Cody's Varsity Rush

by Todd Hafer

  Cody sprinted to the coaches, helmet in his hand. “Yes, Coach?” he said.

  Alvin poked a thumb in Coach Morgan’s direction. “You know this guy, right? The head honcho?”

  Cody formed his words carefully. “Yes, of course, sir. Is there something I can do for you, Coach Morgan?”

  A smile played at the corners of Coach Morgan’s mouth. “Yes, there is, son. Play a whale of a game out there. I’ll be watching.”

  “Yes sir,” Cody said, nodding so hard that he was almost bowing. As he trotted back to his teammates, he swallowed hard. It felt like a hard-boiled egg had lodged in his throat. Oh, boy, he thought. This is not good. This is sooooo not good. I don’t need that kinda scrutiny!

  Cody lay on his back on a bench in the locker room, his chest heaving. He could feel his heart thundering not just in his chest but in his neck, in his head. On the last play of the first half, Maranatha’s QB had attempted a desperation pass to the end zone, to the wideout Cody was covering. The pass was five yards short of the end zone, and Cody broke back to the ball, using his body to shield the receiver.

  He locked the ball in his hands and took off like a sprinter down the right sideline. Seeing two defenders looming ahead near midfield, he angled back to the center of the field. He hurdled one of his own players—he thought it was Brett Evans—at the Maranatha forty-five and deftly sidestepped a wouldbe tackler at the thirty. He thought he was home free, but as he crossed the twenty, he was jerked back suddenly. Someone had clamped onto the back of his shoulder pads.

  He tried to twist away, hoping to fling the defender off of him, but then someone hit him below the knees. As he fell, he hoped he wouldn’t land on the ball.

  He didn’t. What he did do was wriggle from underneath the two Crusader defenders and sprint to the nearest referee, furiously signaling for a time-out. He had checked the clock before the play. Twenty-eight seconds had remained. Even with his adventurous romp across the field, he knew there was still time for a field goal attempt.

  And Mark Goddard’s kick was true, from twenty-nine yards out. He was no ATV, but he split the uprights to give the frosh Eagles a 10–7 halftime lead.

  Goddard was standing by him now, blond hair plastered to his scalp. “That was some sweet pick and runback, Cody. Thanks for giving me another field goal try. I feel bad I shanked that one in the first quarter.”

  Cody sat up slowly. “You put us ahead, Mark. Just keep your head down on your kicks and you’ll be fine. As for the pick, the way that QB lofted it up there, I knew it was gonna be a can of corn for somebody. I was just lucky enough he put it near me.”

  Coach Vance called for the players to gather near a whiteboard on a mobile easel that he had parked near the showers. He didn’t look like a man whose team was winning. “Some of you,” he began ominously, “need to decide if you want to play high school football. Because your effort stinks. For example, Cody Martin makes a great pick and gets his skinny booty up the field in a big hurry. But does anybody make the transition from defense to offense and lay some blocks for him? Except for Mark Goddard and Brett Evans, the answer is no! Evans falls down because he wants to blow his guy up, not just impede him till Cody can get by. I can’t fault that kind of effort. The point is, we should be up by a touchdown right now, not just a field goal.”

  Cody dared a quick scan of the locker room. Heads were hanging.

  Coach Vance sipped from a water bottle, then continued. “One more thing. Paul Getman.” The coach trained his eyes on the tight end/strong safety. “When the opposing QB throws the ball in the end zone, you don’t tip it up in the air, going for the interception. Unless you are sure you can make the pick, you do what Martin did on the fourth play of the game—you knock the stinkin’ ball down! Got that?”

  Getman nodded, his eyes still trained on the floor.

  The Coach diagrammed a few defensive adjustments, then sent the team back on the field. Pork Chop was waiting near the locker room entrance, smiling approvingly. “Cody Martin, you are blowin’ stuff up. An interception, three pass deflections, and a sack on a corner blitz. You’re a beast, my brother! Next time you come out to the farm for dinner, I’m gonna tell the Old Boy not to even cook your steak. You can just eat it raw!”

  “Thanks, Chop,” Cody said.

