Kickoff!

by Tiki Barber

  “Says you,” Jason shot back. “If you’re so sure, why don’t you quit the football team like I did, and join up? It’s got to be boring for you guys, sitting on the bench.”

  “It is,” said Ronde.

  “Oh, is it ever,” said Tiki.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong—now that the track team has got me, they’re not exactly desperate. But you guys are mad fast, especially at sprints. I’m sure they’d make room for you.”

  Ronde was about to blow him off, but he could see that Tiki was giving some serious thought to Jason’s words.

  “Well, I’ve gotta keep moving,” Jason said. “See you at school.”

  The boys started riding again, going uphill now that they were in the park. They didn’t speak much—mostly because it took all their strength to peddle up the slope. But partly, it was because they were thinking about what Jason had said.

  He’d looked so . . . so happy, Ronde thought. And why not? Jason had always been fast—almost as fast as him and Tiki. He had every chance to become a track star at Hidden Valley—and so did they, if they would only switch sports.

  But that would mean giving up on their lifelong dream! How could they do that?

  They rode until they reached the top of the mountain. Then they walked over to the giant neon star and put down their kickstands. Leaning over to the guard rail, they stared down over the city of Roanoke, spread out in the valley before them.

  “It sure is pretty up here,” Tiki said.

  “Yeah, man. It is.”

  “Ronde?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think? About what Jason said, I mean?”

  Ronde shrugged. “I don’t know. You?”

  “I don’t know either . . . but it sure would be nice to get out there and compete every weekend.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “You think we’ll ever get in a football game? Really get to play some, I mean?”

  “Not likely,” Ronde had to admit. “Not this year, anyway.”

  “I’m not waiting till a year from now to play,” Tiki said, a hint of anger in his voice. “I’m fed up with sitting on the bench while everybody else gets in there.”

  “How do you think I like it?” Ronde said, suddenly angry himself. “You got in the game before I did!”

  “Well, then?”

  “What, you want us both to just up and quit?”

  Tiki tilted his head, but didn’t answer.

  “I’m not a quitter,” said Ronde.

  “Hey, me neither,” Tiki said quickly. “I’m just saying . . .”

  “Yeah, I know—we could be running the hundred-yard dash by next weekend.”

  “Right!”

  “It’s tempting,” Ronde admitted. “But we would have to quit football.”

  “We could try out again next season,” Tiki suggested. “We’d have a better chance of making the starting team as eighth graders.”

  “Not if we don’t hang in there and pay our dues this year,” Ronde argued. “Coaches remember who stays and who quits. If we join the football team next year, we might not be starters until ninth grade! At least if we stay, we might get to start next year.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “You think so?” Ronde asked, not too sure himself.

  “Yeah. Let’s just sit tight for now and see how things work out.”

  “Cool.”

  “But if we keep riding the bench much longer, I’m gonna explode.”

  Ronde smiled. He knew just how Tiki felt. “No, you won’t,” he said. “Hey, we’ve been dreaming this dream all our lives—it’s too soon to give up on it, dog.”

  “Right,” Tiki agreed. “So let’s just say we’ll give it one more week, and then see what’s up.”

  They slapped five on it and got back on their bikes for the long coast down the mountain. From here on in, the ride would be easy.

  Ronde only hoped their football careers at Hidden Valley would go the same way—because it sure had been an uphill slog so far!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HANDS UP!

  * * *

  TIKI SAT IN SCIENCE CLASS, LISTENING TO MR. Wheeler talk about different elements and their electrons. Every minute or so, Mr. Wheeler would throw out a question, like “Silver! How many electrons?” It was like he’d thrown a quick square-out pass that nailed the students right in the numbers.

  Hands would shoot up, mostly in the front rows. Mr. Wheeler would scan them with his fierce eagle eyes and serious expression, then extend his arm, point a finger at one of the kids, and say, “YOU!”

  Then the kid would have to spit out the right answer. If he or she was correct, Mr. Wheeler would pump his fist and go, “Yessss!”

