Take Away

by Brandon Terrell

  “Devon’s hanging out with Green and his Raiders buddies,” Shane said.

  “Raiders?” Whitson shook his head. “Devon, you need to focus. Concentrate on helping your team win, and stop spending time with that turncoat Orlando. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said quietly.

  I handed the doll to Whitson as he walked by. He held it out, read the name on the back, and chuckled. He didn’t look mad or disappointed, though. He looked amused.

  “All right, sit down,” he said. “Shane, see me after class.”

  “Step it up, ladies!” Coach Colby shouted. “We’ve only got one game left. Win and we’re in the play-offs. Lose and we’re the laughingstock of the whole town.”

  No pressure, huh?

  I kicked my knees high and raced up the bleachers alongside the rest of the team. We’d stripped off our shoulder pads and had been running up and down the metal seats of Willard Auto Parts Field for almost five minutes.

  This was Coach Z’s favorite training measure. For every turnover during a game, we had to run the bleachers for five minutes at Monday’s practice. My fumble in the red zone on Friday had been the only Trojan turnover. The second time I’d dropped the ball, the one at the end of the game, the one that nearly cost us a win, didn’t count, since I’d fallen on my own fumble. So we only had to run for five minutes instead of ten.

  I was at the top of the bleachers when Coach Colby blew his whistle. “That’s time!” he shouted. “Bring it in! Hustle! Hustle!” I raced down the bleachers, my cleats ringing metal on metal with each step, my legs feeling like Jell-O, until I’d reached the bottom.

  Coach Colby ran practice as we stretched and did sprints. Coach Z stood at the far end of the bleachers with Coach Whitson, talking with a group of men who had been sitting there waiting for us when we walked out of the tunnel. The Friends of Troy. I spied Mr. Willard, Wally Doyle, and Big Bill Norwood—Brian’s dad—among them. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was pretty clear what they were talking about: Orlando. They’d all seen the paper; they all knew the truth. And the Friends of Troy were chewing Coach Z a new one.

  My teammates and I did our usual split, offense taking half of the field, defense the other. By the time we were lining up, Coach Z had rejoined the offense. He looked like someone had taken a dump in his bowl of Wheaties.

  “If we want to win, we’re going to have to bring our absolute best running game,” Coach Z said, folding his thick arms across his chest. “That means no turnovers, complete ball control. You hear me, Shaw?”

  “Yes, Coach,” I shouted through my mouth guard.

  “Let’s see it. On the line! Let’s go!”

  With my wrist bandaged tight—I still hadn’t told any of the coaches about how much it actually hurt—I ran hard with each play call. I pushed myself, hitting every hole in the line. I worked until the sun dipped below the horizon. Until the lights of Willard Field were glowing bright, until my breath hitched in my throat and the crisp evening air burned in my lungs.

  11/TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5—DEVON’S ROOM

  I was awake, but I didn’t want to get out of bed. I’d barely slept all night, tossing and turning in the sheets. My mind wouldn’t shut off.

  I’d thought of football and about what my teammates and coaches now thought of me. And then I’d thought about Jack Wayne and his suggestion that I line up behind him in the Raiders backfield.

  I could do it. I could play for Athens. Orlando and I could take the field side by side again. With a supportive team, I could work on getting noticed by recruiters and pick up a full ride to play ball when the time came.

  It was decided. I was going to talk to my parents after school today and see what they thought about me transferring over to Athens High.

  I propped myself up on my elbows and winced. Every muscle in my body ached from the previous day’s practice. My left wrist throbbed. I flexed my fingers and pinpricks of pain stabbed my palm. For the first morning in a long time, I wasn’t going to hit the gym. All I’d have been able to do was leg lifts and cardio anyway.

  My phone, sitting across my room on my dresser, began to buzz.

  Wait, who would be calling me at, like, 6 a.m.?

  I groaned and tossed off the covers. A blast of cold air hit me while I staggered across my room, found my phone on top of a stack of fantasy football mags, and checked the screen.

  It was Orlando.

