Perfect Season (8 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

“WELL, COME ON.” SETH
started down the concrete steps toward the field. “I won't wear you guys out too bad, but we can get started on the basics and work on your chemistry.”

“Killer Kombo Kemistry.” Chuku grinned. “With three
k
's.”

 

The next day, Troy stared at the locker room door set into the back of the brick junior high school. “At least we got each other.”

Bees buzzed around a big green Dumpster, but otherwise nothing moved in the heat. Beyond the parking lot, the school track circled a grass soccer field.

“You make it sound like we're condemned prisoners,” Chuku said. “We just need to do some push-ups and run a few laps.”

“For time,” Troy reminded him. “In hundred-degree heat.”

“Relax.” Seth adjusted the air-conditioning of his shiny new black truck. “It's only ninety-three, and I'll be here watching. He's not gonna do anything crazy. You guys will be fine.”

“Plus I'm here,” Tate said, snapping her gum from the front seat.

“And you bring what to the table?” Chuku asked.

“Moral support.” Tate spoke with the confidence of a guardian angel.

“I just don't see the point in all this,” Troy said.

“It's supposed to make sure kids who are too young physically aren't brought up just to create bigger numbers,” Seth said. “Every state has it. They don't want kids to get hurt. Anyway, we're here, and there he is. Let's go.”

A small, pale blue Chevy Coupe pulled into the empty lot and Troy knew it had to be Coach Witherspoon. He emerged from the small car like a beetle shedding its skin. The man was enormous. He wore a Summit Wrestling cap and dark clip-on lenses over his glasses, but still used a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Troy got out with Chuku and they went inside with the coach while Seth and Tate waited in the air-conditioned truck.

“Sorry it's so hot today, boys.” Witherspoon clapped Troy on the back with a concrete hand when they reached the gym. “Okay, we'll start with pull-ups. All the way up and all the way down. If you don't go all the way up or all the way down, they don't count.”

Troy swallowed and wiped the sweat from his brow. “How many?”

“How many? As many as you can?” the coach tittered. His face was like a full moon, with features too small for the vast space. His little mouth curled into a smile.

“How many to pass?” Chuku asked.

“Just ten,” Witherspoon said, “so long as they're good ones. Go ahead, hop up.”

Troy had no idea if he could do ten pull-ups. He'd never done them before, but he wasn't going to worry about that now. He jumped up and gripped the bar tight, clenching his jaw with determination. Grunting, he pulled himself up, touched his chin to the bar, then let himself down before pulling up again.

“No good,” Witherspoon said, looking up from a clipboard. “All the way down. Your arms have to be fully extended. I can't just let you boys play varsity if you don't have the strength and endurance to be competitive.”

Troy touched his chin, then let his arms hang all the way straight before starting to pull up again. This time, it was a strain. He grunted and gritted his teeth harder. His chin touched the bar again.

“One,” Witherspoon said encouragingly.

Troy let himself down again and couldn't help glancing at Chuku. Chuku's eyes were wide and his mouth was stretched and frozen in horror. Troy pulled himself up again, straining and nearly missing with his chin.

“Two,” the coach said. “Make sure you touch your chin. That one was real close. You have to be able to do it right to play.”

Troy closed his eyes and let his arms hang straight. He felt a wave of nausea, not because of the strain, but because at this rate he knew he'd never make it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

SOMEHOW, HE DID.

Troy and Chuku, both of them, barely scraped out the required number of exercises. Coach Witherspoon made them do everything by the exact word of the book. He even
had
some book issued by the state. He showed it to them. Troy bet that if anyone else in the world had given them the test, it would have been ten times easier.

When they stepped out into the blazing-hot parking lot, Troy gave Seth and Tate a thumbs-up. Seth grinned from behind his steering wheel and he nudged Tate, who was probably texting Ty, as usual. The new truck's engine whirred like a jet engine to keep the cool AC pumping despite the heat. Chrome from the grille and rims glittered in the sun. Troy's limbs felt numb as he staggered after Coach Witherspoon across the lot and out onto the track. Troy stopped and Chuku bumped into him, nearly sending them both sprawling on the steaming rubber surface.

“You okay?” Troy asked under his breath.

“I'm ready to fall over,” Chuku said.

“Just this mile and we're done.”

“Then the pool back at my place,” Chuku said.

“That's it, think of the pool. We both will.”

“Iced tea,” Chuku said. “Sweet. With lemon.”

Troy licked his dry lips. “Okay, enough. Focus on the mile. I know you're fast, but don't jump out like a jackrabbit. You gotta pace yourself, so stay with me.”

Chuku nodded.

Witherspoon dropped his clipboard in the grass just off the track. Without any ceremony, he held up his stopwatch.