  “You did only one thing wrong,” Chop called from behind him as he jogged down to the field. “You shoulda scored on that I-N-T return. You gotta get your speed on next time!”

  Cody chuckled. Chop was probably right. He shouldn’t have been caught from behind, even if those guys hadn’t run almost the whole length of the field, as he had. But the worst part of being caught wasn’t that it exposed his lack of speed. When he had first felt that hand clamp on him, he thought it belonged to Gabe Weitz. Yet another sign, he told himself, that you are, one by one, losing your marbles.

  The Crusaders kept the ball on the ground for most of the third quarter. They did try one shallow crossing route to the tight end, but Cody and Brett dragged him down for just a short gain.

  The scoreboard remained frozen at 10–7 as the game wound down to its final fifty-eight seconds. Maranatha began a final drive at its own thirty-eight, after Goddard shanked a punt.

  Two running plays moved the ball to the Grant forty, but they also used up the Crusaders’ final time-outs.

  “They’ll have to put the ball in the air now,” Brett told his teammates in the defensive huddle. “Be ready.”

  “One more thing,” Cody said. He felt ten face masks turn in his direction. He wondered if he had ever said anything in a huddle before. He couldn’t remember.

  “What’s up, Code?” Brett asked, prompting him.

  Cody cleared his throat, hoping that some sound would emanate from his voice box. “Their QB is tired,” he said. “He’s floating his passes. Look for ’em to run shallow patterns and try for a catch-and-run. Or catch-and-lateral.”

  He saw his teammates nodding in agreement.

  Maranatha lined up with no one in the backfield except for the quarterback. Two receivers flanked either side of the line. Cody took the inside receiver on the strong side. The receiver fired off the ball and ran a seven-yard down-and-in. Cody shadowed him, giving him more cushion than he normally would. He knew the team could live with a seven-yard gain to the middle of the field. In fact, such a play might run out the clock.

  The Maranatha QB cocked the ball behind his ear and let it fly. Cody knew the ball wasn’t intended for his man the moment it cleared the line of scrimmage. He hoped Getman, playing safety behind him, had his guy covered.

  Suddenly, Cody found himself leaping in the air. He didn’t think about it; he just jumped. There was no way he could have known that Getman’s man had slipped behind him.

  He felt the pebble-grain leather graze his fingertips. At first, he thought the ball would dance out of his grip, but he was able to tip it once, then secure it. His right foot touched the ground first, then his left. He paused for an instant, looking for a running lane. He had a few yards of open green in front of him to his right. He bolted in that direction.

  As he ran, an image of Craig Ward flashed in his mind, and he dropped immediately to the ground. He covered the ball with his body, waiting to hear a referee’s whistle.

  After the two teams lined up and shook hands at midfield, the Eagles surrounded Cody and escorted him to the locker room, congratulating him and hammering him across the shoulder pads all the way.

  Coach Morgan was waiting for him at the locker room entrance. “Mister Martin,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Cody followed the coach down the hallway between the men’s and women’s locker rooms, his cleats clacking across the tiled floor.

  At the hallway’s halfway point, Coach Morgan turned to him. “That defensive holding penalty you committed in the first quarter? That was not an intelligent play. And you tried to arm tackle the fullback in the third quarter. He ran right through you. You must work on those things, understand?”

&
nbsp; Cody nodded.

  “But,” Coach Morgan said, resting his hands on Cody’s shoulder pads, “I believe those were the only two mistakes you made the entire game. You kept their receivers smothered. You made two big interceptions. One easy, one difficult. I’m equally impressed with both. Too often, players muff an opportunity when it appears easy.”

  Cody fought the suspicion that he was on one of those hidden-camera shows. This one would be called “Yeah, right!” It would build up people’s egos, then smash them and trample them to the ground.

  Coach Morgan was speaking again, and Cody silently chastised himself for missing his words while he was off in fantasy land. “. . .that was the most pleasing aspect of your game. Craig Ward did that last year, you know. Made a game-saving interception, then got himself on the ground. There’s no sense in running around getting cute and trying to run out the clock when you’re protecting a lead. I’ve seen too many weird things happen. Fumbles, muffed laterals, last-second penalties.”

