The crowd laughed and cheered as the letter just barely made the flame and burned up.
“And finally, Clay Hendricks!” Chelsie called.
The crowd answered on cue again as Chelsie traded the microphone to Sarah for the Sentinel mascot. She walked it over to Clay and handed it to him. Her eyes shined brightly as he accepted it from her and whispered, “Thanks sweetie.”
Clay weighed the Lion in his hands a couple of times as he walked forward. With each step the heat grew more intense until he couldn’t move forward any further. He balled the Lion up and threw it in a high arc, landing it perfectly atop the pile.
The band launched right into the fight song as the crowd went into a frenzy and cheering went up from all directions. The team grouped up around Clay and all forty-two players began to bounce up and down in unison.
The euphoria of the moment lasted several minutes until the song ended and players moved back to their place beside the fire. Coach Stanson got the microphone back from the cheerleaders, thanked everyone for coming out, and promised them a victory on Friday for their efforts.
The crowd cheered again as the band played once more, then began to file out. Clay stood for a few pictures with the guys, a few with Chelsie, even a couple with his Mama.
He declined a ride home from Goldie and Chelsie and told his mother he would see her back at the house. He milled around the lot until the place was almost empty and the volunteer fire truck began dousing the fire.
Silently, he walked around the backside of the stadium to the visitor’s side and climbed the old wood bleachers to the top.
Chapter Eight
The summer before, the athletic boosters replaced the wooden bleachers on the home side with shiny new aluminum bleachers.
Clay, along with most of the town, hated them instantly.
Sun reflected off of them, they were loud and noisy when people walked on them. In the winter they were cold to sit on and in the summer they radiated heat when players were running set after set up and down them.
About the only good thing anybody could say about them was they were bigger. Thing of it was though, in a town the size of Huntsville the home crowd never really got any bigger. It was already maxed out. Now it just looked like the home side couldn’t fill their bleachers, as thin spots appeared in both of the upper corners.
Clay preferred the wooden bleachers of the visiting side. The pine planks were worn smooth from years of exposure to the elements and thousands of fans packed in tight several times a year.
The gravel of the track crunched beneath his feet as he looped around the field and made his way to the bleachers. The sounds of the trucks dousing the bonfire died away behind him and the only thing he could hear was the familiar sound of the track beneath his feet.
The first row of the bleachers bowed the tiniest bit as he stepped on it and moved his way up. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils as he climbed the twenty-two rows to the top, turned and stared down at the field before him.
The last of the cars were filing out of the parking lot in the distance, their red taillights lit up against the night sky. He could see the orange lights atop the fire truck behind the home bleachers and view a last few sparks rising into the air.
His phone vibrated against his hip and he dug it out of his pocket.
Anybody else in the world and he wouldn’t have answered.
“Hey, Buddy,” he said.
“Whaddya say?” Colt asked.
“Oh, same old. Just got done with the bonfire.”
“How’d it go?”
“It was good, same as always,” Clay said, aware that his voice was the only sound in the entire stadium.
“You get to do the honors this year?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t quite as pretty as your toss, but it got the job done.”
“I’ll take it. I’m not as pretty as you most days, so I at least get one.”
Clay snorted and said, “I heard that. What’s going on there?”
“Chemistry,” Colt said. “Got a damn midterm in the morning.”
“You just flew back from Chicago. The pricks are making you take it in the morning?”
“Hell, I had to fight to get that. Midterm was on Friday, but we flew out at eight o’clock. Took an act of Congress to get mine pushed to tomorrow.”
Clay made a face in the darkness. “What the hell? You’re on the football team, I figured they wouldn’t make you take it at all.”
Colt coughed out a laugh. “You’ve been watching too many movies. Truth is most professors hate the football team. They think we’re all idiots and get too much preferential treatment.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Sure they like to show up a few Saturdays a year and pretend to be fans and rub elbows with the big donors, but it’s all a show. Once they get tenure or research grants or whatever they want, they go back to hating us.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yep. Least we’ve got Mellencamp on our side, right?”
Clay laughed and said, “What else do you need?”
“Not a thing,” Colt agreed. “So what all’s going on around there?”
“Same as usual. Pop’s still helping the Baker’s bring in their crop, Mama’s doing her thing.”
“How’d the Critique go this week?”
“It wasn’t too bad. Didn’t even see him until this morning. By that time it had died down a bunch.”
“It never dies down,” Colt countered. “The only thing that’s changed is you’re a damn good quarterback now.”
Clay smirked and said, “I don’t know about all that, we still got beat. I bet you don’t miss the Critique these days, huh?”
Colt weighed the question a moment before answering. “Actually, I kind of do. It was always a little fun picking the game apart with Pop. Hell of a lot better than nowadays, when we sit in film session for four hours on Sundays going through every single play for every single position.”
Clay winced. “Ugh. That sounds miserable.”