“Four laps. Eight minutes. Ready? Go!”

Neither of them was ready, but Troy could see that Witherspoon had already started the watch. He grabbed Chuku's shoulder, tugging him along. “Come on, let's go!”

Troy made the first bend by forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. His legs were Jell-O from the fifty squat-thrusts Coach Witherspoon had made them do in under three minutes. No one had said anything about squat-thrusts, but there they were. Chuku stumbled.

“Dig
deep
!” Troy knew the whole thing about playing at Summit meant more to him than Chuku. Even as a long snapper, Chuku's dad made enough to send him to St. Stephen's with Ty if he really wanted. Chuku could tell Witherspoon and the rest of Summit to pound sand.

“Come on.” Troy huffed.

“What'd you say?” Chuku huffed and puffed.

“Nothing. Come on. Dig deep.”

They were closing in on the first lap. Witherspoon counted out loud.

“One minute forty-seven, one minute forty-eight, one minute forty-nine . . .”

Troy did a quick calculation. They'd have to do almost as good on the next three laps as they had on the first. He also knew the way his legs felt and the way Chuku was staggering that it wasn't likely. Pain burned through the numbness of his legs. By the second lap, they'd eroded much of their cushion.

Sweat glistened on Coach Witherspoon's pasty forehead and he called out, “Three minutes fifty-seven, three fifty-eight, three fifty-nine.”

Even if they kept the rate of the second lap, it wouldn't be good enough. A sharp pain attacked Troy's side and he twisted his body, seeking some relief.

“What's wrong?” Chuku huffed out.

“Cramp.” Troy winced. He felt hot tears in his eyes. It was so unfair. It had to be a hundred degrees on the hot rubber track, likely more.

The cramp only got worse. It felt like a knife in his gut.

There was no way Troy could make it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

IT WAS CHUKU'S TURN
to pull Troy along. “We can do this.”

As they closed out the third lap, Troy realized Seth had gotten out of his truck. He stood on the edge of the grass like a soldier with his hands clasped behind his back, his face unmoving, and his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Tate stood beside him with her arms folded and when she saw Troy looking, she pumped a fist in the air. The sight of them gave Troy a surge of determination.

“Six minutes ten, six eleven, six twelve . . .”

Troy knew he'd have to run his fastest lap yet, even though his insides burned more than his legs. A grunt escaped him from somewhere deep down inside. He pumped his arms, focusing on them because he knew his legs would follow, and his arms were the only thing on his body not crying out in pain.

“Come. Run.” Those were the only words he could grunt out to Chuku as he began to pull away. He didn't want to leave Chuku, but he had to. He couldn't fall short, even if Chuku did. Chuku had options; Troy had none.

It seemed like forever. He could only dream of water and shade, shade and water, oh, how he'd suck them both up like a sponge. Troy took the final turn thinking that he'd never make it. Just then, with the slap of feet on the track and the high-pitched wheezing of a dying man, Chuku surged past him, pumping his head up and down like an idiot doll.

“Come on! Come on!” Chuku urged.

Troy pumped his head, too. Maybe it would work. He could hear Witherspoon's heartless counting.

“Seven forty-nine, seven fifty, seven fifty-one . . .”

Troy pumped and grunted and groaned so loud, he lost track of the numbers. He pulled even with Chuku.

“Yes!” Chuku's choked scream urged him on even more.

Together they stumbled and threw themselves across the line, tripping into two heaps on the track.

Troy rolled over and looked up, sucking in air and twisting in pain. He shielded his eyes from the sun to try to read the coach's face.

“Did we make it?” Troy croaked.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

COACH WITHERSPOON WAS SMILING.
He held up his watch to show eight minutes exactly. “You did it, boys!”

Seth's deep belly laugh thundered across the field, cut intermittently by Tate's high-pitched squeals of delight.

“I'll go in and do the paperwork to make it official,” Coach Witherspoon said.

“Ha!” Troy burst out, reaching for Chuku. They clasped hands and nodded from where they lay on the ground. As the world stopped its spinning, they watched Coach Witherspoon march off.

“We made it!” Troy hooted and doubled over, lying on his side. Chuku slapped him repeatedly on the back, roaring with laughter himself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

SETH HAD THE NAME
and phone numbers for last year's players, and he wasn't wasting a minute getting a team together. He sat down with Mr. Biondi as well as Coach Witherspoon to add wrestlers, basketball players, baseball players, and lacrosse players—kids who had the skills but no desire to play on a losing football team—to the mix.

With a list of nearly sixty potential candidates Seth burned up the phone lines talking about how Summit would have a winning season.

