“You can change it. You’re not locked in. An audible is an if-then statement.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I looked at my dad as if he’d grown three heads.
He explained. “If the defense does one thing, then we do another.”
I motioned to my offense. “Great, but how do I tell those ten guys without”—I pointed at the defense—“those eleven knowing?”
He snapped his fingers. “Pick a word.”
“What?”
“Any word. Something catchy.”
I said the first thing that came to mind. “Matthew.”
“Good word. But how about ‘Mike,’ ‘hot check,’ or ‘Rocky’? Words that are easy to say and hear. The word itself doesn’t matter. It’s a verbal bell—a way to get their attention. That’s all. It’s your way of telling your offense that you’re changing the play at the line of scrimmage. Their job is to always listen to the sound of your voice—for that one word—and make adjustments as needed. Your job is to read the defense and know what play will work, given what the defense is showing you.”
We agreed on hot check.
But that only solved half the problem. I scratched my head. “But how do I tell you what route to run?”
“We assign routes to words. In this case, when the defense shifts from Cover 1 to Cover 2, that opens up the slant and maybe the hitch and go. So if you want me to run a slant, you say, ‘Bomber.’ Want me to run a hitch and go? You say, ‘Razor.’ ”
That meant that as a quarterback I had to know our offense as well as all the defensive possibilities we might face and the audibles for changing our offensive play at the line when the defense shifted cover. In that moment, football became chess played in 3-D, with a little cardiovascular challenge thrown in for good measure. Not to mention the marauding horde.
Dad grinned. “Ready?”
I called the play in the huddle, and we walked up to the line of scrimmage. I stood under my imaginary center and Dad lined up wide left. In my mind, I returned the defense to its rightful place and began my count, “Blue forty-two. Blue forty-two…” With the stands in my mind full of people screaming and waving towels and shaking penny-filled milk jugs and the scoreboard showing we needed a TD to win, I scanned the field and watched as the defense began shifting—changing coverage. A giant hand moving the pieces around the board. I shouted and pointed at the same time. “Hot check! Hot check razor. Hot check razor.”
Dad nodded once, smiling. He knew I couldn’t resist throwing that long ball.
Dad gave me a closed fist behind his back to let me know that he’d heard my “hot check” and knew his new route.
Hut-hut-hut. I snapped the ball, dropped five steps, read my primary receiver, who had been stuffed at the line, faked to a back in the flats to draw the safeties in, and then turned, ducked under the nose tackle who’d beat my center, rolled right to evade the outside linebacker, and threw the ball deep into the corner of the end zone—where Dad wasn’t yet but would be in about a second. The ball spiraled, turned nose down, and Dad caught it over his left shoulder in the end zone. The crowd went wild.
That’s where my dad taught me to dream.
My anklet had rubbed my skin raw, but I ignored it. I sat on the rusty hood of that Buick, stared down at the cut grass, and tried to remember my dad’s face. But it had faded. I could hear his laughter, feel his hand resting gently on the back of my neck as we walked back to the truck, but his features were blurry. My dad saw me play one high school game when I was a freshman and died that night in his sleep. I had given him the game ball. Mom said he never uttered a word. He just died—holding that ball.
Mom did what she could. Worked a couple of jobs to put me through school. I remember her ironing other people’s clothes at midnight when she had to be up at four to open the coffee shop and bakery. When my trial came along, she mortgaged the house to pay for my defense. When we lost, something in Mom cracked, and she died my second year in prison. Given the possibility of children under the age of eighteen at the funeral, the state filed an injunction and wouldn’t let me attend the service until everyone had departed. I walked up the aisle in the empty sanctuary—my chains rattling and scraping the marble—and stood next to her coffin. Then I hung my head in my hands and soaked the floor with my tears.
I have known wonder and majesty and unadulterated joy in my life. I’ve also known some pain.
And I’m not sure which was greater.
The field spread out before me, the memories continued to flow back. My last game there returned. The end of my high school career. Twenty thousand people in the stands. Over a hundred college scouts. Radio. TV. To say our town was enthusiastic would have been an understatement. USA Today had ranked us number one in the country and covered the entire front page with a picture of the team. The number two team was on the field warming up. They’d brought busloads. The visitors’ stand was a sea of black and purple and noise. Jim Kneels had waited outside the locker room. When I walked out, he held out the microphone and, with doubt in his voice, said, “Lot of pressure on one so young. Think you can handle the weight of it?” I remember staring out across those stands and wondering the same thing. One second. Then two. Finally, I shrugged. “Guess we’re about to find out.”
Ever the skeptic, he smiled, dropped the microphone, and said, “Yes we are.”
We made our way to the end zone, where the fog machine poured smoke around the paper banner the cheerleaders had made for us. It’d been raining. Falling steadily all day. The field was soaked, as were we. A breeze filtered through my face mask and dried the sweat across my face. Cut grass. Fresh paint. Sweat. Anxiousness. Nerves waiting for an outlet. Our stands were colored with garnet and black. Painted faces and proud moms waved towels, and dads with swollen chests told half-true, worn-out stories. The lights shone down on the pom-pommed cheerleaders, with their faces painted and hair in ponytails, and a shiny brass band.
