by Tim Green
Quarterbacks peeled off from the rest of the team for individual drills where they began to warm up their arms and run through footwork drills for both run and pass plays. Brock’s arm ached. He searched the bleachers and sidelines between breaths, stomach tight at the thought of Taylor Owen Lehman showing up with a varsity coach to champion his cause.
No one ever came.
Weighed down by confusion and a vague sense of betrayal, Brock did his best to throw, but his arm was weak from push-ups the day before and his extra throwing, so his timing was off. He did very little to win over Coach Hewitt, let alone Coach Van Kuffler, who couldn’t contain his glee at Brock’s miserable performance. Coach Van Kuffler didn’t have to do anything to make Brock look bad, the damage was already done. It was as though the previous night never happened, and, as practice slogged along in the midday heat, Brock’s entire fantasy seemed to melt like a Popsicle on pavement.
The repetitions he got diminished as the practice wore on. During team scrimmage, he seemed a forgotten man. Brock’s spirits sank. He didn’t think it could get any worse.
Then it did.
34
Coach Hewitt blew his whistle, calling his team into a tight cluster at the fifty-yard line, and went into a fresh rant. “That was pitiful. You want to come out here like a bunch of old ladies with walkers? Wilt like flowers on a grave? I tell you something. You waste my time like this and you will run. You will run like you never thought you could run. Line it up!”
Coach Hewitt’s whistle set the tone. Loud and harsh and unrelenting.
They ran. And ran and ran until kids began to drop.
First the linemen went down, collapsing into heaps of trembling Jell-O.
When Mak went down, Coach Hewitt lorded over him, bellowing. “You quit! You’re not a team player. You fight your own teammate? Now, you quit!”
The coach stepped over him like a pile of garbage and kept running them.
The third-string players went down next, then the big guys, except for Brock. Kids all around him snarled their resentment. He—without his full equipment—had barely practiced and he was making others look bad by running tall and proud.
It didn’t feel right, but Brock faked exhaustion.
He slowed and huffed and doubled over and groaned. Something inside rattled its cage—it told him not to quit, not to slow down—but Brock couldn’t stand the hateful mutterings. So, he took a dive, collapsing on the grass right next to Mak, who’d gone down a dozen sprints ago and lay gasping still, like the rest of them.
Finally, Coach Hewitt hollered at them to get some rest and some water because by God they’d better be back and ready to go a half hour early tomorrow. Then, he and the rest of the coaches stormed off. At the goal line, the coach spun on his heels and cupped his mouth with both hands to shout.
“Brock! Get up and get your butt into my office!”
Mak curled up to his knees, gasping for air until he could cast a questioning look over at Brock. “What’d you do?”
Brock got to his feet, turned over his empty hands, and shook his head. He hoped to God it had something to do with Taylor Owen Lehman arguing on his behalf. After what he’d done today, he’d need all the help he could get for Coach Hewitt to keep him at quarterback.
“Well, good luck.” Mak patted Brock on the shoulder, but made no move to go with him.
35
Brock walked into the office. Coach Hewitt sat hunched over some papers with a pen, scribbling notes. He looked up at Brock as if he’d already forgotten why he asked him to come. Coach Hewitt made an impatient gesture toward the coach’s locker room. “Coach Van Kuffler will get you your equipment. Tomorrow you can go full contact, so we’ll get to see if you’re really a football player or not.”
Brock stood unable to speak.
“Well?”
Brock’s mouth lagged open. “Umm.”
Coach exhaled through his nose.
“Can I still try quarterback?” Brock asked.
Coach Hewitt rolled his eyes. “Come on, Brock. Really? Do I have to go through it for you? You had your chance.”
He stared at Brock and Brock struggled for the strength to explain everything Coach Van Kuffler had done against him, and then how he’d really learned the plays from Taylor Owen Lehman and how the varsity quarterback just might take him under his wing and help turn him into a superstar. His mind whirred and tripped over itself.
