Football Champ (2009)

by Tim Green

  "Oh," Troy said, letting the revelation sink in before pointing to the diagram of Rusty Howell against the Tampa Two. "So you've got the whole plan done already?"

  "Ready for you to look at," Seth said, grinning. "I'm smart enough to know I'm not that smart. You think I'm not going to get my football genius to look this over before I say it's done?"

  Troy felt his cheeks grow warm.

  "And, you probably want to get some input from a lineman on all this stuff," Nathan said, stepping in and planting a thick finger in the middle of the diagram and smearing it with banana grease. "Come on. Sheesh. That's where you win these championship things, right at the line of scrimmage."

  Seth laughed, nodded his head, and said, "A lot of people might agree with that."

  "Hey, a lot of people might agree that the difference between winning and losing is a good kicking game," Tate said, snapping her fingers at them repeatedly.

  "How about a good coach?" Troy said. "Nothing's more important than that."

  They all nodded and then listened as Seth explained how he figured his plan could beat Valdosta's defense.

  "And we haven't even talked about our defense," Seth said, turning to the last few pages of his notebook. "Because I think it's going to be simple. Troy, did you tell these guys?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  "TELL US WHAT?" NATHAN said, pulling a bag of chips from the cupboard and digging in. "Sheesh, I'm the last to know everything."

  "You know how Troy can predict what the other teams' offenses are going to do against the Falcons' defense? Seeing the patterns and all that?" Seth said. "So I figure, why can't we do that against Valdosta?"

  "Who you gonna signal stuff in to?" Tate asked.

  "Well, my mind-reading powers are on the fritz, so that's out," Nathan said, crunching on some chips.

  "We don't need signals," Seth said. "Troy's going to be out there."

  Nathan hooted at the idea, sending a spray of crumbs across the table.

  "On defense?" Tate asked, brushing flecks of potato chips off her shirt. "He's the quarterback. I thought you gotta protect the quarterback."

  "There's no sense in protecting me. This is the state championship," Troy said, "maybe the only one we'll ever play in. It's on TV. Everyone will be watching. Half of Atlanta will be there under the lights at Georgia Tech's stadium. This is huge."

  "And honestly," Seth said, wagging his head toward Nathan, "no offense to any of you guys, but if we can't do better on defense than we did against Dunwoody, we aren't going to be champs. We'll be chumps."

  Troy explained how Seth had given him a crash course on playing defensive back, and then together they all listened as Seth leafed through his notebook, explaining his plan against Valdosta's offense. After a time, Troy's mom came in and swapped her paint things for the pots and pans she needed to whip up a meal of chicken rigatoni that they could all eat before heading off to practice.

  After an early dinner, Seth drove Nathan and Tate to their homes so they could quickly change into practice gear. As they drove toward the school, the setting sun blinded them, the shadows grew long, and an autumn chill crept into the air.

  When they pulled into the parking lot beside the practice field and Troy saw the silver car, he quickly rolled down the window, thinking he might be sick.

  Seth cranked the wheel around, backed into a spot, and asked, "What the heck are they doing here?"

  "Who?" Nathan said, spinning around in his seat and craning his neck.

  "Them," Tate said, pointing before she let out a groan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE GRASS ON THE Tigers' practice field--like all but the most carefully manicured fields in the best stadiums--had withered during the thirsty autumn into a wiry brown carpet. Troy got out and slung his helmet under one arm, bounding every third step to keep up with Seth's steady, painful march across the field. Nathan and Tate jogged behind. Out beneath the faded goal-posts, standing in an odd cluster beside the ring of football players waiting on one knee, stood several adults, including Brent Peele, a uniformed Gwinnett County sheriff, and the fathers who assisted Seth, along with Mr. Renfro and his son, Jamie.

  "Can I help you people?" Seth asked, his eyes protected from the falling sun by a pair of sunglasses.

  Peele--whose cigarette Troy had smelled the moment they got out of Seth's truck--exhaled smoke through his nose and chuckled, winning grins from Jamie Renfro and his father. A red-faced man Troy didn't recognize stepped forward and extended a hand for Seth to shake. He had combed-over hair and the tailored suit and crisp white shirt of a banker.