“You can’t even imagine. You’re hurting from the day before. You just got done lifting, and you spend four hours on a folding chair watching tape, followed by a walkthrough practice to put in next week’s game plan.”
“You do all that on Sundays?” Clay asked.
“Yep. NCAA gives us one day off a week, so we get Monday. That way players with labs or heavy class loads can do it then. Still means they expect you to watch film and stuff, but that they can’t make you show up.”
“But they know who’s there I’m sure.”
“Always.”
The line fell silent for a moment.
“Where are you at?” Colt asked. “Usually I can hear Mama or the TV or something.”
Clay played with telling him he was somewhere else, but opted for the truth. His brother always saw through it when he lied anyway.
“I’m over at the stadium. After the bonfire I climbed the bleachers, figured I’d hang out here for a few minutes.”
Colt sighed long and slow into the phone. “How you doing with it?”
“It?” Clay asked.
“Don’t play ignorant, you know what I mean.”
“The last game and all that?”
“See, you did know what I meant.”
“Yeah,” Clay said, his voice trailing off. He thought about the question for a moment and said, “You know, it’s funny. I never thought about it at all. Never once. Not until Pop mentioned this being it the other night. Ever since, it’s like I’m seeing the world from a whole new perspective.”
Colt chuckled softly. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“How? You guys won state. There was no final moment.”
“Well, first of all, you were there too. We won state. Second, whether it happens in early November or early December, every player eventually faces the end.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Clay acquiesced. “How’d you go about it?”
Colt paused for a few momen
ts. “I was sad for a few days, mostly the weekend. I didn’t want it to end. Who does? But then I got to thinking about it and realized I had one last go-round. I had one last time to do everything, and to end things on my terms.
“So that’s what I did. I took a ton of pictures; I soaked every bit of it up. Had a monster game, walked away knowing I had done everything I possibly could. After that, it was easy. I was at peace with it.”
“Knowing you would play again probably made it easier too.”
“Naw, it wasn’t that at all. For one thing, nobody ever knows they’re going to play again. For another, it wasn’t about that. It was about closing Huntsville football out the way I wanted to.”
The line hung silent for several long minutes.
“So that’s what you think I should do?” Clay asked.
“Brother, I wish I could tell you exactly what to do, but I can’t. All I can do is tell you to figure out whatever it is that you need to do to close this week out on your terms.”
“On my terms...” Clay said, feeling out the words.
“Let me put it this way. If Friday night were the last time you ever played football, what would it take for you to be completely at peace with that?”
Monday
Chapter Nine
Monday morning started the same way every other one started, though it was a little earlier this week. Clay awoke before the sound of his mother’s voice called from downstairs, showered, dressed, and joined her at the breakfast table.
“You’re up early,” she said, peering over the edge of her paper.
“Yeah, have to go meet with Mrs. Morris this morning.”
“The guidance counselor?” his mother asked, concern in her voice.
“Yeah, Coach set it up for me.”
“Everything alright?”
“Oh yeah,” Clay assured her. “Just want to make sure I’m ahead of the game with everything. Recruiting season is about to kick into high gear.”
His mother let out a low guttural noise and said, “Oh Lord. Another two months of phone calls and coaches popping by. You remember how bad it got with your brother?”
“Of course. Some nights we had to unplug the phone to eat dinner.”
“Mhmm,” his mother said, her gaze far away, lost in the memory.
Clay finished his cereal, rinsed his bowl and set it in the rack to dry. He finished his glass of juice and grabbed up his gym bag from the floor beside the table.
“You know sweetie, the thing with Colt was...” his mother began, letting her voice trail off.
“I know, Mama.”
“And please don’t take any of this the wrong way, I just mean...”
“I know, Mama,” Clay reiterated. He planted a kiss atop her hair and said, “I’ll see you tonight. You care if Goldie and maybe Matt come by to watch the game?”
“Not at all, I think that’d be nice. Who’s playing?”
“Patriots and Broncos, should be a good one.”
“Go Pats.”
“Go Pats,” Clay echoed, smiling. “Bye, Mama.”
It was just a quarter past seven when Clay arrived at school, the lot almost empty. He pulled his truck up in front of the locker room and went in through the side door.
Marksy was already there when he arrived, sitting with his back to Clay studying the white board on the wall. At his feet was a pair of fifty pound dumbbells.
Clay popped the combination lock on his locker, stuffed his gym bag inside and made his way to the white board as well. Marksy heard him approach and without turning around said, “What’s up?”
Clay walked up beside him, patted him on the shoulder with his fist and said, “What are you doing here this early?”
“Just getting a little time with the weights in. Gets too hard trying to do it after practice this time of year.”
“I heard that,” Clay said. “Damn near dark by the time we get done.”
“And we're cold as hell.”