The team had asked me to run out first, but I’d declined. I never ran out first.
“Guys, I been looking at Wood’s butt for four years. I don’t think we ought to change things now.”
They laughed. The tension-breaker was needed. When the speakers started blaring “Lunatic Fringe” by Red Rider, Co-Captain Wood, ever the clown, burst through the banner and the fog attempting a back flip gone awry, followed by Roddy who performed fourteen backflips in a row—in full pads—ending in a split. The other team got the message. One flip for each win, including that night.
The crowd went berserk.
I stood in the corner of the end zone, waiting for my name to be called. One last time. The end of one career and the start of another. 59–0. Tonight would, or could, make a perfect 60. Something that, according to the record books, had never been done in high school football. Every interview this week was the same. Even the national networks. Can you pull it off? Each interviewer wanted to make this about me, but it wasn’t. It was about us.
Big difference.
I stood surrounded by guys I’d sweated and bled with—guys that were as identified with their numbers as with their names. Mikey was bouncing on his toes, alone in the corner, racing downfield in his mind, wondering if this last game would soothe the thing with his dad. Kevin was sizing up blocks, over the middle grabs, and what girl would fill his imagination after the whistle blew. Ronnie had taken a knee, envisioning over-the-middle, bone-jarring tackles and wondering if and where he’d play college ball. Roddy was staring across the field, seeing himself breaking through the line, downshifting into that gear that few have. He was Street & Smith’s number seven. Its scouting report said, “He is one of the greatest combinations of strength, speed, agility, and sheer athleticism most recruiters have seen in a receiver in a long time.” The rest of the guys were milling around the end zone.
Finally, there was me. I wore number 8, for no other reason than I always thought it a good number for a quarterback, and Street & Smith’s had ranked me number one.
My left hand was throbbing; it was slightly swollen and felt like somebody was hitting it with a hammer. Fortunately, the broken bone had not broken the skin. The ER doctor wanted to operate on it the night before, but I wouldn’t let him. With or without surgery, he said it’d take weeks to heal. Wood and Audrey knew about it—and the events surrounding it—but they’d never say anything. There was a fourth person who knew, but she had her own reasons for keeping quiet. I knew if I could make it through the next forty-eight minutes without reinjuring it, that it would eventually heal.
What I didn’t know was that the events that caused it would not.
Audrey stood at her seat on the fifty yard line. The cameras were pointed at her as much as they were at me. Sixty-seven teams had offered me Division I scholarships, and the reporters felt she knew where I intended to go to school. We’d told no one. She guarded our secret closely.
She’d painted her face. Wore my freshman jersey. Was shaking a milk jug. Screaming. Her eyes were glued to me. National Signing Day wasn’t until February, but everybody was pressing both of us. Wanting to know. A few commentators were actually tossing back and forth the idea of my skipping college altogether. Straight to the draft. Petition the league to make an exception. He’s that good.
I wasn’t about to skip college.
The crowd was on their feet. Signs waving: ROCKET FOR PRESIDENT, ROCKET, WILL YOU MARRY ME?, and T-MINUS ONE GAME AND COUNTING. They were calling my name.
Deep in the third quarter, we were tied and we were tired. Their defense had put together a delayed blitz package that was wreaking havoc on my offensive line. The guys were all looking at me. Shaking their heads. Deer in the headlights. The score was 48–all and I’d been sacked seven times by the defensive tackle. The guy was a giant, and he was tossing Frank, my guard, around like a sack of potatoes. I grabbed Wood by the face mask, pressed my forehead to his, and said, “I need four seconds.” That meant that he would have to take on both the nose guard and that defensive tackle. “That’s all. Can you give me four seconds?”
He looked over his shoulder, sized them up, and nodded.
Wood snapped the ball, gave me all he had, and I hit Terry on a post. He crossed the goal line untouched. The momentum shifted, and we scored four more times. I threw eight touchdown passes that night. Ran for two more. We put up almost a thousand yards of total offense. Jim Kneels went on the air at halftime and said he was watching a performance that may never be surpassed.
And for the first time in the history of high school football, a small, unnoticed team from south Georgia won a national championship—among teams we were never supposed to beat. The team, headed by Wood, lifted me on their shoulders. I found my mom in the stands hugging Audrey. They were crying. Laughing.
I’ve known some good moments in my life.
I opened my eyes. The field was dark. I blinked and saw a lone figure tossing a ball in the air. He was thin. Tall. Several balls lying at his feet. He’d hung three tires from the crossbar of the goalpost. Differing heights. From this distance, he made no sound. He stood at the thirty, under center, ball in hand. On mental command, he’d snap it to himself, roll out, and throw at one of the three targets hanging from the crossbar. He was strong, athletic, and fast; he had good footwork, good hips, good speed, and his throwing motion was quick. But for all his talent, he looked confused. He looked to be wrestling with something in his head. It was working its way out in his throwing motion—and not very well. His motion was hitched. Ugly. Unnatural. And, as a result, inaccurate.
