Just A Game

by Dustin Stevens

  A drummer pounded on his snare drum in rapid succession as the crowd cheered their agreement with what Stanson was saying. He paced back and forth in front of them as he waited for them to quiet before continuing.

  “Tonight we welcome the Sentinel Lions here to Huntsville. Now I say welcome because we’re looking forward to them and that 8-1 record they’re bringing in here. We’re looking forward to those all-conference players they have on that team. We’re excited about another opportunity for a big city school to come in here and see how we do things on the farm!”

  The crowd rose to their feet together and cheered as the band leapt into a round of the alma mater. The crowd clapped in unison and the cheerleaders danced along with another choreographed routine. Coach Stanson flipped the microphone off and walked to the side.

  When the floor was again his he walked back to center court and said, “Right now it is my distinct pleasure to introduce all of you once more to the six seniors who tonight will take the field one last time as Huntsville Hornets. The Dirty Half Dozen that have overcome tremendous adversity, have worked their tails off, and I promise you will do everything they can to make sure this team and this town go out a winner tonight!”

  More applause roared from the crowd, accentuated by the high pitched yells of some females in the audience.

  “First up, starting at right guard and left defensive tackle...Rich Little!” Coach Stanson called as Rich walked from the doorway to mid-court and stood beside him. The crowd cheered, aided by the deep boom of the base drum.

  “Beside him, starting at left guard and right defensive tackle...Lyle Little!” Coach Stanson said, followed by the same cheers.

  “Third up, playing wide receiver and defensive back for us...Matt Pritchard!” Matt jogged out to stand in line beside the others, a few loud whistles mixed with the cheers.

  “Next up, starting at tight end and defensive end for us, Jon Marks!” Coach Stanson announced as Marksy nodded to the crowd and looked as if he was going to wave, but thought better of it.

  “Five bucks says I get a louder cheer than you,” Goldie whispered to Clay as Marksy joined the others at half court.

  “What?” Clay asked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack,” Goldie said.

  Clay snorted and said, “Alright, you’re on.”

  Goldie smiled as Coach Stanson said, “And starting for us at running back and inside linebacker...Jason Golden!”

  Goldie walked out from the doorway to the loudest cheer yet, the drums and clapping punctuated by a large volley of female yells. He got to midcourt and exchanged fist bumps with Marksy and Matt, then turned, raised his eyebrows and gave a half smile to Clay.

  Clay shook his head as Coach Stanson said, “And last but not least, a man you all already know quite well, playing quarterback and inside linebacker...Clay Hendricks!”

  An explosion of sound hit Clay as along with the chorus of drums, claps and yells came the sound of many dozens of feet stomping on the wooden bleachers. He cast a sideways glance to see Natalie leading the charge and glanced to his left to see Chelsie doing the same.

  He reached midcourt and exchanged fist bumps with the others, then leaned towards Goldie. “You owe me five bucks.”

  “Damn you, Natalie,” Goldie whispered through a clenched smile.

  Clay laughed as the band launched into a final playing of the fight song. The crowd rose to their feet and clapped along and at its conclusion Coach Stanson said, “Thanks for coming out, we hope to see you all back here later tonight!”

  A few final cheers went up as the crowd emptied onto the gym floor and headed for the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The ritual of pre-game meals evolved every year Clay was in high school. For years, the local Methodist Church fed the team before games. Each Friday at 3:30 the team would board a bus and head over to the church, where the gym was spread out with folding tables and chairs. Players paid a flat $6 and each week were fed something different, whether it be burgers or chicken or beef.

  That was where the team ate Clay’s freshman year, the last time the Hornets won the state championship. The arrangement worked well for a long time and the team was happy to continue it. Shortly after that season ended though, Pastor McMann passed away unexpectedly and the church decided that they would discontinue the tradition. They felt that the coinciding championship and the passing of their long-time leader was a sign it was time to step aside.

  Clay's sophomore year the team transitioned to Formaggio’s, the only true restaurant in town. The price was a few dollars higher per man and the food was good, though after a while the team requested that the season be their last with Formaggio’s.

  Only so much pasta a person could eat and be expected to play football.

  His junior year the team tried a third option, which was to cut players loose after school and allow them to eat however they saw fit. Each week Clay and a few others would go to his house and eat sack lunches in the living room, watching television until it was time to go back. It was a system that most everybody really liked, until the week two seniors were late returning and got benched for the first half of a game.

  The fourth incarnation of the pre-game meal was a kind of bastardized version of the year before. Players could eat whatever they liked, they just weren’t allowed to leave school grounds.

  Most players had their parents or girlfriends deliver food to them, while Clay just packed a little heavier in the morning. In addition to his protein bar, banana and sweet tea for lunch he’d include a peanut butter and jelly on wheat, another banana and a Gatorade. When it was warm outside he and some others would walk out and eat on the bleachers. Once it got cold, they went to the gym instead.

