Football Champ (2009)

by Tim Green

  The words echoed through Troy's mind; he had the image of sitting in a witness box in his church clothes being questioned by angry lawyers.

  "I'm sorry it turned out this way," the owner said, frowning and shaking his head. "Believe me, I'm going to do everything I can to get this resolved. I do agree with you, Troy, that neither you nor we have done anything wrong. We didn't steal anyone's signals or use anything other than your own God-given talents. Still, I have to be honest, the league isn't apt to see things that way. It's not like you're a player. If you were, they couldn't say anything about it. But being a twelve-year-old kid makes you stick out in a way that I'm pretty sure will allow them to figure a way to keep you out of the game.

  "Now, if you wouldn't mind waiting with Seth downstairs, I think what Cecilia and I have to say to your mom will be a little easier."

  When Seth rose from the table, Troy saw that he was wearing shorts and both his knees had bags of ice wrapped tightly to them with Ace bandages. Seth hobbled toward the door, though, obviously used to the pain and the ice treatment his knees required before and after almost every game.

  "What are they saying to her?" Troy asked as he followed Seth down the back stairs, the clack of their feet loud and rhythmic on the metal steps.

  "Nothing good," Seth said. "Come on with me. I'm going to change and then we'll meet your mom."

  Seth banged open a door, leading Troy into the locker room, where several rows of huge lockers stood bursting with the players' equipment. At the end of each row stood a garbage can for spent ankle tape, used tissues, spit cups full of tobacco juice, and half-eaten food. The square cans, lined with thick gray trash bags, were big enough for Troy to sit down in. He sniffed. While the freshly painted metal lockers and the crisp red carpet made the enormous room look spotless, the hint of sweaty leather and workout clothes and garbage from the bins still drifted through the air.

  Several other players sat or stood at their own lockers, fussing with their equipment, changing into workout clothes. Troy looked up at the rounded shadowy reflection of his own face in the black helmet that hung from a hook outside Seth's closet-sized locker. He reached up and traced a finger along the white-edged wing of the Falcons decal and bit his lip to keep his eyes from spilling tears.

  Seth unwrapped his knees and let the bags of ice fall to the carpet. The skin surrounding the swollen knees was an angry red, almost like a sunburn. Seth dropped his gym shorts and tugged on a pair of jeans, then stripped off his shirt, stuffing it into a laundry bag before he stood up straight and threw the bag into the back of his locker.

  Suddenly a low growling noise bubbled up out of his chest. Troy followed Seth's glare to the end of the row of stools, where Brent Peele leaned up against a locker with his tape recorder extended toward the seated form of John Abraham.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE MUSCLES RIPPLED IN Seth's neck and naked back. He threw his scarred shoulders back, marching toward Peele on bare feet, his limp gone. When Seth closed the distance to just a few lockers, Peele looked up. The reporter's face went red and the scar above his lip began to twitch, but he smiled big, exposing his sharp white teeth.

  "Hello, Seth," Peele said, straightening up, his voice laced with a nervousness that didn't match his bold grin.

  "Attacking me? I get that," Seth said. "You thought you were ready for the big leagues and I knocked you out, cold. The very fact that you never understood that's part of the game is the same reason why you never would have made it, no matter what I did to you. So, I get why you hate me, even though you have no right. But Tessa? She never did anything to you, and you pulled her and an innocent kid into the mud."

  "The kid might be innocent," Peele said, still sneering, "but the mom is as bad as you. Both of you, you don't care about this kid. You're using him to save your career. She's using him, too. Probably for money. Some mom. Gee, I wonder why the dad took off."

  "You're trash," Seth said, and without pause he spun the reporter around, gripped him by the back of his belt and shirt collar, lifting Peele up nearly over his head before dumping him down, headfirst, into the enormous waste bin.

  Peele shrieked, kicking his feet and scrabbling in the garbage to right himself. Seth marched back to his locker, pulled on his shirt, and sat down on the stool to lace up his sneakers as if nothing had happened. Only his mouth showed a grim, flat line of satisfaction.

