The Prophet (19 page)

He lengthened his stride, a good sweat coming now, and tried to tell himself that he didn’t want to win as badly as he felt he did, tried to tell himself that it wouldn’t prove anything about him. A win or a loss made no difference. Chambers had enjoyed a good year and he was sending good boys out into the world better prepared to be good men.

More wins did not matter.

But, oh, how he wanted them.

I will not be defined by a trophy,
he often said, but it was easy to say you would not be defined by something you didn’t have.

It was a packed house, and by arriving late, Adam and Chelsea lost any chance at finding a comfortable seat in the bleachers with a decent view. He didn’t like crowds, anyhow, so they just stood at the fence, positioned behind the end zone. If Chelsea minded having to stand, she didn’t say anything about it. Casual fans loved to be centered up on the field—ticket prices for pro games rise every ten yards between the goal line and the fifty, the fifty being considered the best seats in the house. But in Adam’s opinion, the difference between someone who just enjoyed football and someone who truly knew the game was that someone who knew the game wanted to watch from a position that put him in synch with the action. The game moved vertically, so why sit in a position where you were always at right angles to the action? There was such disconnect. Adam had played middle linebacker, and the way he wanted to see the game was the way he’d always watched it unfold from the field—facing down the quarterback and the offensive line, reading his keys, trying to determine the play calls.

Walter Ward Field had bleachers for twelve thousand. Not bad for a small town, but it wasn’t Massillon, either, where the population was the same but the stadium seated almost twenty
thousand, the band was essentially a Rose Bowl Parade every week, and there was a live tiger on the sidelines. Massillon had won fifteen state championships in twenty years at one point. Their rivalry with Canton McKinley was, in Adam’s mind and much of America’s, the greatest high school rivalry in history. Both schools were in Stark County, and during one thirty-two-year stretch, the two combined for twenty-eight state championships. It was the gold standard of high school football, and his brother was obsessed with the program’s history, always had been, but their field hadn’t been good to him. His division played the championship game at Massillon. He’d lost both of those tries on the hallowed ground he so adored.

Now, the pep band banging away and cheerleaders screaming and twelve thousand people clapping and shouting, Adam stood with his arms folded behind the north end zone and watched his brother’s squad. They’d gotten the kickoff but somehow did not have the ball any longer; it appeared they’d punted. Kent’s script, of course. Another Walter Ward technique, and one Adam hated. Football was played best when it was played fast and loose, and scripts were the enemy of fast and loose.

The Chambers defense was solid, though Adam thought they should be playing a 4–3 base and not the 3–4 that Byers always used. The 4–3 allowed for better flexibility and adjustments and, the way Adam would approach it, more aggression. Chambers had enough athletes and hitters to put better pressure on the quarterback than they did. All that said, the kids didn’t make mistakes. They knew their responsibilities and upheld them. Nobody prepared a team quite like Kent. If he ever let the kids know that it was okay to
want
it, to really play with a desperate need to win, he’d start putting trophies in the case. But to do that he’d have to admit it to himself first.

Hickory Hills punted; Chambers got the ball back in great position and went to Colin Mears on a stick route—sprint ten
yards out, spin back, know that the ball would be there. The ball was there, but he didn’t catch it. Adam watched him slap his helmet and didn’t like what he saw. Too much tension.

In the rest of the half, they threw to Mears five more times. He caught one of them—barely. Bobbled it and probably would have dropped it again if he hadn’t taken a shot from the cornerback that actually drove him back toward the floating ball, and he got his right hand on it and pulled it in when he went down. The crowd gave that a standing ovation, and Adam could tell the kid hated it. Sympathy applause. The kid understood just what it was, and it hurt him.

The running game was strong, though, and the defense was better, picking off two passes and forcing a fumble. It was 20–10 at the half. All was well with the Chambers Cardinals.

Most of them, at least.

“Rachel’s boyfriend doesn’t look too good,” Chelsea said.

“No,” Adam answered. He didn’t speak much during the games, and she never intruded. Now that the action was paused, though, she turned to him and said, “Do you miss it? Being out there?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Did you ever want to coach?”

