Away Running (16 page)

“What a day to be playing a game,” he said. “If I can throw a few scores early, maybe we can build a lead and we’ll be all right.”

Fifteen guys at practice all week, Mobylette hurt and Matt looking like crap, and the Caïmans the second-ranked team after the Jets.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

Matt dozed off in his seat. Not me. The adrenaline was already flowing. It hadn’t really stopped since the night before. Going both ways, offense and defense, returning punts and kickoffs, whatever—it didn’t matter, I had to be on. I had done squat all season. I
had
to be on.

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I felt queasy and dead-legged in the locker room before the game, and I wasn’t sure if it was the trip to Caen or just normal pre-game jitters. Forty or so players had turned up. Every one of us was in his own private place. Some rocked music under headphones, half dressed; others played grab-ass with their neighbors. It was just a way to quash the nerves. Sidi sat in a folding chair, off by himself in a corner of the room. Matt was snoozing in the other corner, a towel over his face. Nobody questioned it.

Moose, across the way, caught my eye. He sat fully suited up already, his helmet on the floor beside his foot, which hammered up and down. He nodded toward Matt, then crossed to him.

When I got there, he nudged Matt with his toe. Matt lifted the towel. His eyes were groggy, and he looked surprised.

Moose addressed me and Matt but loud enough for all to hear. “Listen, the other night was messed up. You regret it, I regret it, but the team is more important than any petty crap.”

I couldn’t tell if Moose was being straight up or just saying it for the benefit of the team, but Matt gave Moose a thumbs-up so I was all in too, nodding, yeah.

I looked toward where Sidi sat. He looked away.

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We went out as a unit. The Caïmans were already on the field, stretching in rows. And there was their Canadian linebacker, on the sideline while the rest warmed up. A big kid, hawking me, checking me out.

None of the other Diables Rouges looked at the Caïmans. We took a lap around the field like always, in a tight knot of players, the pace slow, the pack pushing
inward toward a center, Moose and Matt at the front, grunt-growling on the offbeat of our trot, the rest of us silent.

“Hunh,” step-step-step, “Hunh,” step-step-step, “Hunh,” step-step-step.

Moose didn’t stop after the first lap like usual. We took a second lap, the gathering pressure to sustain that slow pace in unison upping the intensity of the moment, the intensity of Moose’s grunt-growling.

“Hunnnh! Hunnnh! Hunnnh!”

After the second lap, Moose barked orders, shepherding us into lines to stretch. I hustled indoors instead, the movement in my stomach so violent I couldn’t believe it was only nerves.

I got back just after the coin toss. Matt signaled to the sideline for the kickoff-return team. We all huddled together around Moose, the coaches over by the benches, discussing final adjustments or some such.

“To them, we’re the sorry Diables Rouges from the projects of Villeneuve,” Moose said. “Niggers and filthy Arabs!”

“
Racailles
!” Matt joined in.

“I challenge each of you to represent this place we’re from,” Moose said. “Each of you!”

I broke before he’d even done and went out to my spot on the goal line. The Caïmans, in bright white, stretched from 40 to 40. Some shifted from foot to foot. Some hopped in place. All glared my way. I looked past them, up into the
filling stands, at all the people filing in, their eyes on me. There was no noise, really, just a background buzzing.

I don’t know if it’s right, but for me stadiums are sacred, as close to church as I understand. Even here, at the Beach. I stood there at the goal line, thinking on Private John Wilson Smith, that grave in Normandy. And I thought on Pops.

The Caïmans stilled as I caught the opening kickoff, blew through a seam, then bounced out and sprinted past, away, running down their sideline. Touchdown!

Diables Rouges 7, Caïmans 0.

And it was on. I picked off their quarterback three times in the first half—my first interceptions of the season—and Matt did just like he’d said he would: he threw a couple of quick scores. It was 21–0 at the midway point.

Matt sat in the third quarter. I went in at halfback. My first carry, I deked the Canadian backer, left him lumbering after me as I turned the corner. Forty-some yards later, it was 28–0.

Me and Matt didn’t even play the fourth quarter. Coach Le Barbu was carrying his cell phone on his belt, and I asked if I could borrow it. I texted Mama:
Big win 2day. 3 INTs
. I knew she’d read it to Tookie and Tina.

