The Walk On

by John Feinstein

  “So?” she said.

  He snapped back from his thoughts about Matt and Christine talking to one another. “No, there’s no way,” he said. “The guy said my level was so high that it had to be some kind of steroid.”

  Christine took another sip of her Coke.

  “Then there has to be some kind of mistake,” she said.

  “But how?” he asked. “I mean, how can you make a mistake like that?”

  “That’s the question we have to find the answer to.”

  “And how do we do that?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I have no idea. This is a little bit over my head. Actually, a lot over my head.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “I can ask my dad—”

  “No!” Alex said. “You can’t tell your dad!”

  Then he stopped. He kept forgetting that everyone would know by the next day anyway. “I’m sorry—you’re right. But you said he’s a news editor. Does he know about sports?”

  “He’s friends with a lot of the guys in sports. But this isn’t a sports story anyway. This takes someone who knows how to be a real reporter.”

  “You’re good,” he said, meaning it. “I trust you.”

  “I’m good for a high school freshman doing it for the first time. I wouldn’t even know where to begin on a story like this.”

  “Okay,” he said. “If you think your dad could help …” Alex felt lost—he wasn’t sure anyone could help.

  “You should go home and tell your mom. I’ll talk to my dad and call you later.”

  He had almost forgotten about telling his mom. He took a long sip of his Coke and put it down. His stomach felt like it was going to explode. So did his head.

  His mom was stunned, then confused, then angry. After asking him several times if there was any way he could be guilty, she stood up and said, “I’m calling your father. They can’t do this to you if you’re innocent.”

  “Mom, I am innocent,” he said.

  “I believe you,” she said. “Let me talk to your father.”

  His mom came right back, saying Alex’s dad must be on a plane because his phone said he was “unavailable.”

  “What a shock,” Alex said.

  He expected his mom to defend his dad, but instead she just sighed and said, “Yeah, no kidding.”

  She said she was going to make some calls and suggested he go upstairs and try to do some homework. Alex did, but it was a waste of time. He would start to read a phrase in French and then, ten minutes later, realize he was still staring at the same phrase, thinking about what it would be like at school when word got out about the test.

  He shut the book and checked his phone for messages. Practice would be just ending. He expected to start hearing from people soon. Of course, some of them had to be drug-tested again first because it was Wednesday.

  His phone vibrated as he was looking at it. He saw Christine’s number pop onto the screen.

  “I talked to my dad,” she said.

  “What did he say?”

  “That there are ways to find out more about what happened. I just wanted to let you know we’re working on it. I’ll call if I know more tonight. Or else I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Christine.”

  He went to tell his mom the update and she was just getting off the phone with Coach Gordon. He had apparently suggested that Alex might want to stay home from school the next day, but she disagreed.

  “You’re going to have to face it sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.”

  He didn’t argue. He could barely think. And he figured she was probably right.

  He went to bed without eating much dinner and without doing any studying. He wasn’t sure when he finally fell asleep, but he awoke before the sun was up in the middle of a dream in which Christine was marrying Matt. He lay back in bed and almost smiled. He wished that a dream like that was the worst of his problems. Sadly, it wasn’t even close.

  The announcement would be made at noon. Alex had talked to Jonas and Stephen Harvey the night before but had sworn them to secrecy so he could at least get through the morning.

  Alex had found Coach Brotman when he first got to school and asked him if there was any way he could eat lunch in the football offices. Coach Brotman had shaken his head.

  “I’m really sorry, Alex,” he said. “The rules say you can’t be in the locker room, the offices, anywhere around the football team. You’re allowed inside the stadium at the game tomorrow and that’s about it.”

  There was no way Alex was going to go to the game and sit in the stands with everyone staring at him.

  He was sitting at his usual table in the cafeteria when Matt Gordon walked over and sat down. It was noon straight up and Alex knew that all hell was about to break loose in his life.

  “I’m your new bodyguard, Goldie,” Matt said. “People are going to be coming over here demanding to know what happened in”—he looked at his watch—“about five minutes would be my guess. Just let me do the talking.”

  Alex wasn’t too surprised that Matt knew.

  Matt looked Alex in the eye. “You didn’t do it, right?”

  “NO,” Alex said vehemently.

  Before he could say anything else, Matt held up his hand. “That’s all I need.”

  Matt’s prediction was off by one minute. At 12:04, Alex saw kids starting to stand up and show one another their phones. Then he saw them starting to look in his direction. And then, the stampede began.

  Matt stood up to intercept people as they came to the table holding up their phones. Alex could hear a chorus of voices.…

  “Is it true?” “What happened, Myers?” “Are you taking steroids?”

  And on and on. Matt put up a hand and, in effect, made an announcement.

  “A mistake has been made,” he said in a loud voice. “Goldie hasn’t done anything wrong. This will be fixed soon.”

  Someone called out, “In time for tomorrow’s game?”

  The confident look on Matt’s face disappeared. “We hope so,” he finally said. “Now, do me a favor and give my teammate some space.”