  "Seth, I'm Jerry Flee, Flee with two e's," the man said, retracting his hand after Seth gave it a quick glance. "I'm the Duluth Junior Football League president. I'm sorry, Seth, you've done an amazing job and we can't thank you enough for taking over and getting the kids through the playoffs."

  "We've still got a big game to play," Seth said, grinding his teeth.

  "Well, that's what we came to talk to you about," Flee said, "and we're very sorry--the league, that is."

  "The league," Seth said.

  "Yes, we are," Flee said, nodding vigorously.

  "And you would be?" Seth asked the cop.

  The sheriff--really just a big fat blond kid fresh out of high school--cleared his throat and shifted nervously from one foot to the other, touching the gun in his holster but then flicking his fingers away as if it were red-hot.

  "Officer Cussing," the cop said. "Just here to keep the peace, Mr. Halloway."

  "What peace?" Seth said, looking around at the group of players assembled behind him. "Some trouble with these kids or something?"

  "Trouble a loudmouth jerk like you is famous for," said Mr. Renfro, folding his thick arms across his chest and resting them atop the shelf of his ample beer gut as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  The muscles in Seth's jaw rippled and his hands curled into concrete fists.

  "Famous, huh?" Seth said.

  Mr. Renfro nodded.

  "And what would you be famous for?" Seth growled.

  While Mr. Renfro snorted and mumbled, Flee produced several folded sheets of paper from the inside pocket of his suit coat and handed them to Seth with a now-trembling hand.

  "If I could just point out to you, Mr. Halloway," Flee said in a quavering voice, "section 6, paragraph C, I think you'll understand completely what the league's position is on all this and why we really do have to go along with it."

  "Along with what?" Seth asked, snatching the papers from Flee and searching through them.

  "Why, Mr. Halloway," Flee said, blinking, "I'm very sorry. I thought you knew. You're being removed as coach of the Duluth Tigers."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  "WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'removed'?" Troy asked, clutching the mask of his helmet so hard he could feel the rubber-coated metal against his finger bones.

  "He can't coach the team," Peele said with a nasty smile. "He broke the rules."

  "What rules?" Troy asked. "Seth didn't break any rules."

  Seth looked up from the papers and rattled them in the air. "This says 'endangering the moral welfare of the players.' You underlined 'notorious use of controlled substances.' That's not me."

  "What?" Troy said, his voice unbelieving.

  "You can't just have any clown off the street coaching kids," Jamie Renfro said, sticking his chin out at Troy.

  "He's an NFL player," Tate said, marching right up to Jamie and sticking her face into his.

  Jamie gave her a disgusted look, waved his hand like she didn't matter, and said, "We'll see for how long."

  "While the league certainly appreciates the fine effort," Flee said with a frown, "with the facts Mr. Peele and Mr. Renfro have brought to light--facts that will be known and 'notorious' after everyone reads tomorrow's newspaper--we can't allow you to coach the team."

  "I volunteered to do this," Seth said, curling his upper lip.

  "And it's very kind," Flee said, "but the rules are what
they are. I'm not saying what's true and what isn't, but the allegations alone mean we have to suspend you from coaching the team."

  "And if you're wrong about these allegations?" Seth said. "Which you are. After all these kids have been through? After all they've done and how far they've come, you're just giving up?"

  "Who said they're giving up?" Peele asked, sneering at Seth.

  "Yeah," Mr. Renfro said, "who said that?"

  From his pocket, Mr. Renfro removed a silver whistle. He jiggled its lanyard, uncoiling it before dipping his head through the loop and allowing the whistle to hang just above his sloppy beer belly. Mr. Renfro became Coach Renfro right before their eyes.

  Seth turned to Mr. Flee and said, "This guy walked out on these kids. When it looked like they weren't going to the playoffs, he quit."

  "I never quit anything!" Coach Renfro bellowed. "That was a coaching technique."