He had to say something.
“Taylor . . . Taylor Owen Lehman. He thinks I can be good . . . at quarterback.”
Coach Hewitt raised his eyebrows. “Taylor? Taylor Owen Lehman?”
Hope sprang to life in Brock’s heart. He nodded violently. “He showed me some plays last night and we threw at his house.”
Coach Hewitt removed the whistle from around his neck and let it dangle in between them. “And . . . what’s this?”
“Coach?”
“What’s this? Is this Taylor Owen Lehman’s whistle?” Coach angled his head down at the desk. “Is that Taylor Owen Lehman’s desk? Are these his game-plan notes for opening day against Groton?” Coach Hewitt’s mouth curled into a snarl.
“I don’t know what you mean, Coach?”
“Just answer me.”
“No.”
“No. This is not his whistle, desk, or game plan. Do you know why?” Coach Hewitt leaned toward him so he could whisper. “Because he’s not the coach. I am. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, Coach.” Coach Hewitt kept his voice soft, which was scarier than when he yelled. “Now go get your equipment and I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”
“Yes, Coach.” Brock hung his head and started to let himself out of the office.
“Hey, Brock?” Coach Hewitt’s voice was still soft, but something about it had changed.
“Yes, Coach?” The coach’s face had turned soft like his voice and Brock let some air out of his lungs.
Coach Hewitt put a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “I’m not mad at you. I’m a coach, that’s all, and when people mess things up, I gotta be grumpy about it. I forgot for a second that you’re the new kid and you don’t know that my bark isn’t the same as my bite. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about the quarterback thing, okay? Let’s get you going with some pads and see how you do. You’re a big kid and with Mak out for game one, we could use some depth on the line. Maybe we can work on the quarterback thing in the off-season, when there’s more time.”
Brock nodded and smiled. “Okay, Coach.” It felt like a ray of sunshine on a cold dark day, but he still wanted to play quarterback.
“But don’t you tell the other guys I’m soft. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach.” Brock turned again.
“And Brock?”
“Yes?”
“I am not happy with Wentzel.” Coach Hewitt wore a snarl on his face. “Some things I can’t say in front of the whole team, but I can say in private, and trust me . . . I’m no dummy. I know what he did and it makes me sick, and my bet is that he’s not going to be bothering you anymore when I get through with him.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Okay, go get your pads.”
Brock opened his mouth to talk. A flood of words was ready to burst, but he thought better of it. It sounded like Wentzel wasn’t going to be a problem going forward. He’d quit while he was ahead and not get into the whole mess with Coach Van Kuffler. He’d let them put him on the line, but he wasn’t giving up on quarterback. He’d learn it anyway and work with Taylor. Something might happen and, if it didn’t, there was next year. Things were different now. He and his dad wouldn’t be pulling up stakes in a few months. They were here to stay, and Brock knew he had the talent to play quarterback.
Taylor Owen Lehman told him so, and, maybe more important, so did Taylor’s sister.
36
Brock got his equipment from a grouchy Coach Van Kuffler. He took the stack and jammed it all into his corner locker. Except for groans and heavy br
eathing and the slamming of lockers, things were pretty quiet. When the door banged open and Coach Hewitt’s voice filled the locker room everyone jumped.
“Wentzel! My office!”
Brock couldn’t help a secret smile as Wentzel skulked out, but he didn’t stick around. Mak was waiting for him outside the locker room, sitting on a bench along the wall with his head tilted back against the collar of his shoulder pads. Mak was still puffing. Sweat drenched him like a garden hose and it still beaded on his cheeks, forehead, and nose.
“I’m dyin’,” Mak groaned.
Brock rolled his eyes. “Can we just go?”
Mak looked at him like he was crazy, then slapped his hands down on the bench and rose. “I don’t want to sound critical of my new best friend, but you didn’t have to drive the sled today like me.”
