Out of His League

by Pat Flynn

  Sam ripped off his helmet and threw it at the ground.

  Coach wasn’t planning on using these Rugby League plays until later in the season, if he used them at all. But now he thought that there wasn’t much to lose and he could find out once and for all if Malivai, Jose, and Ozzie would be better off running up and down stairs and around the oval in the mornings than underarming a football to each other.

  The change was announced over the speakers. “New quarterback for the Shooters, number twenty-two, umm … I can’t find him. That’s not his name, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll get back to you on that.”

  Dave Graham held up mini binoculars. “That’s Austin!”

  “What in God’s name is going on?” asked Pastor Slipper.

  “An Australian as quarterback!” said Mayor Green. “The sooner this coach goes the better.”

  Dave looked over, surprised. This was the first time he had heard anything about getting rid of the coach from someone who actually had the power to do so. He’d heard the rumors, of course, but the fact that the mayor was saying it out loud, here at a football game, meant it was for real. Coach McCulloch may as well start packing his bags.

  Ozzie, of course, didn’t hear any of this. He was more worried about having to stand directly behind the center—the player who bends over and snaps the ball back to the quarterback—with his hands up the bloke’s backside.

  “What play we running?” asked Curtis Riley in the huddle. Curtis was an offensive lineman whose job was to run at the player who stood a few inches in front of him. The guy in front of him tonight was seven inches taller and twenty-eight pounds heavier so it wasn’t the most fun Curtis had ever had on a Friday night.

  “Well,” said Ozzie slowly, looking at the linemen, “you blokes stop those bastards from tackling us.” He then turned to the two Shooters’ receivers. “And you two, run any way you want.” They looked at each other. “We know what to do,” Ozzie said, indicating Jose, Malivai, and himself.

  “What’s the blocking formation?” said one of the offensive tackles.

  Yesterday, when Ozzie finally found out the names of all the positions, he thought it was funny that there were two players called tackles who weren’t allowed to tackle.

  “Just … do whatever you want.”

  Curtis let out a stifled laugh. “Good luck, dude.”

  A whistle blew.

  “When’s the snap?” the center yelled to Ozzie as they ran to the mark.

  “The what?”

  They lined up in an unusual way, with Jose and Malivai standing in a diagonal line to Ozzie’s left. The Shooters’ fans sat up in their seats. Till then, Dave Graham knew every offensive formation the team ran. In fact, the offense had hardly changed in thirty years, which was the way the people of Hope liked it.

  “They’re going to run left!” yelled a Bears’ linebacker.

  Ozzie waited for the center to pass him the ball. “All right, chuck it,” Ozzie said finally. But the center didn’t hear him.

  A whistle blew. “Delay of game!” said the referee, moving the ball back five yards.

  The Shooters’ fans groaned.

  “This is embarrassing!” said the mayor. “A disgrace!” said the pastor.

  The players went into a huddle again. “When’s the snap?” the center asked Ozzie.

  “Whenever you want, mate,” said Ozzie.

  “How about on three?”

  “Fair enough. Who counts, you or me?”

  “You.”

  Curtis laughed again. “Good luck, dude.”

  They lined up in the same formation as before, with Ozzie, Jose, and Malivai making a line across the left side of the field.

  Instead of saying “Hut, hut, hut,” Ozzie said “One, two, three,” which made the defensive tackle laugh so hard that snot came out of his nose and hit Curtis in the helmet. The center snapped the ball back, Ozzie grabbed it, and he ran.

  He angled left across the field and to the Bears’ surprise there was no lead blocker. No one running in front of Ozzie, smashing into would-be tacklers. Eleven pairs of eyes lit up as they prepared to destroy an easy target.

  Swarm the ball! were the words they had heard all their footballing lives, and that’s what they did now, intending to crush Ozzie like an insect. But right before the sickening sound of flesh on flesh, Ozzie did something they weren’t expecting. He sent a long, crossfield, Rugby League–style pass to Jose.

