The Roar of the Crowd (2 page)

“It was an emergency,” Donald said. “I’d faint if I had to walk all the way home without eating.”

Manny had been teammates with Donald before, in Little League baseball and on a parish soccer team. Neither had played organized football before this year, but they’d be entering sixth grade in a few days and figured it was about time. Manny was a little surprised they’d made it through the cuts and actually won places on the roster. Now he was wondering if he should have stuck with soccer, where he was sure he’d be playing instead of sitting on the bench.

“That stunk getting in for only one play,” Manny said. “Weren’t you angry?”

“Sort of,” Donald said. “That’s the breaks though. Most of these guys have been playing football since third grade. We’re new at it.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

They walked along in silence for a few minutes, sipping their Cokes and looking at the traffic. They could see the New York City skyline down the hill and across the river.

“Coach said we’d be on some of the special teams, like for kickoffs and punts,” Donald said.

“When did he say that?”

“He told me before practice. He’s going to start working on that tomorrow. Gotta get ready for the game.”

Manny perked up. “Really? You sure? He didn’t say anything to me.”

“Well, he told me.”

“Hope he meant me, too,” Manny said.

“I’m sure he did.”

The season was set to begin on the following Saturday, just eight days away. Under the lights at the high school stadium.

They’d reached Manny’s street. “See you tomorrow,” Manny said.

He put his half-empty soda bottle into one of his cleats and held one shoe in each hand. He put his helmet back on his head and began running up the hill toward his house. In his mind he was racing down the field on a kickoff. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

“Don’t you ever need a rest?” Donald called.

“Nah,” Manny yelled back. “You’ve got to be in shape to run down those kick-returners.”

F
ive-year-old Sal was waiting for Manny, leaping down the two front steps as Manny came up the sidewalk.

“Hi, Manny!” he hollered.

“Hey, squirt.”

“Did you do anything great today?” Sal asked his brother, grabbing Manny’s helmet and carrying it up to the porch.

“Sure did,” Manny said. “I made this touchdown-saving tackle right at the goal line, Sal. You should have seen me.”

“You clobbered the guy, Manny?”

“I clobbered him all right. The big-shot quarterback.”

“Wow.
You
should be the quarterback, Manny.”

Manny laughed. “I’m too quick for that. They need me to run, not pass. What’s for dinner, Sal? I’m starving.”

“I don’t know. Daddy’s not home yet.”

“Okay. I’ll shower.”

Manny entered the kitchen and gave his mom a hug.

“You’re soaked with sweat,” she said. “You must have been working hard.”

“I was. What are you making?”

“Fried fish. It’ll be ready soon. Now go get cleaned up.”

“Cool.”

Manny’s mom worked as a bank teller. His dad was a driver for a package-delivery company. Dad could get home anytime between six and eight, depending on the workload.

Sal followed Manny upstairs to the bedroom they shared. Sal had Legos and trucks spread all over the floor. “You should clean this up, buddy,” Manny said. “I don’t want to step on a Lego and break my ankle.”

“I will. I was playing all afternoon waiting for you. I was trying to build a football stadium. Like the one you’ll be playing in. And the Giants.”

Manny patted Sal’s head and laughed. “I think Giants Stadium is a little bigger than ours,” he said. “We play at the high school field.”

“You
should
play at Giants Stadium,” Sal said. “You could play for the Giants, couldn’t you?”

“Maybe if I ran through their legs or something,” Manny said. “I’m hardly big enough for the team I’m on.”

Dad was home by the time Manny had showered and dressed. Manny hurried down the stairs.

“Hey, sport,” Dad said. “What’s the word? Sal said you made some big plays today.”

“Just one,” Manny said. “A touchdown-saving tackle.”

“Not bad,” Dad said. “We little guys have to use our speed and our brains, right?”

“Right.”

Dad had been a soccer player and had done some amateur boxing. The boys had a framed photo of him on their wall, fighting in the finals of the New Jersey Golden Gloves tournament at age nineteen. The picture showed him landing a powerful jab to his opponent’s jaw, but Dad had always made it clear that he’d lost the fight. “I wanted that title,” Dad said, “but he was the better fighter and he deserved it. He fought in the Olympic trials a year or so later.”

They sat down to eat. “I’m tired,” Mom said. “Busy day at work.”

“I’m beat, too,” Manny said as he dug into the big plate of food. “And hungry.”

“Better eat a lot,” Sal said. “So you can keep knocking down that quarterback.”

“Yeah,” Manny said. “And so I can help you build that stadium!”

T
he ball was snapped, and Manny shifted on his feet, ready to spring. The momentum was to his right, the tailback barreling toward a hole in the line. Manny charged to the spot, intent on making the tackle, his arms open and tense.

He reached for the tailback, but suddenly his legs went out from under him and he was driven back, falling flat as the runner raced past. He tasted dirt as his face mask hit hard.

“Crap,” Manny muttered.

“Sorry,” said big Anthony Martin, lying under Manny after making the block. Manny’s legs were on Anthony’s back.

“Some friend,” Manny joked.

“No friends on defense,” Anthony said with a grin as he shook Manny off of him.

Manny got to his feet and scurried back into position for the next play. He looked around—it was late in the day. How much playing time would he get? The coach hadn’t done anything about special teams yet.

The second-string quarterback came jogging onto the field, so Manny figured there’d be at least a few more plays. This guy had a strong arm but not much accuracy, and he couldn’t run as fast as DiMarco. He’d probably stick to a short passing game. Good work for the linebackers.

