by Todd Hafer
Cody heaved a relieved sigh when the driver poked his hand inside the van and snatched his cell phone. He hit one key and held the phone to his ear. I wonder if he has the police on speed dial, Cody thought.
While the driver waited for his call to connect, he stared at Weitz, who was bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, panting and coughing. “Is what this boy says true, sir?” the man asked.
Weitz looked up, held his palms up, and shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I saw this guy running down the road with a kid in his arms. The kid looked scared. So I decided to run after him to check it out.”
“You’re a liar!” Cody spat the words out like rotten food. The anger in his voice shocked him.
Cody turned back to the driver, who was mumbling something into his cell phone. “Okay, then, see you in a few.” He smiled at Cody and Weitz, but there was no humor in the smile. “Just called a friend of mine. Paul Vance. Coaches football at the high school. He’ll be here in less than five minutes. So you both sit tight. Now I’m calling the police.”
Cody looked at Weitz. “Mr. Vance is my football coach. We’ll see who he believes. You are so busted. I can’t believe you broke into our house!” Cody pictured his sturdy coach, with a pushed-in boxer’s nose. He looked like he had been in a few scraps. Meanwhile, he saw something in Weitz’s eyes—panic.
Slowly, Weitz began backing away. Then he turned and jogged back down the street. “Hey, wait just a minute!” the driver called. But then apparently a voice on his cell phone interrupted him.
Cody lowered Max to the ground as he watched Weitz climb into a battered Nissan truck that was parked in the street opposite Cody’s house. I wondered whose Loser-Mobile that was, Cody thought.
Coach Vance arrived five minutes after Weitz drove away. Cody explained the entire saga. The harassment, the threats, the beat-down from Doug Porter. The coach’s face grew progressively redder as Cody went on.
When Cody finished, Coach Vance looked him in the eyes. “Martin, you need to tell your father about this tonight. You need to report this to the police right away. This Weitz fella has broken the law. That needs to be dealt with.”
“There you are, ya little snot!” The abrasive voice of Max’s mother preempted Cody’s response. “When are you going to learn to quit creeping out of the house?”
Max looked at his mom and smiled. “Cody give me a ride!” he said. “Cody strong!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Mrs. Enger said, slinging Max on her hip. “Thanks, Toby, for tracking down this little twerp. Again.”
“It’s Cody,” he said softly, but he doubted that she heard him.
“That’s what I like to see,” Coach Vance said when the departing duo was out of earshot, “a mom with a cigarette in one hand and a little kid in the other.” He put one hand on his jawbone, the other on the opposite temple, and gave his neck a sharp twist. The resulting crack made Cody shudder. “Anyhow, remember what I said about the police.”
“But Coach,” Cody protested. “Didn’t your friend already call them?”
The coach shook his head. “That was just a bluff, right, Irv?”
“Yeah,” the driver said sheepishly. “I just called for the time and temperature. I figured Paul was better than the police. He’s not worried about the whole brutality thing.”
“That’s right,” Coach Vance said. “Videotape me putting the beat-down on some loser, and I’ll put it on the Net and charge $29.95 per viewing!”
Cody paced the living room waiting for his dad to get home. It was 8:30 before he pulled in the driveway. He tugged Beth behind him, holding her hand like a teacher leading a little kid on a field trip.
“I think I’m gonna puke,” Cody muttered.
He stood in the front-door entrance. “Dad,” he said as soon as the door opened, “I have to tell you something!”
“Whoa there, buddy-o,” his dad chuckled. “Let us get inside first. Besides, we have something to tell you. And there’s no way your news can trump ours.”
“But, Dad—”
“Cody,” his dad’s voice was uncharacteristically stern. “Don’t be rude. Please sit down.”
Cody shrugged helplessly and obeyed.
“Cody,” his father began, “you know that Beth and I have been together for quite some time now. And you know we’ve grown quite close to each other. And Beth has grown quite fond of you as well.” As if on cue, Cody’s dad looked to Beth, who smiled at Cody and nodded.