  “They’re running the option!” yelled the Bears’ linebacker. The option was a play rarely seen in high school, as it was considered too risky. The safety slid across the field to meet Jose, who had already made enough yards for a first down.

  Up in the stands the Shooters’ fans were cheering. This was something good in a night of mostly bad. But as Jose was about to be tackled, something more unusual happened. In fact, it was so unusual that the radio commentator told the Hope listeners that in thirty years of watching football he’d seen it only a few times. The ball was passed backward again.

  When Malivai caught Jose’s pass there was nothing but artificial daylight in front of him. And no one could catch Malivai from behind. He ran it in for a touchdown.

  In the stands, the Shooters’ crowd was caught between cheering and stunned silence. For one thing, the game was already lost, but also they knew it must have been luck. A fluke, like the touchdown Malivai scored in last week’s scrimmage.

  But if you hadn’t spent a lifetime watching American football—like Pastor Slipper and Mayor Green—you would have sworn it was the perfect play, and that it was all planned.

  chapter 17

  After a postmatch drink where they had to listen to the Booth mayor and pastor crow like roosters, Mayor Green and Pastor Slipper drove home in the pastor’s Cadillac. The speed limit was fifty-five miles per hour on the interstate but the mayor knew all the police by name, so the pastor set the cruise control for sixty-five.

  “So, what’s it gonna take?” asked the pastor.

  “At least fifty.”

  “Fifty thousand to fire a lousy football coach! What’s this country coming to?”

  “You know, if he was abusing a player we wouldn’t have to spend a cent.”

  The pastor thought for a bit. “I don’t think anyone’d believe it. If he did beat up one of his players occasionally, we might actually win.”

  “We could accuse him of discrimination?”

  The pastor shook his head. “The team’s full of Mexicans. Heck, he’s even got an Australian playing quarterback.”

  “A white Australian.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “You’re right. We’ll have to get the cash.”

  “Is it possible?”

  The mayor stroked his chin. “Anything’s possible.”

  “How much is there in the boosters’ coffers?”

  “About twenty, I’d say, ready for a new set of jerseys or an end-of-year trip or whatever. They’ll part with it if the bait’s tasty enough.”

  “And the other thirty?”

  “It’ll have to be the school board,” said the mayor. “Christ, they just spent a hundred Gs trying to figure out why our test scores are so pathetic.”

  “What did they come up with? That the students are stupid?”

  “Something like that.” The mayor chuckled. “I think they can spend money on something really important.”

  “Like a new football coach?”

  “You got it.”

  The men smiled.

  “But we do nothing until we’ve found a replacement?” asked the pastor.

  “Yep. ’Specially now the season’s started and all. It’s gonna take the right name to persuade ’em.”

  “I got an idea about that.”

  The mayor flicked his Zippo and lit a cigarette.

  “Who’s the one person that the whole town worships?” said the pastor.

  “Jesus Christ?”

  The pastor shook his head. “Someone better.”

  “I th
ink you’re getting pretty close to blasphemy there, Pastor. Unless you’re talking about …”

  “Yep.”

  “Coach Hayes? The man’s sixty-four years old.”

  “He won a hundred and twenty-eight games and lost eighteen. I don’t care if he’s a hundred, he knows how to win.”

  The mayor didn’t look convinced.

  “With him on board we could raise a million dollars if we had to, and McCulloch will be coaching junior high in Oklahoma where he belongs.”

  Mayor Green blew smoke out of a crack in the window. “And if Hayes is past it, we get rid of him after the season. Tell him it was just a caretaker’s role.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It might just work. But why would he do it?”

  “There’s gotta be something we can offer him,” said the pastor. “A statue in town, rename Shooter Stadium after him when he dies …”

  “Both’ll happen, anyway.”

  “What about money?”

  “He doesn’t give a damn. All he cares about is pride and glory.”

  “Then we tell him God and the town need him. That here’s his chance to make Hope great again. That the people of Denham are laughing at how bad our team has become.”

  “They are laughing.”

