Gym Candy (21 page)

Our defense held, and we were back on the field. We managed a couple of first downs before we had to punt. The whole game was stuck—neither team could do anything. Right before halftime, the Liberty kicker punched through a thirty-two-yard field goal. The ball actually hit the goalpost, but it flopped through on the opposite side, and those three points were the only points of the half.

During halftime, Carlson fumed. "You thought you were going to walk in here with your undefeated record and they were going to roll over for you, but they're not. I don't like losing when the other team is better, but I hate losing to a team that isn't as good. There's one reason they're ahead: they want it more than you. And they're going to beat you unless you turn it around. Now go out there and play some football."

For the rest of the break, the guys stretched out on
the benches, resting. But I was too keyed up to do that. I kept pacing back and forth. "Sit down, Mick," Middleton said. "You're making me tired."

I broke a few tackles on my first run of the second half, and then a few more tackles on the next run, and I could tell the Liberty defenders were back on their heels. We had the ball, second and four at their thirty-eight. I took Drew's handoff and worked my way toward the sideline, forcing them to pursue laterally. Driessen made a great block on their middle linebacker, and I cut upfield behind it. I had a full head of steam going as I broke into the secondary. A safety came up to try to tackle me, but I lowered my shoulder, sent him sprawling, and staggered toward the goal line before tumbling into the end zone for the first touchdown of the game. Shilshole 7, Liberty 3.

Liberty took the kickoff, but a holding penalty pushed them back into the shadow of their goalposts. Because of their terrible field position, they ran three straight running plays, and a bad punt gave us great field position. On first down, Carlson called the same stretch play again. I broke into the secondary, and there was that same safety coming up on me again. I'd embarrassed the guy the time before. He was a football player—he wanted to get revenge by laying a big
hit on me, so I used that against him. Instead of taking him on, I juked left, took one step right, and then went left. He crossed his feet trying to stay with my move and then tripped and fell. I was by him like a flash. Shilshole 14, Liberty 3.

I thought we'd broken them. I thought our defense would hold them and that I'd be back on the field in minutes. I could hardly wait to get out there and crack that defense again, crack it the way you crack an egg against a pan.

But Liberty didn't quit. They slogged to a couple of first downs, and then, on a third and four near mid-field, they burned us with a trick play. It looked like their stock running play: a pitchout to their halfback sweeping right. The play developed slowly ... too slowly. As our cornerback came up to tackle him, the halfback dropped back into a passing position. And there was Liberty's quarterback, streaking down the left side of the field, totally uncovered.

The halfback's pass was a wobbly spiral, but it led the quarterback perfectly. He caught the ball in stride and then raced down the sideline for their first touchdown. Liberty went for two on the conversion, hoping to pull within a field goal, but their fullback was stopped short.

Shilshole 14, Liberty 9.

The Liberty crowd went crazy and the players were pumped up, smelling the upset victory over the undefeated, ranked team. And they had the momentum back, no doubt about it. Still, there were only five minutes left in the game. If we could run out the clock, we'd have it—a win against a good team on the road.

Carlson put the game on my shoulders. I was still strong, still feeling jacked up, while everyone else was slowing. On first down, I took the ball for eight yards right up the middle, and then went off tackle for seven and a first down on the next play. Four minutes and change left in the game.

The next play was a quick pitch. I'd been cutting back all game long. This time, I went for the corner, never even looking for a lane. I got it, too, and I was in the open field with nothing but green grass ahead of me. Fifty ... forty ... thirty ... twenty ... fifteen ... ten—

That's when I eased up. And that's when their safety—the guy I'd beaten twice—reached in from behind and poked the ball free. It skittered into the end zone, and before I realized what was happening, he flopped on it. In seconds I'd gone from hero to goat; I'd fumbled away the ball—and perhaps the game and the season along with it.

The Liberty safety stood up, the football tucked under his arm, and smirked at me. A black rage came over me, the same black rage I'd felt when DeShawn had brought the penalty flag fluttering in. But the Liberty safety wasn't ninety yards away. The Liberty guy wasn't ten seconds away. There was no time for me to think, to gather control, to pull back. He was right there.

The rage took over.