Brock removed his bike from the rack and started pedaling, but waited until Mak caught up before he spoke. “I will tomorrow.”
“The quarterback thing is over, huh? Sorry, buddy. Hey, can you slow up a little?”
“Sure.” Brock slowed down. “I just want to get into the shade is all.”
“And I want to drink a million gallons of Gatorade is all,” Mak said.
“In the shade.” Brock reached the canopy of trees on the street across from the football field and looked back. Mak pumped his legs and rocked his body forward and backward, looking supremely silly riding a bike with all his gear on.
Mak coasted up onto the shady sidewalk. “Made it. Let’s go to Quik-Mart. Gatorade. Must have.”
They started down the sidewalk toward the center of town.
“Surprised you don’t want to go get some more books, Romeo,” Mak said as they passed the street for the library.
“Nah. I’m good.” Brock didn’t want to say that the real reason he didn’t want to see Laurel was that he felt let down by Taylor.
“Good. You don’t need to be distracted,” Mak said.
“What do you mean?” They pulled into the Quik-Mart parking lot and got off their bikes.
“Well, tomorrow you start going full contact,” Mak said. “You’re gonna be on the line. You know what that means.”
Brock followed him into the store and picked a red Gatorade from the cooler. “Mak, what are you talking about?”
They paid for their drinks and Mak grinned through his face mask as he swung the door open and they plunged back into the heat of the day. “You know. Down and dirty. You’re on the line, now. A grunt. A hog. You gotta eat your own snot and drink your own blood. You’re half man, half animal. That’s the life of a lineman.”
Brock cracked open the Gatorade but held it only halfway to his lips, without drinking.
Mak slapped him on the back. “Welcome to football in the trenches, buddy.”
37
Brock stayed up all night thinking about Mak’s words.
The ache from his first three days of all the running and the push-ups didn’t help either.
He thought about who he was and wondered if it was worth it at all, this football thing. He wasn’t half man, half animal. He didn’t like snot or blood. He liked Laurel’s back lawn and the whiteboard. He liked throwing, using the arm he had—a gift, Coach Hudgens, his old baseball coach had called it. He remembered Coach Hudgens, the way he believed in Brock and his abilities. Coach Hudgens did everything he could to help Brock. And now—it was just so different. After a time, exhaustion dragged him down, and Brock fell into an uneasy sleep.
The next day was Friday. On Saturday, Brock and his dad would be going to Laurel’s house for dinner, so Brock tried to think about that to keep him going while he practiced with the linemen. He was strong enough that he didn’t get slammed to the dirt or knocked on his back, which was something. There were plenty of kids who seemed like little more than blocking dummies for the first-team guys. On the other hand, as he crouched and smashed and tried to drive his feet like pistons, the way Coach Hewitt showed them, he couldn’t help glancing over at the quarterbacks, where he knew he should be.
Brock did okay, but he wasn’t built for it. He knew that by the way Mak worked. Mak loved it. He snorted and smashed people and chuckled to himself when someone went down under his bulldozer treads. Brock heard two other players, Declan Carey and Bill Shafer, talking about Mak in the back of the line.
“He’s out of his mind,” Bill said.
Declan nodded. “Don’t get matched up with him. Let the new kid do it. Mak likes him.”
They were taking turns in a pit drill, a one-on-one blocking contest where two linemen faced off and basically tried to mash each other into the dirt. It was true, Mak did like Brock, so he let the other two kids budge the line in front of him so he had to face Mak in the pit instead of one of them. Coach Delaney blew the whistle, stopping the two linemen before him in the pit and calling for the next two.
Brock went out and got uncomfortably into his stance. Mak hunkered right down like a pig in mud, snorting and growling. Brock looked up at his friend through their metal masks.
“Easy, buddy,” Brock said. “It’s me.”
Mak’s eyes widened and he snorted two jets of snot from his nose onto the mask. His lips tightened and an angry fire burned on his face.