  After the pep rally Clay walked Chelsie out to her car and talked to some of the guys in the parking lot. He then pulled a long blue and yellow blanket and a roll of athletic tape from behind the driver’s seat of his truck and walked out to the stadium. He counted down three rows from the top on the fifty yard line, spread the blanket out and wrapped three long strips of tape around it to secure it.

  Pop liked to make sure he got the seat he preferred and he got it early. Within a few hours, most of the section would be spoken for.

  At four o’clock he dug his second sack lunch out of his truck and walked into the gym to find Marksy, Goldie and a few others already there. They were all eating and talking animatedly while down at the other end several players stretched out and napped along the bleachers.

  “Come on, it would be funny!” Goldie said.

  “No,” Marksy said, shaking his head and taking a huge bite of apple. “You’re not doing it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because, why be a dick?”

  “What’s going on?” Clay asked, sliding up and taking a seat alongside the group.

  “Goldie wants to inflate his lunch sack, go over and smack it above some sleeping beauty over there,” Marksy explained.

  Clay looked past the group to the far end of the bleachers. He noticed the person lying prone on the third row and said, “No, you’re not doing that.”

  “Aw, what the hell?” Goldie said, holding his hands out. “You just got here, what gives you the right to decide?”

  “Because you’re not going to terrorize that kid for kicking your ass on Senior Hit Day. It’s over, deal with it,” Clay said, unpeeling the plastic wrap from his sandwich and taking a bite.

  The group all craned to see down to the far end of the bleachers and Rich said, “That’s Austin! That’s why you want to do it!”

  “No, it’s not!” Goldie countered.

  “Like hell,” Marksy said, sitting back down and taking up his apple again.

  Goldie leaned over and whispered, “Thanks, dick.”

  “Anytime,” Clay said, smiling as he continued chewing his sandwich.

  A few minutes passed in silence as the guys continued eating. At twenty minutes after four, Matt ente
red the gym carrying a roll of several sheets of paper stapled together and a black marker. He walked up onto the first row of the bleachers, straddled it and tossed the papers down.

  “Alright, fellas. Nine weeks in and we have a dead heat. Clay, Rich, Goldie and myself all have one each with Marksy and Lyle making up the rear,” he said, pulling the cap off the marker with his teeth and flipping to the last page on the roll.

  Each week the seniors gave their predictions for the final score of the game. It was something they had come up with while talking on the bleachers before the first game of the year and it had grown from there.

  There were only three rules to the game as best as anyone could tell. The first was that both scores had to be exact for a win, being close didn’t count. Second, no two players could pick the same score.

  Third, more a presumption than a rule, was that the Hornets always win.

  “As we had no winner last week, the floor remains yours from Week 8 Rich. Have at it,” Matt said.

  “Hmm...I’m feeling good tonight. Let’s say 35-10,” Rich responded.

  “Oh my, swinging for the fences,” Matt said, scrawling down the tally. “Next to you, Goldie.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Goldie said, “42-14!”

  A chorus of whistles went up around the group as Goldie smiled, bobbing his head in steady rhythm.

  “Now for myself, I foresee something slightly closer. 34-17,” Matt said, scribbling down the numbers. “Clay?”

  “Let them go,” Clay said. “I’m still thinking.”

  “Alright, moving on to...well, since you both suck, I guess we’ll say Lyle,” Matt said.

  Both Marksy and Lyle made sour faces and Lyle said, “35-21, good guys.”

  “We know who’s going to win, you don’t have to say that part,” Goldie pointed out.

  “Marksy?” Matt asked.

  “28-17,” Marksy replied.

  “Damn, cutting it a little close aren’t you?” Goldie said.

  “The man can pick whatever he wants,” Matt said, writing the score down.

  “The man can pick whatever he wants,” Marksy echoed towards Goldie.

  “That’s also why the man hasn’t won yet,” Goldie retorted.

  The group laughed as Matt turned and said, “Alright Superstar, we’re back to you. What’s it going to be?”

  Clay smirked and stood. He crumpled the brown paper sack into a ball and began stepping from the bleachers.

  “You’re really going to hate my pick then Goldie. 30-27...” he said and moved towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “In overtime.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Punt team,” Coach Stanson said.

  At the words, the eleven players on punt team lined up in their respective positions, the fifty yard line their starting point. The remainder of the team stood in silence opposite them, many in jackets or hooded sweatshirts.

  “Good,” Coach Stanson said, standing with the other coaches off to the side. “Punt return.”

  A handful of players moved from one side of the fifty as an equal number replaced them on the other. Each player walked straight to their position, stood, and waited for the next team to be called out.

  Special teams check was the first part of pre-game warm-up each week. The players had until five to eat, at which point they met in the locker room and walked as a team to the field. They would go through each special team to make sure every player knew where they were supposed to be and when, though by this point in the season it was more a formality than anything.

  Stanson took the team through the rest of the units, then said, “Alright guys, from this point on I want your head in the game. No horsing around. I want you focused on the task ahead. Tonight’s Parent’s Night, so we’re going to start a little earlier. Specialists out at six, team out at six-fifteen.”