  “We can visit him together.”

  A siren sounded and a car with red and blue lights pulled onto the highway behind them.

  “Do we need a police escort?” asked the mayor.

  They smiled.

  chapter 18

  Wednesday was always hard-work day, the bumps and bruises of last week’s game forgotten, and the bumps and bruises of this week’s game still far enough away not to matter. It was full contact, players blocking and tackling each other with the abandon of those too young to know the long-term impacts of regular body collisions. More important to them was competing for a place in the starting lineup, for to be a starter on the football team was to be a star. And after the Booth game there were plenty of positions up for grabs.

  It had already been decided that Tex would now play both ways, in other words, he’d be an offensive and a defensive lineman. This meant he had to be superfit, which was not a word that came to mind when you saw him. To get him ready, Coach Wright had Tex hit anything that moved, and if the boy slacked off just a little bit, Coach’d have him hit the ground and do fifty. Push-ups, that is. Like many of America’s football coaches, Marcus Wright was an ex-military man. “Training for a football game,” he often said, “is not all that different from training for a war.”

  The only other person to play both ways was Ozzie. A month ago he didn’t even know the rules and now he was the backup quarterback and a key tackler.

  Toward the end of the session the offense was scrimmaging against the defense. “Blue nineteen on three,” said Sam in the huddle. “Ready?”

  “Hold on,” said Malivai. “I’ve been running at Ozzie all afternoon.”

  “So?”

  “He tackles hard, man. Why don’t you run at him for once?”

  Jose laughed.

  “Okay, girls, I will. Get ready to see an Australian knocked on his butt.”

  Curtis sniggered and Sam raised his voice. “Just block your man for once in your life and I’ll show you how this game should be played.”

  Although Sam was a throwing quarterback, he could run when he had to. His size—over six feet tall, 180 pounds—allowed him to bust tackles, or he could use his impressive agility to beat them. He play-faked to Malivai—who ran through the middle with his fists curled up in his jersey—and hooked back right, his arm cocked so the defenders would hang back for the pass. Unfortunately for Sam, Tex didn’t hang back for anybody, breaking through the designated blocker like he was made of paper. He charged like a wounded bull, and at the last moment Sam jumped back and to the left, and prayed. Tex fell for it hook, line, and sucker, but he stuck out his huge hand on the way past and got hold of Sam’s jersey, spinning the quarterback like a top. Somehow, though, Sam ended up on his feet and facing the right way, so he took off toward the secondary defense. Toward Ozzie.

  The playbook called for Sam to slide feet first into an incoming tackler once he ran over ten yards, which was enough for a first down. The idea was to protect the valuable quarterback from injury. Sam had run at least fifteen yards by the time he reached Ozzie but he had no intention of stopping. It was time he taught this Australian a lesson about football—Texas-style. Since Sam had been a boy he’d been groomed for this. His father had taught him more than how to throw a football, he’d taught him football. Every play on television, every practice session would be analyzed like it was the most important thing in life.

  See the open man? That’s where you throw, son.

  Poise under pressure. You have that, you win football games.

  Sam was ready for his time in the sun and now a boy from halfway across the goddamned world was trying to rain on his parade. This boy didn’t understand the game the way Sam did, hell, he hardly even knew the rules, much less the playbook. He didn’t have a father who’d drummed it all in, then left.

  Suddenly there was an enormous crunch, the sickening sound of two bodies colliding.

  Sam had to be helped up.

  “Sorry, mate. You all right?” Ozzie grabbed Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam held his head, as if trying to keep his brains from floating away. “Get your hands off me, faggot.”

  Ozzie raised his hand and his eyebrow. “Mate, lose the attitude. If you were half as good as you think you are you’d be Wally Lewis.”

  “You calling me a Wally now?” Sam didn’t know that Wally Lewis was the Joe Montana of Rugby League.

  “I’m calling you a wanker.”

  Sam stepped closer and took off his helmet. “A what?”

  “A wanker. Look in the mirror and you’ll see one staring at ya.”

