by Scott Craven
When it came to intimidation, Arden, G-Ray, and Dallas were up there with Teddy, the eighty-year-old crossing guard who now asked for volunteers to hold up his “Stop” sign. But that was just what Mr. Stanzer wanted.
“Lull them into a false sense of security,” he said. “Well, an even deeper false sense of security.”
Being the designated visitors, we got to call the toss. “Heads,” G-Ray said. The coin twinkled as it revolved in the sunlight.
The coin landed heads up in the deep green grass.
“We’ll take the ball,” Arden said.
As far as I could tell, the eighth graders’ captains, Dwight and Robbie, merely laughed.
“Luke,” Mr. Stanzer said as the receiving team gathered around, “let the ball go into the end zone, let’s take it on the twenty.”
“But—” Luke started to say.
“The twenty’s a great place to start. Now get out there, and let’s play hard.”
Luke settled onto the five and had no worries as the kick sailed over his head and through the end zone.
“Perfect, great job!” Mr. Stanzer called from the sidelines. “OK, offense, get out there.”
We trotted out, huddling as Luke looked at Javon, who, without Mr. Stanzer knowing, was signaling the plays.
“Stanzer’s a nice guy,” Javon had said at practice. “But he knows football for crap. ‘Everyone go deep’ is not a play.”
Luke and Javon developed a system involving scratches, yawns, coughs, and sneezes to call plays. It was pretty ingenious.
With Luke looking at him, Javon coughed (a run) and scratched his right elbow (to the right).
“OK, let’s do this,” Luke said in the huddle. “Z-right on two. Break!”
Yeah, I was Z. Not real crazy about the play-naming system, but I could deal with it. I lined up to the left of Luke, who took the snap and flipped it to me. I ran to the right, and it looked like I was going to get hit for a loss. And then there was Ziggy. Though he’d lined up on the left, he was suddenly taking out two guys, hitting the ground and becoming a human rolling pin.
Wow, Mr. Stanzer was right about one thing. Ziggy was quicker than he looked.
Luke took out one of their linebackers, leaving me one-on-one with Dwight, the safety. Problem was, Dwight knew my best move. So I gave him my second-best one, which I’d been working on during practice.
I slowed, allowing him to get within a step of me. He may have known my move, but I also knew his—he respected the game and played by the rules, meaning he’d go for my flag. And it fluttered weakly in the breeze, easy pickings.
Dwight lunged for it, and, with his hand just inches away, I unhinged my hip and shifted my weight to the right, the flag moving an impossible few inches sideways. Dwight’s hand flew harmlessly past, and, popping my hip back into place, I took off.
And was soon caught by Dwight, but he missed one thing—a trailing G-Ray. I reached back with the ball, handing it to G-Ray as if it were a baton in a relay race. G-Ray grabbed it and took off.
And he really took off. All I could see were puffs of dust coming off his heels as he seemed to disappear over the horizon.
Maybe it’s an evolutionary thing, but the one thing most prey have going for them is speed. From the savannahs of Africa to the playgrounds of middle school, those about to be victims have developed the kind of quickness and agility that keep their species going from generation to generation. And G-Ray was no exception. I’d seen him at lunch, the way he seemed to vanish at the mere hint of trouble. Which is why, although we’d had our differences, I asked him to join the team.
“You’ll still be running from bullies,” I said. “But this time you’ll have a purpose other than avoiding injury. There will also be hundreds of witnesses, so in the unlikely event you are caught, nothing will happen.”
Mr. Stanzer’s recruitment of Ziggy—who no one considered to be a football player—had got Javon and me thinking about other seventh graders who might have a particular talent valuable on the football field. While Dallas’s simulation told us it was impossible for us to win, it did help us find the eighth graders’ weaknesses—slow players, unimaginative plays—and use what we had to target those flaws.
While we had a fair share of decent football players, we also had a handful of kids who never had the chance to play and who turned out to be more than decent.
Only I wish they’d also learned some of the not-so-obvious rules. Like how dancing in the end zone with most of the game still left only made the older, bigger team angry.
