#2 Breakthrough

by A. L. Priest

  Efram was alarmed to watch a grown man, an authority figure, so obviously rattled by a simple game. Sure, they were losing, but the game wasn’t over yet.

  Once Coach Zachary was through ranting and began charting plays for the second half, Coach Colby began to howl at the defensive line. At one point, Efram raised his hand.

  Colby looked at him wide-eyed, partly surprised, partly outraged that a player might have a question.

  “What, James?” Colby snapped.

  “I noticed that the Comets defensive coach communicates with his players with hand signals. Why don’t we do that?”

  “Riiiight. Let’s start right away.” He made a series of ridiculous gestures with his hands. “Know what that means?”

  Efram could see where this was going. “No, sir.”

  “It means, you’re all too stupid to learn sign language,” Colby said, brushing his question aside.

  No, Efram thought. That means that you’re a crappy coach.

  It was fully raining when they took the field again. Only a skeleton crowd had stayed in the bleachers, and the marching band had packed up its instruments and abandoned the field. The Comets were still there, though. And Carroll’s small pack of noisy boosters hadn’t left either.

  As Efram trotted out to the Trojan benches, he heard a voice calling “Efram!”

  Turning to look, he spotted Marimae. She looked wet and a little dejected but still very pretty.

  “Flick wanted me to tell you something,” she said, coming close, holding her pom-poms in her delicate hands.

  “Really?” he asked, turning to scan the bleachers for his friend. “What’d he say?”

  “He said that every time the Comets make a first down, they run a pass play.”

  Efram thought about that. It sounded right. Strange how he hadn’t seen it.

  “Thanks,” Efram said. “That’s good to know.”

  “He also said that their quarterback is left handed.”

  Efram’s eyes widened. Another thing he hadn’t noticed. But still, it puzzled him.

  “Uh, why does that matter?” he asked.

  Marimae grinned. “I asked him the same thing,” she said. “Frederick said that people favor the dominant side of their brains. So they tend to go that way when surprised.”

  Efram thought about that. Definitely good to know.

  “Awesome,” Efram said, and meant it. “Thank you.”

  “Just doing my part,” she said. She paused for a moment. “Get ’em, Efram.” She winked. “We believe in you,” she said and turned and jogged back to the rest of the cheerleaders, pom-poms swishing merrily as she ran.

  Efram jammed his helmet on his head to hide the blush.

  The rest of the game continued much the same way it began. A wet, slogging battle. With one exception.

  Carroll had the ball on the Trojan thirty-yard line, third down and five. The Comets’ quarterback handed off the ball to their fullback. The back shucked past his blockers into the defensive line, cutting through it like a knife through butter.

  Efram hit him hard, taking him down with extreme prejudice, but not before the fullback had made a first down.

  Silence from the Trojan bleachers.

  First down, Efram thought. That means a pass play is next.

  “Guys!” Efram yelled to the other defensive players. He waved them over. Johnson and Rector—the Trojan cornerbacks—approached.

  “They’re gonna run a pass. Stay alert,” Efram said under his breath.

  “How you know?” Rector asked. Rector was a rangy kid, originally from Atlanta. He had a thick southern accent and a skeptical look on his face.

  “They are, man. They always run pass plays on a first down.”

  The cornerbacks looked puzzled but nodded.

  The Comet offense took the line.

  Efram felt electric. Time slowed once again.

  The Comets’ quarterback barked “Hut,” and their receivers darted out. Efram moved like a beast. He could almost see the pass before it left the quarterback’s hand. Throwing to the left.

  And there was the ball, coming straight for him. It was the easiest thing in the world to stretch out his hand and take it from the air.

  Interception.

  It surprised Efram so much that for an instant, he forgot to run. But only for an instant.

  In his mind he was a bull, raging. His legs pumped and he barreled downfield, his giant stride eating up the yards. A tremendous noise filled his ears. He had only the vaguest impression of the Carroll players chasing him.

  And then he was in the end zone.

  Touchdown.

