Cody's Varsity Rush (12 page)

Then Brendan Clark arrived. He hit the receiver so hard that Cody was sent flying. The Maranatha player went down face first at the ten. Clark helped his victim up, and even helped clear away the divot of sod that had lodged in his face mask.

Coach Alvin motioned for Cody to come out of the game. He trotted to the sideline, to where Coaches Alvin and Morgan stood side by side.
You must not
cry
, he told himself,
no matter what they call you.
Just take it like a man
.

Coach Morgan looked at his assistant and patted Cody on the helmet. “Good coverage, Martin. You stuck right with him. If McCall doesn't throw a perfect pass, that's an incompletion or an I-N-T. Good job. Keep your head up. You'll probably get another series or two before the game is over.”

Chapter 7 The Pain Pool

C
ody survived the rest of the Maranatha game, which Grant won 28–7. ATV gained 208 yards rushing, averaging 9.1 yards a carry. Cody's man caught one more pass on him, this one on a dig-and-go, but Berringer was there to help drag him down after a modest twelve-yard gain.

The win moved Grant's overall record to 4–3, 4–1 in the league. That made the regular-season finale against Claxton Hills crucial. Whoever won that game would move on to the playoffs. The other team was done for the year.

Cody spent his lunch periods the same way as always since joining the varsity—in the weight room watching game tapes. One of the coaches had taped Claxton Hills' 21–0 spanking of Mill Creek.

“Man, those guys look big,” Cody whispered to Paul Goddard during Wednesday's video session.

“Yeah,” Goddard muttered, with grudging admiration. “Their lines average about 220 pounds. We barely average 200. I don't like those guys. Bunch of rich white boys who think they are living the thug life. Their parents spend about six grand a year in tuition—how ghetto is that?”

Cody cocked his head. “You don't like 'em just because they're rich?”

“No, freshman,” came the reply, “I don't like them because they're cocky—and they play dirty. They have pain pools for every game. And they do it differently than other schools. It's not random. They pick one guy to target each game. Rich alumni fund it. Put the target out of the game, not just for a few plays, and you get a hundred bucks or something.”

The traditional Thursday dinner was held at Brendan Clark's house that week. A group of parents grilled more than 150 hamburgers and tossed what looked to Cody like a Jacuzzi full of salad. There were no leftovers. After dinner, players dispersed throughout the Clarks' two-story house, some playing video games, others shooting pool in the basement or watching a college football game on ESPN.

Soon, the coaches gathered everyone in the living room for a big-screen TV viewing of
Remember the
Titans.

Last on the Thursday night agenda was the team meeting in the Clarks' three-car garage. After Coaches Morgan, Alvin, and Curtis gave brief speeches, they opened up the floor to the players. Usually, several Eagles took advantage of the opportunity—to thank their coaches, to make commitments regarding the upcoming game, or to challenge or encourage a teammate. Parents, while welcome everywhere else, were barred from these meetings.

ATV spoke first, promising his teammates that he would run harder than ever the following evening. Tucker challenged defense to put pressure on Claxton Hills' six-four QB Eric Faust. And he thanked Brendan Clark, whom he called “the best teammate I could ever hope to have.”

That set the stage for Clark. “Seniors, this could be our last game,” he began slowly. “Or at least our last game in front of our home crowd. Let's give everyone something to remember. I promise to play the game of my life. I owe each of you that—my teammates, my coaches.”

Clark paused. Cody wondered if he had forgotten what he wanted to say next, but when he began to speak again, his voice was trembling. “And let's make our parents proud too. Some of you might know that my mom and dad separated over the summer. But they're both here tonight, and they'll both be there tomorrow. I can't help but think that if I have a special game, it will, you know, help them somehow.”

Coach Morgan moved to Clark's side, put his arm around him, and led him to the back of the garage. Cody could see the linebacker's massive shoulders heaving. Cody swallowed hard. “And some people say this is just a game,” he whispered.

A few high gray clouds dotted the sky above Grant Field. Cody stood on the sideline with his varsity teammates and watched the seemingly endless stream of headlights approach the stadium. The home bleachers were already almost full; the latecomers would have to stand along the chain-link fence around the field, sit behind the end zones, or view the game from their cars.

Presently, Cody heard the voice of the public address announcer: “Welcome to Senior Night at Grant Field, for the final regular-season contest of the year. Please direct your attention to the center of the field, as we honor our Grant Eagle seniors and their parents.”

Cody felt the back of his neck tingle as Brendan Clark's name was announced. The linebacker took a rose from a cheerleader, then jogged to midfield, where his mother and father waited, the former wearing a number 51 game jersey just like her son's. She used one of the too-long sleeves to dab at her eyes while Clark gave his father a fierce hug. Then he kissed his mother on the forehead, hugged her carefully, and stood proudly beside his parents.