Clay nodded and continued staring at the board. On it were the offensive and defensive lineups for Sentinel, each of their players names, grades, height and weight listed out. “What’s it looking like?”
Marksy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “They’re big. Lot bigger than Culver even.”
“Big or fat?”
“Don’t know. Guess we’ll see today on film. Got decent height though, doubt they're butterballs.”
“Yeah,” Clay agreed. “You also notice that none of the names appear twice?”
Marksy sighed and said, “I did. Another team with enough players to only go one way. Ever wonder what that’s like?”
Clay pulled himself from the board and started to retreat towards the hall. “Colt says it’s boring as hell.”
“Ha! He would say that, wouldn’t he?”
Clay chuckled again. “I got to go see Mrs. Morris, I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” Marksy called as Clay headed for the door.
A few students were just starting to fill the hall as Clay circled around the gym and made his way to the front offices. He waved to a few friends and ducked into the Guidance Counselor’s office to find Mrs. Morris already at her desk.
“Good morning, Clay. Thanks for coming in early.”
“Good morning. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“Certainly, it’s what I’m here for,” Mrs. Morris said.
Cynthia Morris was a small woman in her mid forties with short wavy hair that fell just past her ears. Smile lines formed parentheses around her mouth and mirth lines encased her eyes.
Clay settled into the seat across from her and said, “So Coach tells me we have some work to do.”
“I don’t know that I would put it in those terms just yet, but it’s good we’re meeting now,” Mrs. Morris said. “How much do you know about the NCAA Clearinghouse?”
“Just the basics,” Clay said. “I remember Colt going through it a couple years ago. The Clearinghouse determines your eligibility for college sports.”
“That’s correct. You as a student-athlete register with them, then send in copies of your transcripts and test scores and they determine eligibility. To do that, they look at the number of core courses you’ve passed and your GPA in those classes. They also factor in your SAT or ACT score. From that formula, they reach a final number.”
“So it’s half grades, half test score?”
“Not necessarily. It’s a composite and a strong showing in one can make up for being weaker in the other. Some people are poor test takers, but do well in class. That kind of thing.”
Clay nodded and glanced out the window. “I’m guessing since we’re having this meeting, I’m not doing so well?”
Mrs. Morris sighed and said, “I won’t lie, right now you’re probably not eligible. Your grades aren’t bad, but they’re not great. A C+/B- average comes out to about a 2.35 GPA. The problem is more with your ACT score. An 18 won’t get you very far.”
Clay nodded, but said nothing.
“Now, again, it’s early. That’s why we’re here. Have you considered taking the test again?”
Clay nodded. “Yeah, yes. I just recently signed up for the December test.”
“That’s good. Have you considered any kind of preparatory course?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there are classes you can enroll in in Dayton or Cincinnati that have been shown to get pretty good results. There’s also some online programs, or even a lot of books you can get that might help.”
“Okay, I’ll look into that. Thank you,” Clay said.
“Have you begun the Clearinghouse process?”
“No, not yet,” Clay said.
Mrs. Morris rose from behind her desk and took a large packet from a shelf along the wall. She slid it over to him and said, “The deadline for the Clearinghouse isn’t until late April, but it would be a good idea to get on it as soon as possible. You’d hate to have to sit out next fall because of this.”
Clay pulled the packet over to him and read the outside of the envelope. “You know, nothing says I’m actually going to get a scholarship offer. Most schools smaller than Division 1 don’t even have them for athletes. I don’t know that I’m even going to play college ball. Or that I’m going to be going to school at all...”
Mrs. Morris eyes widened just a bit and she said, “Well, as to the first part, registering does not mean you have to play ball. Like I said, it’s a lot easier to have it out of the way just in case than to miss out next fall because you didn’t get everything done in time. As to the second part, you know there are many other ways to pay for college that don’t involve athletics.”
“I highly doubt a 2.35 GPA is going to be getting me any academic scholarships.”
“I don’t mean that. There are literally hundreds of other opportunities out there. Grants, federal aid, student loans.”
“Yeah,” Clay said, nodding slightly.
Silence fell in the room for a few moments, interrupted by the first bell of the morning. Clay rose and said, “I should be going, but thank you very much for meeting with me, I appreciate it.”
Mrs. Morris stood as well. “Absolutely, anytime. And if you need any help as you start working through that application or with finding some ACT prep work, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” Clay said and scooped the envelope up from her desk. Without another word he exited into the hallway, now abuzz with a flurry of movement around him.
Chapter Ten
The gym at lunchtime had two distinct crowds to it. The first were the diehards. The ones who counted the seconds until fourth period ended so they could descend on the gym with great fervor.
Each day, the same eight or ten guys would come together, choose sides, and play basketball as if it were the state finals. They’d become dripping wet with sweat in the process and spend the remainder of the day wearing their lunch time efforts for the rest of the school to see and smell.
Just A Game Page 4