The Accidental Quarterback

by Charles Curtis

  One afternoon, I came into the locker room to grab my backpack and head home. I passed by the row belonging to the offensive line. Of course, Flab had to be sitting there.

  Something had changed in him since that night in the woods. There hadn’t been a single incident with Dex, Sophi, or me. He wasn’t his usual chatty, trash-talking self on and off the field.

  When I walked in, Flab had just emerged from the shower and was in the middle of putting on his extra-large school uniform. We were completely alone. I guess he didn’t hear me arrive, so I waited until his pants and shirt were on.

  “Hey.”

  Flab didn’t even look up at me. “Freak,” he responded as he slipped a belt through the waistband on his slacks.

  I gathered all my courage and sat down next to him as he pulled on his socks and shoes. “I’m really sorry about what happened after Homecoming. I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

  That got a dirty look. “So you didn’t know you had a Taser you were going to use to put, like, five million volts in me?”

  Right. That was the story. “It’s called self-defense, Flab. And you’re the one who followed us.”

  “Let me review the history for you,” he said as he began to knot his tie. “You hit me in the face during Fresh Meet Friday, you somehow find your way onto the football team, and you steal my … ”

  Flab looked down and trailed off. In the silence, he finished knotting his tie. We could hear a steady drip coming from the showers.

  “I hate to say this.” This seemed like a bad idea. “But she was never your girlfriend.”

  Flab paused for second. He sat back down and looked me right in the eye.

  “Listen, Ptuiac,” spitting the “P” on my sweaty Strange Athletics Department T-shirt. “Except for the officers that came that night, I haven’t told anybody about what happened in the woods. Not one person.”

  He lowered his voice and leaned in. “I don’t know what really happened. But what I do know is that wasn’t a Taser.”

  My stomach churned and my hands started to shake a little. I tried to keep my composure. “So what do you want from me?”

  His trademark toothy grin appeared. “You and I have some unfinished business from earlier this year.”

  I held up the auto-splinted pinky. “What do you call this?”

  “Collateral damage. I’m talking about something in front of everyone. It’s time … for the Duck Walk.”

  That’s how I found myself in the locker room after school the next day surrounded by every boy in school. There were guards at the door as Flab stood up on one of the benches. Dressed in my football uniform, I watched from behind the facemask of my helmet. Dex stood near me and looked as nervous as I felt.

  “Gentlemen of Strange Country Day,” Flab shouted. “We have gathered here today for a special event. Something we’ve never done before at our beautiful institution of higher learning.”

  He paused for effect. The room hung on his every word, especially the ninth graders who knew what was coming. It was clear Flab was back in his element.

  “We have finally convinced Mr. Ptuiac over here that Strange tradition is not to be messed with.”

  I tried to remind myself that what I was about to do would hopefully keep the secrets of my friends and family under wraps.

  “While nothing would make me happier than to give Mr. Ptuiac what he was supposed to get on Fresh Meet Friday, I decided we needed something a little more … memorable. So, I tore out a page from initiation at my summer camp. Let this be a warning to any seventh grader who thinks he is above the traditions of the decades of Strange graduates who have come before him.”

  He swept his hand toward me. “Gentlemen and gentlemen: I present to you Alexander Ptuiac performing … the Duck Walk.”

  I swallowed hard as every eyeball swept toward me. There were nervous laughs, some hoots, but most of all questions as to what the Duck Walk was. “Come on!” Flab hollered. The entire room echoed him.

  Okay, here it goes.

  I pulled my pants down. Underneath, I wore nothing but my jock strap and cup.

  The sound that came out of that locker room felt like it shook the entire school. Half the boys covered their eyes, while the other half pointed and laughed. But my act was far from over. I began walking—shuffling, actually, with my pants around my ankles—and singing the school’s fight song at the same time. “Hail to thee, Strange Coouuuntry Day,” I sang as loud as I could over the roar.

  “Louder, Ptuiac!” Flab shouted as the mob cleared a path so I could walk the length of the locker room. “We fight for you, coooommme what may!” My voice cracked in the middle of the line, which sent about seventy-five boys to the floor in fits of laughter.

  As I continued to sing and shuffle, I looked up at Flab. He was getting high fives and claps on the back, looking satisfied. I reached the last line of the song as I reached the door at the end of the locker room. The same door through which the locker room stranger had escaped weeks ago.

  I peered into the glass at my reflection to see how ridiculous I looked.

  Instead of seeing myself, a pair of eyes stared back.

  I blinked and rested my helmet against the glass to try to see who it was.

  Nothing. The eyes had vanished, and all I saw was the set of stairs leading to the gym.

  I shuddered, quickly pulled up my pants, turned around, and took a bow to thunderous applause.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Finger is healed.”

  The morning after the Strange’s final regular season win, I watched the clock on my auto-splint tick down and announce its work was done. With a hiss, it loosened and fell off. I rubbed the finger and found it perfectly healed. The skin was also moisturized and clean, not looking at all like it hadn’t seen air in five weeks.