  The rest of the game passed in a blur. The Trojans lost, but with Efram’s score, it wasn’t a total massacre.

  Afterwards, a wet Efram accepted the muted congratulations of the coaches and his teammates. Everyone agreed he’d made an outstanding play for someone so new to football, but none of them could get too excited about it. At the end of the game, the Trojans had still lost.

  After showering and getting into his civilian clothes—or “civvies,” as some players called them—he left the locker room to find Flick waiting for him.

  “Dang, man,” Flick said, holding out his hand for five. Efram’s friend was grinning from ear to ear. “You really put it to them, hoss!”

  Efram slapped his friend’s hand. “Oh, you know,” he said, buffing his fingers on his shirt. “It’s how I do what I does. Anyway, I couldn’t have done it without your killer intel.”

  “Mission Footbossible,” Flick laughed. “We’ll change your jersey number to 007.”

  “I’m down with that,” Efram said, chuckling. They walked under the awning by the Trojans parking lot. Players streamed out of the lockers, heads down in the rain, heading to waiting cars and buses.

  “Hey, listen, bro,” Efram said, thinking. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure, hit me,” Flick said.

  “Coach Colby is …” Efram thought about it for a second. “Coach Colby is terrible.”

  “Tell me what you really think, man,” Flick laughed.

  “No, it’s just that he doesn’t do anything.”

  “Yep,” Flick agreed. “The man isn’t suited for his profession, that’s for sure. But on a teacher’s salary … well, you get what you pay for.”

  “Right. So he’s not suited to being a coach. But you are,” Efram said.

  Flick looked surprised. He ran a hand over his mohawk, wiping off beads of rain.

  “I want you to help us, Flick. You told me two little things,” he said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just two things, and that almost changed the course of the game. You’re already a better coach than Colby is. I need your help. The Trojans need your help.”

  Flick wasn’t smiling any more. The look on his face was almost unreadable. He swallowed heavily.

  “Man,” Flick said, his voice thick. “I am so glad you moved into town,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Efram said. “Me too.” He smiled.

  Me too.

  10/SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21—POSTGAME DAY

  Flick’s bedroom was dark and immaculately clean. Efram noticed an Underwood typewriter, a rotating model of the solar system, a quarter-scale painted figurine of a Roman legionnaire, a cut-stone chessboard, a Fender guitar and amplifier with foot-pedals. But the main focus of the room was the desk and the massive desktop computer that sat on top of it. When Efram asked Flick what kind of computer it was, Flick shrugged. “It’s mine? I mean, I made it.”

  “I mean operating system. Windows? Mac?”

  Flick shook his head. “Linux.”

  Efram whistled. Only the nerdiest of the computer supernerds used Linux.

  As usual, Flick had surprised him. If you just looked at Flick’s surly expression, rock T-shirt, and aggressive mohawk, you’d expect a trashed room. Maybe even a messy house. But when Efram arrived, he was greeted by Flick’s parents. They were obviously very proud of their brilliant son and equal
ly excited that he had a friend coming over. (Efram was secretly a little disappointed that Marimae was elsewhere, spending the night with a friend.) After forcing Efram to chat about the game and town and to eat some cookies, they left Flick and Efram alone so the boys could plot.

  “In any kind of contest, patterns emerge,” Flick said. “The good strategist uses those patterns to his advantage.”

  “It’s just football, Flick. It’s not like the war in Afghanistan.”

  “Football is war. Your mom is right. Football is a war game. Think of it like this: Linemen are infantry. Quarterbacks, fullbacks, halfbacks, and receivers are cavalry. There are battle movements, like flanking or breaking a line. It’s war. But so is chess. All the same principles apply.”

  Efram shook his head. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Flick grinned and turned to the computer, moving the mouse so that the screen lit up. He typed in a long password and opened a web browser.

  “The more information you have, the easier it is to spot the patterns, right?”

  “Sounds good, at least,” Efram said.

  “We’re playing the Rhodes Giants next week, aren’t we?”

  Efram nodded.