His dad was talking again. It sounded as if he were reading a prepared speech. “I have told you the simple truth that I am not the kind of person who was meant to be alone. And I believe that God acknowledged that and brought Beth into my life. And so, after much thought and prayer, I have asked Beth to marry me. Thank goodness, tonight she said yes. We shall be married soon. Most likely early November.”
Cody tried to let the words sink in. That was just two-and-a-half months away. Why so soon? were the words that formed in his mind, but he decided they were best kept there.
“Cody,” his dad said, forcing his mouth into a smile, “don’t you have anything to say?”
“Sorry, Dad. I guess I’m just surprised. Plus, it’s been kind of a weird day. Congratulations, really, to both of you.” He moved to his dad and hugged him. Beth was next. Still wearing too much perfume, Cody thought as he embraced her awkwardly. She raised on her tiptoes and kissed the top of his head.
Man, I hate when she does that, he thought.
“Would you like to see the ring?” she asked, her voice going up about an octave on the word “ring.”
“Sure,” Cody said. So much for “Thou shalt not lie,” he thought.
After Beth dangled her left hand in front of Cody’s face, she and his dad began gushing about their wedding plans. Finally, his dad drew in a deep breath and leveled his eyes at Cody. “And buddy-o,” he said, his voice cracking around the edges, “I want you to be my best man. That would mean so much to me.”
“Sure, Dad,” Cody answered, wondering if his smile looked as fake and forced as it felt.
His father thanked him, then launched into a detailed description of the best man’s responsibilities.
When that discourse was finally over, his father stood. “I’m going to take Beth home now. Maybe stop somewhere for coffee and dessert. Oh—what was your news, Cody? I hope it’s as good as ours.”
Cody watched the two of them, arms around each other, smiling like they were doing a toothpaste commercial. “Oh, it’s nothing, Dad. Just had a really good game this afternoon. That’s all.”
“Way to go, tiger,” his dad said. It sounded like a line from a high school play.
“Yeah, way to go,” Beth added. Then they were gone, giggling all the way to the car.
Cody stood sandwiched between Paul Goddard and a lanky junior named Dilts on the south goal line of the practice field. Brett, next to Dilts, shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other.
Coach Morgan and Coach Alvin faced them. The rest of the team stood along the east sideline looking on. “As you know,” the head coach began, “we have been decimated by injuries. Because of this, I have adjusted our defense from a forty-three set to a fifty-three. As often as we can, we’ll go with three DBs and put an extra guy up front. But three of the teams remaining on our schedule have fine quarterbacks and good receivers. We can’t give them a skeleton defensive backfield to pick apart. In those cases, we’ll need two corners and two safeties.”
Cody exchanged a quick glance with Brett. They both knew what was coming.
“Our challenge,” Coach Alvin added, after getting an approving nod from Coach Morgan, “is that we are seriously hurting at cornerback. Dalton Rhodes has plenty of corner experience, and we’ll be okay with him replacing Craig Ward. Goddard, you have done an adequate job of moving from safety to corner. But we are concerned about your speed. So we’re going to stage a little race. We know what your forty-yard-dash times are wearing shorts. But we need to s
ee who is the fastest in full pads.”
With that, both coaches stepped aside. “It’s one hundred yards to the other goal line, gentlemen,” Coach Alvin said. “On my whistle, I want you all to run like crazy. Whoever wins doesn’t have to run gassers tonight. And he gets to play some games as starting varsity cornerback.”
Dilts poked his hand up. “So does that mean, like, we’re gonna race?”
Coach Alvin stared at Dilts. “No, genius, it means we’re gonna bake cookies!” He looked to his boss. “Coach Morgan, was I unclear about anything I said?”
The head coach’s face was expressionless. “No,” he said, “I don’t believe you were.”
“I didn’t think so. Now, if there are no more questions, may we begin?”
“Yes sir,” Dilts mumbled.
“Are you sure Mister Dilts? Are you clear on which direction you are running? On how far?”
Dilts nodded.
Coach Alvin blew a shrill, rippling blast on his whistle. Cody knew he was first off the line. He had watched the coach inhale and did his best to get a fast start. He knew he would need it.
