Football Champ (13 page)

“
SHE DOESN’T CARE,” TROY
said, shaking his head. “Believe me.”

“First of all,” Tate said, slurping the last bit of milk from her carton, “you weren’t technically fighting.”

“He tried,” Nathan said, then dropped his head when they both scowled at him.

“And,” Tate said, “if one of
us
isn’t going to say anything—which we’re not—Jamie and his creeps sure aren’t. They’re the ones who started it.”

“Well, technically, Troy did,” Nathan said.

They glared at him again, throwing daggers with their eyes.

“What?” Nathan asked. “I’m with you guys. I’m just saying, technically, Troy took the first swing.”

“After Jamie insulted his
mom
,” Tate said, her face reddening with anger.

“Yeah, but insults aren’t the same as throwing a haymaker,” Nathan said. “Stop it with the ugly looks, you guys. I’m just saying, the best thing for the Duluth Tigers is that
no one
talks to the Fink.”

“How’s the buzzing in your ears, anyway?” Tate asked.

“Still there,” Troy said in a quiet voice.

“Maybe you should tell someone,” Tate said with a worried look on her face.

“You want us to lose Saturday or what?” Nathan asked.

“If he’s got a concussion or something,” Tate said, “I don’t want him to do anything stupid.”

“Do you know how big the trophies are that we’ll get if we win this thing?” Nathan asked.

“You’d let your friend risk permanent brain damage for a hunk of metal?” Tate asked.

“He says it’s just a little buzzing is all,” Nathan said.

Troy twirled a finger next to his ear. “It’s not like I’m going to have permanent brain damage or anything. Remember when Nathan had those firecrackers and he held one too long before he threw it and it went off by my ear? It’s like that. It took a couple days to stop, and I’m sure this will, too. It’s no big deal.”

The day went on and, to Troy’s relief, the buzzing began to diminish. It was still hard to concentrate in math class, but he convinced himself it wasn’t any big deal. That changed, though, when he got home from school and found out that Commissioner Goodell wanted to see him the very next day.

“Mr. Langan and Seth told him what you can do,” Troy’s mom said from where she worked next to the kitchen sink. “He wants to see it for himself.”

“Sure,” Troy said, sitting down at the table with a plate of cookies and a glass of cold milk. “How? Watch some film?”

“No,” his mom said, sliding a chicken into the oven and turning to face him. “The Cowboys and the Giants play tomorrow night in the Thursday-night game on NBC. Evidently, the commissioner and Mr. Langan want you to watch the game on TV with them at the Falcons offices. What do you think?”

Even though his mouth was empty, Troy swallowed.

The buzz was now gone from his brain, but a dull headache remained and, if the damage he did to his brain made the afternoon math lesson hard to figure, he had a bad feeling that it might do the same thing to his ability to predict plays.

“If I do show him I can really do this, will he let me keep working for the Falcons?” Troy asked.

“He might, but they’re not making any promises,” his mom said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “But at
least it will prove that we didn’t do anything illegal or against the rules.”

“But if they won’t promise to let me help the team, why should I show him what I can do?” Troy asked, scowling and setting the cookie down without taking a bite.

“Troy, I don’t want to put pressure on you,” his mom said as she dropped the towel into the sink and turned his way, “but if you can’t prove it, well…Seth, me, and you are all probably going to be banned from the NFL. For life.”

WHEN SETH CAME OVER
after practice, the three of them sat down to dinner. Troy was thinking about his football career through the fog of his mild headache.

“Troy,” his mom said, “I asked you twice to say grace. Are you okay?”

“Sure,” Troy said. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking?”

“Going over in my mind the plays we’re going to run on Saturday,” Troy said, inventing a story as smooth and slick as watermelon seeds.

“Did you study those sheets I gave you?” Seth asked.

Troy nodded. “Sure.”

Seth didn’t mention his NFL drug test during dinner, and when Troy’s mom asked him how practice
went, he shrugged and said that his backup got more repetitions with the starting defense than he did. Troy knew that meant that the coaches thought it was possible that Seth wouldn’t play on Sunday. Troy couldn’t bring himself to ask Seth if that was because of his aching knees or the drug test—or because Troy might not be sending the plays in to help Seth make up for his lack of speed due to injury and age.

Either way, the sense of having all the good things come unraveled—their championship game, the Falcons’ playoff run—stuck in Troy’s mind like a warm glob of chewing gum.