The guy called signals. Manny took a step back. The ball was snapped and the tight end angled quickly toward the middle of the field. Manny bolted over, but the pass was already there. He wrapped his arms tightly around the receiver and struggled to pull him down, slowing him enough that Donald could race over and finish the job. But the offense had made a first down.

Donald pulled Manny up. “Watch for that,” he said. “That’s his favorite play. If I see it coming I’ll give him a shot to slow him down. They’ll run it again. Just watch.”

A couple of running plays moved the ball ahead about 6 yards. It was third and four with the ball about 15 yards short of the end zone. Donald looked over and nodded.

The play began, and here came that tight end again. Donald slowed him slightly, but he was coming fast and looking at the quarterback. Manny shot in front of him as the ball came firing toward them. He got a hand on the ball and it deflected high, bonking off the tight end’s shoulder pads and floating in the air. Manny leaped and grabbed it, coming down on one foot and pivoting quickly.

The tight end was off balance and Manny slipped away, trying to go wide and get out of the chaos. Two players got their hands on him, but he managed to pull free and raced toward the sideline, cutting upfield. Jason Fiorelli was all over him though and quickly brought him down.

Fiorelli grinned at Manny as he pinned him to the ground. “Big-time interception,” he said.

“We saw that play coming a mile away,” Manny said.

“Yeah,” Fiorelli said, shaking his head. “We’re predictable, all right.”

Coach Reynolds blew the whistle. “Nice job, defense,” he said. “That’s it for today. You eleven guys on defense line up at midfield. Everybody else take two laps and we’ll see you back here tomorrow.”

Manny and the others walked to midfield to wait for the coach.

“What’s going on?” one of them asked.

“Special teams, I think,” Donald said. “Probably the kickoff.”

Donald was right. The coach set down his clipboard and rubbed his hands together in glee. “All right, gentlemen,” he said. “There’s a reason I had you out there together at the end of the scrimmage. To make you feel like a unit. You’re about to participate in the most exciting play in football—the kickoff. You guys get to go full speed, full power, full throttle, and show the other team what we’re made of. Let’s do it!”

He lined up the eleven players across the field. Manny was the next-to-last man on the left side of the field, with Donald closest to the sideline.

“The end runs a box and in,” Coach said to Donald. “Straight down the sideline and then straight across at about the twenty.

“You,” he said, pointing to Manny, “go straight down, but angle in toward the ball carrier. If all goes right, this man next to you”—he pointed to Donald—“has the sideline cut off. The guy has nowhere to go but up the middle. He’ll want to cut toward the sideline, so at least half the time it’ll be you—or you”—he pointed to the guy one in from the other sideline—“who’s got the first shot at making the tackle.”

They ran through the motions a few times, with the coach hollering instructions to each player. “Monday we’ll do it live, with a receiving team out there,” he said. “Not bad for a first time tonight. But we’ll need a lot of work before next Saturday’s game.”

The game. Under the lights at home. If Hudson City kicked off to start the game, Manny would be on the field for the opening play.

S
al was up before six on the first day of school, eager to start kindergarten. Manny wanted to sleep, but he rolled out of bed at Sal’s pleading and the brothers went downstairs. Dad was having coffee before leaving for work.

“I don’t usually get company from you two so early,” Dad said with a smile. “You must be excited about starting school.”

Manny yawned. “I could do without it for a few more weeks,” he said. “But this guy has been counting the seconds since midnight.”

“I’m wearing my new sneakers,” Sal said, climbing onto his father’s lap. “And I already know how to read.”

“I know,” Dad said. “You’ll be a lawyer or something before you know it.”

“Or a football player,” Sal said. “Like Manny.”

“That reminds me,” Manny said. “I’m hungry. What should we eat, Sal?”

“Cereal.”

“Cereal. Yeah, I guess.”

Mom came into the kitchen just then. “You’re an early group,” she said.

“We’re working men,” Sal said. “Today’s the first day of school.”

“I know,” Mom said enthusiastically. “I’m going in to work late so I can drop you off, Sal.”

“I thought Manny was going to walk me.”

“He’ll do that most days,” Mom said. “Today is special. I’ll probably cry when I drop you off.”

“Not me,” Sal said.

Mom gave Sal a kiss on the top of his head. “I know you won’t,” she said. “You’ll be brave like Manny.”
. . .

Manny fidgeted in his seat and looked at the clock. Just three minutes left in the first day of school. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. Even the teacher was eager for the day to end—he’d halted class a few minutes early and told the kids to just look over their books and assignments.

Manny turned to big Anthony in the seat behind him. Anthony was looking through a magazine. He was nearly twice Manny’s weight and fit tightly into a sixth-grade desk. The league weight limit was 155 pounds, and Anthony still had a few pounds to lose in order to be eligible.

“Anything good in there?” Manny asked.

“Some nice cars,” Anthony said.

“Any sports articles?” Other kids his age were into music and clothing and cars, but for Manny it was all about sports.

“Not really.” Anthony shrugged and closed the magazine. “You gain any weight?” he asked.

“I think I put on a pound or two,” Manny said.

“You lose any?”

Anthony gave an embarrassed smile. “About as much as you gained,” he said. “I’m still three pounds over. I gotta starve myself the rest of the week.”

Any suspect player had to be weighed in front of the opposing coaches right before every game. Anthony had been eight pounds too heavy when practice sessions started. Coach said he was bringing a scale to practice this afternoon. Anthony would be running a lot this week.

Anthony yawned and ran his hand over his short, bristly hair. “Practicing in that heat is wiping me out, Manny,” he said. “I’m beat all the time.”