Emergency Quarterback (5 page)

“If you win the next two, you’re the champs,” Dad said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Yeah. As simple as beating Hoboken.”

Dad gave a slight laugh. “It’s possible. Believe me, you’ll bounce back. That was your first time at quarterback in a real game.”

“And probably the last.”

“You never know,” Dad said. “You made some mistakes. That doesn’t mean you’ll make them again.”

Jason rolled his eyes. Those mistakes had been so big that they seemed to overshadow every success he’d ever had in sports.

“It was just two plays, buddy,” Dad said. “Two little plays.”

“Two
huge
plays,” Jason replied. “Two plays that might cost us the entire season.”

 

Anthony phoned in the early afternoon. Jason had been staring at the TV, not really watching the Giants game, just thinking about his failures at quarterback.

“Bro, you okay?” Anthony asked.

“I guess.”

“You guess? What’s not to be okay about?”

Jason sighed. “Like you don’t know?”

“Get over it. Meet us downtown in fifteen minutes.”

“What for?”

“We’re going for pizza,” Anthony said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sure you are.”

“I don’t know....”

“I’m telling you,” Anthony said. “Villa Roma. No excuses.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“We’ll come over and get you if you don’t show up. It’s mandatory.”

“Says who?”

“Me.”

“Wow. I guess that’s final, huh?”

“You bet it’s final. Fifteen minutes.”

Twenty-five minutes later Jason was walking on the Boulevard toward the pizza place. The street was busy, but he could see Anthony, Miguel, and Calvin walking toward him. Anthony grinned when he caught sight of Jason.

“We were on our way to drag your butt down here!” Anthony shouted from half a block away.

Jason smiled. He stuck his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. “No need. I’m coming.”

“You still blaming yourself?” Miguel asked as they met.

Jason shrugged.

“Good,” Miguel said. He grinned broadly and grabbed Jason’s shoulder. “You blew it, my man. Sure can’t blame anybody
else.
Can’t blame the line that didn’t protect you, or the running backs that couldn’t gain any yardage, or the receivers that couldn’t get open.”

“Or the
starting
quarterback who never got you the ball,” Calvin added.

Jason nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I know—T-E-A-M. But it’s
mostly
my fault. You all know that.”

“Are you the reason we won our first five games?” Anthony asked.

Jason bit down on his lip and squirmed a little. “No. I’m
one
of the reasons.”

“But you’re the reason we lost last night?”

“The biggest reason.”

“The guy who was in your face when you threw the interception was my responsibility,” Anthony said. “He knocked me on my butt and took off after you.”

“And the guy who caused that fumble blew right by me,” Miguel said.

“Okay. You made your point,” Jason said. “We all stunk last night.”

“Not entirely,” Calvin said. “The game was dead even except for two plays.”

Jason laughed. “Okay. So now we’re back where we started. Two plays—big—time mistakes by the emergency quarterback.”

“And now it’s over,” Anthony said. He was laughing, too. “I’ll sit on anybody who brings it up again. Take it out on Palisades next week. Now, I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”

 

They spent an hour at Villa Roma, splitting two pizzas and playing pinball and video games. Jason was in a better mood until Wade walked in. He was wearing a leather jacket and a Yankees cap.

Wade was alone. He walked over and leaned against the pinball machine. “Great game last night,” he said sarcastically to Jason.

“Oh, hi, Wade,” Jason said. He waved at the air. “Hi, all of Wade’s friends.”

“Real funny,” Wade said. “At least I
have
friends.”

“And I don’t?”

Wade looked around at the group. “Friends of my own kind, I mean.”

Jason shook his head and took a step closer to Wade. “You’re such an idiot.”

Anthony stepped forward, too. “What you sayin’, Wade?”

Wade put up a hand, motioning for Anthony to stop. “This doesn’t involve you.”

“Oh no?” Anthony said. “What’s with that crack about his ‘own kind’?”