“Luke, tell G-Ray to get back to the sideline,” Javon yelled. “And tell him he’s got as much rhythm as crossing-guard Teddy.”
I was just glad Teddy, looking for some help holding the first-down marker, couldn’t hear him. And to why we had an eighty-year-old guy on the sticks, all we had to do was tape his crossing-guard “Stop” sign to the top. The dude was all business. Unfortunately, the point-after kick got no higher than three feet. The problem wasn’t Dustin, our kicker. It was that we couldn’t find a holder unafraid of possibly being kicked in the hand, or even the groin. Dustin had a powerful leg, as well as a condition that caused spasms when his muscles were tensed. No telling what his shoe was going to hit. His leg was true for the point after, but the holder had laid the ball on the ground and was three feet away by the time Dustin’s foot arrived.
Still, it was 6-0, sevvies.
As I walked off the field and our kicking team came on, I glanced over my shoulder to see Robbie screaming at everyone on the eighth-grade sideline. I thought maybe someone might warn him about profanity, until I heard some of the same words coming from Mr. Benatar’s mouth.
“As far as I know,” Javon said as we got ready to kick, “no sevvies have had a lead in this game. Ever. Makes you wonder.”
Dustin’s leg was perfect again on the kickoff, and the ball landed past the end zone, giving the eighth graders the ball on the 20.
Luke also led the defense, but our secret weapon was Erasmus, who probably would have used his middle name if it hadn’t been Jebediah (his parents were historians who studied, and practiced, the ways of the 1850s). Erasmus—Razz for short—was a whiz in physics. He knew everything there was to know about velocity and trajectory. But he also had this trait that freaked some people out. He could always tell if you were telling the truth or lying by looking at your eyes.
Razz was the ultimate safety. Could read a quarterback’s eyes, see which way he was going, and plot the trajectory of the ball. It all made sense on paper.
The problem—Razz was barely five feet tall. So, while he was at the perfect spot to intercept Dwight’s first pass, he needed about eight inches to get to it. Instead, Robbie made the grab, and Ben made the perfect block on Luke. I watched helplessly on the sideline as Robbie ran it in for the score.
Two plays, two scores. Which meant, if my math was right, a final score of a ton to a lot.
The eighth graders nailed the extra point for a 7-6 lead.
“Razz, don’t worry, that was a perfect pass,” Javon said. “Just keep doing that the rest of the game; it will catch up to them.”
Once again the kick sailed out of the end zone, and we had the ball on the 20. The next three plays were Z-left, Z-right, Z-middle, following Javon’s plan. Thanks to Ziggy blocking, and my ability to juke in ways never before seen, we slowly marched down the field. Then a short pass to G-Ray, another to Razz (the kid had great hands, had to give him that). But the drive stalled at the 20.
Mr. Stanzer signaled for Dustin, followed by the kicking team. I ran to the sidelines.
“Coach,” I said, “how about I hold?”
“Can’t risk it, Jed,” he said. “We need you the rest of the game. Don’t want you losing a hand or something.”
“Never happen,” I said. “Dustin’s been perfect so far. We need these points.”
Mr. Stanzer’s shoulders slumped. “OK, get in there. But be careful.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
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I barked the signals. It was a perfect snap. I put the tip of the football on the ground, secured the other tip with my finger. Focused on the ball, keeping it steady.
THUMP!
I felt it, a perfect strike. I looked up and tracked the ball as it punctured the uprights. Beautiful.
The crowd erupted in—wait, screams?
“Oh my God, the humanity!” Yeah, somebody really said that.
Dustin looked down at where I was still kneeling.
“Dude,” he said. “I am so, so sorry.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dude, notice anything different? Your hand?”
I had concentrated so hard on making it a perfect spot that I hadn’t even noticed my right hand was gone. My arm ended at the wrist, clean as could be.
The refs signaled for an injury timeout.
“Though I have to say, son,” one ref said, “I’m not sure the trainer is really going to be able to help you.”
Just a bit of blood was seeping out, and it wasn’t all that painful. I did want my hand back, though. Fortunately, Luke fetched it for me.