  “I saw that Craig Ward play,” Cody said, nodding excitedly. “It was last year’s homecoming. That’s why I did what I did. I remembered him. And I remember Doug Porter saying to me after the game, ‘That Ward is one smart football player!’”

  Coach Morgan glanced at his watch. Without looking up, he said, “That’s what Doug Porter would be saying now, if he’d seen you play today.”

  Morgan slipped past Cody and strode down the hallway. He slowed for a moment and looked over his shoulder. “Come see me tomorrow before practice. I have something I need you to do.”

  Cody had no shortage of offers for rides home, but he decided to walk. It was only a fifteen-minute trek, and the late-afternoon air felt good on his hair, still damp from the shower. He wondered what his dad’s excuse would be this time for missing an important game. Probably, “Tuesday? Who plays football on Tuesday? I’m used to Friday and Saturday games. Sorry, buddy, I guess this one just took me by surprise.”

  Cody shook his head. He had thought things were changing. His father had become more involved toward the end of baseball season, but now it seemed old patterns were reestablishing themselves. His father hadn’t been to a single practice, information meeting, or scrimmage. And now he had missed the season opener.

  He decided to think about something more uplifting—like his conversation with Coach Morgan. What was the “something” the coach needed him to do? It has to be something important, right? Cody tossed the possibilities around in his head. Maybe he wants me to at least practice with the varsity—give the receivers someone new to work against. I guess that would be okay. Of course, maybe all he wants is for someone to hold the Dial-a-Down markers during home games. Whatever it is, it’ll be cool. Because Coach Morgan is cool.

  Martin Morgan looked about the same age as Cody’s dad, forty-two. Built more like a marathon runner than a football player, Morgan had led the Grant High football team ever since Cody could remember. Unlike most of his opposing coaches, he was quiet. He didn’t stalk the sidelines barking at his players, the officials, or the opposing team.

  And he didn’t wear a headset to communicate with other coaches. “He doesn’t need guys feeding him information from the press box; he just has a feel for the game,” Doug Porter had once explained to Cody and Pork Chop. “He understands football. He makes in-game adjustments like nobody’s business. And he talks straight too. He doesn’t blow smoke and he doesn’t take cheap shots at his players, either.”

  I would love to play for Coach Morgan, Cody thought as he walked up his driveway. But just not now. Maybe in one or two years—and about twenty pounds from now!

  The TV was on when he entered the front door. He was surprised to see his father in his easy chair, curtained behind his Wall Street Journal. The scene was typical, just not at 4:30 in the afternoon. Luke Martin was a workaholic who rarely arrived home before 7:00 p.m. And where was his dad’s hopelessly old Geo? Had he actually put it in the garage?

  “Hey, Dad,” Cody said casually. “You’re home early.”

  In return, Cody received only a Neanderthal grunt.

  Okay, then, he thought. Dad’s not in a talkative mood. Maybe something went bad at the office today. He paused a moment, waiting to see if his father would lower the paper and offer a more hospitable greeting. But the paper barely rustled.

  “Well,” Cody began again, slowly, “I’m gonna go upstairs and call Robyn. I’ll be down in a few minutes, and maybe can we go to Louie’s and have pizza for dinner? The game was awesome. I want to tell you about it.”

  Another noncommittal grunt.

  Cody was halfway up the stairs when it hit him. Something was wrong. He turned around and studied his dad again. He noticed the shoes—off-brand sneakers. They had been white once but now looked as if they had been dipped in soot. They didn’t look familiar, although Luke Martin rarely wore anything resembling athletic shoes. Maybe he found those tired old kicks in the back of his closet, and he’s finally going to do some yardwork, Cody thought.

  But then he noticed the jeans. They were faded so badly that they looked almost white, rather than blue. And the legs filling them were thick, testing the seams, not the spindly limbs that Cody had inherited from his dad.

  Cody swallowed hard. Was the figure in the chair a friend of his dad’s, maybe just waiting for him to come home? No, that didn’t make sense. A friend would have introduced himself.