After dinner, Seth took Troy to the Tigers’ practice.

Stretching and throwing passes during warm-ups and individual drills didn’t bother Troy, but when they got to the part of practice where the whole team came together to run plays, Troy had trouble. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to do, it was just that his headache—mild as it was—distracted him and made it hard to concentrate. While the pain wasn’t severe, he couldn’t get rid of the notion that someone was gently pressing a thumb into the back of his left eyeball. Once he started making mistakes, it seemed like the headache was all he could think about.

After Troy threw his third interception—a first in his young career—Seth took him off to the side. The NFL linebacker put his hands on Troy’s shoulder pads and bent down so that their eyes were level, with Seth
peering in through Troy’s face mask.

“What’s up, buddy?” Seth asked in a quiet voice.

Troy shook his head and his eyes began to fill up. He sniffed, looked away, and said, “Nothing.”

“Something,” Seth said gently.

“Just an off night, that’s all,” Troy said, fighting back the tears, part of him wanting desperately to tell Seth what was wrong. But if Seth told his mom, she’d think he had a concussion, and even if she didn’t find out about him fighting, he knew she’d never let him play with a head injury no matter how mild. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Seth said, nodding his head as he straightened himself. “That happens.”

Seth blew his whistle and told the offense to huddle up.

Troy tried to focus, but the more he tried, the worse it got. Finally, Seth stopped calling pass plays. They ran a couple dozen running plays, mostly draws where the whole offense made it look like a pass—linemen stepping back, receivers running routes, and Troy dropping back into the pocket—before Troy handed the ball off to a running back.

When they began working on defense, it was even worse for Troy. Normally, he could look at the offensive formation and know the play. But distracted by the headache, he had a hard time just knowing if it would be a run or a pass. Seth didn’t say anything, but he gave Troy a look of doubt and shook his head. On the
way home he asked Troy again if everything was okay.

“I’m just distracted by tomorrow, the commissioner and all that, that’s all,” Troy said.

Seth nodded. “Sometimes you just have a crap day, but if you want to win this thing, we need you at one hundred percent. I got that game film from my reporter friend in Macon today at the complex. I watched a little of these guys and, honestly, our team isn’t good enough to beat Valdosta without you doing your football genius thing.”

“Well, I should be okay for Saturday,” Troy said, silently hoping it would be true.

“Sure,” Seth said, reaching over and patting his shoulder, “you’re just a little nervous. That’s understandable. It’ll go away once the game starts. Everyone knows that first hit comes and bang, the butterflies are gone. You’ll be fine. Let’s stop by my house for a couple minutes. I need some clothes and I’ve got that Valdosta game film on a DVD. We can watch some of it in my basement.”

“So we can see it on the big screen?” Troy asked. He’d seen the huge plasma TV in Seth’s basement before.

“Not so much the big screen,” Seth said, “but the DVD player I have. It’s a special machine that lets you reverse it and run it in slow motion. It’s like the ones they have at Flowery Branch, makes the tape easier to analyze.”

Troy nodded.

When they got to Seth’s big stone mansion, Seth went upstairs to gather his things. Troy waited on the sprawling deck out back, looking down at the granite pool and the towering old trees and smiling at the huge swatch of grass where he had stolen a football in the time before he ever even knew Seth.

When Seth came downstairs, he set a duffle bag full of clothes by the front door and said, “Come on.”

Troy followed him downstairs. Seth put on the film. Troy watched and listened to Seth as he showed Troy what he could expect from the Valdosta Vipers on Saturday.

Finally, Seth paused the film and asked Troy, “You got any ideas from what you’ve seen so far?”

The ache persisted behind Troy’s eyeball and his mouth went dry. He shook his head.

Seth stared at him and said, “’Cause you usually have some good ones. What’s up with you, anyway?”

Troy
wanted
to tell Seth the truth, but he didn’t know if he could. He opened his mouth to speak, wondering himself what words would come out.

“
NOTHING
,”
TROY SAID, AVOIDING
Seth’s eyes. “I think I’m just tired…and nervous. Nervous about the commissioner tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Seth said, waving his hand, “don’t worry about that.”

“But my mom said we’d all get banned,” Troy said, watching Seth’s face to see his reaction. “For life. That means I can’t play in the NFL, even if I’m good enough.”