  If the kid was wrong, Mr. Wheeler would fake throwing a rolled-up ball of paper at his or her head. The class would giggle with nervous laughter, glad it wasn’t them.

  Tiki sat glued to his seat. He wanted to raise his hand—after all, he’d promised his mom he would—but he was terrified of actually doing it!

  Ronde had helped him a lot last night, going over the periodic table with him until the electron numbers were burned into Tiki’s brain.

  He knew he had the right answers. But somehow, he still wasn’t sure enough to risk being wrong. Not in Mr. Wheeler’s class, anyway.

  It wasn’t that it hurt so much getting hit with a rolled-up ball of paper. It didn’t—not for more than a second, anyway. It was the embarrassment that hurt. All those kids laughing at you . . .

  Finally, toward the end of the period, Tiki managed to work up his courage. Remembering his mom’s words about standing up and speaking out, he forced himself to lift his arm when Mr. Wheeler said, “Krypton—how many?”

  Tiki had to prop his right hand up with his left, to keep it from shaking.

  Mr. Wheeler noticed the new hand right away. “YOU!” he said, turning and pointing straight at Tiki. His angry eyes burned through Tiki like a laser.

  Tiki stood up, opened his mouth to answer—and froze. For a short, dreadful moment, he actually forgot the question!

  But then he took a deep breath, and thank goodness, it came back to him.

  “Well?” Mr. Wheeler demanded.

  “Ei-eight,” said Tiki, in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

  “What?” Mr. Wheeler said, cupping a hand to his ear.

  “Eight,” Tiki said again, louder this time.

  “I can’t hear you!” Mr. Wheeler thundered.

  “EIGHT!!” Tiki thundered right back, feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

  “Eight is correct!” Mr. Wheeler said, pumping his fist. “Yessss!”

  Tiki felt a wave of relief flooding through him. He took another deep breath and started to sit back down. “Yessss!” he said under his breath, pumping his own fist in victory.

  Mr. Wheeler came over to Tiki’s desk. Towering over him, the teacher looked down and said, “Very impressive, Barber. You need to speak up more. Take note, class—Mr. Barber is on it. So . . . no more hiding for him.”

  The class laughed, but Tiki didn’t mind this time. Much to his surprise, raising his hand—and taking a chance on being wrong—had turned out to be a pretty good idea.

  His mom had been right after all.

  • • •

  In English class, Ronde’s mind kept wandering to what his mom had said. He had been embarrassed the other night, when she came home with bad reports from all his teachers. That had never happened before, ever—and Ronde was determined that it never happen again.

  Their weekend assignment had been writing poems. Once before, in third grade, Ronde had written a poem for class—but it was a really stupid one, and he’d thrown it in the wastebasket rather than show it to his mom.

  This time, though, he thought he’d written something pretty decent. That is, he thought so until Ms. Jenkins called on the students to read their poems out loud, in front of the whole class.

  After the first few of them got up to
read, Ronde found himself squirming in his seat. Their poems were good, and Ms. Jenkins said so to each of them.

  Would his poem be as good as theirs? Would Ms. Jenkins like it? What if she didn’t compliment him after, like she had the others? Maybe she wouldn’t get to him before the period ended, Ronde thought hopefully.

  But then a little voice in his head—a voice that sounded a lot like his mom’s—said, “Be brave and raise your hand, Ronde! Read that poem of yours proudly and don’t give in to your fear—conquer it!”

  When the next reader was finished, and Ms. Jenkins asked for more volunteers, Ronde bit down hard on his lip, squeezed his eyes shut tight, and stuck his hand up in the air.

  “Yes. Ronde Barber, please come up!” Ms. Jenkins said, smiling broadly. She wasn’t used to seeing Ronde raise his hand.

  But Ronde wasn’t smiling. He could feel his stomach going urgle-gurgle-burble. He could hear it, too. It was so loud, he was afraid the whole class would hear it and burst out laughing. If they did that, he’d have to just curl up and die, right there in front of everyone.

