Football Champ (2009)

by Tim Green

  Finally, Mr. Flee counted each pile of ballots, then put them back into the box, looked up, and cleared his throat to speak.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  "I'D LIKE TO ASK the players to get together out on the field with all their gear," Mr. Flee said. "Because after I announce who the coach is, you'll all need to get to work as a team. Parents, you're welcome to watch from the stands, but please don't interfere. We'll get these kids going again and we'll stay out of it. The vote is done. They're all counted, and the decision is final."

  Mr. Flee paused to look at Mrs. McGreer. She gave one solid nod and the league president said, "Okay. Kids? Take the field."

  Troy looked at his mom and she shooed him toward the fifty-yard line. Troy got up and walked out onto the grass, turning to look at the adults in the stands and the back of Mr. Flee's shiny head with its waving flap of hair. Tate stood next to him and touched his arm. Nathan walked over and held out his hand. Troy slapped him five.

  "So," Mr. Flee said, clearing his throat one final time and tugging at the collar of his shirt as if to loosen his tie. "The Tigers' coach will be Seth Halloway."

  Troy and Nathan and Tate jumped in the air and cheered, along with most of the other kids. Mr. Renfro stormed past Mr. Flee, bumping him in the shoulder--almost knocking him down. He grabbed Jamie by the arm and dragged him off toward the parking lot.

  "Mr. Renfro," Mr. Flee called after him in a weak voice, "we had an agreement."

  Without turning around, Mr. Renfro flipped his middle finger in the air and kept walking.

  Peele stood calmly.

  As Seth walked past him and toward the players, Peele said, "Enjoy your little victory, Halloway, because junior league football is all you're going to have left by the time I'm finished."

  Seth glanced over his shoulder, let out a little laugh, and said, "Peele, why don't you write something you know about, like the inside of a trash can."

  Troy and his friends giggled, but instead of joining in, Seth blew his whistle and hollered at his team to take two laps, then line up for stretching.

  By the time Seth blew the final whistle, signaling an end to practice, Troy didn't know which hurt him more, his legs or his brain. Not only had they run more than fifty plays on offense as well as on defense, but Seth had insisted that they learn every play and every signal for Saturday's game. While Troy normally got to rest during the defensive part of practice, he now had to focus just as hard and hit more than he was used to in order to be ready to play strong safety.

  His sweat-soaked clothes turned clammy and chill before he reached the H2 and crawled up into the back-seat. Tate got in the other side. Troy's mom had spent her time during practice in the front seat, reading a book by the dome light, and she looked up when Troy slammed the door shut.

  "How'd it go?" his mom asked.

  Troy got stuck trying to slip out of his shoulder pads. Tate reached over to help, and he groaned.

  "That bad?" his mom asked.

  "He's trying to kill us," Troy said.

  Seth climbed in behind the wheel and turned around, grinning. "Rough night, huh, champ?"

  "I can barely lift my arms," Troy said.

  "Seth, I hope you're not going to exhaust them too much," his mom said. "They have to play a game on Saturday."

  "Gotta do it," Seth said, starting the engine. "That's how it goes in the NFL. As far as practices go, four days before a game is the toughest day of the week. You get your whole game plan in. You do your hitting. Tomorrow will be tough, too, but a little easier. Then the last two days before the game it's all mental work. Trust me, I know what I'm doing. He'll be all right. We'll ice him down in the tub and give him some ibuprofen."

  "Ice in what tub?" Troy asked.

  Seth glanced at him and said, "The bathtub. We fill it with cold water and ice and in you go."

  Troy shivered at the thought of it.

  "That makes you feel better?" Troy asked.

  "Hurts like heck at first," Seth said, "but after a few minutes, you numb up and it's pretty good for you. You'll be like new by Saturday."

  "Saturday?" Troy said. "What about the rest of the week?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  TROY ACHED FROM HEAD to toe the next morning. The memory of the icy tub made him break out in goose bumps all over again. He crawled out of bed, staggered to the bathroom, then limped into the kitchen, where his mom worked at the stove. When Troy saw Seth at the table, he froze, wondering what news the paper had for them today.

  "What's it say?" Troy asked.