  I answered. “What’s up?” My voice was deeper than normal in that early-morning way.

  Orlando didn’t say anything.

  “Orlando, you there?”

  “Hey.” He was quiet. Not the Orlando I was used to. Even at six in the morning, I could usually count on him to be the cockiest kid I’d ever met. Something was up. “Can you come over?”

  “Dude, we don’t go to the same school anymore,” I said, trying to lighten his mood. “You need a ride, you’re out of luck.”

  Orlando didn’t laugh. “Just swing by, Devon,” he said. “Please?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  He hung up before I could say goodbye.

  I searched my bedroom floor for clothes that were clean enough to wear to school. Then I shoved my textbooks into my backpack, slung the pack over my shoulder, and headed for the door.

  My mom was in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee, a whirlwind of energy and activity. “Do you need breakfast?” she asked as she scooped beans into the grinder and gave them a spin.

  I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good.” I rummaged in the pantry, came up with a couple of energy bars, and hit the road.

  Orlando lived not too far from my place, only a couple of miles. The neighborhood he lived in was a little shadier than mine, but it was Troy. Troy wasn’t one of those towns that had a wrong side of the tracks. We didn’t even really have tracks at all.

  When I turned the corner onto Orlando’s street, I saw the cop cars right away. One was parked in the driveway, the other on the street, next to Orlando’s car. Orlando and his mom stood on the front porch talking to a couple of policemen. His mom was still wearing a white bathrobe and slippers. One of the cops was jotting notes on a small pad of paper.

  I pulled up behind Orlando’s car and parked. Orlando walked down the driveway to greet me.

  “What’s going on, man?” I asked. My breath plumed in front of my face. “Why are the cops here?”

  “See for yourself.” Orlando nodded in the direction of his car. It wasn’t fancy or new. It was just a Honda with a ton of miles on it. Orlando’s mom had bought it from one of her coworkers.

  As I walked around to the driver’s side, my questions were answered. The doors and windows had been tagged with red-and-white spray paint. Lines of graffiti zigzagged across the Honda. Someone had sprayed TROJAN HORSE on the hood. They’d also sealed the door and hood shut with what must have been industrial-strength white caulk.

  “The cops are taking a statement,” Orlando said. “Can you give me a couple minutes?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Orlando rejoined his mom and the two cops while I stood next to his car. I leaned in close to examine the caulk, picking at it with one fingernail. It was still a bit spongy, but the cold weather had sped up the drying process. The Honda’s door was impossible to open.

  Finally, Orlando said his goodbyes and joined me. “So, do you know who did this?” I asked.

  “Ain’t nobody called me a Trojan horse except those guys on the Raiders’ D,” Orlando answered. “By the way, I told them you were giving me a ride to school, but there’s no way I’m going there today.”

  “Then where do you want to go?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Anywhere but here.”

  “Sure thing, man. Whatever you need.”

  “Cool. Let’s go.”

  We didn’t speak, just listened to the local sports radio anchors drone on about what a great season the Bengals were having and what a (typically) bad season the Browns were having. We drove past Willard Auto Parts
, where a string of red-and-white pennants hung from a sign proclaiming TROY HIGH FOOTBALL FANS GET 1/2 OFF OIL CHANGES. We passed Doyle’s, which wouldn’t open until the high school lunch crowd was ready to arrive. Everywhere we drove, the red and white of Troy High were proudly displayed.

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, man,” he said. “I just want to play football.”

  When I was a couple of blocks from the student parking lot at Troy Central, Orlando said, “Pull over, D.”

  He popped open the door before the car had come to a stop.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  Orlando shrugged. “Around. I got to think about a few things, you know? Thanks for the lift.” He slammed the door shut, rapped his knuckles on the window, and waved.

  I pulled away from the curb and continued on toward the parking lot.

  In my rearview mirror, I saw Orlando walking away, hands shoved into his coat pockets, hood pulled up to block out the cold. Suddenly, my decision to transfer to Athens didn’t seem like the greatest idea anymore.