“I was the only guy who would touch it,” he said, giving it back to me. “Found it on the ten-yard line, so the field goal was good, but your hand was short. Not sure if we get penalized for that.”
“MR. STAAANNZEERRRR!”
Even Teddy looked up. Principal Buckley stormed down from the eighth-grade bleachers, motioning to our coach.
This was not going to be good.
“Mr. Stanzer, over here, now!”
They talked briefly—mostly Principal Buckley talked as Mr. Stanzer nodded—before our coach came back to our sidelines.
“Jed, uh, I think that might have been the straw that broke his back,” he said. “Principal Buckley says I have to sit you.”
“But look, it’s not bleeding that much,” I said. “Give me a few minutes to repair it. All I need is an Ace bandage and duct tape. Good as new. We’re on defense anyway—that will give me enough time.”
“I don’t know, Jed. I mean, you lost a hand. That’s a pretty good reason to sit out. Maybe even go to a hospital.”
“Just a few minutes, OK?” Stanzer nodded, so I found the trainer and asked him for the necessary items.
“Sure, I’ve always got both, duct tape, too, because that stuff always comes in handy,” the trainer said. “But I don’t think it’s very good for reattaching limbs. Though I have very limited experience with that, to be honest.”
“No problem, I’m going to do it, this happens a lot.”
“Really? You might want to see someone about that. A specialist, even.”
“I just need you to hold my hand.”
He reached over and grasped my left hand. “Does that make you feel better?”
“No, you need to hold the other hand. The severed one. Just put it on the stump, right, that’s it, now push.”
We both heard the distinctive snap of reconnection, and I asked him to hold it steady while I taped it.
After wrapping it in at least ten layers of tape, it was good as new.
“That is quite a talent,” the trainer said. “You’re going to save a ton of money on health care in your life.”
I raced back to Mr. Stanzer and showed him. I flexed and moved my fingers, then tugged on my hand. The tape stretched but held securely.
“Look, no leaks, no blood, no nothing,” I said. “It’s all good.”
“I’ve got to get Buckley’s permission,” he said. “Let’s go show him.”
We walked around the end zone (the eighth graders had the ball on our 45) as the first quarter ended. Principal Buckley stood behind the eighth graders’ bench.
“Sir, take a look, I think you won’t have anything to worry about,” Mr. Stanzer said. “You have to remember Jed is special. This has happened before. It’s like a bruise to him. Isn’t that right, Jed?”
“Yes, exactly.” No, not exactly—I lost my freakin’ hand! It hurt a bit (it always did when bones and joints were involved), but I really wanted to play.
“Yes, Jed and I have had an experience with the loss of a body part, haven’t we, Jed?” Principal Buckley said. “Did you use a stapler this time?”
“No sir, just plenty of tape. Lots. It’s stuck on there good. Won’t go anywhere.”
Principal Buckley took my wrist and lifted it to his eyes. “I’m not sure, Jed. I must admit, I am impressed with your playing, and I know how much this means to you, but I have—”
“Principal Buckley?” It was Anna. Where did she come from?
“Anna?” Principal Buckley said. “What are you doing here?”
“You know when we had our talk? I forgot to tell you that I accidentally hit ‘Send’ when I meant to hit ‘Delete.’”
“Is that so?”
“And I just wanted to apologize in case, you know, the person I sent it to does something that is the right thing to do.”
“Anna, are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?”
“It’s such an awkward situation, I know. Good thing is that I sent it to someone I trust, and I know they’ll take care of it. Real quietly.”
“And in return?”
“In return? Nothing, of course. Oh, hi, Jed. Sorry about your hand, but you’re still playing, right? I see it’s all taped up and everything.”
“That’s what we’re talking about,” I said, thinking of the video clip. “But it’s up to Principal Buckley.”
“I really hope you get to play. The game is a lot of fun when you’re in.”
“I think Jed will be just fine, Mr. Stanzer,” Principal Buckley said. “Just keep an eye on it, will you?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Mr. Stanzer said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The second quarter had not yet started, so Mr. Stanzer and I cut across the field to the seventh-grade bench.
