Football Champ (2009)

by Tim Green

  "Hey, you think Tate's the only kicker? How about me kicking that goofball?" Nathan said. "He messed with the wrong mule."

  "He also slipped in your barf," Troy said, his lip curling with disgust.

  "Otherwise, he would have had me," Tate said.

  "Strategic barfing is another one of my many strengths," Nathan said, beaming.

  "Hey, let's see what you guys got," Troy said, reaching for the camera.

  They played back the video and heard everything they needed. Nathan snuck the camera into the back door of his family's apartment, and Tate headed in for dinner, too, telling Troy she'd see him at practice. Troy took the mini-DVD and stuffed it into his pocket before setting off on his bike toward the path through the pines. Seth's H2 sat in the dirt patch, next to his mom's VW Bug. When Troy went inside, his mom was at the stove and Seth sat at the kitchen table going over the clipboard he used for the Duluth Tigers' game plan.

  "Hey," Seth said, looking as glum as he sounded.

  "Hey, hey," Troy said, pulling the disc out of his pocket and holding it up like a gold coin. "Look at this."

  "What have you got?" Seth asked.

  "Your ticket to coaching us in the state championship," Troy said, handing it to Seth with an enormous grin, "and playing on Sunday, too."

  "What?" Seth said, turning it over in his hand.

  "What Roger Goodell said he needed," Troy said, "and the proof to show Mr. Flee you're not the liar, Peele is. I got Gumble on tape, admitting he lied. Peele threatened to turn him in. Something about him not having his doctor's license."

  Troy's mom dropped a spoon into the sink and asked, "What did you do?"

  "Nothing," Troy said. "We tricked him."

  "How?" Seth asked.

  Troy told them the story, leaving out the part about Gumble chasing them, because he didn't want to worry his mom.

  "You sure it's on there?" Seth asked.

  "We watched it," Troy said, nodding his head. "Whoever does my interview, maybe they can show this on national TV. What do you think? That'll clear Seth's name for good."

  Seth smiled and said, "I like the way you're thinking."

  Troy smiled back proudly.

  "But I want to show this to Flee myself," Seth said, holding up the disc, "so there's no confusion about tomorrow night and me coaching the team. Once Flee sees it, he can let Mr. Renfro know he's the one who'll be riding the bench for the championship game. Then I'll show Mr. Langan and he can get a copy of it to the commissioner. I got to believe Goodell will have me back in the lineup Sunday and we can keep this playoff run alive."

  "What about your knees?" Troy's mom asked.

  Seth shrugged. "A little more ice, a little more ibuprofen. Maybe drain them out with a needle and pump a little cortisone in. I've done it before."

  Troy and his mom grimaced together.

  "I've said it before," Seth said, looking at them, "it's a rough way to make a living, but it's what I do."

  "Is it all really worth it?" Troy's mom asked.

  "Yes," Seth said, "especially when you're in the hunt for a championship. How many people get to do that?"

  Troy nodded, thinking of his own championship the very next day, and said, "Not many."

  "Right," Seth said, "not many get to go for what you're going for tomorrow night, either."

  "I was just thinking that," Troy said.

  "I bet," Seth said. "So let's eat and go have a short practice to tune up, then get a good night's sleep before the big game. I'll call Mr. Langan and bring this disc in tomorrow after I show it to Flee."

  "What about the interview?" Troy asked.

  "You want to do Larry King?" his mom asked.

  "Yeah," Troy said, his breath going out of him.

  "Then we're on at nine tonight," she said, reaching for the phone. "I wanted to check with you before I made it official. We'll head down to CNN Center after your practice."

  "Will he be there?" Troy asked.

  "No, he's in Los Angeles," she said. "We'll do an uplink."

  "A what?"

  "A satellite hookup," she said. "We'll be in a studio here, talking to him live. The picture gets sent up on a satellite and down to his studio, so it's like we're right there."

  "Oh," Troy said, "I thought I'd get to meet him."

  "You'll meet him," she said. "Just not in person. Not in person tonight, anyway."