  12/WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6—TROY HIGH SCHOOL & FOOTBALL PRACTICE

  I usually drag my chemistry textbook to study hall, but I had left it in my bag early Wednesday morning, distracted by my wrist. After taking Tuesday off, I’d felt guilty and hit the weight room before class. I’d tried to do a few curls, but the pain was still strong. I didn’t want to injure the wrist any further, so I eased off on upper-body training and stuck to leg presses. If I hurt myself again, my chances of playing against the Thornton Lions on Friday—or any sort of playoff run we went on after that—would be over.

  I dialed in my locker combo, found the hefty textbook, and slammed the door closed.

  And that was when I saw them.

  Coach Z was walking down the hall toward me. His chest was puffed up with pride. He strode past students and faculty like he owned the place. Walking beside him, wearing his Troy Central High letterman jacket, was Orlando.

  Heads turned for the two mighty Trojans. I could hear kids whispering to one another, shocked to see Orlando, the same kids who had booed and cursed his name last week.

  I stood there, stunned and unmoving.

  “Morning, Shaw,” Coach Z said as they passed.

  “’Sup, D,” Orlando added quietly.

  “Uh … hi,” was all I could muster.

  Though Orlando was back to being a Trojan, he still hadn’t returned to class. The next time I saw him was in the locker room Wednesday afternoon. I’d practically run from my last class, curious to see if he was going to be at practice and what kind of reception he was going to get from the rest of the team.

  Orlando was already suiting up when I got there. A few of the other guys were in the locker room too, including Terry and Ian. Everything looked… normal. No anger. No raised voices. Just players getting ready to hit the field, like we’d been doing all season long.

  “Hey, Devon,” Orlando said, offering me a fist bump.

  “Sprints in ten minutes!” Coach Whitson called from the far side of the locker room, over by the coaches’ office.

  I dropped my backpack and shed my school clothes. I wanted to ask Orlando so many things. What happened with his car? Did the Raiders admit to vandalizing it? There was no time, though. And I didn’t want to start interrogating him in front of the team.

  Orlando could see the questions in my eyes. “The devil you know, am I right?”

  I didn’t have a response for that.

  Orlando tightened his shoulder pads and pulled his jersey over them. The name TRAITOR was not taped to the back of this one.

  We jogged out of the locker room together, our metal cleats clacking against the cement floor. Coach Whitson was closing the door to the office as we hurried past.

  “Welcome back, Green,” he said.

  Through the tunnel and out onto the field. Side by side. Me and Orlando.

  The Friends of Troy were seated in the stands again, the same group of men who had been at Monday’s practice. Mr. Willard. Wally Doyle. Big Bill Norwood. They looked infinitely happier today than they had on Monday, though. I wonder why.

  I must have been the only person out on the field—including Orlando—who hadn’t decided to just press the reset button. Even Shane Hunter seemed happy to see Orlando. After constructing that crude dummy and calling Orlando every name in the book, Shane was smiling and joking around with him.

  The reason was clear. With Orlando—our deep threat—sprinting down the sidelines and picking up double coverage by the defense’s secondary, the rest of the field opened up for us. The opponent’s line became weaker, with more gaps, and we could run the ball more effectively. With the running game established, we could switch it up and run the play-action to Brian. Brian always knew where the first down marker was and could get there before he was tackled.

  “Bring it in, everybody!” Coach Z shouted as we completed our sprints. I grabbed my helmet off the bench, jogged to midfield, and took a knee alongside the others. “First things first,” Z continued. “You may recognize a familiar face back in our ranks today. Welcome back, Orlando.” He smiled. Coach Z, honest to goodness, smiled. The whole team burst into applause.

  Orlando waved and said, “Thanks, Coach. So, any of you guys want to help me win a state championship?”

  A few of the guys laughed at this, Shane loudest of all.

  “Gentlemen, look at those stands over there,” Coach Z said. “Friday night, everyone on those bleachers will be here to see you. What you’ve done this season is impressive, but this game and every game from here on out is a must-win situation. So I’m asking you to dig a little deeper, find a little more strength, and persevere. Vince Lombardi said, ‘There is only one way to succeed in anything, and that is give it everything.’ Now…line up!”

