My brother says, “What happened? I saw him after practice yesterday and he was fine.” Sooner wasn’t in school today but there wasn’t even a rumor.
Coach’s head tics slightly to the side and he doesn’t answer. “This changes things for Horseshoe Bend,” he says. “More option plays, Cody. You have to be at the top of your running game as well as your throwing game.”
Cody nods. He’s already rethinking. Suddenly we have hours’ more tape to watch. Cody has to feel prepared. Cody has to feel overprepared. The option calls are easier to go over because the choice to throw or run, or the choice to pitch or run, happens after the action starts and that’s Cody’s strength.
“That also puts big pressure on our defense,” Coach says. “Ben, I’m bringing you in at safety. Andy, you’re coming up to fill Sooner’s linebacker spot.” Andy Evans winces and nods. We’ve just given away eighty pounds on defense.
Thursday morning Sooner walks into class with a thick cast evident under his shirt and his forearm held tight to his chest with a strap.
“Hey, Sooner,” Randy Dolven says. “Whassup?”
“Fuck you.”
“Sooner,” Glover says, “what happened, man?”
“Fuck you.”
Cody points at him. “Hey, Sooner, man. Me too?”
“You too,” Sooner says. That’s the sum total of what we hear about Sooner’s broken collarbone.
Eight
Fridays aren’t heavy days for jocks at the learning factory. If it’s a home game, which homecoming obviously is, we’re dismissed just after noon to dress down and get taped so we can get a good warm-up and pummel those posers into the Stone Age. If you think there’s a chance any one of us is going to concentrate on quadratic equations or what Coach thinks Charles Dickens meant or any current event other than the college football rankings, you are exceedingly wrong-minded. Before first period we’re all on the lawn passing a ball, soaking up the adulation of the masses.
Because it’s homecoming not just the players get out early. Picture Neil Armstrong returning from his walk on the moon, scale it down to a Trout-sized town, and you have the visual. The band will be on the field an hour before game time entertaining the spectators. The pep club will be on the field selling hot dogs and Pronto Pups and pop and candy. The Horseshoe Bend spectators will double our population.
And then, Sooner or no Sooner, we’ll kick their asses. Like I said before, we won’t have it any other way.
The football field is three miles out of town so we dress in the locker room and ride the bus.
Sooner comes up behind Cody and me, places his good hand on Cody’s shoulder pads and says, “Sorry, man. It’s fuckin’ killin’ me not to be out there today.”
“Me too,” Cody says. “But we’ll get it. We’ll get it for you.”
“I dunno if you can get it without me,” Sooner says, and I feel Cody stiffen. You get a fleeting sense that Sooner doesn’t want us to win this because of what it will mean about him.
Cody punches his good arm softly. “It’d be a lock if you were there, but we’ll do what we have to do.” That’s my bro. Doesn’t leave anyone hurting except players on the other team. It’s hard for Sooner to hear. Having people do things for him isn’t exactly how his life has worked out so far. He nods, still staring out the window. “My fuckin’ ol’ man did this.”
Cody says, “Aw, man. What happened?”
“Got drunk like always,” Sooner says. “Started raggin’ on me ’cause he thinks you get all the press when I’m the workhorse. Calls me that. Workhorse. Fuck. One good thing about my ol’ man: he makes me look smart. Don’t know what I was thinkin’, but I tol’ him we was both good and…aw, shit. Who cares?”
“So why’d he break your collarbone?”
“’Cause he was drunk, ya dumb shit. Jesus, didn’t you hear me?”
Cody doesn’t take the bait. “Yeah. I heard you. You’re right. Dumb. Wasn’t thinking. Hey, I’m sorry, man.”
Sooner turns away. “Fuck it.”
Cody and I look at each other, heads shaking in unison. He says, “I’ll take a crazy mom over that any day.”
If anyone else heard Sooner, they don’t show it. Everyone’s focused on these next three hours.
We pile off the bus next to the field and take a slow lap, just inside the track. The fans cheer and it’s hard not to break into a run just to drain off some of the adrenaline.
Coach Banks and Coach Langford stand in one end zone and we trot in for calisthenics. Cody leads them alone because Sooner is on the sideline.