  Peele gained his feet inside the trash can and pulled a snotty tissue free from his collar. Spit stains, as brown as bug vomit, coursed down his white polo shirt, and the smear of a half-eaten breakfast burrito ran down the front leg of his jeans.

  Peele gagged at the sight of the slimy green tissue, pitched it down on the carpet, and stabbed a long, bony finger at Seth, shouting the length of the locker room. "You think you can do this to me?"

  Troy thought he heard John Abraham say "He just did" as the big defensive end, his eyes slits of glee, stepped gingerly around the reporter and headed toward the weight room.

  Seth tugged his laces tight, got up, turned his back on the reporter, and said to Troy, "Let's go."

  "You're finished!" Peele screamed from behind them. "I'll ruin you!"

  When Seth slammed the locker room door closed behind them, Peele was still screaming, shouting obscenities and promising Seth that his days in the NFL were now over.

  Troy looked up at Seth in the relative silence of the hallway, smiled, and said, "He can't do anything to you, can he?"

  Seth took a deep breath and let it out. He slowed his pace, and his limp returned. He looked down at Troy and said, "Honestly? I probably shouldn't have done that."

  "But he can't really ruin your career," Troy said.

  "Yes," Seth said, putting his hand on the door that led to the parking lot and pushing it open, "he probably can. But let's not talk about it. There's your mom."

  Troy's mom stood leaning back against her VW Bug, staring up at the empty sky as if she were watching a blimp cruise circles above the training complex. Troy walked briskly toward her, keeping pace with Seth until they came to a stop in front of her. She let her eyes drop from the sky, past them, and down to the ground.

  "Mom?" Troy said hesitantly. "What happened?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  "MR. LANGAN WAS VERY nice," Troy's mom said in a voice sad and low enough to let them know that while the owner might have been nice, the result of her meeting was nothing good.

  "But what happened?" Seth asked, gently touching a bent finger under her chin and raising it to look into her eyes.

  Troy's mom shrugged. "Well, I always wanted to do some oil painting. Now I'll have the chance."

  "He fired you?" Troy asked.

  "No," his mom said, shaking her head, "not fired. I'm on leave...with pay, so that's the good news."

  "But you didn't do anything," Troy said, his voice pitched with anger.

  His mom smiled weakly and said, "Yeah, but we're a package deal, remember? At least that's how it looks."

  "Who cares how it looks?" Troy said.

  "Every NFL team and every NFL team owner," Seth said. "That's the business."

  "And they're asking me to keep a lid on things," his mom said.

  "What's that mean?" Seth asked.

  "No interviews. They're already starting to get calls from the national media," his mom said. "CNN, Fox and Friends, Good Morning America. Cecilia doesn't want me contributing to the 'circuslike atmosphere' she thinks is going to evolve."

  "Circus?" Seth said. "The whole NFL is a circus. I remember watching the Falcons when I was Troy's age, with Deion Sanders, Jerry Glanville as the coach wearing his black hat, MC Hammer and Kris Kristofferson on the sidelines? That was a circus." He swatted the air and continued, "Cecilia Fetters has been looking for a way to bring you down ever since Mr. Langan made her hire you back. That's all this is."

  Troy clenched his fists and looked back at the Flowery Branch facility. Without thinking, he said to Seth, "Peele's lucky you only dumped him in the
trash. You should have bashed his--"

  The look Seth flashed at him came too late. Troy bit down hard on his lower lip and clamped his mouth shut.

  "Trash?" Troy's mom asked.

  Seth took a deep breath and let it out slow, waffling his lips.

  "Seth, I'm sor--"

  Seth held up his hand. "It doesn't matter. She would have found out sooner or later."

  "Found out what?" Troy's mom asked.

  Seth told her what he had done.

  "Oh no," his mom said. "Why?"

  "Look," Seth said, "I can take the kind of junk he's written about me; that's part of the game. Smearing you? That's not part of the game. If he's gonna play rough like that, then he's gonna get roughed up a little himself."

  "You just can't do that to the reporter of a big newspaper," Troy's mom said.

  "Yeah," Seth said, "well...I just did. Let him rip me. Let them cut me. I'm almost at the end now, anyway. It's the NFL motto: Not For Long."

