by Todd Hafer
“Slot left!” Cody barked, sliding into position in front of Brett. On the snap, Brett rocketed forward. Cody backpedaled, maintaining a two-yard cushion between himself and the lanky receiver. Ten yards into his pattern, Brett planted his left foot and cut toward the sideline.
A down-and-out, Cody thought. Pretty crisp pattern, Brett, but I’m on it.
Cody shot a glance into the backfield as he closed in on Brett. Bart cocked his arm and fired the pass, a near-perfect spiral. Brett was running out of field as he stretched for the pass, trying to reel in the ball and keep his feet in bounds at the same time.
As he prepared to slam into Brett, Cody saw that the ball was going to be off target. There was no way Brett could catch it unless he stepped out of bounds.
Cody didn’t care. The pain of his mother’s death, the humiliation of Coach Smith’s taunts, the embarrassment of half a season on the bench—he loaded it all into one furious hit, which he unleashed on Brett Evans with a Neanderthal grunt.
He crashed into Brett’s exposed left flank. The force of the impact drove the receiver into the bench along the sideline. He tumbled over the bench, a sprawling mess of arms and legs, before landing with a thud on his back. Bart Evans was the first one to his motionless brother’s side. “He’s out!” Cody heard him screaming, his voice quivering. “He’s out cold! Somebody call 911!”
Panic flooded Cody’s system. After making the hit, he had headed back to the field to collect praise from Pork Chop. But Chop sprinted right by him, toward the downed wideout.
Cody stood in the middle of the field, both hands clutching his face mask. “God, please forgive me,” he whispered. “What have I done?”
“You stink, Martin!” Bart said, ripping off his helmet and marching toward midfield. “That was a cheap shot and you know it! This is just a scrimmage—what’s wrong with you? If he’s hurt bad, I’ll see you after practice!”
“I’m sorry,” Cody said quietly as he felt his head droop.
Cody watched as Bart returned to his brother’s side. Half the team was crowded around the fallen receiver. Periodically, one of the Raiders would steal a glance over his shoulder at Cody, who stood frozen at midfield, alone like a leper.
Cody felt a wave of relief wash over him when, finally, Coach Smith helped Brett to a sitting position. Then Pork Chop, who was crouched in front of Brett, stood and offered his hand.
Brett pulled himself to his feet and stood blinking and slowly rotating his head. Cody felt himself drawn to his teammate, as if by magnetic force. He walked slowly but deliberately to Brett and extended his hand. “Brett, I’m sorry about the hit. You okay?”
Brett studied Cody’s hand for a moment, then spat in it. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he snapped, “no thanks to you! And you best watch yourself, Martin. You know what they say about paybacks!”
Brett wasn’t at practice the following day. In the locker room, Coach Smith explained that he had suffered a slight concussion and wouldn’t be in the lineup for that Saturday’s game with West.
“Martin,” Coach Smith said, “you played some at receiver last year, so you’re gonna have to fill in. We’ll have to make sure you get some reps with the firstteam offense these next two days. We’re gonna run through all pass plays at nine-tenths speed, so that should help prepare you for game conditions.”
Cody looked up from lacing his shoes to see Bart glaring at him.
On the practice field, Cody was relieved to discover how easily the pass patterns came back to him. He ran deep posts, fly and flag routes, down-and-outs, down-and-ins, dig-and-gos, and comebacks.
He was able to get open consistently on Matt Slaven, Brett’s practice replacement at cornerback, but Bart didn’t throw him one ball.
Cody was ready to complain to his QB, but Coach Smith beat him to it. “Bart,” he snapped, “you have two wideouts, in case you’ve forgotten. Martin needs some touches, so you better throw him the ball, or I’ll put Goddard in. For Pete’s sake, quit being such a petty little baby!”
On the next play, Bart called a Red Basic, X-in, which called for Cody to run a down-and-in. Before he broke the huddle, Bart leaned toward Cody. “Go short, Martin,” he said, “just about five yards before you make your cut. My arm’s gettin’ sore.”