  "You mean maybe another time?" Troy asked.

  His mom looked at Seth and said, "If this thing goes the way I think it will, there will be other opportunities."

  "What's that mean?" Troy asked.

  His mom walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

  "Whether we like it or not," she said, "this thing is going to make you somewhat famous, Troy. It's going to change our lives."

  Troy studied her face, the swirl of doubt in her eyes, the hint of a frown, and asked, "You mean in a good way, right?"

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  "MOSTLY GOOD," TROY'S MOM said, forcing a weak smile. "But some isn't going to be so good."

  "Why?" Troy asked.

  "When people know who you are," Seth said, "it's like turning your life into a billboard on the side of a road. Most people pass by and they recognize you and think it's pretty neat. They might stop and take a picture next to you, or just wave and beep their horn. But every once in a while, you get some goofball who's going to throw a rotten piece of fruit or a broken bottle at you, just because."

  "Just because?" Troy said.

  "Because they don't like that you're up there on a billboard and they're not," his mom said. "It's part of it."

  "Even if you're nice to everyone?" Troy asked.

  "Yes," his mom said, "even if you're nice. I don't want you to think it's all fun, Troy. Some of it's going to hurt."

  "Like football," Seth said. "It's fun, but it can hurt. It's worth it, though. Because of the fun part."

  Troy smiled at him and nodded. "I thought that."

  "Okay," his mom said, glancing at the clock and turning back to the stove, "time to eat, then practice, then you become famous."

  After dinner, Troy changed into his practice gear. His mom packed him some clothes to wear for Larry King, and they drove off down the dirt driveway together. The reporters still waited with their TV trucks, but Seth drove right through them, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  "How long will they stay?" Troy asked, looking over the back of the seat.

  "They'll be gone after the word spreads that you're doing Larry King Live," his mom said.

  "Good," Troy said.

  "Thought you said you were ready to be famous," Seth said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror with a mischievous grin.

  Practice ran like a Swiss watch, with everyone going to the right place at the right time. Pass patterns were crisp. Troy's passes were precise. Handoffs went smoothly. On defense, with Troy reading the offense and calling signals, the Tigers were able to swarm to the ball like angry hornets. By the time Seth called them all together, he was wearing a giant smile.

  "Good," he said. "Very good. Play like this tomorrow night and you'll all walk away champions."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  TROY MARVELED AT HOW many people it took to run a TV studio. There were wires and monitors and desks everywhere, and people darted in and out all over the place with headsets and clipboards. He was taken down a hallway and into a white room filled with mirrors and lights and several barber chairs.

  "Makeup," his mom explained.

  "For what?" Troy asked.

  "You."

  Troy raised an eyebrow.

  "It's okay," Seth said. "Welcome to TV. Everyone does it."

  "Man," Troy said, shaking his head and hoping Nathan wouldn't hear about it.

  Someone sat him down in one chair and his mom in another, since Larry King had asked that she be with him during the interview. Troy tried to stay still while one woman put makeup on his face and another messed around with his ha
ir. A third patted his dark blue polo shirt with a piece of tape to remove the lint. Troy's mom smirked at him.

  "Part of what being famous is all about," she said, winking at him in the mirror from her own chair.

  "Man," Troy said again, still shaking his head.

  A young man led them halfway back down the hall and into a smaller room with a desk and chair facing two cameras. Behind it, the wall had been plastered with a photo of downtown Atlanta.

  "We could be in Alaska for all everyone knows," Troy said.

  He and his mom sat behind the desk and two other people attached microphones to their collars, running the thin black cables up the backs of their shirts before plugging earbuds into their ears so they could hear Larry. A woman who said she was the stage manager told them they'd be able to see Larry on a TV monitor that she wheeled over to the side of the room.

  "But don't look at that when you're talking," she told Troy and his mom. "Just look right at the camera."

  His mom nodded. Troy gripped the edge of the desk, and his hands began to sweat. A different woman appeared from nowhere and set two bottles of water in front of them. Troy's hands shook as he cracked the cap. He gulped down some water to try to wet his dry mouth.

