First and Ten (2 page)

“Don't sweat it,” Jackson replied, his dark eyes meeting Matt's across the huddle. “It's just a practice…No matter what my old man thinks.”

Suddenly it all made sense to Matt. The man at the fence was Jackson's dad. And now Matt remembered him too. He had seen him in action a couple of times last basketball season. In fact, Coach Stephens and Mr. Jackson had had a loud run-in during practice after the coach had suspended Jackson's elder son, Grant, for shoplifting. “Jackson, looks like your dad is already in mid-season form,” joked Nate Brown. A couple of the other older players laughed. Jackson's face turned crimson. He said nothing and looked down. It was obvious the seventh-grader was embarrassed.

Matt knew Ricky was uncomfortable, but he couldn't relate to what he was feeling. His own father had left his mom when Matt was just three years old. He had often thought about how great it would be to have a dad come to all his games and practices, to take a keen interest in how he was doing in sports, maybe even to give him some pointers. But he had never even considered the possibility that having your father around could be embarrassing. Not until today.

chapter two

Before he even opened his eyes, Matt felt sore. His legs, arms, shoulders, even his feet, hurt. It was Thursday morning of the first week of full-contact football practice, and he was feeling it. Coach Reynolds had been right. This game wasn't for wimps.

Matt grimaced as he pushed the sheets off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Even that simple movement was painful. He had never felt this way before, not from baseball or basketball or any of the other sports he had played.

Three days of drills and scrimmages with full pads and equipment had meant three days of taking hits from the South Side defensive team, each of whom was trying to win a spot in the starting lineup. So as Matt had caught the ball on various patterns, he had been like fresh meat to a pack of tigers. He had taken his fair share of hits and then some over those three days.

Fortunately he began loosening up even as he went downstairs into the living room and opened the door to grab the
Post
off the front steps. It was the first thing he did every morning—find the newspaper and turn to the Sports section, lay it out on the kitchen counter with his breakfast and get himself up-to-date. It was a morning ritual that had started when he was in fifth grade. He couldn't get enough sports, either playing them or reading about them.

By the time his mother emerged from her bedroom, Matt had forgotten about his earlier aches.

“How's my boy, today?” She smiled, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him atop his wavy brown hair. Matt felt the soft fabric of her peach-colored housecoat on his ears and squeezed her left hand with his right. “I'm okay,” he said.

“So, how's football practice going?” she asked. “At least you still look like you're in one piece.”

Matt laughed. His mom had been dead-set against him going out for the South Side football team this year. It was a dangerous sport, she said. She had worried he would break an arm or a leg, or worse. But, as she had always done ever since he could remember, his mom had supported his decision and allowed him to try out.

“It's going pretty well,” Matt replied. “You know, Mom, it's not much rougher than basketball. And you have all those pads on. It's fine. You'll see tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she asked. “What's happening then?”

Matt was surprised. He had been talking about the Maroon-and-White game all week at the dinner table with his mother. It was the South Side Stingers' annual pre-season intra-squad game, the last chance for prospects like Matt to prove they belonged on the team. It was only the most important moment in his football career.

“Mom, it's the…,” he began.

“I'm teasing.” She smiled. “I know, I know, it's your inter-team game, or whatever they call it.”

Matt laughed. Just like Mom to screw up the name of something. “Intra-squad,” he said slowly. “It's called that because we play against one another to show the coaches what we can do in a game situation. Are you coming?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I can't make it. I've got an open house to do at the same time. I'd love to be there, though, to watch you score a run.”

Matt groaned again. His mom actually had pretty decent knowledge about some sports—she had even played a little basketball in high school. But she knew absolutely nothing about football. Maybe that was why she wasn't keen on him going out for it. Her idea of the game was like something out of the International Wrestling Federation. She thought it was all hitting and punching and kicking and violence.

“We're only having a team meeting today,” Matt said. “Coach says we have to rest our bodies after three days of contact.”

Mom nodded. She was deep into a story on the front page of the
Post
. Matt could always tell when she was reading because she didn't return the conversation, at least not right away. When she was reading, she just nodded—kind of like he did when he was playing PlayStation and she was trying to talk to him.

Matt put his cereal bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. “I'll see you tonight,” he said to his mom. She looked at him warmly. “Have a great day,” she said.

Matt grabbed his backpack and headed out the front door. It was only the first week of school, but already he felt he was well into the routine at South Side. Football practices had started two weeks prior to the first day of classes, so Matt had been walking this route for three weeks now. He picked up his pace as he headed down Anderson Crescent. Up ahead, under the big oak tree where Seventh Avenue dissected Anderson, he saw Phil and Jake, waiting for him as usual. The three had carried out the same routine since their days together at Glenview Elementary. Jake's dad called them the Three Amigos.

“At wide receiver, wearing number ten, in his second year at South Side Middle School, Maaattttt Hiiiilllll,” Jake bellowed in an over-the-top announcer's voice. “How's the football star this morning?”

“Give it a rest, man.” Matt grinned. “I didn't feel too much like a star getting out of bed today.”

“Me neither,” interjected Phil. “I've never been so sore in my life.”

“You two should try riding one of my uncle's horses sometime.” Jake laughed. “You want to wake up sore…”

Matt couldn't help thinking that Jake Piancato should be going out for football this year too. Matt's closest friend since preschool days was already about five-foot-ten and had the kind of bouncy athleticism that would make him a natural at just about any position on the field. Jake was a big football fan too, watching National Football League games on Sundays and often wearing a number 4 Green Bay Packers jersey with the name
Favre
on the back.

But Jake simply couldn't commit the time to football in the fall. His family ran Long Lake Lodge, about a ten-minute drive out of town. And although autumn was football season, it was also fishing season. The lodge was booked solid during September and October, and the Piancatos couldn't drive Jake back and forth for practice every day during this time of the year. They also needed him to help out around the lodge after school and on weekends during this busy season.

That didn't prevent Jake from taking a keen interest in the South Side Stingers football team, however. “How's practice going, Matty?” he asked. “Are you going to start at receiver?”

Matt shook his head. “It's not like touch football, Jake,” he said. “You only get a play called for you every so often and guys are drilling you pretty good when you catch one. I've dropped a few this week.”

“Yeah,” Phil added wearily. “The game's a lot different with pads on.”

But Phil didn't have to worry about dropping anything that afternoon, because Coach Reynolds was taking it easy on his players after nearly three weeks of constant practice. As the fifty boys gathered on the sidelines, the coach blew his silver whistle.

“Okay, people, come on in,” he said, motioning the players to gather around a large blackboard on wheels he had rolled out to the sidelines. The front of the board was facing away from the team.

“We're not going to practice today,” Coach Reynolds said. “I just want to go over a few things with you before the Maroon-and-White game tomorrow.”

The players watched attentively as the coach began to turn the board around. It was divided into two halves by a single yellow chalk line. Half of their names were on one side, listed under their positions. Half of their names were on the other. Matt's name was on the left side, under the White team. Phil's was on the right, with the Maroon squad.

“These are your teams for the intra-squad,” the coach said. “We'll be running basic offense and defense, just the things you've worked on in practice, so nobody should have problems remembering plays.

“But you should be aware of this,” the coach continued. “We will have to make a few cuts this year. There are about twenty of you who won't make the team. I'm sorry about that, but we don't have the coaches or the equipment to run a junior varsity. I will be announcing the roster on Monday. Please remember, if you don't make it, there are other ways you can contribute to South Side football.”

The coach didn't keep them long. In fact, it had hardly been worth getting changed. