Game Changers (5 page)

Shawn ran hard to his left after taking the snap, selling the run like a champ. He knew he wasn't supposed to rush, that the defense had to bite, and didn't have to rush, because he had room and time.

At just the right moment, he stopped suddenly and threw.

Just not to Ben.

To the Midvale safety.

The fastest guy on
their
team.

Ben never saw the kid, No. 8, coming. Neither did Shawn, who'd just turned and thrown without checking the defense.

But somehow the safety read the play all the way. On TV, the announcers talked about defensive backs “jumping the route.” That was what No. 8 on Midvale had done. Maybe he'd just guessed right. Or maybe he was smart enough to be spying Ben, saw Ben waiting for the ball.

“Players make plays,” Ben's dad always liked to say when they'd be watching a game together and something great would happen.

The kid caught the ball in stride the way Ben had caught the punt he'd returned for a touchdown, already at top speed when he took the ball right out of Ben's hands. By the time Ben's brain had processed what had happened, the safety — as tall as Sam, as fast as Sam, which meant as fast as Ben — had at least a ten-yard lead on him.

Trying to take it to the house.

Another thing the announcers liked to say.

Ben McBain put his head down and ran as hard as he could, as hard as he had all day. As fast as he could. Feeling like he was starting to make up a little ground by the time the big kid from Midvale crossed midfield. Figuring Sam was probably chasing, too. But Sam had started even farther behind the play, in the end zone when Shawn threw the pick, right before the whole day had started going the wrong way.

Unless Ben could catch the No. 8 in red.

Knowing that if he didn't catch him, nobody on his team was going to, either.

Ben finally got as close as he was going to get just inside the Rams' ten-yard line, the kid with the ball having just looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was gaining on him.

Now or never.

Ben launched himself, trying somehow to make himself
longer than he really was, got his hand on an ankle, just enough to knock him off balance.

Then watched from the ground as the kid stumbled and started to lose his balance, started to go down himself.

But not until he managed to fall across the goal line with the touchdown that made it 18–12 for Midvale.

The Rams got in one last play after Ben picked up the squibbed kickoff, managed to return it just past midfield.

Shawn took the snap and ran around and tried to throw it as far as he could to Sam Brown. But as strong as Shawn's arm was, even at eleven, he couldn't throw it nearly far enough. The ball ballooned on him a little bit and came down at the Midvale twenty-five. Sam managed to outjump the three defensive backs around him and come down with the ball. But got tackled right away, what looked like a mile from the end zone.

Sam was sitting on the ground with the ball still in his hands as the refs blew the whistle that meant the game was over and they'd lost.

It was usually one of the things Ben McBain loved about sports, how the very next thing that happened in a game — the game you were playing or the game you were watching — could be the one that changed everything.

But what he'd said to Lily turned out to be right: It wasn't nearly as much fun when it happened to you the way it had
just happened in the Midvale game. Happened to you and happened to your team. When you were that close to being 1–0 and walked off the field 0–1 instead.

Coach had told them at halftime not to hang their heads. But it seemed as if they were all doing that now as they got into the line to shake hands with the Midvale Eagles. The day had changed to
great
for them at the very end, they were the ones who had seen a last-second loss turn into a last-second win.

Ben had looked around for Shawn after Sam caught his Hail Mary pass, but couldn't find him right away, maybe because the Midvale guys had run out to the middle of the field, celebrating as if they'd won a championship instead of just the first game of the year.

But Ben, even at his age, knew that sports could do that to you. Winning the game you'd just played, especially the way the Eagles had just won,
could
make you feel as if you'd just won the Super Bowl.

That's what they were feeling in the handshake line after the game.

While the line kept moving, Ben waiting to shake hands with the safety who'd scored the winning touchdown, tell him what a filthy play he'd made — “filthy” being the highest possible praise — Ben turned his head and finally spotted Shawn.

Only he wasn't behind him in the line, he was all the way on the other side of the field, alone on the Rockwell side, sitting at the end of the bench, head down, slapping his hands hard on the sides of his helmet.

It wasn't a rule that you had to shake hands with the players on the other team, win or lose. But Ben knew it was just something you did.

Ben could even see Coach O'Brien now up in front, congratulating the Midvale coach.

Finally it was Ben's turn to shake the safety's hand.

“Ben McBain,” he said, introducing himself even though they'd just played a whole game against each other. “And hey? Let's do this again in the championship game.”

“Brian DeBartolo,” the other boy said. “And about the championship game? I'm totally down with that.”

Ben knew he was holding things up, didn't care. “That play you made, it was, like, mad crazy,” he said.