A few days later, forty-three players showed up to get their lockers. The roster was nearly double what it had been in the past few years. Eighteen of the recruits hadn't played football in high school before.

Troy and Chuku traded glances as the older kids marched in, many of them with whiskers or the shadows from shaving. At least ten were enormous, over two hundred and fifty pounds by Troy's guess, and a couple looked as if they'd tilt the scales at three hundred.

Clustered in a rough semicircle around a huge greaseboard in the makeshift team room, their faces glowed with admiration at the sight of Seth Halloway, the Falcons' star linebacker. Many couldn't keep themselves from pointing and whispering in giddy undertones.

To a man, they eyed Chuku and Troy with curiosity and suspicion. Troy folded his arms across his chest and sat up as straight as he could, feeling skinny and young. Chuku didn't seem to mind as much, but he wasn't saying anything, either, and that was unusual.

The excitement in the room swelled as Seth introduced some of his new coaches, starting with Coach Sindoni, the offensive coordinator from CBA. Wes Dove, an old friend and college teammate of Seth's who played with the Seahawks, would coach the offensive line. Ron Osinski coached Seth in high school. He'd take the defensive backs and also coach the running backs, while Frank Conover from the Cleveland Browns handled the defensive line.

After handing out a calendar for the summer schedule that included all the voluntary practices, Seth lectured the players about what he expected from them on and off the field. It seemed as if he'd finished when he cleared his throat and motioned Troy and Chuku to come up to stand beside him.

“Now,” Seth said. “I'm sure you've seen these two. This is Troy White and Chuku Moore, and they
are
different. They're eighth graders, younger than any of you, younger than any players you're likely to see on a high school varsity team. They're here because they will help us win. That's what this is all about. You guys are gonna work like you never imagined, but it's gonna pay off. The payoff in football is winning, something you haven't experienced. That all changes. These two will go through tryouts just like the rest of you. They both had to pass a pretty vigorous physical test to make it here, and when you see what they bring to our football team, you'll be glad we have them.

“All right, I've got your locks here. Seniors come up first, you get to choose your lockers, then juniors and on down the line.”

The room erupted and Troy and Chuku stood aside. No one said anything to either of them until a huge lineman Troy recognized as Mr. Bryant's son held out a meaty hand.

“I'm Chance.” His voice was as big as he was and his hand swallowed Troy's whole like a gumdrop.

“Troy.”

Chance grinned. “Glad you're here. You, too.”

Chance shook Chuku's hand, then disappeared toward the locker room with the other seniors.

“Thanks.” Troy blinked at the older player's enormous back and nudged Chuku. “Nice, right?”

Chuku rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Man, by the time we get our locks, we'll get stuck in the corners.”

“Who cares,” Troy said. “We're on the
varsity.
”

“Just where we belong, dawg. Just where we belong.”

Troy and Chuku finally got their locks from Seth.

“I hope I didn't embarrass you guys,” Seth said, “but I figured meet this thing head-on.”

“We're not
that
young,” Chuku said.

Seth raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. “That apartment you got doesn't have any mirrors?”

Chuku laughed.

“Look.” Seth's face turned serious. “I want these guys to treat you with respect, but there's also going to be a little razzing you're gonna have to put up with. Just go with it, okay? Troy? Don't get hotheaded on me. Let the small stuff slide.”

“No problem,” Troy said. “Really. I got it. Come on, Chuku.”

Chuku followed Troy out the side door of the team room, down the hallway, and into the locker room, which was next to the gym. Chatter bounced off the tile walls like rain pounding a tin roof. When Troy and Chuku walked in, it got quiet.

One of the older players who had a brush cut with dark hair and eyes so blue they were closer to purple broke out of the crowd and sauntered over to Chuku and Troy.

He pointed at the corner of the locker room where two empty lockers stood gaping at them. “That'll be our kindergarten corner.”

The older player snickered and Troy noticed the barbed-wire tattoo circling the muscles of his upper right arm.

“Tell 'em, Grant!” someone from the crowd shouted, then cackled.

Troy looked to where Chance Bryant was sitting on the bench in front of his locker on the far side of the room, so intent on screwing a cleat into the bottom of his shoe that his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. Troy's fist was clenching for a fight, but Chuku grabbed him and propelled him toward the empty lockers.

“Just let us know when nap time is over and we'll meet you guys down on the field,” Chuku said.

Several of the players laughed. Seth tooted his whistle from the door and told them to get into their cleats and get down on the field in five, and the normal bustle returned to the room.

Troy leaned close and his voice was hot. “
Nap time?
Seriously? You had to go along with that junk?”

“Come on.” Chuku slapped him on the back. “Let's do our talking on the field.”