  He thought about bounding up the remaining stairs, grabbing the phone and calling 911. But how long would it take the police to respond? And what if the phone lines had already been cut?

  He eased down the stairs. “On second thought,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and measured, “I think I might shoot a few hoops before I call Robyn. Can’t lose my shooting touch, you know.”

  He moved toward the door. The figure lowered the paper and smiled at him.

  “Hello, Cody,” Gabe Weitz said, with a teeth-baring smile. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Chapter 4 The Speed Challenge

  Cody eyed the front door, wondering if he could get to it before Weitz grabbed him. Weitz was closer, but Weitz was also bulky and sitting down. Still—

  This may be the stupidest thing you ever do, Cody told himself as he turned and sprinted up the stairs, legs pumping like pistons. In fact it might be the last stupidest thing you ever do. He heard Weitz’s heavy footfalls on the steps behind him. But at least they were slow heavy footfalls.

  Cody whipped into his room and hurried to the lone window that overlooked the front yard. He pushed out the screen and watched it flutter to the ground. He paused and turned around, sliding his feet out the window. Slowly, he began to lower himself, as if doing a chin-up in reverse. He felt the bottom of the window frame dig into his fingers. He fought to keep his eyes above the bottom of the windowsill. He felt his legs dangling helplessly below him.

  Then Weitz was there, framed by the doorway, face crimson. Cody let his arms straighten, then released his grip. Please, God, he pleaded as he dropped, no broken ankles.

  Cody felt his feet hit the ground. Then, suddenly, he was sitting in the thick grass, which his father had neglected to mow for the past three weeks. Cautiously, Cody rose to his feet. His two-part landing hadn’t been graceful, but, aside from a sore tailbone, he seemed intact.

  He looked up at the window. Would Weitz actually try to get his hulking carcass through there? Probably not. Cody ran for the street, not sure where he would go. Far, far away was his only thought. He didn’t see Maxwell Enger until he had almost trampled him. Max was his next-door neighbor. He was either two years old, three, or ninety-nine, depending on his mood when Cody asked him. Maxwell had wandered into the street, as he was fond of doing.

  “Max,” Cody shouted, pointing to the Enger house. “Out of the street. Get home!”

  Maxwell held out both arms. “Carry me, Cody.”

  Weitz exploded out the door and ran toward Cody. Up the road, Cody saw a minivan approaching. He froze for a moment, then
scooped Maxwell into his arms. He doubted he could outrun Weitz while toting a kid, but he wasn’t going to leave Little Max, as he called him, wandering in the road.

  He sprinted toward the minivan, Max jostling against his chest. “Faster, Cody. Faster!” Max cried gleefully.

  Tomorrow, I might laugh about this, Cody thought. If I live to see tomorrow.

  He saw the van hit its brakes and go into a serpentine skid. He saw the panic in the driver’s face. He’s trying like mad to stop, and I’m running right for him, hauling a little kid in my arms, Cody thought. The poor guy must think I’m on crack!

  The van stopped. The driver was out of it, striding purposefully to erase the five yards between him and Cody. “Y-young man,” he stammered, “what in the world is going on here?”

  “Cody givin’ me a ride!” Max offered helpfully. “Fun!”

  The driver looked at Max and smiled. The smile vanished the instant he focused on Cody again. “Are you this boy’s brother? What are you thinking—running like a madman down the middle of the street? Is this man coming up to us the boy’s father?”

  Cody felt the human equivalent of a system overload. He wasn’t sure which question to tackle first. “Found . . . Max in . . . street,” he managed. “Had to get him outta there.”

  The driver spat on the street. “Running down the middle of the road is not the way to get someone out of danger.”

  “You there,” he was addressing Weitz now. “Can you shed some light on this? Or do I need to get my cell out of the van and call the police?”

  “Police!” Cody shouted, as if it were the secret word of the day on a radio contest. “Yes, call the police! Please. This guy,” he pointed an accusing forefinger at Weitz, “he broke into my house. He attacked me.”

  The driver took two steps back toward the van. Cody felt worry encircling him like a python. The guy wasn’t very big; maybe he was scared now. Maybe he was going to scurry inside his minivan and speed away.