“I would have liked to coach with my brother. Defensive coordinator, that’s what I would have liked.”

“You could have let Kent be your boss?” She said it like she didn’t believe it.

“Absolutely. Nothing about being head coach appeals. All the bullshit that goes with it, the school boards and the parents and the boosters, the media, that’s not for me. Kent’s good at that stuff, he’s got the right temperament. He needs a good defensive coach, though. Byers isn’t bad, but I’d be a hell of a lot better. He doesn’t see enough. You watch the second half, you won’t see many defensive adjustments. It’s why they need to score so damn
much. Kent likes that, of course, he’s good at it. The passing game, he’s in love with that. Most men dream of women and riches. My brother dreams of the play-action post.”

She was watching him with a curious gaze, and he said, “What?”

“I’m surprised you would have been willing to work for him.”

He shrugged. “Would have been fun, I think. He’s the right head coach. I could have helped, though. I’m pretty sure I could have helped.”

In the locker room, Kent praised his secondary and chewed out his defensive linemen for not getting better pressure on the quarterback, reminding them that Hickory Hills was going to have to try to pass their way back into the game, and the less time they had to do that, the better. He made a few changes offensively, instructing Lorell to be aware of the way they kept shading a safety over the top to help on Colin—it was leaving opportunities in the slot that he was missing. Lorell nodded, but he wouldn’t look at Colin, and Colin wouldn’t look at anyone. They were all thinking the same thing: it was unlikely that safety was going to be helping out on Colin in the second half, not when he couldn’t catch anything.

“You’ve got to close it out,” Kent said. “This is a team that can put points on the board in a hurry if you give them chances. Let’s not give them chances.”

There were claps and shouts and then they were on their feet and headed out, and Kent got a hand on Colin’s shoulder as he went by.

“Look at me, son. Look at me.”

Colin lifted his head. “I’m sorry, Coach. I’ll get it fixed.”

“I know you will. Drop it down a gear, okay? You’re running routes like there are scouts with stopwatches on you. Run them like it’s a football game instead. Your fourth gear is more than
those guys can handle, anyhow. Slow it down, start with the football and
then
think about the end zone. All right?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get it fixed.”

They left the locker room then, and Kent held back, turned to Steve Haskins, and asked if he’d heard a halftime score in the Saint Anthony’s game. Haskins always checked the scores, and Kent had chewed him out for it before, so he wasn’t surprised to see a flicker of a smile in his assistant’s eyes.

“They’re up ten.”

Kent nodded.

“Here they come, right?” Haskins said.

“No.” Kent shook his head. “Here we come.”

Chambers scored twice in the third and ate the clock in the fourth.

Four times, McCoy found Colin Mears. Four times, Colin Mears couldn’t handle the pass. Adam wasn’t surprised. Had expected this after the first drop, seeing the boy’s reaction to a ball he’d always caught and somehow had missed. After the last drop, Mears got into a shoving match with the Hickory Hills cornerback and got flagged for unsportsmanlike conduct. Kent took him out then. Mears stood at the end of the sideline, alone, and refused to take off his helmet.

When it was 34–13 and Lorell McCoy took a knee, Adam left the field as the rest of the crowd rose in raucous applause. He passed behind the home bench on his way out, but Kent had his back turned.

A
ND SO THEY WERE UNDER WAY
. A dominant win over a quality opponent, the perfect season continuing without so much as a hiccup.

Unless you’d watched the game.

There’d been a hiccup, and his name was Colin Mears, and Kent wasn’t certain what he wanted to do about this. The kid ran the same routes he always ran, Lorell McCoy delivered the ball to him in stride just as he always had. The only thing that had changed was Colin’s ability to catch the ball. Kent wasn’t surprised. Some kids were able to use the game as therapy, to cleanse their minds on the field, but others brought emotional burdens between the lines with them. Colin, the product of a secure, untroubled childhood, likely fit into the latter category. The issue was finding a way to get him to understand that it was fine, which was no easy task, because the boy had already determined that his performance on the field meant something, was some form of atonement.

“He’s caught too many balls for too long,” Kent said when he met with the coaches that night. “He’s not going to keep dropping them. He’ll be back.”