  My broken finger hadn’t impeded learning how to quarterback from the sidelines. Every game, I picked up something new from quarterback meetings with Coach Carson as he reviewed what Jimmy had to look out for from the defense or something technical in his throwing motion. As Jimmy helped us breeze through two playoff games in the cold December air, I started believing I wouldn’t need any special power to be a quarterback in another year or two. I spent extra time watching tape of our opponents with Jimmy and Jesse.

  I increased the toughness of my workouts as we won two playoff games, and I actually made Coach Carson whistle out loud when he watched me throw once. “That’s what I’m talking about, Ptuiac,” he said.

  Next week was the state championship game against Harmon High School, and the entire town was buzzing about it. Strangers—what students jokingly called our school’s supporters in town—saw my varsity jacket and shook my hand, wishing me luck.

  The one thing that hadn’t happened was another activation—not that there was anything to scare me or inflict pain—and I found myself wishing I’d get to be a superhero again.

  “This is Kenny Lupino.” I snapped out of my daydream as Coach Carson laser-pointed at the projection on the screen. I sat alongside Jesse and Jimmy in a darkened classroom as Carson ran the quarterback meetings. With the championship game coming up in a few days, the team took every moment it had to practice, study the Harmon Hogs, and prepare mentally for what was sure to be an epic battle.

  He used a laptop with a projector to give us our lesson on the Hogs. Lupino was a very tall, very muscular player wearing number 43. Got it. “Get to know him very, very well, gentlemen. Identifying where he is at all times will win us this football game.”

  He clicked on a file and a video popped up. We watched highlights of No. 43 in his white jersey, his long, curly hair spilling out of the back of his helmet, as he tracked down a running back with blazing speed and knocked him hard to the ground. The running back came up limping. The next clip featured Lupino covering a wide receiver. He pushed the tight end at the line and followed him step for step. When the ball was thrown, Kenny snagged an
interception. Another clip, another amazing play: he sidestepped a large blocker at the line and sacked a quarterback who didn’t see him coming, forcing a fumble that Lupino then picked up and ran back for a touchdown.

  Jimmy leaned back and grinned. “C’mon, now. I get the picture.”

  “You’d better, Claw,” Carson responded. “We’ve never faced someone like this. He’s a one-man wrecking crew and a High School All-American like yourself, Jimmy.”

  He went on to explain how to spot Lupino before every play. If we saw him line up in one area, the Hogs tended to send him after a quarterback in a blitz. If he stepped forward before the snap, it was a fake, and the pressure would come from another place. Lupino tended to be in a different place on nearly every play. Just when you had him figured out, he’d improvise.

  Jimmy didn’t seem to care. “That’s all I need to know? I can handle it. I got like fifteen audibles to deal with safeties wherever they are on the field.

  I understood what he meant. Jimmy had used audibles at the line to change up plays before the snap all season long, with defenses throwing everything they could at him. He didn’t think this guy was anything special. Once again, I couldn’t understand how he was so calm.

  “You ain’t seen someone like this, Jimmy,” said a voice from the back of the room. We turned around to see our burly Southern head coach heading to the front of the room. “I don’t mean to scare you three, but this kid’s a nightmare. When you change up that play, he’s gonna do the same with the defense. The play clock’ll be running down, he’ll run to the other side of the line. No time left. You snap it … and he snaps you. This ain’t about using your body to get out of this. You’re gonna have to outsmart his outsmarting. And that means y’all will have to prepare like Jimmy ain’t playing.”

  Our starting quarterback looked indignant, glaring at Coach Schmick. “So you think I ain’t ready for this?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat.

  Schmick shook his head. “It’s gonna take a lot more than you saying you’re ready to prove it.”

  Schmick went over to the computer and clicked on one of the videos of the Hogs’ defense. Following Carson’s instructions, I spotted Lupino walking toward the line, almost casually. “We’ve called Thirty-Four Heavy Power Right. What’s your next call?”

  Translation: A simple handoff to the right with our meaty fullback leading the way for our running back. With a safety up at the line, especially one as talented as Lupino, the running back would probably be stuffed for no gain. Schmick stopped the video for a second.

  “Seventy-Five Bat! Seventy-Five Bat!” Jimmy shouted out at the screen. That’s an audible for the fullback and the running back to pass block and for Jimmy to throw a quick pass to a one of our receivers, who’d slant toward the middle of the field. Schmick took a second and clicked on another video, which showed Lupino once again moving toward the line before the snap. As soon as the quarterback soundlessly called for the ball, Lupino didn’t rush or stay to stop the run. We watched as he darted to his right, intercepted a quick slant, and ran it back for yet another defensive touchdown.

  “Fine. What about calling Twenty-Nine Engine?” That was another audible into a pass play, where he’d take a long five-step drop and throw a bomb to our slot receiver, who’d take advantage of one safety covering him down the middle. Schmick shook his head and clicked.

  This time, Lupino headed to the line at the snap and got blocked by one of the offensive linemen, but that freed up a defensive tackle to pancake the opposing quarterback, who stayed down and didn’t move.