“You know what he meant,” Jason said. He kept his eyes squarely on Wade. “I got plenty of white friends, stupid. But you look at these guys and see a bunch of blacks and Mexicans, right? Well I got news for you: They’re
all
my kind.”

Jason pointed at Anthony. “Lineman, sprinter, shot-putter.” He thrust his thumb toward Miguel—“Centerfielder, linebacker”—then toward Calvin—“Soccer player, track guy. My kind of people. And they’re all
winners,
Wade, not
whiners.”

“They sure weren’t winners last night.”

“More than you were.”

Wade gave a dismissive laugh. “Oh yeah? I didn’t piss the ball away for two Bayonne touchdowns.”

“At least I was in there.”

“You never should have been.”

“I wouldn’t have been if you were any good,” Jason said. “You were so pathetic the coach had to pull you.”

“I bet he’s kicking himself now for putting
you
in there. Bet he learned his lesson.”

Anthony stepped between Jason and Wade and put a finger on Wade’s chest. “You’re gonna get us kicked out of here if you don’t shut up,” he said. “And one of us is going to stomp you if that happens.”

“Sure,” Wade said. “I’d like to see you try.”

“I don’t think you would,” Anthony said. “It wouldn’t be pretty.”

“I’m shaking,” Wade said sarcastically, but then he softened his tone. “Listen, I didn’t mean nothing about ‘his own kind.’ I got no problem with the rest of you guys.” But he glared at Jason again. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for the ball to come your way next week. I’ll be looking for a receiver who doesn’t fumble.”

Wade turned to leave the restaurant. Miguel balled up a napkin and threw it at him. It hit him in the back and fell to the floor.

“Biggest jerk I ever met,” Calvin said. “How did he get to be a
quarterback?”

C
oach Podesta blew his whistle midway through Monday’s practice session and gathered the team around him. He hadn’t said a word so far about Saturday’s loss, just put the team through the usual routine of calisthenics, stretching, tackling drills, and passing. They’d been scrimmaging for about fifteen uninspired minutes, with Wade at quarterback and Jason at wingback.

“I’m not seeing much life out there today,” Coach said. “You’re either dwelling too much on that loss to Bayonne or planning your Halloween costumes.”

Many of the players laughed. Halloween was two days away, and Coach had said he’d end practice early on Wednesday so the players could watch the city’s parade that evening.

“Let’s refocus, all right?” Coach said. “Palisades always gives us a tough game, so we’ll need everything we’ve got. Do we have enough?”

“Yes!” shouted some of the players.

“You sure?”

“Yes!” yelled everybody else.

“Okay. Back to the scrimmage. Fiorelli at quarterback. Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Wade shouted as the players ran back to their positions. “You kidding me, Coach? You still haven’t given up on that loser?”

Coach stared at Wade for several seconds. Wade turned red and looked away. “Sorry,” he said softly.

“Take a seat, Wade,” Coach said. “We win and lose as a team. And I make the calls around here.”

Coach walked over to the huddle and faced Jason. “The starting job is yours,” he said firmly. “Run the team.”

Jason nodded and called for a handoff to Miguel. “I guess I’m the quarterback,” he said. “You guys with me?”

“Always have been,” Calvin said.

“Then let’s do it. On one.”

 

Jason hurried through dinner on Wednesday and dashed toward the Boulevard. The parade was scheduled to begin in less than an hour, but he and some others needed to prepare their costumes. It was dark as he walked excitedly along 12th Street. A breeze was blowing, but the night wasn’t too cold.

Vinnie was waiting as planned beneath the digital clock outside the bank. The clock said 6:13 and forty-two degrees.

It had been a good practice that day. Jason had found Calvin for a long touchdown pass, and later he’d dashed thirty yards for one of his own.

“You’re the man now,” Vinnie said as they shook left hands. “No question about that.”

“For two games only,” Jason said. “It’s your job again next season, believe me.”

“Hope so,” Vinnie said.

“I know so. DiMarco-to-Fiorelli for years to come. State champions by the time we finish high school.”

“That’d be something.”

