Stick (21 page)

S
ilence in the locker room. The coaches stood in a line, facing the team, with Coach Larson front and center. I expected him to flay us alive, to rant and rage, but he didn't. He cleared his throat. “We are here to win a football game.” He pointed outside. “We do not have a rivalry with that team. They might see it that way, and everybody else might see it that way, but this team will not. We have an opponent to overcome, and we will. We'll play straight and hard and smart, and we'll play
our
game, not theirs. That spectacle out there could have cost us the season, gentlemen,” he said, staring at Kody and Jason. “I will not have any player play for himself. If I see anything,
anything at all,
that even hints of dirty play out there, I'll bench your ass, strip your jersey, and kick you off this team. You don't even need to have a flag thrown on you. If I see it, you're out. Understood?”

As one, we yelled, “Yessir!”

He smiled. “This is the best team I've ever coached, and it's not because we win, it's because of how we play. Let's keep it that way, gentlemen. Now, let's get out there and kick ass the
right
way. We can't lose if we do.”

As we took the field, Coach Larson spoke to Ben and Jordan, then waved me over. “Patterson, you're going to learn today how to use your opponents' emotions to beat them. They hate you, right? They've proved it, proved themselves, and shown what kind of ball they play.”

“Yessir.”

He nodded. “That means you control them, and it also means you can make them beat themselves. You know how to do that?”

I shook my head.

“The better you do, the more emotional they'll play. The more you don't react to them, the harder they'll try to get you to. What happens when you play with emotions, Patterson?”

“You lose, sir.”

“That's right. You go out and play the best game of your life and you'll see them crumble.” He slapped my shoulder pads. “Get out there and play.”

I smiled, and I did just that.
We
did just that. Coach hammered them with me. He called the ball to me eight times out of nine plays, and I could almost feel the volcano of rage coming from Coach Williams as he bellowed from the sidelines.

Mike couldn't keep up with me, and every time I saw him on the sidelines, Coach Williams was in his face. I almost felt bad for him. By the middle of the fourth quarter, we were up 28–14, and I'd scored three of the four touchdowns. Killinger was falling apart, and so was his line. He was sacked four times, threw an interception, and fumbled the ball once.

A few moments after I saw Coach light into Mike once again, we lined up. I looked across to Mike, getting in position. “You like playing this way, Mike?” I called to him.

He had not said a word since the first play, but every time he took the field after being raked over by Coach, I could see the light leaving his eyes. He shook his head, and I could tell he was done. Finished. “No, I don't.”

“Then why do you?” I said as Ben called the snap. Mike was paying attention to me, not Ben, and he missed the call, caught flat-footed as I sprinted past him. Ben threw long, and as I hit my spot, five yards from the end zone, Mike was seconds behind me. The ball fell into my hands like a present from heaven, and I glided in for a touchdown.

With that, Coach Williams lost it. He charged to Mike and ripped into him. He ignored the ref, who was trying to get him off the field. Mike stood there, head down and taking the abuse. During the onslaught, Mike looked up at me, our eyes met, and he took his helmet off. He dropped it on the grass and walked away.

Coach Williams glared after Mike. I trotted past him, ball in hand, heading for the sideline. In a fury, Coach growled at me. “You got something to say, Patterson?”

I stopped dead in my tracks, and we stood facing each other, just him and me. And looking into his eyes, I realized I didn't hate him. I wasn't even mad at him. If anything, I felt sorry for him. “No, Coach. I don't have anything to say. I'd rather show you.”

Six minutes later, we walked off the field with the scoreboard reading 35–14. We'd routed them, and I knew I'd won something much more important than just a football game.

I'd like to thank all the great coaches I had growing up. They taught me what the true definition of being a team player is and, more importantly, that good sportsmanship doesn't have anything to do with playing a game. It has to do with life.

Michael Harmon
was born in Los Angeles and now lives in the Pacific Northwest. He dropped out of high school as a senior and draws on many of his own experiences in his award-winning fiction for young adults. Learn more about Michael and his books at
BooksbyHarmon.com
.