The Walk On

by John Feinstein

  “False,” said Alex’s mom. “And we’re leaving for Harrisburg to prove it just as soon as Mr. White signs the letter of appeal on school letterhead that we are required to bring with us. That’s what we’re here for, Coach. Not for coffee or conversation.”

  Coach Gordon looked at Mr. White.

  “Mrs. Myers, we’re one hundred percent behind you even if overturning a test like this is a long shot. And I will gladly sign the appeal letter—”

  “Good.”

  “But we want you to understand what’s involved. First, you’ll be required to pay for the costs involved. It could be as much as five hundred dollars.”

  “You don’t think I’d pay five hundred dollars to clear my son of a baseless charge?” she asked.

  Alex was, at that moment, in complete awe of his mother.

  “Of course you would. And I’m just trying to make you aware of everything involved. But I should ask you, with all due respect, are you sure the charge is baseless? I have no doubt Alex didn’t intentionally take an illegal substance, but as you know—”

  Alex’s mom stood up. “Mr. White, you’re wasting my time. How long will it take you to write the letter of appeal and sign it?”

  Mr. White looked at Coach Gordon. He appeared to be staring at something on the wall behind Mr. White’s desk.

  “Can you give me fifteen minutes?”

  “I’d prefer ten,” she said. “We’ll wait outside. And yes, I’d like some coffee now while we wait.”

  Alex hadn’t opened his mouth during the whole meeting.

  Thirty minutes later, they were in the car with the directions to the state high school athletic association offices in Harrisburg punched into the GPS. Mr. White had promised to contact James Newsome, the director of the association, to let him know they were on their way. They had gotten Mr. Newsome’s phone number as backup. Mr. White had also given them the number for Mr. Turgeson, the very unpleasant man from the board of education who had informed Alex of the positive test, so they could let him know they were officially filing an appeal.

  “I don’t know what time the office opens,” Mr. White had said.

  “Leave a voice mail,” his mom said. “I’ll do the same thing once we’re in the car.”

  The office was apparently open early, because a cheery voice answered the phone on the second ring, saying, “Pennsylvania High School Athletic Association, good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Alex’s mom said, talking on the car’s Bluetooth so that Alex could hear both sides of the conversation. “I’m calling for Mr. Newsome.”

  Surprisingly, the receptionist didn’t even ask who was calling. A moment later, a voice said, “James Newsome.”

  Alex’s mom explained the situation and told Mr. Newsome that she and her son were en route to Harrisburg. Perhaps Mr. Newsome had already spoken with Mr. White, because he didn’t seem surprised by the call.

  “I understand completely,” he said. “As soon as I hang up I’m going to call Dr. Novitsky, who is the head of our drug-testing program. Either he or one of our other doctors will re-administer the test this morning. When you get here, I’ll have a name and the address of where you need to go. The only thing I have to tell you is that you will have to pay for the testing service, since this sort of thing isn’t in our budget. Of course, if there’s been a mistake made, your money will be refunded. And before you pay for the test, I’d like to talk to you face to face about what the chances are of finding the kind of error needed to overturn the initial finding.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “We’ll see you in about ninety minutes.”

  “What do you think will happen when we get there?” Alex asked after she had hung up.

  “I think we’ll show him the card validating your blood type and then the doctor will draw your blood,” she said. “Once they get the test back, you’ll be cleared.”

  “The season may be over by the time they get the tests back,” Alex said, feeling glum at the thought.

  His mother sighed. “We’ll get them to rush it as much as they can,” she said. “We’ll do our best.”

  James Newsome looked like someone who had played football once upon a time. He appeared to be in his midforties and was a couple inches taller than Alex. He looked as if he could still jump into uniform and play that night. He offered them something to drink and ushered them into his small office, which confirmed what Alex had suspected: on the wall were photos of him in a University of Pittsburgh uniform.

  “Did you play at Pitt?” Alex asked as they sat down, pointing at the photos.

  Mr. Newsome nodded. “I played on the last Pitt team that was an independent,” he said. “The year after I graduated we joined the Big East.”

  “When was that?” Alex’s mom asked, clearly being polite.

  “I graduated in 1991,” he said.

  They got down to business. Mr. Newsome had pulled Alex’s file, and he asked his mom to go through everything that had happened even though he had been briefed.

  When she got to the part about the blood types not matching, his eyes widened.

  “Well, if that’s true, then a major injustice has been done,” Mr. Newsome said. “Unfortunately, even if we retest your blood today, the earliest we can get results back is Tuesday—I’ve already checked on that. That’s with a rush on it. If you’re cleared, Alex, you could play in the state championship game—if Chester Heights wins tonight.”

  “That’s a big if,” Alex said.

  “No doubt,” Mr. Newsome said. “And if a mistake has been made”—he sighed and tapped his pen on his desk—“there’s just nothing that can be done. I don’t have the authority to clear you to play without the blood confirmation.”

  “How could this have happened?” Alex’s mom asked, her tone not unfriendly but not warm either.