  Jimmy went silent. Schmick walked over to the computer and clicked to Lupino’s team photo, a portrait of him in a suit with his hair pulled back in a long ponytail. He grinned back at us, as if to say, “I’m coming for you.” Kenny’s ears appeared to be pointy and that smile seemed full of sharp teeth. I couldn’t hear what Schmick’s final words were about the safety before our meeting adjourned. Was Lupino one of us? Or was I just looking for something that may not be there?

  “Ptuiac. My office. Now.”

  Coach Carson snapped me out of my trance. I realized I was the last person left in the room. I picked up my playbook and walked to his office.

  “How you feeling?” he opened the conversation as we sat down on the comfy couch in his office.

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “You’ve been doing some real good work on the field lately. Coach is really impressed with how hard you’re working. It takes a lot for a guy like that to notice you, so congratulations. I think he’s considering putting you into competition with Jesse next fall.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I had a future on the team that could lead to a starting role next year. Before I could respond, he got up and closed the door.

  “Listen. I heard about your debate with Dex the other day. I just want to make something clear. I don’t want you worrying about what would happen if your powers went off on the field. I’ve watched it happen, and nothing looks out of the ordinary to the naked eye. Plus, it’s out of your control, and we’ve got you and Dex and everybody you care about protected and then some.”

  “But it’s not right. It’s cheating.”

  Coach shook his head and chuckled. “Take a look at the Hogs when we play them and then tell me there’s no such thing as cheating. Everybody’s looking for an advantage.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Don’t you know that this is our home now?”

  We ran out of the tunnel, surrounded by the sound of our fans cheering louder than we’d ever heard. We were in a stadium in the middle of town that had twice as many seats as our home field. It took me at least five minutes to pick out Sophi and my parents, who sat next to each other and waved the gold and maroon pompoms handed out by the cheerleaders. Our marching band played our fight song—the same one I sang in the locker room just weeks before—as we warmed up in the brisk December night.

  The film Coach Schmick showed us didn’t do the Hogs justice. They were huge. They were huger than huge.

  The muscles of each member of the offensive and defensive lines practically burst out of their uniforms. I knew everyone felt the same way I did since Flab, who normally spent warm-ups getting in his teammates’ faces and pumping them up, was stone-cold silent as he stretched.

  Now I knew what Coach Carson meant when he talked about getting an advantage. Rumors flew around days before the game that Harmon’s head coach had a pile of money he could use to discreetly pay the best of the best from the area—and elsewhere—to play for him.

  As Dex and I practiced some routes and throws, I remembered what the coaches hammered into our heads during film sessions: know where Kenny Lupino is at all times. But I hadn’t said anything to Dex about my suspicion. I threw a pass to Dex and looked past him to find No. 43. He wasn’t hard to spot—the long mane of hair gave him away as he jogged on the sidelines.

  From our side of the field, his ears still looked pointy, and he broke out into that same sharp-toothed smile as he chatted with a teammate.

  I nodded my head in Kenny’s direction as Dex threw me a pass. He’d spent the week hearing similar warnings about Lupino.

  “See anything out of the ordinary about him?”

  Dex stared at him for a few seconds and got what I was saying. He responded with a laugh. “No way!”

  “Why not?”

  “Not every amazing athlete is a kid with super powers.”

  “But look at his ears. They’re sort of like yours.” We watched Kenny pat one of his teammate’s backside.

  Dex kept staring. “You don’t think … ”

  I nodded.

  “How can we know if you’re right?” he said. “If you are right, what are we supposed to do about it?”

  That’s how Dex and I spent most of the first half of the championship game, with our eyes on Kenny during every single play. He was everywhere, making tackles, batting balls away, and occasi
onally charging toward Jimmy, who struggled against a complex defense. Nothing we saw confirmed our suspicions either way.

  Down 7-0 late in the first half, Jimmy called a timeout and trotted to the sideline, where he joined Jesse and me. Coach Carson barked in his ear about what he missed, but I could see he was rattled. For what felt like the first time all season, he had taken a few sacks and absorbed bone-jarring hits after passes. We’d punted three times already, yet somehow our defense kept us in it.

  He nodded at Carson, who was cursing and telling him to pay attention. The whistle blew to end the timeout, and Jimmy put his helmet back on. I grabbed his elbow right as he was about to head back.

  “Now’s not the time, kid,” he said, barely audible over our marching band.

  I wished I could tell him there was a possibility he was facing a superhuman with modified DNA. Instead, I tried something else.

  “Remember what you told me, Jimmy.” I tried to draw him closer. “Think about sitting on the roof of your farm. Think about home. Stay calm.”

  He glanced at me for a second, giving me a quizzical look. A smile broke out on his face as he looked at the crowd cheering. “C’mon, Ptuiac. Don’t you know that this is our home now?” He snapped his helmet into place.

  What I said must’ve helped. Jimmy faced a third-and-long when he looked up to see the Hogs showing him a blitz from his right side. I think he suspected what I saw: this is a situation where they fake pressure from one side and bring it elsewhere. He barked a few orders and, as the snap came, the left side of the line collapsed and Harmon High brought the heat.

  Jimmy ran to his right. He faked a pass that froze the cornerback covering Mark Roberts, one of our receivers. With remarkable speed, Jimmy took off running, easily getting past the first down marker and looking for more.

  He saw open field behind the cornerback.