  “My poem is called ‘Courage,’” Ronde announced.

  He could hear his soft voice trembling. Clearing his throat, he made a real effort to be louder, hoping that would keep it from shaking.

  He recited his poem—too fast, but he couldn’t help that. He just wanted to get this painful moment over with.

  “I used to be afraid of heights,

  Afraid of the dark, and things that bite,

  And strange old ladies who always mumble,

  And lions and tigers in the jungle.

  Mosquitoes that bite, and bees that sting,

  I was afraid of everything!

  But then one day I realized

  That it might be very wise

  To make believe I didn’t care—

  And what do you know—I wasn’t scared!

  So if you pretend you’re brave and strong,

  You will find you can’t go wrong.

  So what, if your courage isn’t real?

  It’s what you do that matters—not what you feel.”

  When Ronde had finished, he looked all around the class. Everyone was staring at him. No one said a word.

  Gee . . . was my poem that bad? he wondered.

  “That was beautiful, Ronde!” Ms. Jenkins said, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Class, wasn’t that a beautiful poem?”

  Ronde was really embarrassed, but proud at the same time—and most of all, relieved. Everyone was looking at him, true—but they weren’t laughing at him. Not at all!

  “Ronde,” said Ms. Jenkins, “would you mind if I submitted your poem to the school yearbook committee? They’re always looking for good work by seventh graders. I think they might like to put this in this year’s edition—would that be all right?”

  Ronde was stunned. My poem—in the school yearbook? He’d never seen his name in print before.

  “S-sure,” he said, giving Ms. Jenkins a smile before practically running back to his seat.

  Ronde couldn’t get over it—he’d written the poem on Back to School Night, after his mom had gotten on him and Tiki. But he’d never realized till he read it out loud—every word in his poem was true!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Xs AND 0s

  * * *

  AFTER SCHOOL, AS THEY CHANGED INTO THEIR Eagles uniforms in the locker room, Ronde told Tiki about reading his poem in front of the class. “You know, I think Mom was right about standing up and speaking out,” he said.

  “Me too,” said Tiki, telling Ronde about what had happened in his science class.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about it,” Ronde said. “Maybe we should stand up and speak out to Coach Spangler.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know—about getting more playing time.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” said Tiki, suddenly feeling nervous.

  “Come on, man!” Ronde said. “What do we have to lose? What’s he going to do? Bench us?”

  Tiki laughed nervously. “You’re right, bro. Okay, then. We’ll talk to him about it. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Why not today?”

  Tiki took a deep breath, and blew it out again. “All right,” he said. “Today’s the day, then.”

  There was a moment’s silence between them. Tiki tried to imagine what it would be like, approaching Coach Spangler about playing time. “Ronde, maybe we should just hang in there and see what happens.”

  “Come on, don’t be a wimp!” Ronde said. “We already agreed on it.”

  “I know,” Tiki said, “but maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  “Hey, man, no chickening out,” Ronde insisted. “Remember, if the worst happens, there’s always the track team.”

  Tiki sure hoped Ronde wasn’t wrong about this. Somehow, it seemed to him that there was a whole lot to lose. Being a scrub was bad, but getting kicked off the team would be a disaster!

  When they were all in uniform, the players gathered in the big lecture room next to the gym. “Okay, team,” Coach Spangler addressed them. “Today’s practice is all about Xs and Os. We’ve designed some new plays we want to put in, and today we’re gonna try ’em out. It’ll be first team on first team, second on second, third on third.”

  He looked around the big room where all the players had gathered, then turned to the screen. “First slide,” he said to Coach Pellugi, who was manning the laptop.

  Two lines of letters appeared on the screen. The offense was represented by Xs, the defense by Os. There were eleven of each.

  “Okay, we’ll call this play ‘Notre Dame.’ It’s a pass play, designed with the wide receivers in mind. Second slide. We line up like this—everybody know which X or O you are?”