Cody brings me with him when we line up in first-, second-, and third-string warm-up offenses, and I stand beside him listening to his running monologue as he reads the imaginary defenses, correcting him when he forgets something. It’s like cramming for a test you’ve already crammed for, but there’s no telling Cody that. I just hang close and answer on cue. We’re whispering into each other’s ear holes right up to the time he walks out for the coin toss. Sooner walks out in his street clothes for that, and I use the time to loosen up.
We lose the toss and will kick off. “Bilbao sits back on his haunches when he expects a pass,” Cody says.
“Yeah, you can barely see it, but look at his cleats; that’s how you tell.”
“And when there’s a blitz on…”
“Thomas taps the lineman on the hole he’s going through, twice on the butt. Real subtle, but he does it every time. Then he taps the side of his helmet twice.”
“He has to tell the other linebacker he’s going in,” Cody says, and slaps my shoulder pads. “If we win this, bro, I’m gonna buy you something big.”
Now I concentrate on the kickoff. Horseshoe Bend is big and they’re fast and their coach isn’t likely to go light on prep for special teams. I can tell by the way the big guys come at me these days, I’m not the surprise I once was, so I have to get smarter and smarter to stay on my feet and do my damage.
In the pregame huddle, Coach runs over assignments, identifies their studs by number one more time, and covers strategy for helping out when someone’s overmatched. I’ve got nothing on my mind but the ball and getting my helmet on it.
Then we’re on the line and the whistle blows and I am shooting down the outside about 95 percent, watching their return develop. We kicked away from Bilbao because he’s run two back this year, so number 26 snags it and they’re coming my way. I sidestep one block but get knocked over by the second and am up almost before my knee hits the ground. Cody is two steps in front of me and Bilbao has streaked across the field to lead their blocking. Their collision creates a sonic boom and both are laid out and I’m leaping over their pile, staring right through 26’s face mask, and I go low, right at his thighs, wrap my arms around him, and hold on for dear life. Dolven drills him a second later and they’re first down on the twenty.
This is the first time I’ve stayed on the field after a kickoff and the Ben Wolf mighty midget fan club goes wild.
Andy Evans is a good, smart athlete, not as talented as Sooner, but good enough to start on any other team in the league. He’s not used to the linebacker spot, though, so I’m ready for extra business. Safety is exactly that, the last guy back, and my job is to make the tackle if the guys up front don’t get it done, and to cover passes, of course.
Horseshoe Bend comes out running and throwing short, so Cody and Andy get most of the action and I just back them up and come in hard once I see the play develop. I’m relieved I can see just as well when I’m playing as when I’m watching. If Mom and Dad had put a little more beef into my conception, I’d be a dangerous dude. I’m not getting any solo tackles, but I’m in on a lot; one sends electricity down my spine when I team up with Ron Coburn, our defensive end, to take Bilbao down. Hitting him is like hitting Sooner. You gotta make like you’re not afraid to die.
Toward the end of the first half Cody slips around end on an option and slides in for a score. Coach calls an option pass and Cody runs in the point afte
r. You don’t get a lot of great kickers in high school football, particularly eight-man, so almost everyone goes for two. On Horseshoe Bend’s next set of downs Bilbao eats up the field on three- and four-yard runs, they get forty on a pass ’cause I went with the wrong receiver, but I run their guy down at the twenty. Bilbao shoots up the middle on the next play leading interference for their other, unsung, halfback; Bilbao levels Cody and their guy drags me into the end zone. Bilbao blows their point after and we go into halftime up by two.
“I think we can throw more on these guys, Cody,” Coach says in the end zone during the break. “You’re running more on the option, but their defensive backs are getting tired and Evans is getting open.” Andy nods. “Keep a lookout,” Coach says. “We’d better sting these guys quick. They’re not gonna lie down.”
Cody nods and scoots over next to Andy, grilling him on who he thinks he can beat. Andy’s got just okay speed, but he’s crafty as they come and if he can get his hands on a ball, it sticks.
The worst part of homecoming is halftime. The band plays. The drill team marches. The cheerleaders dance. The homecoming queen gets crowned and rides around the field at no miles an hour and we sit in the end zone getting rigor mortis.
