Stick

by Michael Harmon

  Lance bit his lip. “Yeah. Sure. I never had a beef with him anyway.”

  Jordan grinned. “Man, you’re a piece of work. Now, why don’t you and your buddies get out of here before we have some fun with you.”

  In the next minute, the Saxons faded away, tails firmly between their legs. Jordan looked at me, his face serious. “You’re going to stick to that deal, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

  He clapped me on the shoulder. “I guess you got that name for more than one reason, then.”

  A moment later, he, the Tigers, and Preston’s enclave were filtering away, disappearing into the night. I looked at Preston. “I can only say that was surreal.”

  He just looked at me, giving me that frog smirk under his mask. “I know. But even more surreal is that you said ‘surreal.’ ”

  I could hear the crowd outside as I laced up. I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes before kickoff. My dad was in the stands, sitting next to Mr. Silvia, who had arrived earlier in the day from California. We’d met briefly after school, and he’d wished me luck.

  Nervous excitement coursed through me.

  As I took my helmet from the locker, Coach Larson yelled my name from the office. Hustling down the aisle, I came to the door. “Yessir?”

  He motioned me in. “I heard you had some trouble last night.”

  “It was nothing, really.”

  He adjusted his cap. “You know, one of the hardest things to do when you’re emotional about something is to stay focused.” He pointed out toward the field. “Every player on that defense will be gunning for you, Brett. Every one of them wants to hurt you.”

  “Yessir.”

  He raised a finger to me, waggling it slowly. “You, on the other hand, are going out there to play a game. A game, Brett. A game that could give you a bright future, but still a game.”

  “I know.”

  He looked down to his playbook. “Good. Because everything you do in this life, one way or another, is a game. It’s all in how you play it that makes you a good man. Keep your head clear, trust yourself, and get out of my office.”

  The stands were usually a little over half full for most regular-season games, but tonight, word had spread, and even the announcer was dubbing us the Saxon-Tiger rivalry. When we took the field, I looked around the stadium. We all did. There wasn’t a seat open. Ben slapped my shoulder. “You can draw a crowd, can’t you?” he drawled.

  I gawked. “I don’t think they’re here to watch a football game. More like a brawl.”

  He laughed over the cheers, pointing up to the bleacher section. “Check it.”

  I looked, and smiled. Preston and the enclave had come—in costume. I strapped my helmet on. “Let’s play some ball, huh?”

  Ben did the same. “You got it.”

  We lost the coin toss and ended up with the ball first, and after the kickoff, we took the field. Jordan on the left and me on the right. Ben called Swipe 280, which would put the ball in my hands.

  As we lined up, I saw Tilly glaring at me. I ignored him. What I couldn’t ignore was Mike, who was guarding me.

  Ben called the snap, and I bolted. Just as I reached Mike, intent on getting free of him, he grabbed my face mask with both hands and yanked hard, driving me headfirst into the turf. Penalty flags flew and the crowd booed and cheered at the same time. Ben swung wide, scrambling for an opening, but was swallowed by Tilly and two other guys. The Hamilton side went wild.

  I was still on the ground when the whistle blew. I rose, and Mike stared at me. I dug grass and dirt from my face mask, finally understanding. Mike might hate me, but he didn’t play that way. “Coach have a little talk with you before the game, Mike?”

  “Doing what I have to do, Brett. Just like you.”

  From there on out, Mike played the dirtiest game I’d ever seen. The entire team did, but not so blatantly as the first play. That first face mask was meant to send a message. A personal one, directly from Coach Williams.

  And so it went. The Saxon line talked constant trash, pulling every dirty trick they knew if they thought they could get away with it, and Tilly was the leader of it all as we pounded our way down the field. With every huddle, Ben reminded us to play the game, not the opponent, but it wore thin. Even as we fought on, we were getting hammered. Tilly was punishing our line, and I’d never seen him so focused on not just playing hard, but hurting people.

  With no score on either side and halftime two minutes away, we were third and goal. Kody Morse and Jason Ward, who’d been taking the brunt from Tilly, finally had enough. On the snap, Kody backed up, letting Tilly in, while Jason came around his side. Jason clipped Tilly low and hard from behind while Kody suddenly charged, hitting him high.

  Tilly found himself somersaulting backwards in midair when another lineman launched into him, slamming him unmercifully to the ground. Flags flew even as I scrambled around Mike and Ben threw. I caught the ball, completely open in the end zone.

  Just as the whistle blew and the play ended, Jason hurled himself at Tilly, who was moaning on the ground. I heard the crunch of his shoulder pads slamming into Tilly’s rib cage from fifteen yards away, and even I winced.

  In the next second, both benches cleared, and it was on. It took me a second to realize that yeah, it was on, but it was mostly on me. Half the Saxons charged directly at me, with Killinger sprinting in the lead.

  I had a split second to decide. Every fiber in my being screamed to fight him. To play as dirty as him. To pay him back. I knew I could, too. I could pound him into the ground, and I’d enjoy every bit of it.

  I squared myself as he barreled toward me, and guys were going at it all across the field, hitting, tackling, wrestling. Whistles shrieked, and coaches yelled. Just as Lance reached me, I ducked and drove to the side. He flew by, and the next thing I knew, I was swallowed by red-and-white jerseys.