  The coaches headed straight in, while many of the players wandered quietly around the field. Some lay down on the grass while others sat on the bench and stared out at where the game would take place a short time later.

  After a few minutes, many headed for the various restrooms around the school, male or female, to relieve themselves in one of the oldest, if less talked about, traditions in sports. Clay meandered over to the sidelines to make sure his blanket wasn't disturbed, then followed the fence back towards the tunnel gate to the locker room.

  Beside him the boosters were beginning to open the concession stand for the night, several people moving in unison as they started preparing food and filling the coolers. Bert Winslow saw him and offered a wave and thumbs up, but said nothing as he walked by.

  Clay walked alone into the locker room and dug his iPod out of his locker. He found his pre-game playlist and began to pound AC/DC and Gun N' Roses into his ears as he changed out the week-old spikes in his cleats and switched the pads from his practice to game pants.

  The locker room became a blur around him as he zoned in on the music, thoughtlessly pulling on his compression shorts and pants, followed by tall blue socks and his cleats. He wrapped the better part of a roll of tape across the bridge of each foot and behind his ankles, then pulled on the tattered remnant of the same undershirt he’d been wearing for years.

  Faded grey with Huntsville football stenciled across it in blue, the shirt was one they’d received for going undefeated in the seventh grade. As a full t-shirt it would have never still fit, but without sleeves or a bottom it worked perfectly as an undershirt.

  The last thing to go on was his shoulder pads, his blue number eight jersey already stretched tight across them. He threaded his arms up through the holes and had Goldie pull it down over his head. He rested one arm at a time on Goldie’s shoulder as he tied back the sleeves, then did the same for him.

  “Specialists in two minutes!” Coach Bellick hollered and several players moved to stand by the door. Clay stuck his iPod into his locker and pulled a tube of eye black down from the top shelf, twisting a large smear under each eye. The very last thing on was a two-inch wide blue sweat band on either forearm before he too headed for the door.

  “Alright, let’s take ‘em out!” Bellick called.

  Clay thumped the stenciled TEAM above the door and headed out. His cleats clattered a chaotic rhythm as he and the others crossed the parking lot and headed for the tunnel. Many fans were already beginning to arrive and many clapped and called out as they passed.

  The sound of their cleats changed from clatter to chafing as they crossed from the parking lot onto the gravel of the tunnel. Smoke began to waft up from the oversized grill outside the concession stand and the smell of pork tenderloin hung in the air.

  Standing alongside the concession stand was Coach Paulus, wearing the same windbreaker and ball cap. He stood with his arms folded and a half smile on his face, watching intently. Clay met his eye for just a moment then faced forward, shaking his head slightly but saying nothing.

  He reached the edge of the grass first and waited for the others to join him before everyone burst out in different directions at once. Footballs were already lined up strategically around the field for the various specialists and a troupe of elementary school ball boys in their pee-wee football jerseys stood anxiously waiting to shag kicks.

  Clay and Tripp headed for the opposite sideline and did a quick stretch before going straight into punts. Matt caught them and tossed them back, while on the opposite side Timms began booting kickoffs to Goldie. Austin worked in the middle of the field, knifing place kicks through the uprights as ball boys chased them down and tossed them back.

  On the opposite side of the field, the specialists for Sentinel began doing the same, dressed in white jerseys with purple pants and helmets with yellow trim. Along the back end zone the scoreboard stood at just over eighty minutes, counting down the time until kickoff.

  With seventy-five minutes on the clock the rest of the team made their way down the tunnel, many of them yelling and clapping as they formed up in a single file line stretching fro
m the edge of the grass clear back to the parking lot. Clay waited for the other specialists to find their place in line, then took his spot at the front and jogged along the back of the end zone to the goal post. He stepped forward from there and turned to face the team as they filed in behind him and began clapping his hands slowly, the others following suit as they arrived. Each time the beat got too fast, he restarted, waiting for the rest of the team to pour in.

  When the last freshmen had taken his place at the back of the heap, he let the pace of the clap build into frenzy before rushing forward and having the team surround him. The crown of his helmet met both Matt and Goldie’s and he yelled out, “Hornets!”

  “Hornets!” the team called in response.

  “Can’t be beat!”

  “Can’t be beat!”

  “Won’t be beat!”

  “Won’t be beat!”

  “All for one!”

  “All for one!”

  “One for all!”

  “One for all!”

  “Kick ass!”

  “Kick ass!”

  At that, the team broke out of the huddle, each player headed towards their position coach just as they had rehearsed a day earlier.

  C hapter Thirty-Five

  Most high schools have Parents Night. They allow the parents, or in rare cases guardians, to walk a player across the field at some point during their senior season. Often, it’s done some time early in the year and every senior, regardless of sport, goes at the same time before a football game.

  Things go a little differently at Huntsville High. First, seniors are honored before their last home game. The school and the town felt, and continue to feel, it’s the only way to properly thank an athlete for the years of hard work and dedication.