“Maybe you try a gimmick,” Matt Byers said.

“Such as?”

“Take his gloves off, maybe.”

“He’s going to have an easier time holding onto the ball without gloves?”

“Technically speaking, no. Mentally? Maybe.”

Kent thought about it and nodded. “We’ll try it. Change is good for him. Distraction is good. We’ll give it a try.” He looked at Haskins. “You got a final in the Saint Anthony’s game?”

“They won by twenty-four.”

“No surprise there,” Byers said. “But this year we’ve got them. This year we’re going to run their asses into the ground. Provided Mears can start catching the damn ball.”

“He’ll be ready to go,” Kent said. “And
we
need to be. This one won’t be easy.”

It wouldn’t be. This year, Chambers had the better team. But still Kent felt dry-mouthed thinking about Saint Anthony’s. He knew that Scott Bless was already looking at video, already considering moves he could make that he hadn’t made all season, ways to leave Chambers flat-footed and unprepared. The coaches were watching Kent, everyone well aware of what he was thinking. Bless was his nemesis. Kent had one of the best career records of any active coach in the state, but he had a goose egg against Scott Bless.

“Meet at nine,” he said. “Have your film watched, have your reports ready. This one won’t be easy.”

It wouldn’t be, but he was excited, excited because he believed he had the better team, excited that they’d gotten through this week and put another win on the board and things were, finally, starting to feel right again.

Matt Byers returned to his office with a note just as Kent was preparing to turn off the lights. A sealed envelope addressed
For Coach Austin.

“This was on the floor,” Matt said. “Someone slipped it under the door.”

Kent tossed it into his bag among the play scripts and the notes. It might be fan mail or it might be a complaint from disgruntled parents who wanted more reps for their son, but it would not be imperative.

He should have gotten to the letter earlier, but he was distracted the next morning by a phone call from Colin’s mother, Robin Mears, asking him what his thoughts on Colin were.

“Robin, you can’t expect him to play like normal. He’s not normal right now. He can’t just drop all of those burdens off on the sideline and check in to the game. I’d love it if he could, and I know that he’s trying to, but the reality is the game used to feel natural to him, and right now, nothing in the world feels natural to him. Everything’s out of balance.”

“He was so upset, Coach Austin. I don’t think he slept at all last night. I found him in the yard at three in the morning, just sitting on the picnic table, crying. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t talk. Couldn’t.”

“That’s how it’ll go, for a time,” Kent said gently. “He’ll need space for some of it. Other times, he’s going to need you. You’re doing all the right things. Be ready when he needs you, and step back a little when he needs the space. There’s no quick fix for loss, for grief. You’re doing all the right things.”

And so it went, for forty-five minutes of conversation, and he hung up feeling wrung out, because he could explain it to her, but he couldn’t make her
know
it,
feel
it, couldn’t do anything for her except offer words, and the words felt hollow. So he offered a prayer next, because prayers were never hollow, and then he tried to get to work.

We’ll try getting him to play without gloves,
he thought as he drove to the school.
Maybe Matt is right, maybe that will help.

Then, as he pulled into the parking lot, he found himself feeling self-loathing over that, because his thoughts had ebbed, quickly but totally, from concern over the boy’s mental and emotional health to concern about what the Saint Anthony’s defense might do if they realized he was no longer the threat he had been. Their coaches would be watching the game video; they’d be watching those stunning drops. And remembering them. Come next Friday night, if he dropped a few more? If they saw early in the game that Colin Mears was not worthy of double coverage and began to jam the box? Then the Cardinals would be in real trouble.

Can’t think about that,
Kent told himself.
It’s pathetic, Austin, it’s shameful.

But still it was happening. Because he wanted to win this game, and all those on the other side of it. Wanted it more than he could dare show, wanted it so bad it was hard to sleep and hard to breathe and hard to remember the things he should remember, because while the only thing that really mattered about Colin Mears right now was in his mind and soul and not in his hands, the first things Kent wanted fixed, in the darkest corner of his heart, were the hands.
Catch the ball, son, and then we’ll put the rest of you back together. But first start catching the damned ball.