“Sure, Bart,” Cody said, “no problem.”
Cody took his place at wideout, standing parallel with the line of scrimmage, his hands ready at his sides. He made sure his shoulders were square, giving Slaven no hint of where the pattern was going.
As Bart called out the snap count, Cody fought back a smile. Slaven was giving him way too much cushion, a good seven yards. He would be wide open when he cut to the middle of the field.
He was off on the snap count. He sprinted forward, then cut sharply toward the middle. He knew he had Slaven beaten as he saw Bart cock his arm. The words “big gain” flashed in his mind as he prepared to receive the pass.
Cody knew Bart Evans had a strong arm, but he had no idea he could fire a ball so fast that it felt like it would imbed itself in his stomach. Through the pain and shock of a pass thrown twice as hard as needed, Cody tried to grab the ball as it rebounded off his midsection, but it dribbled off his fingertips and dropped to the turf.
Cody wanted to fall to the ground too, but he braced his hands on his knees and fought for air. He felt tears stinging his eyes.
Bart waited for Cody to trot to the huddle and then unloaded on him: “Nice catch, butter-fingers! Man, Martin, that pass hit you right between the four and the one. What more do you want?”
There are about a hundred comebacks I’d like to throw in your face right now, Bart, he thought, but there are also about a hundred proverbs about holding your tongue.
So Cody said nothing. And he didn’t receive another pass until Goddard came in to get a few reps with the first team.
Brett showed up to watch Friday’s practice. When the team took a Gatorade break before working on kickoffs and kickoff returns, Cody seized the opportunity to apologize, again, to the injured receiver.
He saw Brett cross his arms as he approached. “Hey, Brett,” he said, trying to sound cheerful and nonchalant, “it’s good to see you. You feelin’ okay?”
Brett rolled his eyes and then turned his back.
Cody stopped short, as if he’d run into a wall. He groped for something else to say, but came up with nothing that he could say to the back of Brett Evans’ head.
Chapter 4
Fight or Forgive?
On Sunday morning, Blake pulled into the Martin driveway promptly at 10:30 to take Cody to church. Cody heard the beep of Blake’s horn. He pushed himself away from the kitchen table, downed his half glass of orange juice in two gulps, and snatched his second Pop-Tart before heading for the door.
He was hoping Blake would ask him about the game so he could tell the tale of his first-ever middle-school touchdown pass reception. Sure it had been in a losing effort, and from the hand of Goddard, the backup QB, not Bart, the starter. But it was a sweet twelve-yard hook-and-go that made the difference between a 20-3 drubbing and a more respectable 20-10 defeat.
But the youth pastor had something else on his mind. Cody had barely buckled his seatbelt before the questioning began.
“Code,” Blake said, “I want to follow up on something you said in my office a while back. I was reading through my notes last night, and it hit me.”
Cody wrinkled his nose. “Good morning to you, too, B. And, may I ask, what hit you?”
Blake smiled anxiously. “Sorry to just dive right in, but we have a lot to talk about on the way to church. Anyway, you told me a while ago that you were feeling that something was incomplete—something was undone where your mom’s concerned.”
Cody stared at the half-eaten Pop-Tart in his hand. Suddenly his appetite had deserted him.
“Yeah, something is definitely not right. I mean, I’m finally playing ball like I should and that helps. You know, at the first football practice, Coach Smith told us to
write down a goal for the season. I made one for the whole year. I wrote, ‘This season is for my mom.’ And you can’t devote a year of sports to someone, then go out and play like a stiff. So I think I’m playing in a way that would make her proud, but I don’t know.”
They approached a red light, and Blake turned to look at him. “It seems to me you don’t have peace about something.”
Cody closed his eyes and searched his mind for answers. “I think maybe it’s the funeral. It was a good service and all. It was cool when Pastor Taylor asked all the people to stand who Mom had helped in some way. Took them meals when they were sick. Watched their kids. Listened to their problems and gave them advice. Almost everybody in the whole church stood up. It made me so—I don’t know—proud of her. I never realized how many people she reached out to.”