  Before he knew it, Troy was hearing Larry King in his earbud. Troy mumbled hello to the booming but friendly voice, then listened to his mom talk as if she'd known Larry for years.

  "You okay, Troy?" Larry asked.

  "Yes," Troy said, swallowing.

  "Great," Larry said, "we've got about four minutes, then I'll be back with you."

  Troy's earbud went quiet. Seth gave him a thumbs-up.

  "Break a leg," Seth said, then ducked out of the studio.

  Troy looked at his mom. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. He blinked at the spotlights and shielded his eyes.

  "You okay?" his mom asked.

  Troy nodded, wondering if, when Larry came back live and they were on TV across the entire world, he'd even be able to speak.

  A sudden flurry of talking erupted in his earpiece. People began counting down, music blared, and Larry King's voice boomed, welcoming everyone to his show.

  "And tonight," Larry said, "from CNN Center in Atlanta with his mom, Tessa, a boy whose mental abilities some say will change the balance of power in the NFL--a boy so extraordinarily brilliant that league commissioner Roger Goodell, who'll join us later from New York, at first suspected the Atlanta Falcons of a cheating scheme more elaborate than the New England Patriots infamous Spygate scandal. But that was before Goodell met and witnessed firsthand what this football genius can do. Troy White..."

  Three red lights above the camera's lens burned suddenly out at Troy while Larry kept talking.

  Troy took a deep breath and heard Larry King say his name again, this time waiting for him to say something back.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  THE TOWERING BANK OF LIGHTS glared down onto the pristine grass field, muscling back the black of the night sky beyond. The concrete bowl of the Georgia Tech stadium seemed twenty stories high, and already several thousand fans filled the best seats.

  "Man," Nathan said, buckling his chinstrap, "I thought you were gonna choke on your tongue. Like a seizure or something."

  "Thanks a lot," Troy said, scowling and putting his own helmet on.

  "Your head's not still buzzing, is it?" Nathan asked with a serious face.

  "No," Troy said, frowning. "My head feels fine. I looked that bad?"

  "No. No one even noticed," Tate said, tightening the belt on her football pants. "After that first--I don't know, hiccup--you did great. You sounded like a football genius, and that Larry King is so nice."

  "Speaking of Larry King, it's time for me to make my own TV debut," Nathan said, pointing up at the press box, where cameras with Georgia Cable System stickers on their sides poked their noses down at the field. "When I score tonight, I got a dance that'll make the highlights on ESPN."

  "How are you going to score?" Tate asked. "You're a lineman."

  "Defense, my friend," Nathan said, wagging his hips and throwing out a stiff arm. "You gotta visualize it to make it happen, and I see myself scooping up a fumble and going on a rumble."

  Tate shook her head and snorted.

  "Hey, you gotta have a dream, Tate," Nathan said, dropping his hands to his sides. "As a kicker, you might not know about that."

  "Forget about all that junk," Troy said. "We're a team, right? We all have to play our best tonight, every position. Let's win this thing, right? Football champs."

  Troy held out a fist and Nathan and Tate pounded it with fists of their own, grunting in agreement.

  When Seth blew his whistle, they jogged down under the shadow of the goalposts with the rest of the Duluth Tigers. As they warmed up, Troy marveled at the size and speed of the Valdosta Vipers on the other end of the field, their green-and-white uniforms glowing like gems under the bright lights. Before long, cameras with stickers other than the GCS ones began to appear on the sidelines. Troy ignored them until Tate poked him in the arm.

  "Did you see?" she asked. "FOX, ESPN, CBS, they're all here. Can you believe it?"

  "Here for the championship?" Troy said.

  "No, meathead," Tate said. "They're here to see you."

  Troy looked over and saw that, in fact, the cameras were trained at him even as he spoke to Tate.

  "Don't even think about them," Seth said, turning Troy and Tate around by the shoulder pads. "You've got to focus on the game. Those cameras can't do anything to help us beat Valdosta. We need all you got, Troy."