  Flick quickly ran a search on Google and then laughed out loud. “Look! These idiots have a YouTube channel with video of their games online.”

  He began clicking, moving through pages so fast that it was almost hard for Efram to keep up. “All right, you asked me to help you. I’m gonna help you. And the first thing to do is to develop a statistical model of the Giants’ roster.” He clicked again. “Hey! Look at this.”

  Flick scrubbed through the YouTube video of the Giants in play. “You can see their offensive coach in this video.” He moved the video’s playhead back and forth. “Is he signaling here?”

  In the video, the Giants offensive coach had his fingers spread wide in a V on his bicep. It wasn’t very conspicuous, but the more Efram looked at those few seconds of footage, the more curious it seemed.

  “He’s signaling! Definitely signaling.” Flick grabbed a pad of paper and began writing. “Lots of teams have instituted a ‘no huddle’ policy, but they’re a little more secretive about their hand signals. These guys didn’t get the memo. Let’s see what play they run after this.”

  The Giants ran a pass play, captured by the unsteady hand of a Rhodes Central High student. The camera hadn’t caught all of the play, but Efram could tell it was a pass.

  “Hmm. In the NFL, they’ll change their signals regularly,” Flick said. “But I’ll wager these fools won’t.” He began clicking again, racing through the videos.

  In a matter of a few hours, Flick had totally decoded the Giants’ offensive hand signals and filled two sheets of paper with notes. Efram was amazed.

  “So, if football is like war,” Efram said, “and the linemen are infantry, the running backs are cavalry … what is it that we’re doing now?”

  Flick laughed. “We’re counter-intelligence!”

  They took a break to play some video games—Team Deathmatch on Trigger Disciples on the Xbox. As Flick sniped a terrorist from a rooftop, something occurred to Efram.

  “How’re we gonna get you on the field?”

  Flick elbowed him and said, “Don’t worry about it. Did I ever mention to you that I’m on the yearbook staff?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s because I’m not,” Flick said, grinning. “But Luke Fussell is, and he’ll let me duplicate his journalism staff pass. And my dad will let me use his camera.”

  “Nice.”

  “I’ve always wanted to be a secret agent,” Flick said, firing his video game weapon.

  It was a joke, of course, and Efram laughed. But then a strange though occurred to him: If anyone could be a secret agent, it would be you, Flick.

  11/FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 27—GAME DAY: TROJANS VS. RHODES GIANTS

  Efram did his best to pay attention in class. He wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize his football activities, so keeping his grades up was a priority. But he found himself thinking about the secret sign language he and Flick had been devising since they had decoded the Giants’ hand signals.

  Efram ran the plays in his head, visualizing the offense moving with the ball and putting himself in the way. Sometimes he thought about the feeling he’d had while standing in the end zone, football in hand.

  Before coming to Ohio, he’d never felt that way about any sport. They were fun. They were healthy. But hiking and biking never made him feel so… triumphant.

  On the Friday of the game, the Trojans tromped out to the parking lot carrying athletic bags and pads. The team clambered onto the team buses, while the cheerleaders and pep squad loaded onto theirs. Flick’s father had agreed to take him to the Rhodes stadium, and early in class that morning, Flick had assured Efram that he’d be on the sidelines waiting.

  It was a curious feeling driving into Rhodes, Efram noted. The town had a love of its football team just as intense as the love Troy had for its own. The sign at the outskirts of town read Entering RHODES, the Nanotechnology Capital of Ohio and Home of the Giants! Where Big Things Come from Microscopes!

  As the Trojans made their way through the city, more than a few people glared at them. One young man in a convertible shot the Trojan bus the bird. Many of Efram’s teammates fantasized out loud about what they’d do to the guy if they ever saw him again.

  At Rhodes Central High, the Troy buses parked at the stadium that was, Efram saw, very similar to the one at Troy Central. Rows of bleachers hovered over a concrete base holding the locker rooms. Since they were the away team, the Trojans found themselves in an echoing concrete chamber smelling of mold and long-forgotten cleaning supplies.