  "For motivation," Jamie said, spitting the words at Troy.

  "Then this...this gorilla," Coach Renfro said, stabbing his finger at Seth and looking at Peele, who had begun to jot down notes, "he just jumped in and turned a couple parents against me and took my team through the playoffs."

  Seth's face turned dark.

  "Mr. Flee," he said, "you can take this up with my lawyer tomorrow."

  Seth stood staring Flee down until the man dropped his eyes. Then, breathing hard through clenched teeth, he turned to Renfro, pointed at the parking lot, and said, "Get off this field. I've got practice. It's not my team. It's not your team. It's the kids' team, and they've worked too hard and done too much to have it taken away from them. We're going to win that game Saturday night. We're going to be champions, so get out of here.

  "We've got work to do."

  For a moment, everyone stood as still as statues, but when Officer Cussing's hand crept slowly around the handle of his pistol, Troy let out a gasp.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EVERYONE FOLLOWED TROY'S GAZE, startled at the sight of Officer Cussing. The young cop looked down with the rest of them at the hand he'd wrapped around the pistol grip as if his arm belonged to another person. With his other hand, he slapped the right hand off the gun, then reached for the other side of his belt, snapping free a walkie-talkie and raising it to his mouth.

  "Suzie," he said into the small black brick, "this is Officer Cussing requesting backup, over."

  The radio beeped and scratched and a voice said, "Leonard, where are you at? I got your twenty as the Junior Football League practice fields. What on earth do you need backup for?"

  "I got a big NFL player resisting arrest," Cussing said into the walkie-talkie. "Seth Halloway."

  "Who told you to arrest anybody?"

  "Well, Suzie," Cussing said, beginning to whine, his eyes flickering between them all, "I got an issue arising here and I need some backup."

  "You don't need backup," Seth said in a low tone of disgust and threw his hands up in the air. "I'm not resisting anything. You people want to mess this thing up for these kids, go ahead. Have fun. I hope you choke on it."

  Seth left, his strides obviously causing him pain.

  "You choke on it, Halloway," Peele said, raising his voice. "And choke on what I write about you tomorrow, too."

  Seth spun around and took a step toward Peele, who cringed and ducked behind the chubby young cop.

  "You can write what you like," Seth said. "You're still trash, Peele. That's all you and your little split lip ever were. That's all you ever will be."

  This time, Seth marched away without stopping.

  Coach Renfro snorted in disgust, then turned toward the assembled players and tooted his whistle. "All right, enough drama. Get lined up for stretching!"

  The players stood and muttered among themselves.

  "Get going!" Coach Renfro screamed. "You know what to do! Or you'll run laps till you puke!"

  Jamie ran out in front of the lines and hollered to get everyone started on a set of jumping jacks. The two assistant coaches looked at each other, then at Coach Renfro.

  "Let's go," Coach Renfro ordered as he marched past them. "I'm not holding any grudges for what you two did, but I'm not taking any crap from you, either."

  "What about them?" asked one of the coaches, pointing at Troy, Nathan, and Tate.

  Coach Renfro spun around, studying them for a moment before he said, "You three want to play, that's okay with me. Hughes and McGreer, you'll stay put right where you are, but you can forget being team captains. That's for real players. White, you're backup quarterback now, same thing as during the regular season."

  Coach Renfro's mouth twisted up into a smirk, and he said, "But as a reward for helping this team out over the last few weeks, I figured I'll let you be the holder on PATs and field goals, get you a little playing time in the championship game under the lights. That's if you don't give me any trouble."

  Troy turned to his friends. Nathan looked down at the grass, nudging a divot into the dirt with the toe of his cleat. Tate looked up at Troy, her eyes swimming in tears yet to fall.

  "You guys stay," Troy said, his throat choking out the words. "Really, I mean it. Don't miss the game because of me."

