Emergency Quarterback (8 page)

Jason looped into the backfield, racing to get away from the onslaught. He angled away from the goal line, back to the ten, then the fifteen, as defenders closed in from every angle. It was chaos, but it was a thing of beauty as Jason dodged past a defensive end, twisted away from a linebacker, and shot past two more pursuers as he ran parallel to the goal line. If he could turn that last corner, he’d score, but the Hoboken safety had the perfect angle to make the tackle.

Jason saw him coming. But he also saw Miguel, alone in the end zone, waving frantically for the ball. Jason left his feet as the safety crashed into him, unloading a wobbly pass that floated toward Miguel and the victory.

Jason went down hard, landing on his back with the defender on top. He heard the triumphant yelling, but which team was it coming from?

And here came his answer—Anthony yanking him to his feet and shouting, “Yes!”

Miguel was leaping in the end zone, and his teammates were swarming around him. Hudson City had the lead!

Jason walked stiffly to the sideline. That tackle had hurt. But now the championship was in their grasp. Just another strong defensive effort. Just a couple of minutes.

Someone gripped his arm as he reached the sideline. He turned and saw Wade’s grinning face.

Jason had to smile, too. “Great pass,” he said.

“Great run,” Wade replied. “We’re gonna win this thing.”

“Yeah, we are.”

They stood next to each other as the kickoff teams took the field, but they didn’t have much more to say. They’d both contributed; that was enough. Jason was breathing heavily and sweating, and his heart was pumping like crazy. He stared at the scoreboard again just to make sure. Hudson City 8, Hoboken 7.

When it ended a few moments later—the Hoboken quarterback’s long pass soared incomplete—the Hornets ran onto the field in triumph. Jason found Anthony and climbed up his back as Miguel and Calvin and the others swarmed toward them.

Helmets off, arms raised, voices hoarse from yelling, the Hornets stayed on the field for a long time, hardly believing that they’d won it. Jason finally dropped to his knees, watching as the Hoboken players walked slowly toward their bus. The bleachers were emptying out, but lots of spectators were still there, on their feet, sharing the moment with the Hornets.

“You’re some quarterback,” Vinnie said, his face a giant smile.

“This is just the beginning,” Jason replied. “And
you’re
the quarterback. Don’t forget that. I was just the emergency guy.”

“That sure looked like an emergency on that conversion,” Vinnie said. “You must have run about four hundred yards back there, scrambling around. Looked like every guy on the Hoboken team had a shot at you. You were unbelievable.”

“Just didn’t want to lose,” Jason said, getting to his feet. “Didn’t want to let these guys down.”

Anthony walked over and gave Jason a hug. He was crying as he said, “Beautiful game, huh? Like I said, Fiorelli, you are the man.”

“Time for pizza, I think.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. He wiped his eyes. “Time for pizza.”

They walked off the field. Spectators leaving the parking lot were beeping their horns to celebrate the win.

Jason saw Wade near the sideline, staring over at them. “Come on,” Jason said, waving his arm.

“Where to?” Wade asked.

“Villa Roma. Come on, we earned it.”

Wade thought for a second, a confused look on his face. Then he broke into a half-smile and said, “Yeah. I can do that.... Okay.”

So Jason, Anthony, Miguel, Calvin, and Vinnie walked up to the Boulevard, trailed closely by Wade, Sergio, and Lamont. They looked exhausted and muddy and excited and proud.

They looked like a team full of winners.

 

J
immy stepped off the mound and jogged toward the dugout, being careful not to step on the first-base line. That’d be bad luck. He was excited now. He’d done well on this first afternoon of tryouts.

The day was overcast and cool, and a few small patches of snow were still melting in the shady spots near the left-field fence. But the baseball diamond was clear and mostly dry. A trickle of sweat ran from Jimmy’s unruly hair onto his cheek. He quickly wiped it away.

The muscular kid that Jimmy had just struck out was frowning as he put his bat in the rack. “What was your name again?” the kid asked.

Jimmy tossed his mitt onto the rickety wooden bench and smiled. Not many kids had bothered talking to him since his arrival in town. “Jimmy Fleming,” he said eagerly. “My friends back home call me Flem.”

