY! WE GOT EILAND! LET’S GO!”
The whole team let loose a roar. Live scrimmage was the real deal. We got to hit each other full speed, blocking, tackling, the works, and it was just what I needed to vent some excess rage.
The offense marched to the line and Simpkin roared out the cadence. He dropped back to pass; Griffin Engle and I smashed into each other before he sidestepped me and raced down the field. I fell back into coverage, running alongside Griffin, each of us slapping at the other’s hands for position.
When I heard the crack, I stopped in my tracks and turned to look along with everyone else.
What I saw, I couldn’t believe.
71
Jackson was stomping around bellowing and throwing his fists at the ground as if he were trying to shed the sleeves of some invisible winter coat. The rest of the team stood frozen in shock. Coach Hubbard’s mouth hung open. Coach Vickerson gripped his head like it might fly off his neck.
Lying in a stone-still heap on the turf was Jason Simpkin and the football that had spilled from his hands.
“Yes!” Jackson snorted and thumped his helmet, still flush with the excitement of a monster hit. “Big dog gotta eat!”
Coach Hubbard began blowing shrill notes on his whistle, as if enough ear-shattering blasts might turn back time. They couldn’t, and he finally stopped and rushed over to Jason. For a moment, I was shocked—I won’t honestly say afraid—at the idea that Jackson had killed Simpkin, but Simpkin began to groan and twist on the ground.