  Mr. Newsome dropped the pen and spread his hands, which Alex noticed were huge.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “If Alex’s blood was somehow switched with someone else’s, our next step will be to figure that out.”

  He stood up. “For now, let’s get you to Dr. Novitsky’s office and get this sample so we can get the results back as soon as possible. It’s probably easiest if I just drive you there, rather than having you navigate your way through Harrisburg.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Alex’s mom said. For the first time since the test results had come back, she smiled.

  Dr. Novitsky was expecting them. He had a nurse make a copy of Alex’s medical forms, which showed his blood type, and ushered them into a small examining room.

  As the doctor went through the ritual of drawing Alex’s blood, Alex’s mom quizzed him about how the mix-up could have happened.

  Dr. Novitsky had clearly been thinking about it too. “If a mistake was made, it must have been in labeling whose blood was whose, though I don’t see how that could happen. It’s possible the lab mixed up the samples … but they have strict handling protocols to guard against that, so that seems even more unlikely. I’m afraid I just don’t know.

  “I’ll call you myself as soon as we get a result back,” he added. “It should be before noon on Tuesday.”

  They thanked him and headed for home. They were quiet for a while before Alex’s mom said, “Do you have any interest in going to the game tonight? I could take you if you want.” Alex shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “It would kill me to be there and watch from the stands. Plus, I’d have to deal with all the people asking me questions.”

  He thought about that for a minute, staring out the window as the car pulled onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike, heading east. Thinking about his teammates running onto the field without him depressed him for a moment. Then he brightened.

  “The good news is I can watch on television,” he said. “And it’s supposed to rain or maybe even snow tonight. At least we’ll be dry and warm.”

  His mom reached over and patted him on the leg.

  “I’m really proud of how you�
�ve handled this,” she said. “And in case you don’t know it, your dad has been texting me constantly for updates.”

  “Did you tell him about the blood type? And that we were coming here?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What’d he say?”

  In response, she picked up her cell—which was sitting in between the two of them—hit a button quickly, and handed it to him.

  I knew he didn’t do it, the text said. We should sue the board of ed. Tell him I love him.

  “You should call him,” she said.

  “I do,” Alex said. “He can never talk.”

  “He does care.”

  “I know he cares. I’m just not sure how much.”

  They rode in silence for a long while after that. The next thing he heard his mother say was, “McDonald’s in five miles. Hungry?”

  “Starving,” Alex said. He thought for a moment and then added, “And tired. Really, really tired.”

  Before the game started, Alex called his dad.

  “Congratulations, Alex. Mom texted me the news,” his dad said.

  “Nothing’s done yet, Dad,” he said. “And if we lose tonight, it won’t really matter that much.”

  “Of course it matters. Even if you don’t get to play again this season, it means your name is cleared—which is the most important thing of all.”

  Alex sighed. His dad was right. Life would be a lot easier at school once people knew he hadn’t taken any steroids. But if the team lost tonight because he couldn’t come off the bench and bail them out if needed, it was going to hurt.

  He changed the subject.

  “When are we going to see you, Dad?” he asked.

  There was a pause. “Well, I have to be in California again this coming week,” he said. “Business.”

  “On Thanksgiving?”

  There was a pause. “I’m flying home on Thanksgiving.”

  “So if we make the championship game on Friday and I’m cleared, you can come down?”

  Another pause.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Alex sensed his dad was saying yes because he didn’t expect to have to make the trip, but he didn’t push it, and a minute later they hung up. Alex’s dad had never traveled much in the past. Now he seemed to be on the road all the time.

  Alex decided not to think about it. The game was about to start.

  As soon as Alex turned on the TV, any small, lingering doubts he might have had about not making the trip to Allentown disappeared. The opening on-camera shot was of something that looked like sleet or wet snow coming down steadily. The field already looked white.

  “It’s going to be a cold, wet night in the Lehigh Valley,” Alex heard a voice say. “This mixture of snow and sleet is expected to continue until around midnight, but it will hardly be noticed by the young men of Allentown North and Chester Heights who will be competing here for the right to play in next week’s state championship game.”

  At that point the camera shifted from the field to a shot of the two announcers, both bundled up in ski jackets. Alex didn’t recognize either one of them, although the color commentator looked like he had once been a lineman. They welcomed the viewers to “Goodman Stadium, on the campus of Lehigh University,” and went through the usual ritual about how exciting the game was likely to be and the fact that the two teams had a combined record of 21–1 coming into the state semifinals.

  Then they showed close-up shots on a split screen of the starting quarterbacks, Matthew Gordon and Ken Jackson, both prime candidates for state player of the year and as Division I prospects in the future.

  “And we have to mention,” the play-by-play guy said, going from cheery to somber without missing a beat, “that both quarterbacks will be under a little extra pressure tonight because of some very unfortunate circumstances.”

  “You’re right, Jeff,” the ex-lineman said as pictures of Alex and two other guys came up on the screen.

  “Michael Akers and Joe Burness have been Allentown North’s starting tackles all season. Alex Myers is Matthew Gordon’s backup and has come off the bench on a couple occasions to lead critical drives for the Lions. None of the three will play tonight because they are among eleven players who tested positive this week for performance-enhancing drugs.”