Blake placed a hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Your mom is a great example of how one person can touch hundreds of lives. And note what I said. Is a great example. Not was. The Bible says that the memory of the righteous will be a blessing. And the example set by a righteous person like your mom is one way that blessing shows itself.”
Cody nodded slowly. “Yeah—you know, B, I think that might be kinda what my problem is. You see, when all of those people stood, I did too. But I’m her son. What else would you expect? I should have done more. I should have gone up there and said something. Before the funeral, Pastor Taylor said I was free to say a few words, but I knew I was too torn up inside. I woulda gotten up there and not been able to do anything but cry. I spent most of the service sobbing with my head in my hands as it was.”
“Cody, nobody could expect a thirteen-year-old to speak at his own mother’s memorial service.”
“I know. But I wish I could have. I should have given her some kind of a tribute. I think that’s what was missing—is missing. But I don’t know what I can do now.”
“Well—” Blake said. “What in the world!?”
Blake stomped his brake pedal, and he and Cody lurched forward against their seatbelts, before rocking back against their seats. The rail-thin runner who had bolted in front of Blake’s car gave a helpless shrug, hurried from the middle of the street, and headed up the sidewalk.
“Drew Phelps.” Blake chuckled. “He’s gonna be a great runner someday—if he doesn’t get himself killed.”
Cody watched Drew float up the street, his feet barely kissing the ground. “Man, I wish I could run like that. They had a meet yesterday. He won.”
“He should take a day off, enjoy the victory.”
“I don’t think he believes in the concept of a day off. Not even in the off-season. He works as hard as anybody I know. He hits the track and the roads as hard as Chop hits the weights.”
Blake offered to take Cody to lunch after Sunday service, which Cody had tuned out of just after Pastor Taylor’s opening joke. He had tried to concentrate on the sermon, but the images of Brett Evans spitting on him and turning his back on him loomed in his mind’s eye, haunting him. He and the Evanses had been friends and teammates since Cody moved to Grant. Now, it seemed, that was over. Both twins were good athletes, so he was sure they would all continue to be teammates. But how could he play alongside two guys who hated him?
As he and Blake sat across from each other at Mamie’s House o’ Pies, Cody felt the youth pastor’s eyes drilling into his skull. He shifted nervously on his side of the booth. “Do I have ketchup on my face or something?”
Blake smiled. “No, I was just wondering about a few things.”
“Such as—”
“Such as where you were during the service today.”
“What do you mean? I was there in the back row, like always. I didn’t even sneak out for a donut.”
“I mean, where your mind was.”
“Oh. It was that obvious, huh?”
“I’ve seen horror-movie zombies with better powers of concentration.”
“I’m sorry, B. I don’t mean any disrespect to Pastor Taylor. I just can’t get the thing with Brett off my mind.”
“He’s still holding a grudge, huh?”
“Like it was a bag of money.”
“I’m sorry, Cody, I really am. It’s hard when teammates can’t get along.”
Cody leaned back in the booth and smiled sadly. “Yeah, dude, I’ll be glad when the season is over.”
Blake nibbled on the end of his straw. “Don’t be too glad. This Saturday is the final game of your middle-school career. Next year, you’ll be playing with the big boys.”
“Maybe.”
Blake’s eyes widened. “Maybe? What do you mean, maybe?”
Cody stirred his Coke with his straw, clinking the ice cubes against the side of his glass. He liked the sound. “If next year is anything like this year, maybe I’d be better off going out for cross-country. Drew says I should think about it.”
“Nothing against cross-country, Code, but you’re a football guy. How long have you been playing?”
“Since third grade.”
“And you’re ready to walk away from it now? Let me tell you from experience, high school football rocks! Those Friday-night games, under the lights, bleachers packed with parents and students—and big and little brothers and sisters. The energy, the competition, it’s something you’ll never forget. Every game I go to, I find myself wishing I could suit up and get out there one more time.”