We receive to start the second half and Cody and Andy hook up on a couple of short ones before Cody fumbles the snap and they take over. They go three downs and punt and we do the same and that damned Bilbao brings it all the way back. He jukes the first tackler, then cuts back across field, away from me and Cody. Cody locks on him and he’s gaining, but somebody puts a honey of a block on him and suddenly it’s me and Bilbao and then it’s just Bilbao. He was too far away for me to get an angle and they’ve got us 12-8 because they blow the point after again, which gives us a little window. We’re back and forth in the middle of the field through the quarter, no one’s scoring, there is earthquake-style hitting. If one side of my body isn’t numb, the other side is. Both teams are clean and well coached and nobody wants to lose. Even with teams in as good shape as we are, guys are wearing down, and I know it’s my time.
I’ve worried all along that my disease would catch up with me, but it hasn’t, and it won’t start during the fourth quarter of the Horseshoe Bend game. I’ve run every wind sprint, every suicide drill, every play, as if it were my last. I’m making each second of my life count, and I’m spending anything I saved up, right here on this field, right here on this day. I’ve gone full bore on special teams and defense all afternoon and I feel fresher than I did at kickoff. I’m in pain every time I hit, but I cause pain every time I hit, so who cares. This season ends for me with no regrets. As Coach says, you can measure your love of the game by what you bring off the field with you. If you come off the field at the final gun with nothing, that’s perfect love. It doesn’t mean I can’t make mistakes, but they’ll never be because I’m tired and they’ll never be because I’m not thinking. My mistakes will come from excess.
With four minutes left in the fourth quarter we’re still playing down one touchdown between the twenties and it’s starting to dawn on me that we may not pull this off. Cody and Bilbao are racking up yards and tackles (though I’ve gotta be leading them both in tackles) but neither can get the ball into the end zone.
Then we get the break we’ve been looking for. Horseshoe Bend tries to put it away with a long pass and Cody picks that baby off on our three-yard line and hauls ass. They bring him down on the fifty and we are wired. Cody fires a short one to Andy out in the flat and another to Dolven on the other side on a guard-eligible pass. He gets two more first downs running for short yardage on the options and we’re on the twenty-seven with a little more than two minutes to go.
Coach signals for time and Cody calls it, trots over. I stand close so I can hear. I’d give anything to be on offense so I could be in there for the end of this game. Cody takes off his helmet. “Givin’ ’em their money’s worth today, huh, Coach?”
“You’re givin’ me a heart attack,” Coach says back, and laughs. “Okay, all short stuff. Cautious but aggressive. Keep running those options. Do not throw into heavy coverage. We can take our time; don’t want to leave them a lot of time after we score. Now let’s get this.” He slaps Cody on the butt and Cody runs back onto the field and completely fucks it up.
We flood the right side with receivers and Cody rolls out right and there is Andy Evans on the two and he has his man beat by at least two steps. Cody fires it behind him. Shit! And Johnny Bilbao comes out of nowhere and sticks Andy in the chest so hard his helmet pops off as he reaches back. The ball flies straight up and into the hands of number 23, whoever the hell he is, and he’s got a clear ninety-nine-yard shot at our end zone. Cody recovers and runs him down on our thirty. Andy is still down looking like a purple-and-gold rock, and when they get him up he’s got a one in seven chance of telling you what day it is. That’s it for Andy Evans. We’ve got two minutes, Horseshoe Bend has the ball first and ten on our thirty, and our undefeated season seems over.
In the defensive huddle, my brother is calm as he was at the coin toss. “My fault, guys, but we’ve got time to get it back. They think they can get one first down and then run out the clock. Tackle the ball. Strip ’em. Get it loose any way you can. It’s gonna be in Bilbao’s hands, so it won’t be easy.”
Bilbao gains three on the ground on the first play and he’s holding on to the ball like a Brink’s driver with a ten-pound gold brick.
“I’m guessing run again,” Cody says to me as we line up. “Let’s give ’em a little safety surprise. I’ll blitz and you come in right behind me; see if we can shake things up.”