I knew the play was dead, that it was a touchback, that he couldn't run the ball out of the end zone. I knew those things, but I leveled him anyway—stuck my helmet into his ribs and drove him into the turf, wiping that smirk off his face. He lay on the ground, rolling this way and that, writhing in pain.

Yellow penalty flags flew all around me. Personal foul—fifteen yards: I knew that was coming. But then the ref pointed at me and pointed to the tunnel. I'd been ejected.

"I thought he could run!" I screamed. "I thought he could run!"

The ref turned and walked away. I started after him, but DeShawn intercepted me. A second later Carlson had me by the elbow. "Go to the locker room, Mick," he said. "Now."

A chorus of boos cascaded down from the stands. I
looked back to the field. The trainer from Liberty was out on the field; the player I'd hit was still down, still rolling in pain. In that instant, I knew that what I'd done was out of line—crazy and dangerous—and I was ashamed.

As I walked down the tunnel leading to the locker room, the Liberty fans were up screaming at me, calling me a cheap shot artist and a thug. Somebody threw a Coke in my face.

Once in the locker room, I went straight to a sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed it on my face. What had happened to me? The rage had come so fast and with such fury that I'd been powerless. It had come like a meteor falling from the sky. No, not like a meteor, like a bomb.

I'd been in the locker room about five minutes when Mr. Stimes came in. I was sure he was going to tell me that Liberty had marched down the field and scored, sure that we'd lost because of my idiotic penalty, but Stimes gave me the thumbs-up. "We won," he said.

"That's good," I answered. "Is the guy I hit okay?"

Stimes shrugged. "I'm sure he's felt better, but he walked off on his own power." He paused. "Coach doesn't want you in the locker room when the team gets here. So grab your stuff and get onto the bus."

I sat alone on the bus for half an hour before the team boarded. I took a window seat up front and stared into the street as the guys filed past me. The bus ride back took forty minutes, but it seemed like forty hours. I was certain Carlson would come chew me out—I
wanted
him to come chew me out—but he never even looked at me.

When the bus pulled into the school parking lot, I grabbed my duffel and was the first player off. My Jeep was parked toward the tennis courts. I had it started and was out of the parking lot before ten guys were off the bus.

My dad had been at the game, right on the fifty, his usual spot. I was sure he'd be sitting at the kitchen table. I thought about driving around for a couple of hours to wait him out. But what would have been the point?

I parked in the driveway next to his truck. When I opened the front door, I saw the light in the kitchen. I went in. His eyes were bright with anger. "What was that all about, Mick?" he said. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Does Mom know?"

He shook his head. "No. I told her you had a good game. Which was true, by the way, until you trashed it."

"Will it be in the newspaper tomorrow?"

"I doubt it. Writers go easy on high school kids. But if you pull something like that in college, it'll be on
SportsCenter.
The whole country will see it."

For a while neither of us spoke. Then he waved his hand, dismissing me. "Go to bed. There's nothing to be said."

Monday morning, I was called out of English class to the library annex. When I got there, Carlson was sitting behind a desk. He motioned for me to sit, folded his hands on the desk, and then leaned forward, fixing me with his eye. "I like you, Mick. I like your intensity and effort. You run the way you've shown you're capable of running and nobody will beat us. I'm talking state title. But there's absolutely no room in the game for cheap shots. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry for what I did."

"Yeah, well, I'm glad to hear it. But being sorry isn't enough. Actions have consequences, which is why I'm suspending you from the team. You won't play this week."

"But—"

"No discussion, Mick. Go back to class."

***

Every afternoon that week I stood along the sidelines in my street clothes. I clapped and called out "Good play!" whenever anyone did something good. I kept a smile on my face, but inside I was tied in knots. I respected Carlson; I respected everything about him. I didn't want him thinking I was some cheap shot artist. I wanted him to respect me. But I wanted to play, too. I wanted to play and I wanted to win. What I needed was time, time to figure it all out. Only a football season doesn't take a time-out; it goes like a whirlwind.

The hardest part was talking with my mom. My dad had been right—the newspapers hadn't reported anything about the ejection. I would have been so embarrassed, so ashamed, if she'd ever found out what I'd done. But because she didn't know, I had to make up some explanation for missing Friday's game. On Wednesday I decided to tell her that I was going to sit out because my ankle was sore. But once I told that lie, she kept asking me about my injury and I had to lie over and over.