  Sam shoved Ozzie in the chest. “Screw you, Oss ie.”

  “Who’s the poofta now?”

  Sam pushed again.

  Ozzie didn’t back away, but kept his voice quiet. “Touch me again and you’re dead.”

  On the other side of the field, Coach McCulloch saw what was going on and moved to stop it, but Coach Wright put his hand out. “Let ’em work off a little steam. It’s gonna happen sooner or later. Better when we’re here.”

  Coach McCulloch wasn’t so sure, but he waited.

  The cheerleaders stopped practicing and Unity’s pompoms were as still as the afternoon air.

  Sam reached out with his finger and held it an inch from Ozzie’s chest, toying with him. Just one touch and Sam would win. Either he’d beat this Australian black-and-blue, or the boy would back out of his promise and look like a yellow belly. He looked into Ozzie’s eyes, trying to glimpse fear. Sam was taller and heavier, a physical specimen so fine that college recruiters sat up in their fifty-yard-line seats whenever he ran onto the field.

  Ozzie never blinked. His shoulders stayed unhunched and his arms hung loosely by his sides. There was a half-smile on his face, like he knew something Sam didn’t.

  He did.

  When Ozzie was ten he had come home from school with a busted lip and a bloody nose—courtesy of three boys who wanted his football—and Pop had taught him how to fight. They’d spent afternoons down at the old dairy, working the heavy bag and speedball, sparring beside a milk vat that hadn’t been used since deregulation. After boxing or footy, Pop could gruff out a “not bad” that made Ozzie’s heart swell more than a hundred compliments from others. A month or so later Ozzie ran into the three boys again. He got his football back.

  Sam moved closer, eyeballing Ozzie, and suddenly a buzz swept around the field. Players, coaches, and cheerleaders shifted their focus from the standoff to a man shuffling across the field.

  It was Coach Hayes.

  Sam lifted both arms and clapped in Ozzie’s face. “BOO!”

  Ozzie didn’t bat an eyelash.

  Sam slowly backed away.

  C
oach Hayes had hardly seen the Shooters play since the day he retired. He still listened to every game on the radio, but when he showed up in person fans would keep looking at him or asking him what he’d do differently if he was on the sideline, so he stayed away.

  His once brown hair was white but still thick like whipped cream, and he looked fit enough to run laps with the players, the way he always had. When Coach Hayes announced his retirement—right after the Shooters beat Denham by a point to win the district title—it turned into a day of mourning that had lasted fifteen years. Some people were angry, saying that the coach had quit because he knew that Denham and their black running backs were soon going to be too good (and they got it partly right because Hope hadn’t beaten Denham since), and some were simply grateful for the years of winning he’d brought to Hope. All wanted him back, even when Coach McCulloch went eight and two and made the play-offs in his first season. Coach Hayes didn’t just make the play-offs, he won them.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I visit,” Coach Hayes said to Coach McCulloch, as the two men shook hands.

  “Not at all.”

  “Just want to wish y’all luck for the Panther game.”

  “Sure is kind of you.”

  His voice got lower, so only Coach McCulloch could hear. “And I want to let you know that even though the dogs are barkin’, I think you’re doing a mighty fine job, Coach. You can only go with what you got, and by the sounds of it, you ain’t got a lot.”

  Coach McCulloch shrugged.

  Coach Hayes hadn’t finished. “There’s a few people around here, important people, stirring up the pot a little bit. Just want to say watch your back, that’s all. And if I can do anything, you let me know.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  They shook hands again.

  “One more thing,” said Coach Hayes. “Do you think I could meet the Australian? Sounds like a real interesting fella.”

  Coach McCulloch called Ozzie over.

  “I knew a few Aussies in Vietnam,” said Coach Hayes. He had no idea who this old bloke was, but Ozzie was impressed. The man actually knew how to pronounce “Aussie.”

  “Cheeky SOBs,” continued Coach Hayes, “but the type of men you’d want beside you in battle.”