“Set! Go!” Coach Delaney hollered.
Mak exploded into Brock. Brock did his best to get his hands into Mak’s pads, but their helmets crashed. Brock saw stars and before he knew it, his feet left the ground. Mak lifted him up and slammed him down. Brock’s breath left him, but Mak wasn’t finished. Mak kept his face mask and hands pressed into Brock’s body and his legs pumped furiously, and he rooted Brock along in the dirt like a wild hog digging up mushrooms.
Finally, Coach Delaney blew his whistle.
Mak popped up and helped Brock to his feet. “Sorry, buddy. That was great!”
Brock swatted some of the dirt off his pants. “Not for me.”
“Yeah, you gotta be a little more edgy.” Mak slapped his shoulder pads. “These are the trenches, buddy.”
With that, Mak walked ten feet away from the drill and puked in the grass.
38
“I don’t think I can do this, Dad.” Brock let the fork clatter against his plate.
“Don’t eat what you don’t want,” his dad said. He peered across the table at the steak he’d grilled in their tiny yard out back. “When you work out in the heat, it can take away your appetite. Did I cook it too long?”
“Not the steak, Dad. Football.”
“Oh.” His father cut a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth. He studied Brock while he chewed.
“That’s it? ‘Oh’?” Brock swigged down some milk. “Did you not hear the story I told you about Mak puking?”
“I like Mak.” His father spoke as he chewed.
“I like Mak too, but I’m not Mak, right?”
His father swallowed and took a drink of iced tea. “Safe to say there’s only one.”
“I’m not a lineman.”
“I wasn’t either.” His father took another bite of steak.
Brock looked up. “You played football? I thought you were a baseball player.” It still amazed Brock how little he knew about his own father, and he wondered if his father was naturally close-lipped, or if he’d been that way because of years of training for his job.
“In college I played baseball. But I played the big three in high school. Lettered in all of them, football, basketball, and baseball.”
“What position?”
“Point guard.” His dad fought back a grin.
“In football.”
“Oh, in football.” His father played dumb, joking around. That too was something Brock wasn’t used to. “Wide receiver.”
“Really? I could throw to you if . . .” Brock’s excitement suddenly melted away and he shook his head. “I’m not going to be a lineman.”
“You’ll quit?”
“I don’t know. But why should I play for a team when the coach hates me?”
&n
bsp; “Coach Hewitt sounds like a good guy. A little rough, but nice. Fair.”
“He is. I’m talking about Coach Van Kuffler. Stop messing with me, will you?”
“I’m serious,” his dad said. “Van Kuffler has nothing to do with you on the line.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “I’m not a lineman. That’s what I’m saying. These guys are nuts. They spend all practice smashing each other’s heads in. I got an arm, Dad. I can throw. And I can learn the plays as well as anyone if they’d just teach me.”
His dad put his fork down and leaned back. The kitchen was so small the back of his chair bumped into the countertop next to the sink. Without getting up, his father reached into the fridge and got a fresh can of iced tea. “Well, we did show up five days late, and it sounds like these kids have been working in the system since they could walk. You can’t expect everyone to stop everything for the new kid.”
“You’re siding with them?”
“No, just trying to help you understand.” His father’s face turned serious. “If you slog it out on the line this year, you’ll be a part of the team. In the off-season, you can work on your throwing and you’ll learn a lot about the offense just being there, watching and listening. You’d be surprised how much we can learn by watching.”
“From the trenches. You want me to watch from the trenches, where guys vomit during drills.”
“It’s not like he got any on you, right?” Brock’s dad stared at him with a serious expression until they both burst out laughing.
“Oh my God. You should have seen it, Dad.” Brock clutched his stomach. “Two other guys puked right after that just from the smell.”
“Glad I didn’t. Come on. Help me clean up.” His father got up and Brock helped the way he’d done as long as he could remember.
“What’s it like not to do the dishes?” Brock dried a plate and set it down in the cupboard.