The kid made a sour face and said, “Flem?” He thought for a second, squinting and giving the lanky newcomer a good looking-over. “I don’t know where ‘back home’ is, but to me phlegm is something you hack up and spit out.” And he did just that to demonstrate.

“Home is Pennsylvania. And yeah, I’ve heard all the jokes,” Jimmy said, looking away. “They never bothered me.”

The other kid shrugged. “I’m Spencer Lewis,” he said, not smiling. “But you already knew that.”

“I did?”

“You ought to.”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “That so?”

“Starting shortstop. Leadoff hitter.”

“Wow,” Jimmy said with a lot of sarcasm. This kid seemed pretty full of himself. Jimmy decided to needle him a bit. “So I struck out a big star, huh?”

Spencer winced but gave a half smile. “I ain’t hearing that noise,” he said. “Everybody knows the pitchers are ahead of the hitters in March. It might take me a minute to get used to a lefty like you, with that weird delivery, but tomorrow will be different.”

The coach had said there’d be a full week of tryouts before he cut the roster to eighteen players. Jimmy had counted twenty-nine out for the squad.

“The team’s pretty well set, you know,” Spencer said, “especially my boys on the pitching staff.”

“I think I got a shot,” Jimmy replied. He could see that Spencer was going to keep busting his chops, letting him know he was an outsider.

“You got okay stuff. We might be able to use you some in relief.”

Jimmy gave Spencer a mean look. “I guess the coaches’ll decide that, won’t they?”

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah. But they want guys who are gonna fit in, Flem. People who know the score.”

“I been pitching for four years,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, in the sticks.”

“Sticks? Where’d you find a word like that? 1920?”

“What do you call it?”

“Home.”

“Call it whatever you want,” Spencer said. “All I’m saying is there’s a big difference between Hudson City and cow country.”

That stung a little. There actually had been a dairy farm about two hundred yards from the Flemings’ house in Pennsylvania. Jimmy’s mother owned a horse that she boarded there.

Jimmy just smiled, went into a batting stance, and gave a gentle swing. “Strike three,” he said.

“Like I was saying, I ain’t used to lefties right now.”

“And like I said, I think I got a shot. Besides, you ever heard of Christy Mathewson?” he asked, referring to the Hall of Fame pitcher who had grown up in northeastern Pennsylvania.

“Yeah. So?”

“Where do you think he’s from?”

Spencer laughed. “That was like forever and two days ago, Flem.”

Head Coach Wimmer had walked over and cleared his throat. He was old and paunchy and had been leading the Hudson City Middle School seventh-grade team for more than thirty years. “All right, boys,” he said, eyeing the bunch. “Pretty good for a first day. You’re not quite ready for Yankee Stadium, but we’ll whip you into shape.

“Go on home, lay off the ice cream, and be back here after school tomorrow.” Coach took off his cap and rubbed his big, bald head. His pink ears stuck out like rounded fins. “And tuck in those shirts; probably be some Major League scouts hanging around looking for prospects. Don’t want them to think I run a sloppy ship.”

Jimmy laughed with the rest of them, then left the dugout and headed for home, just a short block down 15th Street to the Boulevard.

It still seemed strange to be walking these streets, so noisy and busy with traffic. It had only been a month since he and his dad moved here, taking a second-story apartment above the
Lindo Música Internacional
store. So many things had changed so quickly.

His parents’ divorce hadn’t been such a surprise; he’d figured it was coming. But he never thought his dad would be leaving Sturbridge, Pennsylvania to take a job in Jersey City. So Jimmy was left with the biggest decision of his life: stay with his mother or leave with his dad, right in the middle of seventh grade.

And here he was, suddenly a city-dweller, stuck in that urban stretch of North Jersey between the Lincoln and Holland tunnels, an arm’s reach across the Hudson River from the New York City skyline. In a town where half the signs were in Spanish and white kids like him were a minority.

Exciting, but scary.

He needed to make the school baseball team. When he gripped that ball this afternoon, pushed back his cap, and peered in at the catcher, he’d finally felt at home for a few minutes. When he let loose with that wide overhand delivery and sent the ball zipping toward the plate for the first time this season, he’d felt a burden lifting.

But maybe Spencer was right. Jimmy had been on enough sports teams to know that the coaches often did have their rosters picked way in advance, with few real opportunities for a newcomer to fit in. He’d have to do a lot better than the established players to secure a place on the team.