Cody noticed that a few of the seniors, including ATV, exchanged awkward handshakes rather than hugs with their dads. He wondered which it would be when he was a senior. And he wondered if Beth would be there at midfield. Then he remembered something he had read in his giant study Bible only two days ago. “Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

Yeah
, he thought grimly,
ain
'
t that the truth?

ATV smacked the opening kick off the left upright of the opposing end zone. Coach Morgan began the game with three defensive backs, but it became clear that Claxton Hills planned to fill the late-October air with flying footballs. Eric Faust guided the Lancers to the Grant twenty-eight before a sack by Tucker moved them out of field-goal range.

Grant went nowhere on its first possession, and Morgan gambled one more time with his three-DB scheme. Faust made him pay, completing seven of nine passes for fifty-eight yards as Claxton Hills hushed the home field with an effective TD drive.

“Martin,” Coach Alvin snapped, after a turnover gave the Lancers the ball again. “over here, pronto!”

Cody knew what was coming. “Look,” the coach said, his eyes wide, “you're going in. Faust is killing us out there. It's time for you to earn your spurs. You hear?”

Cody nodded.

Coach Alvin grabbed his face mask and pulled him close. “Don't get nervous out there. You play the game. Play smart. Don't let 'em intimidate you.”

Cody nodded again. He wasn't sure if he could speak, so he deemed it best not to risk it.

Cody could swear that Butler, rather stocky for a wideout, was sneering at him as they faced off on first down. Butler ran a down-and-out, with Cody shadowing him. As Butler made his cut, he used his left hand to push Cody in the chest, creating space between them. Faust's throw hit the turf or the Lancers would have picked up a first down.

“You're lucky, boy,” Butler snarled as they jogged back to the line of scrimmage.

Faust threw to the other side of the field on their next two plays, both incompletions.

Cody jogged to the sideline, almost limp from relief.
What I could use now
, he thought,
is a nice long drive
from our offense, preferably one that takes us right up
to halftime.

Grant did move the ball well on its next possession. The Lancers five down-linemen stood almost shoe to shoe, with their three linebackers tucked in right behind them—daring ATV to try to gain ground up the middle.

Unfortunately for the visitors, they had apparently forgotten about ATV's 4.7 speed. On first down, he took a pitch from Hammond and romped around the right end for twenty-eight yards. Next, Hammond faked a handoff to ATV, then scooted around the left end for another twenty-four.

Despite their larger size, the Lancers were back on their heels. Pork Chop and the rest of the offensive linemen fired off the ball in unison, moving like a blue-and-silver wave. And once they made contact with the defense, they held their blocks, allowing the Eagle backs to make cuts toward the open portions of the field.

ATV finished the clock-devouring drive with a one-yard plunge right into the teeth of the Claxton Hills defense.

On the next defensive series, Cody absorbed three vicious blocks from Butler, but no passes came his way.

On Claxton Hills' final drive of the first half, Butler beat Cody on a shallow slant route, but Clark was there to mop up. He hit Butler so hard that at first Cody thought he had injured himself.

Cody felt panic wash over him as he watched Clark jog to the sideline pointing at his chest.

The linebacker joined the defensive huddle two plays later. “Are you okay?” Cody asked him.

Clark exchanged a knowing smile with Tucker. “Of course I am. Just hit Butler so hard I snapped the laces on my shoulder pads.”

“Oh, no, not again, Brendan,” Tucker mock-scolded him. “You know how expensive those laces are.”

The Lancers missed a forty-two-yard field goal to end the half, and the teams trotted to their respective locker rooms with the game knotted at seven-all.

Coach Morgan outlined some defensive adjustments. Then he gave his players a few minutes to gather themselves.

Cody sat between Pork Chop and Marcus Berringer on a narrow wooden bench. He looked around the locker room. Grass and chunks of mud, dropped from players' cleats, littered the floor. Cody stared at his battered locker. Several dents and dings framed it, as if someone had attacked it with a hammer. Then, near the center, it was marked by a serious crater—it had to be the result of a helmet. All season he wondered if the helmet had a head in it at the time.

He looked across the locker room. ATV was lying on his back on a bench, bloody knuckles folded across his chest. He was listening to his MP3 player, no doubt some pounding hard rock, in an effort to psych himself up for the second half. Sweat pooled on the floor beneath him. Cody knew ATV had to be close to one hundred yards rushing already—against a defense custom-designed to stop him.

Pork Chop rose wearily from the bench next to Cody and walked to the entrance, where Vance, the trainer, not the coach, was summoning him.

He returned a few moments later, eyes grim. “Dawg,” he said. “I have bad news for you.”

Cody let out a moan. “What now?”

“I just heard—you're the pain pool target this game.”

Cody shook his head in disbelief. “I don't get it. Me? I play defense. I'm the smallest guy on the team.”