  "You're not at the end. You're going to go to the Pro Bowl," Troy said.

  "Not if I'm not on an NFL team," Seth said, laughing bitterly.

  "If they're dumb enough to cut you," Troy said, "you'll get picked up by another team in a heartbeat."

  Seth's face sagged and his voice went soft. "I'm old, buddy. These knees are about as bad as it gets. I'm old and I'm beat up, and, you know, honestly? I'm tired. You calling the plays for me lets me play the way I used to, the interceptions, getting to the line at the same time as the runner, busting up the middle and sacking the quarterback. Honestly? I don't want to go back to playing old and beat up and tired, and I don't think anyone is going to line up to sign me to, either. This just might be the end."

  "It can't be," Troy said.

  "Hey," Seth said, "you know what? Let's not even worry about it. Let's get you to school, and me and your mom will take some time off, go to the museum to get some ideas for her painting, and I'll work on our game plan against Valdosta and then we'll meet later at practice. We still got that."

  Troy remembered Tate's harsh words and her dire prediction that Seth would no longer help them.

  "You mean, you'll coach us?" Troy asked. "After I made this mess?"

  "Hey, it's the state championship," Seth said, putting an arm around Troy's mom and giving her a smile and a quick hug. "Not a bad way for me to start my next career. I always wanted to get into coaching."

  Seth's cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket, checked the number, and looked at Troy's mom. "That didn't take long."

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  Seth didn't answer her. He snapped open the phone and said, "Hello? Yes...Yes, I did...All right. I'll be right there."

  Seth closed the phone and stuffed it back into his pocket.

  "On second thought," Seth said to Troy's mom, "why don't you take Troy to school and I'll just meet you later on, maybe for lunch."

  "Who was it?"

  "Coach McFadden," Seth said. "He and Mr. Langan want to see me in his office. Now."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  TROY WENT INTO THE school office and signed in late. The third-period bell rang, and he ran through the busy hallways toward Tate's locker. He found her slamming it shut and turning with her books toward Nathan, who was waiting to walk with her to science class.

  "Hey," Troy said, grabbing her arm and spinning her around.

  Tate scowled at him, as did Nathan.

  "It's okay," Troy said, out of breath. "Seth's still coaching the team. He's mad, but mad at Peele, not me."

  Tate's angry look melted. "He is?"

  "What about that nasty article and all that crap you said?" Nathan asked.

  "Seth understands," Troy said, frowning. "I didn't say that stuff like that. Peele twisted it around. Seth knows."

  "Cool," Nathan said. "Valdosta, watch out. You're looking at the next state champs!"

  They all grinned and slapped high-fives.

  Rusty Howell walked up and heard the good news, then asked, "Is our championship game really gonna be on TV?"

  Troy nodded.

  "Sweet," Rusty said, the freckles on his face glowing. "I'm going to get my dad to tape it. I hope they'll have replays. You connecting with me in the end zone for the state title? I can't wait."

  "Sheesh, I gotta get a trim," Nathan said, running a hand over his bristles. "Who knows? Somebody from the Disney Channel sitting there, watching this game, they see me and next thing you know I'm on TV datin' Hannah Montana."

  The bell rang, and Tate and Nathan hurried off. Troy dashed to his own locker for his books before arriving late to science class. In the hallways between classes, it seemed that every other person stopped to talk to him about the newspaper article. For those who didn't actually read the paper, word had spread through the school like wildfire, spawning rumors of Troy going to jail for his involvement in the scandal.

  The crazy talk would have been enough to occupy his mind, freeing him from the usual boredom of math vectors, the Boer War, plant cell structures, and Shakespeare's plays--which his teacher claimed were written in English. But what mostly kept Troy busy was the thought of the championship against Valdosta. By the end of the day, he'd filled his notebook with diagrams of pass patterns and defensive coverages he planned to discuss with Seth.

  If the Tigers could win that game and Troy could become a championship quarterback, he knew everyone would forget about the nasty newspaper article. Also, if he couldn't use his football genius now, for the Falcons, Troy knew the other way to use it would be when he played in the NFL himself. Winning a state championship as the quarterback for the Duluth Tigers would put him well on his way to achieving that goal.