  And that's what Troy gave.

  The Tigers received the ball first and he set the tone, changing plays at the line of scrimmage, directing his receivers, and completing his first ten passes to score the opening touchdown. On defense, it was more of the same. While the Vipers were bigger and faster, Troy was able to predict their plays after the first four. Even though the Tigers couldn't keep Valdosta from scoring, they were able to sometimes hold them to a field goal instead of a touchdown, and twice they even made the Vipers punt. So the game went--until the fourth quarter.

  That's when Troy got hurt.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  TROY LAY UNDER A PILE of Valdosta defenders, gripping his throwing hand. A sort of howling noise escaped his mouth through gritted teeth. As the artificial light began to appear through the big bodies of the Vipers, so did Troy's mom and Seth.

  "Let me see that," Seth said, taking Troy's right hand in his own.

  Troy saw his mom's face go pale. She grimaced and looked away.

  Troy forced his eyes to look.

  The pointer finger on his right hand, his throwing hand, stuck out sideways from the middle joint, making an upside-down L. Seeing it made the pain worse.

  "We've got to get him to the hospital," Troy's mom said.

  Seth glanced at the scoreboard, then at Troy. They were ahead 35-23. Just over eleven minutes remained.

  "If he goes," Seth said to Troy's mom, "we'll lose."

  "You're ahead by twelve," Troy's mom said, "and he's hurt."

  "We don't have to score again," Seth said, "so he won't have to throw. But if we don't have him on defense, calling the plays, this team could score forty or fifty points before it's over."

  "I can't risk his health," Troy's mom said.

  Seth's lower lip disappeared beneath his upper teeth. He bit down, then said, "It's dislocated. If we tape it good, it can't get any worse. I've done it plenty of times. Trust me."

  "Seth," Troy's mom said with a horrified expression, "he's twelve years old. You're in the NFL."

  "I want to, Mom," Troy said, blurting out his words over the searing pain.

  "I can snap it back in place," Seth said, reaching for the finger.

  "Oh my God," Troy's mom said. "We're talking about a junior league football game."

  "I want to win, Mom," Troy said.

  "He's a football player," Seth said. "This is a championship, Tessa. I've only
played in a championship once in my whole life, back in high school. You always think you'll get another chance, but most people never do."

  "Mom, please," Troy said. "I'm fine."

  "That's not fine," his mom said, pointing at the dislocated finger and averting her eyes.

  "It will be," Troy said. "Fix it, Seth."

  Seth looked at Troy's mom. She threw her hands up in the air and began walking away.

  "Fine," she said.

  Seth took Troy's hand in one of his and grasped the end of his bent-over finger in the other.

  "Don't look," Seth said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  TROY TRIED NOT TO make a sound, but that proved impossible. What came out, though, was a grunt worthy of an NFL player. A sweat broke out on Troy's face and he felt slightly nauseous, but when he looked down, the finger sat straight.

  "Come on," Seth said, helping him off. "We'll tape it and you'll be ready for defense."

  While Tate lined up to punt the ball, Seth bound Troy's pointer finger to his middle finger with thick bands of tape. Then he wrapped all four of them into one bunch and anchored the whole mess down with strips of tape that circled Troy's palm and wrist so that his arm resembled a seal's flipper more than a boy's hand. Troy took the field with the defense and did his best.

  He got his players in the right position, but when it came to leading the charge and making the tackle, his hand made it tough. Not only did he feel a bolt of excruciating pain every time he hit a runner or a receiver, the tape made it much more difficult to wrap up a player and hang on. The Vipers managed to kick two field goals, closing the gap to six points.

  Offense was even worse for Troy. He stayed in, telling Seth he could take the snap and hand the ball off better than his backup. He gutted it out, even though Duluth's running game never gained more than three yards on a single play. There were just fifty-three seconds left when Valdosta's halfback burst through a wave of Tigers' tacklers and into the end zone to tie the score. The extra point went through, giving Valdosta a one-point lead and setting off an explosion of cheers from the Vipers fans.