  The cameras cut back to the two announcers, both shaking their heads sadly. “These are the times we live in, Jeff,” the ex-lineman was saying. “We can only hope these young men will learn from the mistakes they’ve made. Speaking as an ex-player, if I were a teammate of any of these guys, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to look them in the eye or respect them again.”

  “Well said, Armand,” said Jeff. “Well said. Now let’s turn our attention back to those who earned the right to play tonight—”

  Alex didn’t hear the rest of the sentence because he was screaming. He was so angry he had tears in his eyes. His mother raced into the room.

  “What is it, Alex?” she said.

  “They just called me a cheat on TV!” he yelled. “They showed my picture and said my teammates should never speak to me again. Didn’t someone from the school tell them there might have been a mistake? Or that we’ve filed an appeal?”

  “Maybe they’re not allowed to?” she said.

  “Or maybe they are,” Alex said.

  He was as angry as he could ever remember being. He paced the room like a caged … Lion. Suddenly he felt very alone. His dad was MIA, his teammates were playing without him, he’d been labeled a cheat on TV, and no one was standing up for him. Then he looked at his mom—and went over and gave her a hug.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said softly.

  “For what?”

  “For being here.”

  She didn’t say anything, but he knew she understood.

  The next three hours were torture for Alex. The good news was the announcers never brought his name up again—probably on orders, he figured: get the cheats out of the way early and then forget about them.

  The bad news was, no one could score. Hanging on to the ball was almost impossible. Staying on your feet was just about as difficult. Both star quarterbacks struggled: neither seemed able to grip the ball to throw with any consistency and both teams fumbled almost constantly.

  With under six minutes left in the fourth quarter, Chester Heights finally put together a mini-drive after taking over on a Ken Jackson fumble at the Allentown North 42-yard line. Sticking to basics—Matt turning and handing the ball off to Craig Josephs on just about every play or faking to Craig and then following him straight into the line—the Lions steadily moved the ball to a first down at the Allentown North 8-yard line.

  The clock was under two minutes. The Raiders had already used two of their time-outs. Alex wondered if Coach Gordon would try to punch the ball into the end zone or take a chance on Pete Ross making a short field goal, kicking a wet ball off a frozen field. It was apparent that Allentown North was saving its final time-out to make Ross think about the kick if he had to try to make it.

  On first down, Josephs went up the middle and was tackled for no gain. The clock ticked down to 1:35 before Matt handed to Josephs again. This time he picked up two yards to the six. It was pretty clear that Allentown North was jamming the middle, and so trying to score by going straight into the line would be impossible. If Josephs carried again, it would come down to a field goal. The clock was under a minute as Matt brought the team to the line.

  Coach Gordon clearly understood that another handoff to Josephs was going to result in a field goal attempt in very difficult conditions and decided to take a different sort of risk. On third down, Matt looked like he was going to hand to Josephs again. But he pulled the ball out of his stomach and dropped to pass. He raised his arm to throw, then pulled it down. Apparently, no one was open, because he took off on a scramble. He dodged one lineman, then two. A third Raider seemed to have him but fell on his face when Matt cut outside.

  At the 2-yard line, two defender
s waited to cut him off. Matt lined them up and then leaped right into their arms—pushing them backward with his sheer power. The three of them fell in a heap right on the goal line. The official raced in, arms in the air, signaling a touchdown.

  Alex jumped off the couch, shaking his fist. “Way to go, Matt—way to go!” he screamed as he watched his teammates pummel their quarterback. Alex could see the clock at the bottom of the screen: there were thirty-eight seconds to go.

  Ross came in to kick the extra point, but the snap went way over the holder’s hands and the ball rolled loose for an agonizing few seconds until a Lion smothered it. Coach Gordon had been right not settling for the field goal. Allentown North tried two long passes after the kickoff. The second was intercepted by Tony Riley—who was in as a sixth defensive back—and the game came to an end. Final: Chester Heights 6, Allentown North 0.

  They were in the state championship game. Alex took a deep breath and thought, Maybe, just maybe, my football season isn’t over.

  It wasn’t until some sideline announcer interviewed Matt after the game that Alex found out what happened on Matt’s touchdown run.

  “I got lucky,” Matt said in typical Matt fashion. “The call was for a play-action fake and then for me to throw it to Jonas Ellington in the end zone. He was wide open, but when I tried to cock my arm to throw, I realized I didn’t have a good grip on the ball. I was afraid I’d miss the throw, so I just took off.”

  “That run wasn’t lucky,” the sideline reporter said.

  Matt shrugged. “On a night like this, anything good that happens is lucky. We were just luckier than they were tonight.”

  Alex knew that was true. It was also true that Matt had made a spectacular play, figuring out a way to pull the ball down rather than having it wobble out of his hand and end up—at best—falling incomplete. At worst, it might have been intercepted.

  His mom walked into the room. She had been upstairs reading in bed as she always did after Molly went to sleep but had heard Alex shouting after Matt’s touchdown run.