  In unison, the team shouted, “Yes, sir!”

  13/FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8—FINAL HOME GAME AGAINST THE THORNTON LIONS

  This was it. Season on the line. If we won, we were in. If we lost, we were done.

  The team huddled together in the dark tunnel leading to Willard Field. The air was bitterly cold, colder than any other game we’d played that season. The other Trojans and I slapped each other’s shoulder pads, grabbed face masks, and shouted words of encouragement. The tunnel was electric, like our adrenaline had transformed into lightning, crackling and alive.

  Coach Z stood in front of us, wearing his lucky sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. Shorts, on a night like this. But football is littered with superstitions, and that was one of Coach Z’s. Last home game of the season, no matter the temperature outside, he wore those shorts.

  The crowd had started to roar like a jet engine. The band was playing something I couldn’t quite make out. The cheerleaders were dancing around midfield, bundled in leg warmers, coats, mittens, and earmuffs. There is infinite truth in the phrase home-field advantage.

  And then the music stopped. The PA announcer said, “Here they are, your Troy High TROJANS!”

  “Let’s go, troops!” Coach Z bellowed, his voice barely audible over the rumble in the stands. “We’ve got a battle to win!”

  As we ran from the darkness of the tunnel into the glow of the field’s sodium floodlights, the band burst into the Troy Central High School fight song. The thousands of fans on the home side of the bleachers began to clap and sing along. The away bleachers, which were actually pretty full considering Thornton was not play-off bound this season, seemed empty compared to the home crowd.

  Me, Shane, and Orlando met at midfield with the Lions’ QB and halfback for the coin toss. We won the toss and elected to kick off first.

  Backed by the crowd’s continued cheers, our energy caught Thornton off guard. After a decent runback of the opening kick, the Thornton offense went three and out and were forced to punt.

  The punt was high, booming, twisting end over end, getting lost in the lights. The crowd was silent, if only for a moment, before the ball landed
in Orlando’s hands and he took off down the field. Two defenders pushed him out of bounds just past midfield, starting us inside Lions territory.

  I took the first snap, lowering my head and driving forward for about four yards. On a night as cold as that night, each hit was numbingly painful, but the adrenaline pushed me further than I ever thought I could go. My wrist felt better than it had all week, and I held tight to the ball. There was no way I was to going to fumble.

  My next run, a power option sweep to the left side of the field, gave us a first down and moved the chains. Coach Z’s plan was simple. We’d bait the defense into moving up on the line, then surprise them with a pass play from Shane to Orlando across the middle of the field. And it worked perfectly. Twenty yards later, we were already in the red zone. Barely two minutes had ticked off the clock.

  Another punishing run up the middle and I chewed up nine yards.

  In the huddle, Shane said, “Play action, eighty-eight ghost on one.” A fade to the corner of the end zone. He took the snap and faked a hand off to me. The move got Thornton’s defense to bite, while Shane floated a perfect pass to Orlando, who was being defended by a single safety. Orlando caught the ball in his fingertips, hauled it in, and slid both of his feet inbounds before falling to the ground.

  The ref blew his whistle and threw both arms into the air. “Touchdown!”

  The crowd erupted. Other Trojans swarmed Orlando, slapping him across his pads. Orlando turned to the home bleachers and cupped one hand to the side of his helmet, taking in their adoring cheers.

  “It’s great to be back!” he shouted to me as we jogged to the sidelines.

  Thornton was a decent team, but that night, their plan was simple: they wanted to be spoilers. They didn’t have anything to win for, aside from the joy they’d get from keeping us out of the play-offs. And they did an admirable job. Their quarterback marched them down the field, using quick pass plays that caught our defense off guard. When they were down inside the ten-yard line, though, our guys were able to make a stand. Brian Norwood stuffed their running back behind the line of scrimmage on third down. They were forced to kick a field goal.