“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?
Another look at the clock: 03. Time for one play. “Mr. Stanzer!” I called, running toward him. “Let me get in for just—”
“Time out, time out,” he yelled, forming a letter T with his hands. Whistles blew as our team came over to the sideline. Mr. Stanzer and Javon were drawing up a play when I interrupted.
“Mr. Stanzer, I’m OK, I can run another play, let me show you.”
He looked at me quizzically. “Jed, I’m sorry, but I thought I was clear. You may have a concussion—in fact, you probably do. The game’s over for you.”
“But Mr. Stanzer,” I said. “I’m brain-dead, remember? Flatline. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Concussion? I could only dream of getting a concussion.”
Javon pointed at me. “Mr. Stanzer, he’s right, and we really need him right now.”
“Jed, are you sure?” Mr. Stanzer asked.
I didn’t have to say a thing. He saw the answer in my eyes.
Javon drew up a quick play, just like the one I had run so many weeks ago at lunch. As I lined up next to Luke, I blocked out everything. The crowd, the snap count, the taunts from the other side. I needed instinct to take over.
As soon as the ball was snapped, I stepped right, looked down. Luke made a perfect toss, and I tucked it into a death grip with my right arm, duct-taped hand and all. I ran to the right, hoping to cut across the corner of the end zone. The blocking was good, and it looked like I had just enough room … and there was Robbie. Of course. He knew exactly where I was headed and remembered that one move of mine that had made him look foolish. It was clear he was not going to let that happen again. My body reacted anyway, instinctively. I felt it almost coming apart, impossibly vacating space. My spine spread, my knees released, my hips flared. I must have looked inhuman.
Robbie reacted as well. His head was up; he shifted to his left to compensate for my body’s unnatural shape. He hit me in the chest, his hands digging for the ball. No, past the ball. His left hand on my forearm, his right on my upper bicep. And he pulled. No, wrenched my arm, and I could feel my shoulder giving way. There was a snap, another one, and as the ground rose to meet me, I swear I could see my arm flying as if set free, and I wondered if I would ever see it again. And on top of me a heavy weight, Robbie, laughing, then whispering in my ear.
“Game over, Zom-boy. You’re dead meat. But you’re used to that.”
Next thing I knew, I was on my back as the world was coming back into focus. I noticed Javon over me, and Luke and—
Ben? Joe?
“I had a dream that I’m not in Kansas anymore,” I said, trying to shake away the brain fuzz. “Luke, you were in it, and Javon. But Ben, Joe? Maybe I’m still dreaming.”
A hand came toward me. I followed the fingers to the arm to—yeah—it was Ben. Definitely Ben. I saw something in his face. Something I had never thought I’d see as he reached out to me.
Respect. I clasped his hand with the only one I had left, and he lifted me to my feet.
“Jed, great game,” he said. “You really showed something out there.”
“Yeah, dude, that was incredible,” Joe said. “Who knew a dead guy had that much in him. You give zombies a pretty good name.”
“Thanks,” I said, since I had really no idea what else to say. So I said it again. “Thanks.”
“What the hell do you guys think you’re doing?” Things were still a bit fuzzy, but the way that voice drilled into my brain, I knew it was Robbie.
“Why you shaking the Zom-boy’s hand?” he said. “Unless you’re trying to rip off his other arm, I suggest you get back over here and join our little celebration.”
I looked beyond Robbie to the rest of the eighth-grade team, standing along the sideline, talking to one another. A few were smiling, but I wouldn’t call it a celebration.
That’s when it hit me. We’d come so close to winning. So close it was like victory, at least to the eighth graders. That was something to take away, right? Yet it seemed so hollow. We had come just a few yards short of the perfect holiday break, one where we could remember and talk about the game of the century, when the sevvies finally stood up for themselves and did something no one else had done before. We could party like there was no next semester.
And I could have been remembered as something other than Dead Jed, a middle-school zombie.
“Ben, Joe, now, here,” Robbie said, motioning to them with his index finger.
“Again, nice game,” Joe and Ben said at the same time. They offered their left hands again, which I shook. They trudged back to Robbie, who greeted them with slaps upside their heads.