Carlson wouldn't let me stand along the sidelines, so I watched Friday's game against Bothell from the top row of Memorial Stadium. From up there, I spotted Kaylee and her friends down just behind the band. I thought about going down and sitting with them, but since I'd skipped Heather's party, I was pretty sure they wouldn't want me.

It was tough watching. You play together with guys week after week and suddenly you're not there with them, and a feeling of emptiness comes to you. We needed to keep winning to make it to the playoffs, but there was nothing I could do to help.

We started the game decently. All through the first half, Dave Kane ran hard. On a couple of plays I was sure that if I'd been out there, I could have broken a long one, and then I'd feel sick inside, but Kane kept moving the ball forward, and he didn't fumble. When we did get in third-and-long situations, Drew was on the money with his passes.

We scored the first three times we had the ball. DeShawn hauled in a pass in the corner of the end zone on a fade pattern for our first touchdown. The second drive stalled, but K. J. Solomon kicked a fortyyard field goal, his longest kick of the year, to push the score to 10–0. Early in the second quarter, Kane bulled over from the four-yard line, carrying two Bothell guys into the end zone with him. The extra point made our lead 17–0.

That's when the momentum turned.

Solomon's kickoff was a short line drive. The Bothell returner took it on the dead run, followed the wedge of blockers up the middle, broke left, and was gone. His seventy-yard runback cut the lead to 17–7, and it brought the Bothell players back from the dead.

If we'd been able to sustain a drive and get a touchdown or a field goal or even a couple of first downs, we'd have regained the momentum, but Bothell's defense stuffed Kane on two runs and then batted down Drew's third-down pass. After a short punt, Bothell took over and drove right down the field, scoring on a flanker reverse. Their kicker missed the extra point, so at the half our lead was 17–13.

The third quarter was one of those quarters in which nothing happens. Bothell would get a couple of first downs, then stall because of a penalty or a dropped pass and have to punt. We'd get a couple of first downs, then stall because of a penalty or a dropped pass and have to punt. All we managed was one field goal to
push the lead to 20–13.

By the time the fourth quarter began, I was pacing back and forth by the wall at the top of the stadium. I ached to be down on the field, the ball under my arm, the blockers pushing forward.

The quarter started ugly: lots of penalties, lots of dropped passes, lots of blown assignments, lots of nothing. But with five minutes left in the game, Drew found DeShawn over the middle with a perfect strike. He had one safety to beat, and for a split second it looked as though he might break into the clear. But the Bothell guy didn't go for DeShawn's move, and as he made the tackle, he stuck his helmet right on the football. It popped loose, and another Bothell player fell on the fumble. Instead of scoring a game-clinching touchdown, we'd turned the ball over near midfield.

"Hold them!" I shouted, and my voice echoed off the wall so loudly that some adults from down below turned and looked up at me. I didn't care. "Hold them!" I shouted again and again.

The Bothell drive ate up the clock—no big plays at all. It was three yards here and four yards there. Twice Bothell converted on fourth-down plays. Their drive was part skill, part luck, and part determination. With thirty-one seconds left, the quarterback punched the
ball into the end zone on a sneak. Our lead had shrunk to 20–19.

They'd blown one conversion already, and their kicker looked shaky, so the extra point was anything but automatic. Everyone was up screaming. The snap was good. The placekicker drove forward with his kicking motion. It wasn't until no ball came off his foot that I realized the fake was on. That's when I spotted the holder. He had the ball and was rolling out to his right. In the end zone was a tight end, wide open, with no Shilshole defender within ten yards. It was right there, the two-point conversion, the win, and the end of our run to glory. All the Bothell guy had to do was toss the football to his buddy, the kind of toss he must have made a million times. But with the pressure on, he short-armed it. The ball wobbled out into the flat; the tight end came back for it, diving. He got his hands on it, and for an instant I thought he'd win the game for them with a miracle catch, but the ball hit off his fingertips and bounced harmlessly away. The guy who'd thrown the pass fell to his knees and pounded the ground as our guys jumped around and hugged one another. We'd gotten the win. It had been close, and it had taken luck, but a W is a W.