  Troy turned before they could answer, shouted for Seth to wait up, and jogged off the field in the direction of the H2. He didn't want them to see his own tears of anger and anguish, so he didn't turn around until he got to the big yellow SUV. When he did, what he saw shocked him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  NO LESS THAN TWENTY feet behind him, Tate and Nathan jogged along, scuffing the dry grass. They grinned at Troy as if they'd won the lottery. Behind them, kicking up a cloud of dust that glimmered in the golden light of the setting sun, were nearly twenty players, led by Rusty Howell--more than half the rest of the team.

  Beyond them, the ones who remained closed their ranks beneath a tirade of shouting from Coach Renfro.

  "Hey, guys?" Troy said, biting back his smile. "You sure? You might not get a chance like this again, playing on TV. It's the state championship."

  Tate said, "If I ever want to make a fool of myself in front of thousands of people, I'll sing 'She Bangs' on American Idol."

  Rusty Howell walked up and said, "I hear that. You couldn't get goofier than going out there against Valdosta with Jamie Renfro at quarterback."

  "And his dad coaching," Nathan said. "That could win World's Funniest Pet Videos. The guy's a mutt."

  "Man," Troy said, glaring out at the field, "this whole thing stinks."

  Rusty shrugged and headed across the parking lot, where his dad stood next to the open door of his car, wearing a suit and holding his hands in the air to signal that he wondered what was going on. The rest of the kids filtered through the lot as well, some of them sharing cell phones to call for rides from their parents. Seth waited for Troy, Nathan, and Tate to climb into the H2 before he fired up the engine and pulled out of his spot. On the way out of the lot, Rusty's dad flagged Seth down. Seth lowered his window and explained what had happened.

  Rusty's dad wrinkled his forehead in disbelief, then shot a glance over at the field and said, "From the beginning, I worried about Rusty playing for that guy. I'm sorry, Seth. Listen, let me get the parents together and see what I can do."

  "My dad's a lawyer," Rusty said from the front seat of his car.

  "Are you?" Seth asked. "My agent's a lawyer. I was going to call him, but you being a father, I think that would be better."

  The father shrugged and said, "An environmental lawyer, really, but I think I can help with this."

  "Well," Seth said, "it'll have to be fast. If we're going to have a chance Saturday, we need to practice."

  "Give me until tomorrow evening," Rusty's father said.

  They shook hands and Seth pulled away, driving in silence. After he dropped off Nathan and Tate, he pulled up into the dirt patch in front of Troy's house. Seth turned off the engine and sat there with his hands on the wheel.

  "You didn't do what they said, did you?" Troy a
sked, his words barely rising above the sound of the ticking engine.

  Seth looked at him for a minute, then sighed and said, "Troy, I told you, the only shot I ever took from Gumble was a vitamin shot. There's nothing illegal about it. Nothing at all."

  "I know," Troy said, smiling. "Come in, okay?"

  Seth nodded his head. They went in and sat down on the couch next to Troy's mom.

  "Well," she said quietly after listening to the whole story, "maybe Mr. Howell can do something. There's nothing more we can do. Some things are just meant to be."

  "Mr. Langan and Coach McFadden said the NFL is coming in to test me for steroids," Seth said. "If I clear that--which I will--then I'll be set to play Sunday, but it won't help us in getting ready for the Tigers' championship game. I need to be with the team. We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to stand a chance. Meanwhile, the whole world thinks I'm dirty, and I have to just sit here.

  "I want to do something," Seth said, curling his hands into fists and slowly rapping a knuckle against his own forehead. "That's what I love about this stupid game: You can always do something. You can work harder. You can lift more weights. You can watch more film. You can run more sprints. There's no politics, no who said what to who and why. Football is pure. You win or you lose because you're better. Now I just feel so helpless. I feel like, like..."

  "Like everyone else?" Troy said.

  "I guess," Seth said.

  His mom sat rubbing big circles on Seth's back before she said, "I got a call from Cecilia."

  "Great," Seth said sarcastically.

  "She wanted to make sure I was clear on their suggestion not to do any interviews and not to let anyone talk to Troy," his mom said.

  "Who wants to talk to me?" Troy asked, suddenly remembering his chance for fame and thinking of Jamie Renfro's face if he saw Troy on TV with Larry King or some other famous person.