“They’re not going to ban you,” Seth said, snorting and shaking his head.

“They’re not?” Troy asked.

“Of course not,” Seth said, rising from the couch and removing the DVD from the machine.

Troy breathed out, relaxing. “Oh, good.”

“You’re the real deal,” Seth said. “He’ll see that when you watch the game, and everything will be fine. Come on.”

Troy couldn’t bring himself to ask what would happen if he
couldn’t
prove it. He followed the big linebacker up the stairs and out to the H2. They climbed in and headed for Troy’s house. Troy chewed on his lip for a minute, then said, “Seth, did you ever get a concussion?”

“Sure,” Seth said, glancing at him before returning his eyes to the road.

“No big deal, right?” Troy said.

Seth raised and lowered his eyebrows. “Everyone used to think that, but I’m not so sure.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” Seth said, “when you get a concussion, it’s your brain’s way of telling you to be careful. It used to be they’d ask you how many fingers they held up and if you were even close to being right, they’d send you back into the game. Not now. Now, they do all kinds of tests to make sure you’re all better. Some guys who had a lot of concussions have had problems with their memory, so people are a lot more careful about it. I don’t think it’s a huge deal, as long as you’re careful. What makes you ask?”

Seth furrowed his brow, glanced at Troy, and asked, “You didn’t get hit in the head last week against Dunwoody, did you?”

“No,” Troy said, glad he could tell the truth and still keep Seth in the dark.

“Good,” Seth said, exhaling through tight lips, “’cause I doubt your mom would let you play this week if you did.”

Troy said, “But even if I did—which I didn’t, I promise—I’d be able to play after a week, right?”

“As long as the symptoms were all gone,” Seth said slowly. “Yeah, you’d be okay with the doctors. I’m just saying about your mom; she’s pretty cautious when it comes to you. I don’t really blame her. Moms do that, especially when you’re the only kid they’ve got. You sure you’re okay?”

Troy forced a laugh and said, “Yeah, I’m just asking because I saw Joe Horn get that concussion last Sunday and I was wondering if he’ll be able to play this weekend. I love Joe Horn.”

“Yeah,” Seth said, studying Troy with a curious look on his face, “a lot of people do.”

When they got home, Troy went right to bed. Even though he lay for a long time worrying about the headache, the far-off moan of a freight train finally lulled him to sleep. As he drifted away, he had the clear sense that the next day would be as important as any in his entire life.

WHEN TROY WOKE UP
on Thursday morning, the headache was only a shadow of what it had been. Even so, he had another poor practice that evening. Seth put his finger on the problem when he took Troy aside and said not to worry, that having to watch a game with the commissioner would be distracting to anyone.

“This commissioner thing will all be behind you tonight,” Seth said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be ready to go for the game.”

On the way to Flowery Branch, Troy worked his jaw and tried to convince himself that the headache was gone and that even if it wasn’t, he hadn’t done any damage to his brain. But while he could lie well enough to other people, he had a hard time lying to himself, and as they pulled into the front circle of the Falcons complex,
his stomach began to clench and roll. Seth brought the H2 to a stop behind his mom’s green VW Bug.

“Don’t worry,” Seth said, patting his back. “You’ll be fine.”

Troy nodded and tried to sound confident. “Oh, yeah. I know.”

Troy’s mom met them at the door and they all walked upstairs together. Inside the big wood-paneled conference room, a projection screen showed the beginning of the Thursday-night game. Mr. Langan and Commissioner Goodell sat in leather swivel chairs.

The commissioner stood up along with the owner. They all shook hands, and Troy searched the tan, boyish face of the commissioner for hints of favor, finding none. The commissioner wore a blue blazer over a striped shirt, with tan slacks and loafers. In his hand was an unopened bottle of water. His blond hair had a hint of red in it that Troy hadn’t noticed on TV, and his blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and a wisdom that made Troy feel like even the best lie he ever told would be as obvious as a stop sign to this man.

“So,” the commissioner said, cracking open the bottle, his eyes glittering at Troy, “Mr. Langan tells me I’m in for quite a show.”

Troy blushed and nodded.

“Before we start,” the commissioner said, “I’d like you to tell me how you do what it is they say you can do.”