  “But is he still your teammate?” another voice called out.

  There were probably a hundred kids around the table. They had appeared that quickly, as if by magic.

  Matt flared angrily at the question. “Of course he is,” he said. “Someone messed up. My dad is working on finding out who and how right now.”

  That was the first Alex had heard about that. He suspected it wasn’t true. But the crowd began to dissipate, for which he was grateful.

  “Thanks,” he said as Matt sat down. “I really needed that.”

  “And we need you, Goldie,” Matt said softly. “Anybody hassles you, just say you aren’t allowed to talk about it.” He got up to go. “Sorry—I have to go figure out how we can possibly win without you tomorrow.”

  He wasn’t smiling even a little bit when he said it.

  Alex followed Matt’s advice the rest of the day. As soon as anyone approached him, he put up a hand and said, “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

  That got him through French class. Christine played unofficial bodyguard for him from the classroom to the bike rack.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “I have a lot of phone calls to make,” she said. “My dad gave me a list.”

  “Like who?”

  She shook her head. “I need to get started while people are still at work. When I have something, I’ll call.”

  He had turned off his phone, as required by school rules, once lunch was over. Now he turned it back on and gasped: he had 104 new text messages.

  He had given his cell phone number to a few media members after his late-game heroics earlier in the season. Now it appeared that every single media member in the state of Pennsylvania had his cell number.

  There was one from someone named Stevie Thomas, who sounded familiar. Then he remembered: he was t
he teenage sports reporter who had broken a bunch of big stories at major events along with his partner, Susan Carol Anderson.

  The first few words on the screen said, You’re not the only one. Curious, Alex opened it and read the rest of the message, which said, There were eleven positive tests in all among the eight teams, six from guys on teams still playing. Two from Allen town North—both on the O-line. If you want to talk or need help with this, call me.…

  Alex showed the text to Christine.

  “I’ve met him a couple of times through my dad,” she said. “He’s doing work for the Daily News. He seems like a good guy.

  “It figures there would be more than one failed test. I wonder if anyone else who tested positive is innocent.”

  She got on her bike. “I’ll add Stevie to my call list and see if he has any ideas.”

  Alex was tempted to stop at McDonald’s on the way home but realized it would be packed with kids from school. His mom and Molly weren’t home when he arrived, so he found some bread and salami and made himself a sandwich.

  His phone kept buzzing while he ate. Each time he picked it up, he saw a number he didn’t recognize and ignored it. Finally, just as he was finishing, he saw Christine’s number and grabbed the phone.

  “I may have something,” she said.

  “Really?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes. What’s your blood type?”

  “No idea,” he said.

  “Ask your mom,” she said. “And make sure she tells you if you’re positive or negative. I’ll meet you at your house, okay?”

  Alex’s blood type was O-positive, according to his mom, who naturally wanted to know why he was asking. He told her he wasn’t sure yet, but that Christine seemed excited.

  When he opened the door to Christine fifteen minutes later, she was already talking.

  “Did you find out your blood type?”

  He nodded and told her as he took her coat. “O-positive. Why’s it matter?”

  Christine whooped and seemed ready to jump out of her skin. “It matters because you’re innocent—and we can prove it!”

  “What?” Alex asked. “How? Why?”

  “Because the blood type on the sample that came up positive is O-negative,” Christine said. “It can’t possibly be your blood!”

  Alex gaped at her for a moment and then wrapped her in a hug that might have been a little too tight. When she squeaked, he let her go and grinned.

  “So … so someone really just made a mistake?”

  Christine’s smile faded. “Or,” she said, “someone didn’t.”

  They sat in Alex’s kitchen with mugs of hot chocolate and Christine explained that she had called a football coach last night whose name had been given to her by Dick Jerardi, a longtime Daily News columnist. Christine had told the coach she was convinced something was amiss with Alex’s test, and he said he’d see what—if anything—he could find out.

  The coach’s athletic director sat on the board of the state high school athletic association—part of the reason Jerardi had recommended calling him. It was the AD who had called Christine back that afternoon.

  “He can’t be quoted on any of this,” she said. “He said he’d look into it as a courtesy to his coach but he doubted there would be anything to find because a positive test is almost never a mistake.”

  “So how am I off the hook?”

  “I’m trying to tell you. He called me back a little while ago and said he had the Chester Heights results in front of him. He said occasionally there’s a false positive if a kid has an unusually high testosterone level naturally. But that yours was sky-high.

  “I told him we’d heard that and it was one reason we were suspicious. You’re not an offensive lineman who weighs three hundred pounds.

  “He agreed that seemed weird, but that the test was clear—the only thing unusual about it was that you had O-negative blood,” Christine said. “I asked him why that was significant and he said it really wasn’t, except that O-negative blood is rare. He could see that only four Chester Heights players had O-negative blood. I looked it up and less than ten percent of the U.S. population has O-negative blood. So I thought it was worth asking if you had it.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “Exactly!” Christine said. “Which means it wasn’t your blood that tested positive.”