A text came back:
For real? Yeah boiiii!

We were only one win away from qualifying for the Under-20s championship game.

Matt stood at the water table, helmet and shoulder pads off.

“Number two in the rankings,” I told him. “Despite yesterday.”

“No fear of success this afternoon.”

“Or of failure.”

“The pressure to produce,” he said, all smiles. “It’s why we play.”

DIABLES ROUGES (4–1) V. ARGONAUTES (3–2)
APRIL 11

MATT

This pressure to produce.
Merde!

The scoreboard clock clicked down to 00
:
00, closing the first half
. VISITEURS
10
, ARGONAUTES
7. We had the lead, but they had the edge.

Our opponents, the Argonautes of Aix-en-Provence, were every bit as tough as the Jets. More so, even. Two-time former national champs, the Argos had totally manhandled the Jets a few weeks after we’d lost to them, winning by three touchdowns. But then they got overconfident or something and got spanked by the lousy Mousquetaires, and the next week they lost a squeaker to the Caïmans, 8–7.

The winner in the match between the Argos and us qualified for the final at the historic Stade Jean-Bouin
in Paris the following weekend, against the Jets, who’d already clinched first place by dint of their 5–1 record.

Coach Thierry had me play safety to open the game and instructed me to stay deep and mirror the Argos
QB
, an American who was All-State in high school in Pennsylvania but who couldn’t qualify academically for an
NCAA
scholarship (the dumb ass). The American
QB
kept looking me off, and their little receivers ran all over the field, our guys chasing after them like those bumbling cops in old silent movies. Twice, Argo receivers dropped passes in the end zone; otherwise we would have been down by two scores.

Free and I headed toward the locker room, where Coach Thierry was surely going to ream us out in his halftime speech. The Argonautes shared a pitch with the local professional rugby club; it had a scoreboard, covered stands and proper seats. Argo fans, milling in the stretches of grass beside the stands, stared at us when they heard our cleats clacking over the concrete walkway.

“What do you call it?” Free said in English. “A self-fulfilling prophecy?”

It had been a nine-hour bus ride down to Aix. We’d taken an overnighter, a
car-couchette,
but instead of sleeping, all the guys had goofed off the whole way, until around daybreak. Since then, everybody had been dragging and out of sync.

“It’s on us,” I told him, “on you and me. The season rides on it.”

» » » »

Free and our
DB
coach, Celestin, made an adjustment for the second half, shifting to five
DB
s—the strategy we used against the Anges Bleus—and their French
QB
didn’t know what to do against it. Their offense bogged down in the third quarter.

But ours didn’t pick up either with me behind center. The Argos middle linebacker—number 9, a big tough English-Canadian kid who played in the same league I did in Montreal—acted as if the fact that his team back home had eliminated mine from the playoffs last season gave him bragging rights now. He pointed at me before each play and screamed over the crowd noise, “O-ver. Ra-ted.” He mimicked my cadence: “Set-hut! Hut-hut! Hut!”

“
Allez
, Mathieu!” Moose chastised me in the huddle during our fourth drive of the third quarter, in what was shaping up to be another three-and-out. “Don’t let him get in your head.”

“He’s not in my head!” I shot back. And to the rest, huddled around me: “Come on! Pick it up,
les gars
!”

But the big bastard clearly was in my head.

Coach Thierry sent in a play-action pass. I called a fake audible at the line to try to confuse number 9, to get him out of his game. He didn’t buy the play-action to Mobylette and charged after me. As I scrambled away (I didn’t remember him being so fast!), he stripped the ball from my grasp and scooped it up, with nobody between him and the end zone.

Diables Rouges 10, Argonautes 14.

I didn’t even look at Moose as I headed back to our bench. Free knew me well enough to know to leave me alone.

» » » »

It came down to this: our ball with 2:41 left on the clock in the fourth quarter and seventy-three yards of turf between us and a rematch with the Jets for the Under-20s championship. I called one of our two remaining timeouts.

“Are you out of your mind?” Coach Thierry yelled as I jogged over to the bench.