“Do you have any idea what just happened?” he said.
“Sort of.”
“Should I know?”
“Better if you don’t.”
“Works for me.”
I really didn’t know what to say. Anna had taken a big risk, and she did it for me. I think she kind of likes me.
“Jed, dude, come on, head back in the game.”
Huh, what? Oh, Javon. Football, right? It was all coming back. I waved at Anna. “Maybe we can—”
“Sure,” she said, reading my brain-dead mind. I returned to the game and, though it was pretty fuzzy for a while, here’s what I remember—we played well. Surprisingly well. Javon cheered. Luke screamed. There was even some lame trash talk from the eighth graders—“You guys OK, because you look pretty stiff?” And every now and then I would look over at Principal Buckley, and he would just have his head in his hands.
Javon had designed an excellent game plan. I’d run the ball a few times and, just as the entire eighth grade was determined to bury me—and not just figuratively—Luke would fake it to me and then throw to one of our three guys who were wide open. I knew we’d scored because I could hear my teammates cheering, even though I was under about four layers of eighth graders at the time. It helped that a lot of seventh graders screamed like girls (puberty, and lower voices, had yet to come to some). We were down six points at halftime, and we were actually feeling pretty good.
“We keep our head—and our hands—in this thing, we can win,” Mr. Stanzer said after we circled around him in our end zone. “You guys can be the first sevvies ever to win this ridiculously lopsided contest. For years I’ve been stuck coaching the seventh graders, and this is the first time I’ve actually had a shot at stuffing it down Benatar’s throat, and I am not going to let it slip away. You guys need to just go out there and stomp the living crap out of them, all right? Who’s with me?”
As the rest of the team shouted as one, Luke leaned toward my ear. “I like Mr. Stanzer and all,” he said, “but the guy needs to work on his inspirational speeches.”
> The second half went back and forth. We used our brains. The eighth graders used their brawn. As we went into the last quarter everyone was sucking wind—except me, of course.
I discovered two things as we battled on: that we played football nearly as well as the eighth graders, and that zombies can nearly black out. That last realization hit me, literally, with just five minutes left in the game. It was delivered by a semi truck that goes by the name of Robbie. I had just been caught behind the line, zigging when I should have zagged, and was bent over picking up my flag. The next thing I knew, Mr. Stanzer floated above me, but he was all out of focus as if we were underwater. Luke filled me in later on how Robbie had lowered his head and plowed into the middle of my back.
“When I saw that hit, I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough duct tape to put you back together,” he said. “You were like Humpty, because you just got dumped.”
At the moment I came to, though, it was Mr. Stanzer who was speaking. “Jed,” he said. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Friday?”
I did recover enough to listen to the argument between Mr. Stanzer and Mr. Benatar as Luke helped me to my feet.
“That hit was so late it could have occurred in another game,” Mr. Stanzer said. “Your boy needs to be tossed.”
“Continuation of play, pure and simple,” Mr. Benatar said. “Your player obviously lacks the reaction time everyone else has.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the one playing with a dead body. You figure it out.”
Mr. Stanzer walked me back to the bench, explaining to me why I wouldn’t be playing. “You could have a concussion, son,” he said. “As much as we need to win this game, we just can’t risk it, OK?” But the cobwebs were already starting to fade. I looked at the scoreboard and, dang, it was 31-27. We were down less than a touchdown. Geez, we really had a chance to win this. That was when I noticed the clock. It read 2:39. Where did the time go?
I heard groans from our sideline. The clock ticked down. It was over. The eighth graders had the ball, and there was time for only a few more plays. I looked behind me to see if I could pick Anna out of the crowd. I knew she would still be proud. We fought hard. We came closer than any sevvies had in the history of the school. No sign of her. She probably left. Better things to do. Yet I couldn’t take my eyes off the crowd, searching, hoping—“Go go go go GO!” I whipped around to see Mr. Stanzer running down the sidelines. I followed his eyes, and there was Luke, ball in hand, racing toward the end zone. A fumble, interception? No idea. All I knew was he was pushed out of bounds at the, what, five-yard line?