We get our break. Horseshoe Bend wants to shock us with a quick score and Bilbao goes back to pass. Cody opens the hole and I shoot through as Bilbao looks for his receiver. He’s cocking his arm as I drill him in the solar plexus, and bounce off him like a bullet off Superman’s chest, but I hear the air go out and seven guys hollering “Ball!,” which means it’s loose. It’s not loose for long, though. It’s under Dolven.
“Put my brother in,” Cody says to Coach on the sideline.
“What?”
“He’s been running pass patterns for me since we were in grade school. He can catch anything I throw. Andy’s out. They’ll think we threw Ben in to fill the hole.”
Coach looks at me. “He’s right,” I say. “Anything he throws.” What I’m thinking is, Anything he throws when there’s not someone ready to take my head off the minute I catch it, but I only smile.
Coach says, “It’s different in a game.”
Cody looks down the bench. “See any Hall of Famers?”
As we near the offensive huddle Cody says, “Drop the first two.”
“What?”
“We’re seventy yards from the goal,” he says. “If we nickel and dime it we’ll run out of time. I’ll get us one first down running, but I want you to look like these first two passes are the first you’ve ever seen. Run bad patterns. Look like you’re trying to fake your guy out but don’t get away from him. Let ’em know this isn’t your position. They’ll back off you and we’ll burn ’em long.”
I start to question but Cody says, “Do it.” For this moment, he’s the older brother.
In the huddle he calls my number without telling the team his plan.
Now I may be the guy with the eye for tendencies and the football brain in the bedroom, but Cody is the real deal when the action starts. Once he’s on the field he’s either the best athlete out there or he can make you think he is.
He fires to me on first down and it’s all I can do to drop it. I block it with my body and let it bounce off my chest. Coach puts his hands in a T for time, but Cody shakes his head. He hands off to Glover, whose biggest claim to fame up till now is clearing out the hole for Sooner, and Glover picks up six. Cody options the next one and steps out of bounds just past the first down marker. A hair more than a minute on the clock. I’m coming off my position like a first-practice freshman and can already feel them chea
ting a bit; leaving me. My fuckin’ brother is a genius.
Glover gets a yard on first down. On second and nine, Cody fires me another short easy one rolling to his right, and I drop it, too. Back in the huddle the guys stare at Cody like I thought you said Sneezy has been catching your passes all his life, but Cody glares back and nothing is said.
Cody gets another few yards running, but can’t get out of bounds and the clock is ticking—time for one play. He slaps my ass and says, “Play Mr. Klutz for a second and then slant for the left corner.” In the huddle he calls an option pass rolling out to the right, flooding the right side with so-called receivers.
Glover fakes a block and comes out of the backfield looking for the short pass; our tight end crosses from his spot and runs deeper to that same side; I let my guy knock me down, scramble up, and head for the opposite corner like somebody poured Tabasco sauce in my ass. And damned if Bilbao doesn’t hold back and come after me from the other side. I’ve got about three steps on him, but he’s a legitimate speedster and I’m an illegitimate speedster. He’s five inches taller, and Cody’s going to have to throw this back across the field, which means it has to go over Bilbao just enough for me to snag it. It’s like throwing a football through a tire—a hundred yards away, with the wheel still in it.
And my brother does it. The ball sails a fucking microinch over Bilbao’s outstretched hand, which is about half a fucking microinch above my head, and settles onto my fingers while my feet are still in the air on my belly flop into the end zone. ESPN for sure. And I am buried. The entire team is on my back and my face mask is imprinting the grass. I can barely breathe.
The band breaks into the Cougar fight song in the bleachers and every other Trout citizen storms the field. Andy was the only player hurt in the game, but there’s a good chance more of us will join him if we don’t get out of here. You haven’t lived until you’ve had your helmet rattled by an out-of-work logger. We have given these folks a game to remember. Dad is pounding Cody’s shoulder pads and ruffling my hair, yelling “Amazing! Amazing!” That’s more emotion than you’d have gotten out of my father on the day either of us was born. Mom paces the sideline making sure everyone knows whose kids hooked up on that last play. Jeez. She’s only known most of these people forty years; I guess they know who her kids are.