Freeman joined the other coaches on the edge of the playing field. Coach Thierry was chiding me—“Keep your head in it; we can’t afford to waste timeouts!”—when Free said, “Think the guys can handle the no-huddle?”

We’d never done it before.

“If we limit the plays,” I said.

“To which ones, for example?” Coach Le Barbu asked.

“The floods. Middle- and out-cuts,” I said, faking a confidence I wasn’t really feeling.

“Add a go route,” Free said, “to keep the safeties honest.”

“It can work,” said Coach Le Barbu. “Sure. Why not?”

“Because we’ve never practiced it!” Coach Thierry said.

I looked at Freeman, who was smiling.

“Live and learn,” he said in English.

“Or crash and burn,” I said.

I turned to Coach Thierry, looked him in the eye and said, “
Ça pourrait marcher
.”—This could work.

He met my eyes, then dropped his own and paced away. But just as quickly he turned on his heels and strode back, clapping his hands. “
Vas-y
, boy! Go get ’em.”

Number 9 eyed me the length of my jog back to our huddle.

When I got there, Moose was in the middle of a pep talk. “They’re doing the same as the cops back home. They’re trying to test you. So whatever they say in these last few minutes, whatever they do”—he was looking straight at Sidi—“whether it’s an insult or a cheap shot, keep your cool.”

“All right, listen up.” I explained that we were going no-huddle, to line up in Ace and hustle back and reset after
each play, whether we completed the pass or not. I gave the receivers the crude code I’d devised on the jog out. If I tapped the ear hole of my helmet, it was the deep outside flood; the top of my head, the middle flood; my thigh, the all-go route. I repeated it one more time. “No improvising. If you forget what to do, just run your man off.”

The ref stepped next to me, tapped his watch. “Twenty seconds,” he warned.

“It’s do or die,” I said, looking one by one through the face mask of each guy around me. “Play fast. Play hard. The snap is always on one.
Vous êtes prêts!
”

“Break!” they responded.

Sidi had been pretty quiet all day, not making mistakes but not making plays either. My dad says a leader makes his players see what they
can
be rather than what they are. I jogged over to Sidi, on the flank, even though seconds were ticking off the clock.

“You’ve been wanting to make up for the Anges Bleus game,” I told him. “Here’s your chance. I’m looking for you.”

I patted him on the butt and jogged back, looking over at number 9.

“You know where I’m going,” I told him in English.

I tapped the top of my head and caught the snap, fired back early. (My center, Jorge, was clearly wound up.) Number 9 didn’t even try to read the play; he sprinted right toward Sidi. But Sidi curled under him—I waited
for him to clear—and made a nice catch in front of their safety. An eleven-yard gain.

“What you gonna do?” I screamed at number 9, doing my best Freeman. “You knew where I was going and still couldn’t do nothing about it!”

I hustled back into position, let the receivers get back into place, then tapped the top of my helmet again. Jorge was calmer; he waited for my cadence before snapping the ball. I dropped back two steps, reading the safety, but none of my receivers came clear and number 9 was blitzing, so I just let fly, overthrew everybody and killed the clock.

“That’s more like it,” number 9 said, standing over me.

I was on the ground, my left shoulder smarting, but I hollered back, “What you gonna do? I’m going to number 87 this next play. What you gonna do?”

The ref broke us up. He warned 9 to be careful of drawing a late-hit penalty, him and me still jawing at each other.

Sidi was suddenly by my side. “Be cool,
mec
,” hotheaded Sidi said to me. “Be cool.”

I got back into position behind Jorge. The scoreboard clock read 2
:
01. The Argos dragged, slow to line up. I patted my ear hole so that as soon as the ref whistled the ball live, we could get another play off while they were in disarray.

I wanted to hit Moose, our number 87, so that I stayed in number 9’s head. But both the corner and the safety keyed on Moose, number 9 camping in the lane, cutting off the possibility of even a miraculous throw and catch (which I realized I was about to try anyway, still too focused on showing up number 9).

I saw Manu, our backside slot receiver, making his break. It was a long throw, clear across the field and only good for a few yards, but he made the catch. The clock doesn’t stop in college rules for the two-minute warning, but Manu got out of bounds, killing it at 1
:
43. We were still only at our own 36-yard line. I called our guys back into the huddle.