“Look at this town,” Jason said, waving his arm up the Boulevard, which was packed with small stores and restaurants—the block they were on included Lupita Music, which had sponsored his first Little League team, and the Envigado Bakery, which provided doughnuts and juice for many of the Saturday-morning YMCA leagues.

He’d always felt supported here, in this little town in the shadow of the giant New York City and the bigger neighbors of Hoboken and Jersey City. He loved the Hudson City YMCA, where he’d become hooked on athletics during a season of indoor floor hockey as a first-grader. He’d won his first championship as a second-grader in that gym, leading the purple-T-shirted Hudson City National Bank Buckeyes basketball team to victory. So many of the businesses in town kicked in by sponsoring teams and soccer clinics and youth basketball tournaments.

“I love it here,” Jason said. “The people are good. They deserve something big. We can make that happen.”

Vinnie lifted his cast. “Maybe you can. I’m damaged goods.”

“You’ll heal. I’m talking later—other years. This group we’ve got can be big-time champions. We just have to stick together and
work
it.”

“I’m with you.”

“And I’m with you. The future starts now. It starts Saturday. We’ll beat Palisades, then turn it all toward Hoboken. After that, who knows? We’ll just keep getting better ... until we’re great.”

They’d walked a couple of blocks and turned down 14th toward Anthony’s. “Time to paint the faces,” Vinnie said.

“Yeah. I decided to be orange,” Jason said. The group was going to wear their football jerseys and paint their faces wild colors. They weren’t in the parade, but lots of spectators dressed up for the event.

“We should go through the cemetery later,” Jason said.

“What for?”

“It’s spooky. And it’s Halloween, man. If there’s ever going to be ghosts around, it’d be tonight.”

Vinnie shrugged. The cemetery was very small, only about a square block, and was surrounded by a tall fence of thin iron posts. It overlooked the cliffs on the edge of town, which overlooked the Hudson River and New York City.

“I don’t think anybody’s been buried in there for eighty years,” Vinnie said.

“So? Ghosts stay around forever.”

Vinnie laughed. “No such thing.”

“How do you know?”

Vinnie shrugged again. “I guess I don’t.”

“It’s Halloween, buddy. Strange things happen.”

 

Anthony’s mother had bought several tubes of face paint, but she insisted the kids put it on in the basement. “That stuffs greasy and it smells,” she said. “Don’t wipe it on my walls.”

Anthony had a big glob of yellow paint in his palm. “I’m doing a yellow face and a red nose,” he said. “We got trick-or-treat candy, Ma?”

“We got plenty. But save that for the little kids who come around. You can get your own.”

Within a few minutes, Jason had an orange face, Vinnie was green, Calvin was blue, and Lamont had green and yellow stripes.

“Let’s go get a spot,” Anthony said. “I don’t want to be behind a bunch of people.”

They walked up and stood at the curb by the post office, about midway along the parade route. They could hear the high-school band in the distance, warming up.

“Be sure to make a lot of noise for my brother,” Lamont said.

“What’s he do?”

“Cymbals. He has to walk backwards because he’s in charge of the percussionists.”

“He walks backwards and plays the cymbals at the same time?” Anthony asked.

“Yup.”

Anthony shook his head slowly. “He must be a musical genius. How come you didn’t get none of that?”

“I did,” Lamont said. “You never heard me sing?”

“Not what I’d call singing.”

“You don’t know talent when you hear it.”

The parade had started with a line of Boy Scouts carrying a Troop 47 banner, then a fire engine. The boys whooped and waved when the Hornets’ junior cheerleading squad went by. That was followed by a couple of police officers on horseback, then some young girls twirling batons, and then the high-school band.

“Go Omar!” Lamont shouted as his brother went past. Omar looked over and winked, then banged his cymbals together. The band was playing The Doors’ song “Light My Fire.” Omar was writhing in rhythm with the song.

“Good band,” Anthony said.

“Better than the football team,” Lamont replied. “This year, anyway.”