  Everyone knew that the best high schools--football powerhouses like Norcross and Parkview and Valdosta's own varsity team--would recruit players from the junior league state championship game. If Troy could get a place on a team like that, then the path to playing at a Division I college and, ultimately, in the NFL would be a lot clearer.

  The only downer during the day was when Jamie Renfro came up behind Troy at lunchtime.

  "What kind of genius would say so many stupid things to a reporter?" Renfro asked his friends in a voice loud enough so Troy and his friends could hear them.

  Troy clenched his fists, but Tate put her hand on his arm and said, "Don't go for the bait. He'd love nothing more than to get you into trouble so you can't play Saturday."

  Troy nodded and bit into his sandwich, chewing mechanically.

  On the way home from school, Nathan and Tate rode the bus past the Pine Grove Apartments and got off with Troy at the end of the drive that wound back through the pines to his house. Seth's yellow H2 sat snuggled up next to the VW Bug on the red dirt patch out front. On the porch, Troy's mom stood behind an easel alternately looking up at the pine trees and dabbing paint onto her canvas.

  "They say to paint what you know," she said, wiping at a smear of paint on her nose with the back of her wrist, "and I see pine trees in my sleep."

  Inside, Seth sat at the kitchen table hunched over his notebook and a stack of papers, drawing and writing furiously.

  Troy took three sodas from the fridge and passed them out. Nathan grabbed a banana from the bowl on the table and began peeling it.

  "Hey," Seth said, looking up when he finally realized the three of them were surrounding him at the table.

  "I got some plays and coverages to show you," Troy said, holding up his notebook.

  "Okay," Seth said, "but Troy, can I talk to you first?"

  "Sure," Troy said.

  "Outside?"

  Troy shrugged at his friends and followed Seth out the back door. Seth took a few steps across the carpet of fallen pine needles and turned.

  "You said a lot of things that Peele took out of context," Seth said, "things he twisted around so they would sound worse than you meant them."

  "Yeah," Troy said, studying Seth's face.

  "I just need to know, Troy," Seth said. "Did you talk to Pe
ele about Doc Gumble and that vitamin shot I told you I was getting?"

  "What?" Troy said, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head. "No. I didn't."

  "And you're sure?" Seth asked.

  "Yes," Troy said. "The only thing I did was ask him why he followed us that day."

  "Followed us?" Seth said.

  Troy bit into his lower lip and nodded. "I didn't say anything because, I don't know, it seemed so weird, I wasn't sure it was really him. I thought he took a picture of me and drove off. Why?"

  Seth frowned and said, "That's what McFadden and Mr. Langan wanted to see me about today. They got word that Peele may be doing a story about me supposedly using steroids."

  "But you're not," Troy said, the words coming out almost like a question.

  Seth looked at him hard and said, "No. I'm not, and I never did. If you didn't say anything about that vitamin shot, something he could twist around, then I'm not worried. Peele might just be spreading a rumor. Come on, let's get back inside. Forget I even asked."

  Together they returned to the kitchen. Troy flipped through his notebook, pointing out his ideas to Seth.

  "I like it," Seth said. "We can combine your ideas with mine. I've been busy, too."

  Seth held up the stack of papers he'd been working on when they arrived and said, "Take a look at this. I spoke to a newspaper reporter I know from down in Macon who gave me a heck of a scouting report on Valdosta. They run the Tampa Two defense, so I was thinking--"

  "Wait," Troy said, holding up a hand. "A reporter?"

  "Well, yeah, a guy I know," Seth said, tapping his pen on the notebook. "So I was thinking that maybe we'll play Rusty Howell in the slot, to really attack the seam up the middle of the field. We can--"

  "Seth," Troy said, "I thought we hate reporters."

  Seth looked up from his plan. "No. Peele's not our favorite person, but you can't hate a whole group of people. That's ignorant. There are good reporters just like there are good...I don't know, lawyers, doctors, agents, football players, prison guards. There's good and bad in any group of people. They're not all bad. My guy's even going to FedEx me some game film."