  It took ten minutes to sort out the casualties, and the penalties. Tilly was taken from the field on a stretcher, no doubt with broken ribs. I was full of bruises, but then again, so were most of us. Coach Larson was a screaming hurricane of rage. He benched Jason and Kody, promising they wouldn’t see another play for the rest of the game, if not the season. He’d also benched three other players who had received unsportsmanlike conduct penalties.

  Coach Williams stood on the sidelines the whole time. Silent, and with his arms crossed.

  We were fourth and long. Coach called for a field goal. With five of our best guys benched, he summoned me, Jordan, and three other defensive linemen in for the play. I’d never taken the field for a field goal.

  As we lined up, our kicker called the play. I blinked, surprised. With the snap, the holder got the ball, but suddenly he rose, just as I dodged past my man and pivoted. The holder threw the ball, and it hit me square, just like the playbook called for.

  Caught off-guard, the defensive line scrambled, but they had no chance. I scored, untouched.

  At the half, we were up, 7–0.

  Silence in the locker room. The coaches stood in a line, facing the team, with Coach Larson front and center. I expected him to flay us alive, to rant and rage, but he didn’t. He cleared his throat. “We are here to win a football game.” He pointed outside. “We do not have a rivalry with that team. They might see it that way, and everybody else might see it that way, but this team will not. We have an opponent to overcome, and we will. We’ll play straight and hard and smart, and we’ll play our game, not theirs. That spectacle out there could have cost us the season, gentlemen,” he said, staring at Kody and Jason. “I will not have any player play for himself. If I see anything, anything at all, that even hints of dirty play out there, I’ll bench your ass, strip your jersey, and kick you off this team. You don’t even need to have a flag thrown on you. If I see it, you’re out. Understood?”

  As one, we yelled, “Yessir!”

  He smiled. “This is the best team I’ve ever coached, and it’s not because we win, it’s because of
how we play. Let’s keep it that way, gentlemen. Now, let’s get out there and kick ass the right way. We can’t lose if we do.”

  As we took the field, Coach Larson spoke to Ben and Jordan, then waved me over. “Patterson, you’re going to learn today how to use your opponents’ emotions to beat them. They hate you, right? They’ve proved it, proved themselves, and shown what kind of ball they play.”

  “Yessir.”

  He nodded. “That means you control them, and it also means you can make them beat themselves. You know how to do that?”

  I shook my head.

  “The better you do, the more emotional they’ll play. The more you don’t react to them, the harder they’ll try to get you to. What happens when you play with emotions, Patterson?”

  “You lose, sir.”

  “That’s right. You go out and play the best game of your life and you’ll see them crumble.” He slapped my shoulder pads. “Get out there and play.”

  I smiled, and I did just that. We did just that. Coach hammered them with me. He called the ball to me eight times out of nine plays, and I could almost feel the volcano of rage coming from Coach Williams as he bellowed from the sidelines.

  Mike couldn’t keep up with me, and every time I saw him on the sidelines, Coach Williams was in his face. I almost felt bad for him. By the middle of the fourth quarter, we were up 28–14, and I’d scored three of the four touchdowns. Killinger was falling apart, and so was his line. He was sacked four times, threw an interception, and fumbled the ball once.

  A few moments after I saw Coach light into Mike once again, we lined up. I looked across to Mike, getting in position. “You like playing this way, Mike?” I called to him.

  He had not said a word since the first play, but every time he took the field after being raked over by Coach, I could see the light leaving his eyes. He shook his head, and I could tell he was done. Finished. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then why do you?” I said as Ben called the snap. Mike was paying attention to me, not Ben, and he missed the call, caught flat-footed as I sprinted past him. Ben threw long, and as I hit my spot, five yards from the end zone, Mike was seconds behind me. The ball fell into my hands like a present from heaven, and I glided in for a touchdown.

  With that, Coach Williams lost it. He charged to Mike and ripped into him. He ignored the ref, who was trying to get him off the field. Mike stood there, head down and taking the abuse. During the onslaught, Mike looked up at me, our eyes met, and he took his helmet off. He dropped it on the grass and walked away.

  Coach Williams glared after Mike. I trotted past him, ball in hand, heading for the sideline. In a fury, Coach growled at me. “You got something to say, Patterson?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks, and we stood facing each other, just him and me. And looking into his eyes, I realized I didn’t hate him. I wasn’t even mad at him. If anything, I felt sorry for him. “No, Coach. I don’t have anything to say. I’d rather show you.”

  Six minutes later, we walked off the field with the scoreboard reading 35–14. We’d routed them, and I knew I’d won something much more important than just a football game.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank all the great coaches I had growing up. They taught me what the true definition of being a team player is and, more importantly, that good sportsmanship doesn’t have anything to do with playing a game. It has to do with life.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Harmon was born in Los Angeles and now lives in the Pacific Northwest. He dropped out of high school as a senior and draws on many of his own experiences in his award-winning fiction for young adults. Learn more about Michael and his books at BooksbyHarmon.com.