“Lucky guess,” Brian said. “I just figured that when the game was on the line, they were going to you. And when your QB turned, he was
only
looking at you.”

When he'd finished shaking everybody's hand, telling them good game, there was a moment, as Ben took the long walk back to the Rams' bench, when he tried to remember what he'd felt like in the morning.
Before.
But right now he couldn't, as hard as he tried. Truth was, he felt as bad as Shawn looked, still sitting there, same spot, end of the bench.

Even Coach O'Brien didn't go over there, as if he knew this was a time to leave his own son alone. Ben knew with his own parents: It was one of the things parents seemed to know. Not always. But sometimes they just seemed to know when there was a force field around you.

So he just motioned the rest of the guys to gather around
him in front of the bench, as if Shawn wasn't even a part of the team in that moment. Or maybe Coach just knew he could say whatever he wanted to say to Shawn later.

“Listen, guys,” Coach said, “losing the first one this way will just make winning the first one next week even sweeter.”

Then: “I'm not looking to give you a pep talk right now. Mostly because you don't want one. And I'm not gonna lie to you, it stinks having one get ripped away from us that way. But it's one game. Be proud of the way you fought back today, be proud of the way you took it down the field the way you did at the end. I knew we had talent with this group. Now I find out how much character you've all got. See you Monday at practice.”

Ben wanted to go over and say something to Shawn, felt like he
ought
to say something. But before he had the chance, he watched Shawn stand up, take off his helmet, start walking by himself toward the parking lot.

And Ben knew what he wanted to say: That they won as a team and lost as a team, and not to be too hard on himself, they could all probably go back and find something, a play or two, that could have had them ahead before they tried to drive the ball down the field at the end.

Too late. Ben didn't want to make a show out of running to catch up with him. So he let him go, watched him take the long walk across the soccer field at The Rock and then the baseball field on the other side of that, to the parking lot where his dad's SUV was, Shawn getting smaller the farther away he got from the game he'd just played.

Looking to Ben in that moment as if he'd lost more than a football game.

The next thing Ben saw was Shawn's helmet flying through the air, bouncing high off the concrete in the parking lot, like
that
was his last bad pass of the game.

Ben couldn't stop thinking about how mad Shawn looked after the game. Like he was mad at the world. He thought about calling him Saturday night, just to see how he was doing, decided to leave it alone.

But after church on Sunday morning he told his mom that he was going to take a ride over to Shawn's house on his bike.

His mom said, “Don't you want to try calling him first?”

Ben said, “I'm afraid that if I do, he'll tell me not to come.”

She smiled. “Like that would ever stop you.”

“He makes it rough to like him sometimes. Really rough. But I just feel like I gotta do something, just to be a good teammate.”

“Not ‘good,' pal. Great. You're a great teammate.”

They were both at the kitchen table, Ben having gotten out of his church clothes as though somebody had a clock on him, and having just polished off two bowls of cereal. His mom was cutting up fruit for the big fruit salad she made every Sunday to go with lunch.

She stopped for a moment, looked over at Ben. “I have to
say, though, sometimes I think sports is way too important to you boys.”

Ben shook his head. “Sports are important, yeah, I hear you,” he said. “But I don't think too important. You know how much I hate to lose, but it's not like I come home and you can't get me to come out of my room.”

“That's just because no one would want to stay in that room for an extended period of time,” she said, smiling at him. “The smell of the dirty socks alone …”

“Good one, Mom, no kidding, never heard
that
one before.”

“Go on over there before you change your mind,” she said. “And make sure you're back in time for lunch.”

But when he got up he said to her, “Before I go, we need to do one more thing. So turn around.”

“We just did this yesterday.”

Ben said, “I'm feeling taller today.”

Beth McBain turned around. So did her son. They got back-to-back and then Ben put his palm flat on top of his head and moved it back until he touched his mom's head. Measuring his height against hers.

“Getting closer,” she said. “Definitely getting closer.”

“Not close enough,” he said.

“Go try to be Shawn's friend,” she said. “You know what your old mom says about random acts of kindness.”

“They turn us all into giants,” Ben said, and then went to get his bike out of the garage.

 

Ben had never been to Shawn's house, but he knew where it was, a few blocks from where Coop lived at the north end of Rockwell.

Coop had seen the house, said he and his dad had walked over there to check it out one night after the O'Briens had moved in, having heard how big the place was.

“My dad,” Coop had said, “said he wanted to go inside sometime just to see where the gift shop is.”

And every kid in school had heard about the fifty-yard turf field at the back of the property, with goalposts and yard lines and, according to Shawn's buds who had seen the field, even an electronic scoreboard.