  Seth peered over the top, then flipped the pages until Troy could see the sports section headline: DIRTY BIRD.

  "Wow," Troy said. "Is that about you?"

  "Yup," Seth said, turning the pages and disappearing behind the paper again. "The fun continues."

  "You came for breakfast?" Troy asked.

  "That, and I figured I'd stop by before practice to see how my star quarterback is doing," Seth said, dropping the paper again. "You okay?"

  "Yeah," Troy said. "A little sore is all. A lot sore, actually."

  "That happens," Seth said. "You need to take some of that ibuprofen."

  "I put two next to your juice glass," Troy's mom said, flipping eggs onto their plates.

  Troy swallowed the pills and said, "Seth said if I was real bad I should take three or four."

  "Three or four isn't good for your stomach," his mom said.

  "Seth said--"

  "I'm your mom," she said, cutting him off.

  Seth looked like he was going to say something, then winked at Troy, shook his head, and disappeared behind the paper again.

  Since his mom wasn't going into work, Seth drove Troy to school on his way to Flowery Branch. During the drive, Troy asked, "Why didn't you just tell her about the ibuprofen? You know more about it than she does."

  "Like she said, she's your mom," Seth said, glancing at Troy from behind a pair of dark sunglasses as he turned the big H2 into the school driveway, "and she's a good one, too. I had a pretty good mom myself, but not like yours. No, no. One thing I'm not going to do is come between you two. You're my man, Troy, but you want backup when you're going at it with your mom? Don't look to me. I'm smarter than that."

  Troy wrinkled his nose and Seth laughed.

  "What's it like living in a mansion?" Troy asked, the words escaping his mouth like kids busting out of the school's front doors at the end of the day.

  Seth looked at him blankly, then a smile curled the corners of his lips. "You like my place?"

  "It's awesome," Troy said.

  "Thanks," Seth said. "I worked hard to get it. I paid for it with my blood and bones. It didn't come cheap and it didn't come easy."

  "I'm going to work hard, too," Troy said.

  "I know that," Seth said. "I see."

  "If we win this game," Troy said, "I figure I'm on my way. Who needs ten thousand a week from the Falcons? In a few years, I'll be famous and making millions like you, and I'll get me and my mom a house in Cotton Wood and a fancy car, maybe a Benz."

  "Sounds good," Seth said, "but I don't think you have to do something like that for your mom. She'd be pretty crazy about you no matter what you did, no matter where you lived or what kind of car you drove. That's what I like best about her. Those things don't matter to her."

  "But she should have them if I make it to the NFL," Troy said. "You've got them."

  "I know I do, and I enjoy them," Seth said. "But they're not necessary. That's not what makes you happy."

  "But being famous does, right?" Troy said.

  "I doubt it," Seth said. "I'm not so famous, anyway."

  "You are, kind of."

  "Well, no matter how much fame you have, it all ends sooner or later," Seth said, "and then you're left with yourself, who you are, and the people who really love you. That's what matters."

  Troy closed his mouth and stared straight ahead.

  "I could see you playing in the NFL though, Troy," Seth said, pull
ing to a stop in front of the school. "You get a little luck and a little size, and I really could. Here you go."

  Troy thanked Seth, hopped down from the big, shiny SUV, and glanced around the school yard. Sometimes Jamie Renfro got delivered to school in his mom's Jaguar, and no matter what Seth said about cars and mansions and fame, Troy wanted Jamie to see him arrive in style, too. He waved and shouted as Seth rumbled away, but when he glanced over his shoulder, no one seemed to have noticed. He walked slowly toward the doors, looking back at the buses until Tate and Nathan finally stepped off theirs. The two of them followed a twisting line of kids heading for the main entrance. Troy jogged over to them and explained about Seth giving him a ride and why he hadn't seen them on the bus.

  "So, you didn't hear the news?" Nathan said.

  Troy looked at Tate. She stared down at her feet and began to stir a small pebble around the asphalt with her toe.

  "What news?" Troy asked.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  "EVERYONE'S TALKING ABOUT IT," Nathan said, his eyes bulging.

  "What?" Troy asked, anger frosting the question, frustrated with the way Nathan was dragging things out.