  “But … someone from the team with O-negative blood did test positive, right?”

  Christine nodded. “Yes. And once we establish that you aren’t the person who tested positive, they’re going to have to figure out who is. But that comes later. First, we prove to the state it wasn’t your blood and clear your name. Then we find out how this happened.”

  According to Christine, Chester Heights would have to file a formal appeal on his behalf. Since the appeal would be based on the fact that he didn’t have the same blood type as the blood that had come back positive, Alex would have to produce proof of his blood type and then submit to another blood test because they would want to see proof that his real blood was clean. Once that was established, he would be cleared.

  “Great!” Alex said. “Can I take the test tomorrow, before the game?”

  “You can take the test, yes,” Christine said. “You’ll have to go to Harrisburg, which is where the state athletic association has its headquarters. Since you are appealing, the responsibility lies with you to get the documentation, bring it to them, and be tested.”

  “But if I pass the test, can I be cleared in time to play?”

  Christine shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry—it takes nearly a week to get the results back—three or four days if they rush it. There isn’t time.”

  Alex sagged. For a split second he had seen himself in uniform for the game in Allentown, cleared of all wrongdoing and helping the team win. He knew the team was boarding a bus to Allentown at lunchtime tomorrow. He wouldn’t be going with them.

  He drained the last of his cocoa and tried to think of something else. “How do you think this happened? The vials must have been mislabeled, right?”

  Christine crossed her arms. “Yeah,” she said. “But that’s not supposed to be possible. Unless someone who has possession of the blood samples does it on purpose.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Alex asked.

  Christine shrugged. “That’s a good question. If we figure out why, we might figure out who.… We figure that out, we solve the mystery.”

  Alex and Christine explained the situation to his mom when she and Molly got home that night.

  The more Christine talked, the more Alex’s mom smiled, and in the end she wrapped Christine in a hug nearly as tight as her son’s. “Thank you!” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Christine grinned, clearly pleased, and said she should get going.

  Alex tried to call his dad to give him an update. He knew his mom had filled him in because he’d gotten a text that morning saying, Hang in there, this will get straightened out.

  When Alex got his voice mail, he didn’t bother leaving a message. If his dad cared, he’d see the number and call back.

  Meanwhile, his mom was trying to track down Mr. White, the principal. He’d left for the day, but his email was in the school’s online directory, so she sent him an email with the subject line “URGENT—PLEASE CALL RIGHT AWAY.”

  About thirty minutes later, Mr. White called and Alex’s mom explained that they needed a meeting first thing in the morning because they had proof that a mistake had been made with Alex’s drug test and they needed the school to file an official appeal.

  Alex could only hear his mom’s side of the conversation.

  “No, Mr. White, this can’t wait,” she said. “We need to see you first thing in the morning, before school starts.”

  She paused, nodding. “Of course,” she said. “That’s perfectly fine. He should be aware of what’s going on too. But I’m told I need your signature on the letter requesting the appeal.”

&nb
sp; Another nod as she listened. “Fine, we’ll see you at seven o’clock.”

  She hung up.

  “He thinks Coach Gordon should be there too,” she said.

  “Why?” Alex said. “He has to sign the appeal note, not Coach Gordon.”

  “I know,” she said. “But he said since it was a football issue in addition to a school issue, Coach Gordon should be there. I said fine.”

  She paused for a moment. “I don’t think we should tell them what proof we have,” she said finally. “All we have to do is say we want a retest.”

  Alex was surprised. “You don’t trust him?” he said.

  “Right now,” she said, “I don’t trust any of them.”

  There was steel in her voice when she said it, a kind of steel Alex couldn’t remember ever hearing before. He suspected Mr. White was going to have a tough morning.

  They dropped Molly off at her school early and got to Mr. White’s office at 6:57. Mr. White’s assistant told them she would let the principal know they were here and offered Alex’s mom some coffee.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she answered. “It’s 6:58. I hope we’re going to get started on time.”

  Whoo, boy, thought Alex.

  Mr. White opened his door at 7:01, just as his mom was looking at her watch again, and waved them in. Coach Gordon was already inside and he stood and shook her hand.

  “Did Mrs. Appleman offer you coffee?” Mr. White asked as they all sat down.

  “Yes, she did. Thanks.”

  Mr. White looked at Coach Gordon. Clearly, there had been a discussion about how to handle the meeting.

  Coach Gordon leaned forward and smiled. Alex wasn’t sure if he had ever actually seen the coach smile before.

  “Mrs. Myers, this has, of course, been upsetting for all of us …,” he began.

  “Not as upsetting for you, Coach, or for you, Mr. White, as it’s been for my son and for me,” Alex’s mom said.

  Tone set. Message delivered.

  Coach Gordon’s smile faded.

  “I understand that,” he said. “Believe me, we need Alex on the field tonight. But the charge against him is—”