But as big as Coop said Shawn's house was, it was even bigger to Ben's eyes. If there was anything bigger than this in the whole town of Rockwell, Ben sure hadn't ever seen it. There was a gate near the road, where you had to be buzzed in, and what looked like a driveway that stretched nearly all the way to Darby.

Way up in the distance, Ben could see Mr. O'Brien's black SUV parked near the front doors.

Ben knew that Shawn had two older sisters, one of them just a year older, so there were at least five of them living here.
Yeah
, Ben thought,
and with enough extra room to maybe house our whole team.

He pressed the button on the intercom, finally heard Mr. O'Brien say, “Who is it?”

Ben gave his name, said he was here to see Shawn.

The gates opened.

Ben tried riding up the gravel driveway, gave up about halfway, walked his bike the rest of the way from there. When he got close he could see Coach O'Brien — he thought of him as his coach, even here — waving at him from the porch.

“There's a part of the Boston Marathon called Heartbreak Hill,” he said to Ben. “That's what Shawn calls this driveway.” He smiled. “Of course that was when my boy was still communicating with the rest of the human race.”

Ben said, “I didn't get a chance to talk to him after the game. I was gonna run after him, but he didn't look like he wanted any company.”

Ben didn't say anything about Shawn throwing his helmet. As soon as Shawn had yesterday, Ben turned around to see if his dad had seen, but Mr. O'Brien was talking to the Midvale coach.

“I know you've got good moves on the field,” Coach said, “but that might have been your best one of the day.” He shook his head. “Guys I played with in the pros didn't take losing that hard. It's like by the end he couldn't remember all those passes he completed to start the second half.”

“We all played well in the second half,” Ben said, “except for one play.”

“I tried to tell Shawn that the guy I played behind, Peyton Manning himself, once threw an interception like that against the Saints that cost my old team a Super Bowl.”

“I just want to let Shawn know that we need him to get to where we want to go,” Ben said.

“Have at it,” Coach said, showing him in. “Maybe he'll
listen to you, because he's completely tuned me out for the time being.”

“Is he in his room?”

“Down on the field. C'mon, I'll take you back there, it's pretty cool.”

Shawn's dad took Ben through the house and out the back door and across a lawn that was about twice the size of McBain Field and then down a hill. And as soon as he saw the field, Ben knew that “cool” didn't come close to describing it.

Cool was playing the new Madden video game every season, or getting to stay up late to watch a game on television even on a school night.

But the field behind Shawn O'Brien's house was one of Coop Manley's favorite expressions:

Off the hook.

It
was
a turf field, looking brand spanking new, with lines that looked like they'd just been painted with the brightest white paint possible. There were goalposts, and the end zone had the Colts' logo on it, the same horseshoe you saw on their helmets.

“Wow,” Ben said.

Coach said, “I've heard about guys who built their own basketball courts, sometimes even inside their homes. And golf nuts who built their own putting greens, or even a few holes if they had the room. But I'm a football guy. When I built my dream house I decided to build my dream backyard, too, for me and my boy.”

“Wow,” Ben said again, like he was stuck.

“Sometimes,” his coach said, “I pretend I'm the eleven-year-old and sneak down and use that thing myself.”

“That thing” was a remote-controlled pass receiver, like a little robot on wheels, moving from side to side across the field. Like a golf cart with a net on top instead of a roof. Shawn had a bunch of balls at his feet, and Ben could see the remote on the ground in front of him, too.

When he was ready, he pointed the remote at the robot, took a snap from an imaginary center, dropped back, and tried to lead the machine just right as it moved across the field, and deliver the ball into the net.

He just missed the net, maybe by a foot, shook his head, pointed the remote to stop the machine. Got another ball. Pointed again. Threw a strike into the net this time.

“If you're a quarterback,” Coach O'Brien said, “you've got to be able to hit what you aim at.”

“That was a good-looking throw.”

Shawn's dad said in a quiet voice, “My kid got reminded yesterday that it's a little harder when you've got a bunch of big guys running at you. But he'll figure it out.”

In a much louder voice now he called out to Shawn, saying, “Hey, pal. Somebody here to see you.”

Shawn looked over, gave Ben a wave, then put up a finger that meant one more. Pointed the remote again, took a three-step drop, waited until the machine was in the middle of the field — he must have been able to speed the thing up, because it seemed to be moving faster this time — and buried another perfect strike into the net.

Ben went down and joined him on the field, the fake grass feeling even better than real grass under the Reeboks he had on, the ones with the Packers logo on the sides.

Ben said, “Lookin' good.”

“Easy when you're by yourself.”

“Easy for everybody.”