  "Jamie Renfro," Tate said.

  "Jamie Renfro what?" Troy asked.

  "The gloves are coming off!" Nathan said, unable to keep his voice from drawing stares all around as they made their way into the school and down the halls.

  "What gloves?" Troy asked.

  "Fight gloves," Nathan said. "Don't worry, I got your back. His buddies try to pull any funny stuff, they'll be getting a taste of this."

  Troy stared at Nathan's fist for a moment before saying, "What's with the fist?"

  "Man, wake up. Jamie Renfro's calling you out," Nathan said. "You two are going to fight."

  "No I'm not," Troy said.

  Nathan's face fell. "You got to."

  "Says who?" Troy asked.

  "Man, he's talking about you," Nathan said.

  "So what?"

  "So, he keeps saying things," Nathan said.

  "I don't care."

  "Troy, you can't just let him keep dissing you," Nathan said.

  "Who cares what he says?" Troy said, passing through the entrance and into the main hall. "He can say what he wants."

  "But he's saying he's going to fight you," Nathan said, jogging to keep up.

  Troy stopped short and Nathan bumped into him.

  "I thought you want to be a champ," Troy said. "A state champ."

  "So?" Nathan said, wrinkling his brow.

  "What if I break my hand or twist my ankle fighting Jamie Renfro?" Troy asked.

  "Troy's right," Tate said.

  "Tate, who asked you?" Nathan said. "You're a girl."

  "Don't start that," Tate said, growling and poking Nathan in the chest with her finger.

  "Well," Nathan said in a mutter, "you guys are going to make us all look bad if you let Jamie Renfro keep saying stuff and you just let it go. I don't know what good it does being a football champ if everyone is calling you a chicken."

  "Chicken?" said a nasty voice. "Who's the chicken?"

  Troy, Tate, and Nathan spun around to see Jamie Renfro standing there with two of the goons he called friends.

  "You're not talking about Troy White?" Jamie said. "White, like white meat on a chicken?"

  "Come on," Troy said to his friends, turning to go.

  "Yeah," Jamie said, "I'd walk away too if I were you."

  "I am."

  "Just make sure you meet me after seventh period in the locker room," Jamie said. "'Cause that's where you and I are going to settle this."

  "I'm not settling anything," Troy said, continuing to walk.

  He, Tate, and Nathan were halfway down the hall when Jamie shouted, "That's right, go run to your groupie mama."

  "What?" Troy said, freezing in his tracks. "What did he say?"

  "Troy, come on," Tate said, taking his arm. "Like you said, who cares?"

  "Groupie?" Troy said, the color red flashing in his eyes. "You must be talking about your own mom."

  "My mom?" Jamie said, laughing and nudging his friends. "Your mom is the NFL groupie chasing after Seth Halloway. I guess he went for her because he's so old and the magic is gone for him, but I heard the one she really wanted was John Abraham. He's got a bigger contract."

  "You," Troy said, clenching his fists and his teeth and moving fast toward Jamie Renfro.

  "Fight. Fight. Fight," the kids all around them in the crowded hall began to chant.

  Troy went right for Jamie, his fist cocked and ready to throw a punch right at Jamie's mouth. But before Troy got there, someone, maybe one of Jamie's buddies, or maybe just some anxious bystander, tripped him. Troy tumbled forward as he threw his punch. His fist sang through the air, grazing Jamie's nose and twisting Troy sideways so that when he fell, his head banged into the door of an open locker. He crashed to the floor, faceup, and the back of his head struck the solid surface.

  Troy saw stars, then everything went black.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  TROY CAME TO IN a cloud of breath laced with the nauseating smell of decay and old coffee. Ms. Finkle, the vice principal, patted his cheek and asked over and over if he was okay. She helped Troy sit up and escorted him to the nurse's office, gripping him by the arm and delivering him to the exam table more like a prisoner than a patient.

  "Hit his head in a fight," Ms. Finkle said to the nurse.

  Troy used to feel bad for the rigid, middle-aged administrator. Kids called her the Fink or Funky Fink if they got a whiff of her breath. But now the sharp look on her face and the accusing glare of her small, dark eyes behind those cold wire-framed glasses left Troy with the urge to tell her to her face what kids called her behind her back.