Dilts pulled alongside him as they crossed the forty-yard line. He had a long stride, but from the desperate, rattling breaths he was taking, Cody knew he was tiring. Sure enough, as they hit midfield, Dilts’s form started to break down. He was cooked.
As they neared the other forty, Cody felt Goddard on his heels. Then, five yards later, Goddard was even with him. Goddard looked over and said “See you at the club, Code,” then accelerated by him.
Before the comment, Cody was ready to concede the race to the senior. He didn’t want to play varsity football as a freshman, and—although he disliked losing a race—it was no disgrace to be outrun by a senior.
But “See you at the club”? That was cocky. That was disrespect. Cody pumped his arms furiously. He lengthened his stride but still fought to keep his legs turning over at maximum rate. Eighteen yards from the finish, Goddard began to tie up. Cody drew even with him at the twelve. Goddard tried to find another gear, but he had used them all. In desperation, the senior lunged for the goal line.
Cody didn’t lunge. He kept his legs moving. He beat Goddard by half a yard and had to clutch the goal post to keep from crumpling to the turf. Gulping for air, he looked back down the field. He wondered what had happened to Brett, until he saw him limping to the sideline, holding his right hamstring.
Cody expected Pork Chop to be the first one there to congratulate him, but Chop couldn’t run a 4.5 forty like Brendan Clark. For a moment, Cody feared that Clark was going to tackle him, but he stopped just short of contact. “That’s the way to get your speed on, Martin!” Clark barked. “You sure you’re just a freshman?”
“Yeah,” Cody said sincerely.
Pork Chop was next in line. For a moment, he appeared to be searching for words. Finally, he belched softly and said, “Welcome to the varsity, bro.”
Coach Alvin let a few more well-wishers congratulate Cody before he cut in. He handed Cody a cup of water. “Drink this,” he commanded. “Then follow me. We have a lot of work to do.”
Coach Alvin spent most of the practice with his defensive backs. He explained that when facing run-oriented teams, Paul Goddard would play one corner with Rhodes at the other. Berringer would represent the team’s last line of defense as a roving safety. When battling a team that favored the pass, Goddard would move back to strong safety, his natural position, and Cody would start alongside Rhodes.
“I’m not gonna blow any smoke up your skirts,” Coach Alvin said, pointing a finger at Cody, then Rhodes. “Both of you are two or three steps slower than Winston Lydell. And you’re a whole bunch of steps slower than Craig Ward. His 4.4 in the forty is a team record. So you’re going to have to give receivers more cushion that we’d like. And you, Mr. Martin, are going to have to learn how to get low and knock guys’ legs out from under them. You’re not gonna be wanting to hit anybody high. I got a cat almost as big as you.”
Chapter 5 Road Kill
Lightweight. Sissy-boy. Powder puff. Moron. Hapless idiot. Lying on his bed on Friday night, Cody ran through the list of names Coach Alvin had called him during his first three varsity practices. He chuckled to himself. A year ago, in middle school, Coach Smith had used similar terminology, and it had hurt. But there was something about the way Coach Alvin tossed the terms around, almost like nicknames. There was no venom dripping off them.
And Coach Alvin peppered everyone with monikers. When ATV would fumble during a scrimmage, he became “SUV” or “Minivan.” One missed tackle and Jeff Tucker became “Jeff Tuckered Out.”
Brendan Clark was the only player who had escaped the whiplash that was Coach Alvin’s tongue. And that was because Cody hadn’t seen Clark make a mistake or fail to hustle during even one drill.
With Ward injured, Clark always won the end-of-practice gassers, the grueling sprints across the width of the football field—six or seven times in a row. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight to see him clinging to the chain link fence after practice heaving his lunch.
Just before Cody slipped into sleep, he prayed, “Thank you, God, that I made varsity. This is the coolest thing to happen in a long time. Not to seem ungrateful or anything, but Lost Valley is a grind-it-out running team, and I wouldn’t mind it at all if they stick to the run all afternoon tomorrow. Amen, and go Eagles!”