“Yeah, it is pretty cool. I’ve always gone to those games and dreamed what it would be like. It’s like the big time, you know? But I don’t know if I’m willing to go through this much garbage for even one more year. Besides, who knows if I’m even good enough to play high school ball?”
“I do.”
“And you’re an expert? I haven’t seen you analyzing NFL games on ESPN.”
“I’m not saying I’m an expert. But I know football. And I know a football player when I see one.”
Cody shook his head sadly. “I don’t know if I’m a football player anymore. I don’t know what I am.”
Cody was silent on the drive home. He tried to picture himself in a blue and silver Grant High School uniform. Even only a year away from ninth grade, high school seemed like another world. And high school football? That was another planet. Cody thought of 220-pound Doug Porter charging through the line on a fullback off-tackle. Could he ever hope to bring down someone as big and powerful as Pork Chop’s brother?
He wondered if God would punish him for not paying attention in church. I didn’t just disrespect Pastor Taylor, he thought, I disrespected God. It would have been better if I’d just stayed home.
He looked out the window and realized where he was. “Stop the car!” he blurted.
Blake looked around frantically as he braked. “What? Do you see Drew again?”
“No. It’s not that. I just need to get out here. You can go ahead and head home.”
“Why?”
Cody grabbed the door handle. “There’s something I gotta do. I just realized it.”
“What do you have to do?” Cody gave a cryptic smile. “Matthew 5:23 and 24.”
Blake shrugged. “I’m drawing a blank on that.”
“Come on, dude,” Cody called over his shoulder as he began jogging down Vindicator Avenue. “You’re the one who taught it to me.”
Cody stood on the Evanses’ doorstep. He could hear the muffled sound of an NFL game. The Jets versus somebody. Miami maybe. Cody whispered to himself, “‘Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer your gift.’” Cody paused. “Well, I didn’t remember before I went to the ‘altar,’ but I think this is better than nothing.”
Drawing in a deep breath, he jabbed the doorbell with his right index finger.
So this is what Brett and Bart are gonna look like when they’re adults, Cody thought when Mr. Evans opened the door. Kinda wrinkly. I wonder if they’r
e gonna be bald like he is.
Mr. Evans stood before him, shirtless and unshaven, holding the screen door open with his shoulder. Cody extended his hand, just as his mother had taught him. “Hello, sir, I’m Cody Martin, and I—”
“I know who you are,” Mr. Evans said impatiently. “You got a lot of nerve if you’re here trying to sell me something. We don’t need no candy bars. We don’t need no stinkin’ magazines. Especially not from you.”
“No, sir, I’m not selling anything. I would just like to talk to Brett, please.”
Mr. Evans snorted. “What makes you think he wants to talk to you?”
Cody could feel his will melting. Something in him wanted to leap off the porch and sprint all the way home. But he forced himself to tilt his chin and look at Brett’s father.
“Sir,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and even, “if Brett could come to the door for just a second, I have something important to talk with him about.”
Mr. Evans turned without speaking and disappeared from Cody’s view. “Brett!” he heard moments later, “Cody Martin is at the door.”
Cody didn’t like the way Mr. Evans said his name. He used the same singsongy nasal voice the eighth graders had favored two years ago, when they taunted Cody and his sixth grade classmates during their first weeks of middle school.
“Yeah?” Brett Evans said, glaring at Cody through the closed screen door.
Cody felt his cheeks growing hot, like when he opened the oven to check on his TV dinners. “Hey, Brett. You up for a walk around the block or something? I’d like to talk with you.”
“You gonna get me away from my house so you can take another cheap shot at me? Maybe I’ll be the one handin’ out the shots.”
Cody pushed down the response that was fighting to escape his mouth: It wasn’t a cheap shot, Brett. It was a clean hit. Hard, but clean. If you can’t take the contact, don’t play football. For cryin’ out loud—quit being such a baby!