  He forgot about the Fink, though, when he heard the sound--a ringing, buzzing sound that reminded him of the time Nathan lit off a firecracker too close to Troy's head.

  "What's that?" Troy asked the nurse.

  She gave him a kind but puzzled look as she slipped a thermometer into his mouth. "What's what?"

  "That noise," Troy said, looking around, his words garbled by the thermometer.

  "I don't hear any noise," the nurse said.

  "That buzz," Troy said.

  "No more of your shenanigans," the Fink said, pointing a long finger at Troy. "Who were you fighting with?"

  Troy worked his jaw to disperse the ringing. No matter how much he hated Jamie Renfro, he wasn't going to be a rat. He shook his head and said, "There wasn't a fight."

  "I heard 'fight,'" the Fink said, still pointing. "When I hear 'fight' and I see someone lying loopy on the floor, I know there was a fight."

  "I..." Troy said, still working his jaw, trying to think over the annoying sound, "I tripped."

  Since what he said was true, Troy looked right at her without blinking. The Fink moved closer, breathing on him, boring into his eyes with her own.

  In a whisper that rode on the back of a rancid gust of breath, she said, "I'll get to the bottom of this, and when I do, you better hope you're telling me the truth."

  The Fink stomped out of the nurse's office.

  "I'll call your mother," the nurse said, removing the thermometer and scowling.

  "I have a temperature?" Troy asked.

  "No, for the noise you're hearing," the nurse said.

  "Uh, no," Troy said, thinking of how unhappy his mother would be and how lying to her--the way he did to the Fink--would be next to impossible. His mother would sniff him out in two seconds. "I'm fine."

  "Not if you have ringing in your ears," the nurse said, flicking a penlight in his eyes.

  "I don't," Troy said, shaking his head. "Not anymore. I'm good."

  "You don't feel nauseous? Dizzy? Light-headed?" the nurse asked.

  "No, no," Troy said, hopping off the table. "I'm good."

  "Do you want to rest for a little while to make sure?" the nurse asked, pointing to a plastic bed partially hidden behind a curtain.

&nb
sp; "No," Troy said. "I've got a math quiz I don't want to miss."

  When the nurse didn't try to stop him, Troy hurried out of the office and down the nearly empty hallways to his class. The Fink was nowhere in sight; Troy saw her only once more during the day, prowling the lunch room and removing one of Jamie Renfro's buddies by the collar, presumably for questioning about the fight.

  "The Fink is still on the prowl," Nathan said through a mouthful of Twinkie.

  "If anyone talks about a fight, she'll call my mom for sure," Troy said. "And if that happens, you know my mom, she'll ground me for at least a week, and that means no championship game on Saturday."

  "Come on. You didn't do anything," Nathan said. "Your mom's tough, but she's not like Saddam Hussein--crazy or anything like that."

  "No, but my mom hates fighting, and once she flings out what my punishment will be," Troy said, "she won't go back on it. Remember when I burned that tire in the woods and it almost started a forest fire? I got two weeks for that and she wouldn't make an exception, even for Gramp's birthday dinner, even when he begged her."

  "But this is the championship," Nathan said. "This is once in a lifetime. She wouldn't take that away from you, would she?"

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  "SHE DOESN'T CARE," TROY said, shaking his head. "Believe me."

  "First of all," Tate said, slurping the last bit of milk from her carton, "you weren't technically fighting."

  "He tried," Nathan said, then dropped his head when they both scowled at him.

  "And," Tate said, "if one of us isn't going to say anything--which we're not--Jamie and his creeps sure aren't. They're the ones who started it."

  "Well, technically, Troy did," Nathan said.

  They glared at him again, throwing daggers with their eyes.

  "What?" Nathan asked. "I'm with you guys. I'm just saying, technically, Troy took the first swing."

  "After Jamie insulted his mom," Tate said, her face reddening with anger.

  "Yeah, but insults aren't the same as throwing a haymaker," Nathan said. "Stop it with the ugly looks, you guys. I'm just saying, the best thing for the Duluth Tigers is that no one talks to the Fink."