Lost Valley tried to surprise the Eagles by trying to hit a receiver on a drag pattern over the middle on the first play of the game. That was the first of their two pass attempts for the entire game.
The Vikings featured a hulking 230-pound fullback named Nash who touched the ball almost every play. By double-teaming Brendan Clark, also on almost every play, Lost Valley was able to spring Nash for several big gains.
ATV did his best to keep Grant in the game, piling up 188 yards on twenty-six bruising carries. But the team missed the luxury of putting Craig Ward in at receiver when they needed a big gain. Ward also returned kickoffs and punts. His backup, unfortunately, was Winston Lydell.
Grant trailed 14–7 and had the ball late in the fourth quarter, but ATV was too gassed to run effectively, and Dean Hammond, the Eagle QB, misfired on three straight passes to end the game.
“That’s just great,” ATV snapped in the locker room after the game. “We get beat by Lost Valley. That doesn’t even sound like a school. Sounds like a salad dressing!”
It was only five o’clock when the yellow school bus pulled into the Grant High School parking lot. Cody, who hadn’t played at all, decided he would go for a run when he got home. Might as well get some exercise today, he reasoned.
Man, it feels good to be running without all my football gear on, Cody thought. And it feels good to not be worrying about hitting somebody—or being hit.
He was running east, about two miles out of town, he guessed. Two more miles, he told himself, and I’ll head back. He ran facing traffic along Highway 7, although there really wasn’t any traffic. He had seen only one car zoom by him since he left the Grant city limits behind.
Just as Cody took a swig from his water bottle, he stumbled on the chewed-up asphalt along the road’s narrow shoulder. He managed to keep his feet, but he also managed to snort water up his nose. He felt his nostrils burn and tried to suppress a sneeze.
Well, he sighed inwardly, this was a perfect run. Man, this shoulder is really ragged over here. Think I’ll cross to the other side.
Drew Phelps had warned Cody about running with traffic, but Cody wasn’t worried. Traffic had been less than sparse, and he figured he would have plenty of time to move off the right shoulder, or even cross back across the road, if he heard a vehicle coming.
He angled across the asphalt. It felt surprisingly soft under his feet in the late-September heat. Once on the other side of the road, he settled into a smooth pace again. The running felt almost effortless. He let his mind drift. He wondered if he would be able to run a sub-five-minute mile when track season rolled
around. He thought about basketball season too. Mr. Clayton, his eighth-grade coach, had moved up to the high school, where he was coaching basketball and track as well as teaching PE. Clayton had been the first coach to truly show confidence in him. He was eager to have another shot at rewarding that confidence.
He reminded himself that he should tell Coach Clayton about Gabe Weitz’s unwelcome visit. When Cody finally cornered his dad and told him about it, Luke Martin assured his son that he would “look into it.” But Cody wasn’t sure there had been any follow-through until this morning. His dad delivered the news—an officer would come to the Martin house to take a statement later that evening.
Cody wondered what the experience would be like—and if his dad would show up on time as promised—or whether the commitment would get lost among the wedding plans. He wondered if he would be able to tell his story clearly to a stern-faced officer in blue, who would then find Weitz and lock him up. “Can’t wait to see that loser in handcuffs,” Cody muttered.
Most of all Cody thought about football. I wonder if I’ll see some varsity action next week. I have to admit I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t get in the game today. I thought I’d be relieved, but—
Cody sensed trouble when he heard the vehicle behind him gun its engine. He whipped his head around just as the battle-scarred old Nissan pickup veered onto the shoulder, spitting gravel and devouring the distance between them.
He recognized the truck immediately. It had been parked across the street the day Weitz invaded the Martin home. Cody half whispered his favorite prayer—“Help!”—and looked for an escape route. Beyond the shoulder of the road lurked a sharp drop-off into high wild grass. The grass partially camouflaged a makeshift barbed wire fence that guarded a field of some sort that had roundish green plants about knee high—and fat as medicine balls.
The truck was only about fifty yards from him now, closing fast. Cody leaped from the road, wondering where—and how—he would land. On my feet, someplace soft would be nice, he thought as he flew through the air. The roar of the truck engine filled his ears, his chest.