“I didn't know you even knew where I lived,” Shawn said.

“I think people in foreign countries know about this house,” Ben said. He grinned and said, “Needed to see the field, and couldn't wait anymore for you to invite me. You must have guys here all the time.”

Shawn said, “Mostly me and my dad.”

Then: “Please tell me you really aren't here to tell me to keep my head up, or whatever.”

“Nah,” Ben said, still grinning, “I figure I've got my whole life to start sounding like my parents.”

“So no talking about the game?”

“Not unless you want to,” Ben said. Reached down and picked up a ball and flipped it to Shawn. “Let's just throw it around a little. But I'm warning you: I'm a lot trickier than Chad Ochocinco on Wheels.”

“The thing I like best about him,” Shawn said, nodding at the robot receiver, “is that he doesn't talk. Or tell me how to get better.”

Ben took off down the field, feeling even faster on turf, made a sharp cut. Shawn hit him in the hands with a perfect spiral.

“Let me warm up
my
arm before I send you out,” Ben said, and so the two of them soft-tossed for a few minutes before Ben's arm was loose.

And then for the next half hour or so they both turned it loose, long throws and short ones, buttonhooks and post patterns and fly patterns down the sideline, sometimes dropping back to throw, sometimes throwing on the run, both of them making the occasional diving catch.

“You really don't have guys lining up to come over here?” Ben said.

“Like I said, mostly Dad and me. He calls this my classroom.”

Ben said, “Listen, if this is a classroom, I want to sign up for the course right now.”

“Then you could be his prize pupil,” Shawn said.

They went for a few more minutes. But even here, Ben could see Shawn straining to make every throw perfect, see him talking to himself up the field when he'd miss, one time yelling,
“Idiot!”
when he led Ben too much on a crossing pattern.

It was the same as in the game: No matter how many good throws he'd make, a bad one would make him lose his mind.

Finally they finished, at least for now, both of them out of breath and sweating. Shawn asked Ben if he wanted a drink and Ben said he was fine, Shawn didn't have to go up to the house. But Shawn said he didn't have to go up to the house, walked over behind the bench — underneath the small electronic scoreboard — and took two Gatorades out of a fridge Ben hadn't even noticed at first.

Ben took a swig and said, “The only thing missing, maybe over on the other side of the field, is one of those giant TV screens like they have in real stadiums.”

“Don't give my dad any ideas.”

“It must be amazing, having a dad who played QB in the pros.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said. “You have no idea.”

Shawn stretched out on the bench, Ben on the turf, hands behind heads, staring up into the blue sky, and talked football. Just not Pop Warner football. Not Rockwell vs. Midvale. Shawn wanted to know why Ben ended up a Packers fan and Ben told him he started rooting for Aaron Rodgers after Brett Favre left the Packers, how he felt like Rodgers was an under-dog having to follow Favre in Green Bay, and he'd always rooted for underdogs, maybe because he was small.

“But Rodgers isn't small,” Shawn said.

“Maybe he just seemed smaller when he was starting out, because Favre had been so big for so long,” Ben said.

Shawn said, “I watched all his interviews after the Packers won the Super Bowl last year. The guy always believed that things were gonna work out for him, that he was gonna justify the faith the Packers had in him. And I thought, What's up with
that
? The guy had nothing to go on when he first got the job.”

“You gotta believe in yourself in sports,” Ben said.

“That's what my dad tells me, all the time.”

“Oh, come on, you gotta know how good your arm is,” Ben said.

“What I know is, there's more to being a QB than just having an arm. Or making a few throws.”

Ben rolled over so he was propping himself up on an elbow, looking at Shawn now. “I sort of did come over to talk about the game.”

“Shocker,” Shawn said.

Ben had thought about what he wanted to say to him the whole way over, like it was a talk he had to give in front of the class without any notes.

He took a deep breath.

“Listen,” he said. “My dad said something to me one time I never forgot. We were watching one of the pregame shows and some player said it was a ‘must-win' game for his team. And my dad goes, ‘Okay, but what if you
don't
win?'”

Shawn was sitting up now, long legs crossed in front of him on the bench, his face serious, doing what Ben had asked him to do. Listening.

Whether he was hearing or not was another story.

Ben kept going.

“When you're the quarterback,” Ben said, “everybody's looking at you.
Because
you're the quarterback.”

“And the coach's son,” Shawn said. “Don't forget that part.” He smiled but Ben didn't think he meant it. “I
never
forget.”

“You just gotta forget everything and play.”

“Easy for you to say,” Shawn said.

“We all want to win,” Ben said. “You just can't let losing eat you up like it did yesterday.”