If I had to guess, I’d say some coach got in his head and told him to throw the way he thought he ought to. I watched this kid for an hour. Throw after throw after throw after throw. He was persistent, and determined, but his motion was a mess and seldom the same. And, judging by his body language, he knew it. After a hundred throws from the ten back to the forty-five, where few came near the tires, he packed up and then ran twenty hundred-yard strides, followed by a couple hundred push-ups and sit-ups, and then he left as quietly as he’d appeared. No fanfare. No entourage. Little, if any, success or improvement.
As he walked off, a familiar voice spoke softly behind me, and something in me smiled. “They say he’s the next coming of you.”
CHAPTER NINE
I turned and found Coach Ray sitting above me. I don’t know how long he’d been there, maybe the entire time. He’d propped his elbows on his knees and clenched his pipe between his teeth. He pointed the bit at the kid on the field. “With some help, he could break your single-season record.” When I stood, he stepped down from his perch and approached me. Arms wide, he never hesitated. “Thought I’d find you here. How you doing, son?”
I hugged him back. “I was just sitting here trying to figure that out.”
He chuckled. “Out of one prison and into another.”
“Something like that.”
He put his arm on my shoulder. “You look good.”
We stood, staring down and remembering. He dumped his pipe, then repacked it with Carter Hall and lit it, drawing deep and bathing us in the sweet memories and aroma. As the cloud enveloped us, we watched the kid exit the field. “His name is Dalton Rogers. Most folks call him Dee. Got the feet of a deer. But as you can see, he’s got a bit of a problem.”
I nodded. “Yep.”
His teeth were clenched around his mouthpiece. “His coach is an idiot.”
“Well, if his coach did that to him, he hasn’t helped him any.”
“Coach Damon Phelps. Kids call him Coach Demon—among a few other choice names. Has a bit of a mean streak. Likes to scream and yell. Get all up in their faces.” He put his arm around my shoulder. Hugging me from the side. “It’s good to see you.”
“You might be in the minority on that.”
Another deep laugh. “I been there before.”
After my arrest, the team that had picked me and hired Coach Ray had taken back all signing bonuses. Including Ray’s. He never made a dime. Although he’d come with Wood to see me several times in prison, I’d never addressed that with him. Seeing him now with tattered clothes and worn-out shoes, I needed to. “Coach, I’m sorry about—”
He waved me off, blinking. “Wood and me, we measured the distance from the cabin. Got one of those little surveying deals with the wheel.” He pointed to the roof of the cabin a half mile away. “You’re 2,516 feet from the corner of St. Bernard’s so you’re good and legal. And 2,109 from the corner of the stadium. You’re inside two thousand here, but… you’re not living here.” He glanced at my anklet. “Wood finally had a phone installed in the cabin so’s you can register that thing when you need.”
“You two’ve done your homework.”
“It’s Wood. He couldn’t wait for you to get out. Jumpy as a kid at Christmas.” He stood with his arm around my shoulder as we stared down on the field. A minute passed. He was skinnier. Bonier. He smiled but didn’t look at me.
“School treating you okay?”
“Fine. They leave me to do my thing, and I love on they kids.”
“You were always good at that.”
He smiled slyly, his voice mimicking scouting reports. “I do seem to possess some talent in that area.”
It’d been awhile since I’d been this close to him. He used to wrap my feet before games. The image of his pained face in the courtroom returned afresh. I tried a second time. “Coach, I’m real sorry about—”
He cut me off. “Yo
u’re all over the radio. TV. Everybody wants to know if—”
I didn’t care about TV or radio or satellite or carrier pigeon. And because he knew me better than most, my guess was that he knew this. “Coach—have you seen Audrey?”
He dumped his pipe and slid it into his shirt pocket. “Wondered when you might get to that.”
“Every time you came to see me, you were hiding something.”
He chose his words carefully. “I love that girl. Almost as much as you.”
“She made you promise not to tell me. Or Wood. Didn’t she?”
He wouldn’t make eye contact.
“You’ve known all along.”
He studied the field. Finally he turned and began walking down the mountain. He spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you. You owe me dinner. It’s the least you can do for ruining my pro debut.”
“Coach?”
“Town’s changed since you’ve been gone.”
“Coach!”
He pointed his pipe at the clock tower without looking. “You should check out our new rose garden.” He sucked through his teeth. “Really something.” He wiped his head with a white handkerchief. “But it’s the view from the clock tower that will take your breath away.”
The garden was old. Two hundred years or more. The monks had spent five years constructing the wall. A twelve-foot-high brick fortress—thick enough to walk on and repel small cannonballs and words that pierced the heart. When finished, it encompassed the entire eight acres. Eight Civil War–era live oaks spiraled up, rolled, spilled, and spread out over the wall, sweeping the ground on the other side. Legend held that a Union ball lay dormant in the middle of the oldest, but no one really knew the truth. The scar had healed. Over the years, the limbs had welcomed children seeking play, workers seeking shade, Confederate soldiers seeking silence, and lovers in search of each other. Irrigation flowed from an eight-inch pipe drilled into the artesian aquifer some six hundred feet down. Exposed limestone marked the wellhead. The water was cold, clear, and, some would say, sweet. A hundred years ago, one of the monks had chiseled into the limestone:
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