“It’s like how we study tendencies,” Seth said, cutting
in. “Every team does it, and if you study the numbers hard enough, you can sometimes predict what the other team is going to do based on down, distance, the players they put on the field, formations—all the variables.”

The commissioner scratched his chin and said, “I’d like Troy to tell me how
he
does it. From what I hear, it’s not by studying computer printouts.”

Troy looked at Seth, who nodded for him to go ahead.

“Well,” Troy said, swallowing, “I guess I can’t really explain it. Seth talks about tendencies and all that, but it’s a lot simpler than that. I just watch a game and after a little bit, I just
know
. It’s…like the weather. You know how if a cold front is coming and it’s hot and muggy out they can predict rain? It’s something like that. Some people—like Gramp—they say they can
feel
the rain coming. That’s me. I feel it.”

“Troy’s a savant,” Troy’s mom said. “A normal kid in every other way, except when it comes to the patterns and probabilities of predicting football plays. When it comes to that, he’s a genius, like a supercomputer.”

The commissioner snorted and shook his head, casting a doubtful look at Mr. Langan before letting out a big sigh.

“Okay, let’s get this going,” the commissioner said.

They all sat down and Troy let his eyes lock in on the screen, where the Cowboys were already kicking off. Eli Manning took the field and began a tactical advance,
moving his team down the field with a combination of runs and play-action passes—where he’d fake the run but pop upright in the pocket to deliver a quick pass downfield. Troy forced himself to breathe, slow and steady, and to block all other thoughts from his mind. So much was at stake.

“Deep post to the Z,” Troy said, the words coming from a place so deep inside him that the sound of his own voice made him jump.

His eyes darted from one adult to the other. Their heads turned to the front of the room at the same time. Up on the screen, Eli Manning took the snap and dropped straight back into the pocket. The linemen blocked and the receivers raced downfield. The receiver at the top of the TV screen—the Z—went straight for twelve yards before breaking at a forty-five-degree angle toward the middle of the field in a post pattern.

Eli threw a bullet pass. The receiver snagged it from the air before being flattened by Cowboys’ safety Roy Williams.

“Z post,” the commissioner said to himself in an unbelieving whisper.

The Giants hurried into a huddle, some players running onto the field while others jogged off. Troy relaxed, and the ache behind his eye now seemed almost imaginary.

“Toss sweep weak,” Troy said.

The Giants lined up. The formation changed twice
before Manning took the snap and tossed the ball to his running back on a weak side sweep. The Cowboys tackled the runner for a loss. The commissioner shook his head and turned to look at Troy, blinking in disbelief.

“Again,” the commissioner said.

Troy watched the screen. Only a single Giants’ player ran off, a wide receiver. On came a second tight end. Troy glanced at the graphics box in the corner of the screen that told him it was second and twelve. The ball was at the Cowboys’ twenty-four yard line.

“Reverse,” Troy said.

He was right.

“Lead draw to the strong side,” he said before the next play.

Right again, and so it went until the Giants scored and the action took a break for some commercials.

“I can’t believe this,” the commissioner said, his ruddy red face becoming pale and damp as he pounded his now-empty water bottle on the rich wooden table.

“I told you,” Mr. Langan said to the commissioner, standing up with an enormous grin and nodding in Troy’s direction.

“Honestly?” the commissioner said, shaking his head and smiling at Troy. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. After the Patriots scandal, we’ve been on the lookout for teams stealing signals, and until I saw Troy do what he does with my own eyes, I couldn’t think of any other explanation.”

“I told you this organization would never cheat,” Mr. Langan said.

Commissioner Goodell shrugged and said, “I know it’s unusual, but the truth is, he’s not doing anything every coach in the NFL doesn’t try to do, predict the plays the other team will run. He just does it better.”

By now, Troy didn’t feel a bit of the headache. Whether it was because he wasn’t concentrating so hard or because the ache had actually disappeared, he didn’t care.

Troy grinned at the commissioner, then turned to Seth and said, “Now we’ll both be champs, me on Saturday and you and the Falcons on your way on Sunday.”

“Whoa,” the commissioner said, holding up a hand as his smile faded. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“What?” Troy asked.

The commissioner tightened his jaw and inclined his head toward Seth. “He’s got to get by this drug test before he gets back on the field.”

“Well,” Troy said with a fleeting laugh. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

The room went silent for a moment before Mr. Langan cleared his throat again and said, “Actually, there is a problem.”