  Everyone nodded. It wasn’t hard to tell—under each X or O were initials indicating which position they stood for: QB for quarterback, WR for wide receiver, RB for running back, and so on.

  The new slide showed some of the Xs moving, arrows pointing the way. “The wide receivers are doing a cross pattern here,” Coach Spangler said, pointing.

  “At ten yards, you make your cut. The fullback blocks out the first defender, while the halfback releases into the flat, about five yards up from the line of scrimmage. He’s the third option. Quarterbacks, if neither wideout is free, check off and go to the halfback. If you have to scramble, and nobody’s free, just head for the sidelines and get out of bounds—no matter what, don’t throw up a pass that could be anybody’s ball.”

  He looked around the room. “Any questions?”

  There were a few, after which he went on to the next play—“Alabama”—and the one after that—“Auburn.”

  “Okay, I think that’s enough for one day. Does everybody know their responsibilities for all three plays?”

  “Yeah!” all the players shouted.

  “Okay! Let’s get out there and run ’em until they’re smooth as a baby’s behind!”

  Tiki, Ronde, and all the rest of the players ran out onto the field. “First team, you’re up!” shouted Coach Spangler.

  While the first team practiced, the second-stringers sat, and the third-stringers did drills. Then the second-stringers took their turn, with the first-stringers doing drills and the third-teamers on the bench.

  That was when Tiki and Ronde saw Matt Clayton sitting there. They both went over to join him.

  “Hey, guys, how’s it going?” he asked, high-fiving them.

  “Good,” said Tiki. “How about you?”

  “I’m getting this stupid cast off on Saturday,” Matt said.

  “Awesome!” Ronde said.

  “I wish it was sooner. I’m gonna have to miss the game that day.”

  “Hey, no biggie. We’ll take care of business for you.”

  Matt laughed. “You’d better!”

  “How soon can you play again?” Ronde asked.

  “They said they’ll see, once the cast is off. Maybe right away, maybe not for a week or two. But
I’d like to see anybody try and stop me from playing!”

  Tiki thought about asking Matt whether he thought it was a good idea to talk with Coach Spangler about their playing time. But he already knew what Matt would say, because he’d said it before, during tryouts. Maybe Ronde had forgotten his words, but Tiki hadn’t:

  It’s all about the team . . .

  “Third team, you’re up!” came Coach Spangler’s voice.

  “Gotta go,” Tiki told Matt.

  “Catch you later,” Ronde said.

  “I’ll be watching you guys,” Matt told them. “Now’s your chance to show everyone what you’ve got—including me.”

  Exactly what I was thinking, Tiki said to himself.

  The offense huddled. Joe Bacino, the third-string quarterback, said, “Notre Dame. On two,” meaning the snap was to come on the second “hut.”

  Tiki got into his stance at halfback. Across the line, Ronde was playing cornerback, defending one of the wide receivers.

  “Twenty-five . . . fifteen . . . hut! Hut!”

  It all happened in a matter of seconds. The center snapped the ball, and Joe dropped back. Tiki found a hole in the line and jogged casually through it, then turned to face his quarterback. He saw Joe look for his wide receivers. Not finding them open, he looked for Tiki, and fired the ball right into his numbers!

  Tiki grabbed it, spun to his right, and sped downfield. He broke one tackle, then another. He spun left, deked sideways, then dodged still another defender and raced for the end zone.

  He was going to score!

  Wait, no he wasn’t—Ronde came out of nowhere. Tiki tried his best spin move, but it was no use—Ronde knew all his moves, from years of playing in the street. He made a diving tackle, and Tiki went down.

  OOF!

  A loud whoop went up from everyone on the sidelines. As the brothers trotted back to the line of scrimmage, everyone was clapping and shouting to them:

  “Way to go!”

  “Double trouble, yo!”

  “Attaway, Barbers!”

  Tiki tried not to show any reaction, but he couldn’t keep from smiling. Checking with Ronde, he saw the same grin on his brother’s face.