  Coach Whitson drilled the offense on running and pass plays, while Coach Zachary talked on his cell phone and Colby sulked in the corner. When it was almost time for the game to start, Zachary addressed the team.

  “Boys, take a knee,” he said. “I want you to remember one thing. When we hit the field today, we’re representing the honor and reputation of Troy. It’s more than just a game … it’s your community! Troy is your town! And the Trojans are, and have always been, the best representation of the Troy spirit. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Coach!” the team yelled in response.

  “Now you’re gonna go out there and give me everything, understand? You’re gonna give me your all. There’s no holding back. No half-stepping! We ball together! We fall together! Got me?” he yelled.

  “Yes, Coach!” the team cried.

  “Let’s hit it!” Zachary howled. “Let’s go!”

  The Trojans erupted from the locker room and took the field.

  The Giants won the toss and chose to receive, so Efram found himself barreling downfield in a rush. Blatnick, the right linebacker, managed to take down the receiver, and the game started in earnest.

  It was third down before Efram managed to spot Flick’s mohawk on the sidelines. The ball turned over to the Trojans before Efram was able to get a bead on Flick’s signals.

  While the Trojan offense was on the field, Efram moved toward where Flick stood on the sidelines. Flick sported a red Trojans T-shirt, holding his father’s camera in his hands.

  “OK, hoss,” Flick said, sidling up to him. “I’ve got my eye on their offensive coach, and he’s signaling as usual. Hasn’t changed their code. As soon as I know what he’s gonna run, I’ll let you know.”

  “Right,” Efram said. His heart hammered in his chest, and he couldn’t help but grin. The energy of the competition exhilarated him. “Can’t wait.”

  “I bet. You’re gonna wreak destruction on them, mang. For sure,” Flick said, laughing. “I almost feel sorry for them.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I said ‘almost,’” Flick said.

  Suddenly, Coach Colby was there. “What’s this?” he asked. “You out here chatting with friends, James? This isn’t a social event.” Colby turned
to Flick. “You,” he said, jabbing a finger at Flick’s shirt. “Get down the sideline and stop bothering my players.”

  A curious expression crossed Flick’s face. For the first time, Efram realized that his friend was angry. Furious. Flick looked from Efram to Coach Colby and back, blinking. Without saying a word, he walked ten yards down the sideline and stopped.

  “Freak,” Efram heard Colby mutter.

  Back on the field, the Trojans pushed the ball thirty yards downfield. Devon fumbled the ball, and the Giants recovered it. All around the players, the Giants’ stadium exploded into noise. Whistles, drumrolls, chants, cheers, cursing. On the far side of the field, the Giant cheerleaders leapt about, spelling out their team’s name and making human pyramids.

  Now that the opposition had the ball, Efram set his mouth guard in place and took his position as safety. On the sidelines, Flick placed three fingers on his left bicep, spread wide so even from a distance, Efram could see them. Counter run, left.

  “All right, guys,” Efram told the cornerbacks and the other safety. “They’re gonna go with a counter run to the left. Got me?”

  Johnson shook his head. Even with a helmet obscuring Johnson’s face, Efram could tell he was puzzled.

  “How you know that?” Johnson asked.

  “I just do, man,” Efram said. “Trust me. That means they’re gonna juke right and then double back, coming at you and Rector. Be ready.”

  The Giants took the line. There was a moment of stillness until their quarterback yelled “Hut!” The backfield line surged into action. The Giants linemen tried to make an opening for their halfback to buzz through, and he’d have been free and clear if Johnson hadn’t been waiting for him in the gap. The Trojan player slammed the Giants halfback down to the turf with a crunch.

  Next play, Flick signaled at Efram with a goose egg, making a zero with his index finger and thumb. Either the Giants offensive coach hadn’t signaled a play (which they always knew was a possibility) or he’d signaled one that Flick didn’t know. It turned out that the Giants were attempting another running play, a bootleg right, but Rector managed to stop the Giants quarterback before he made the first down.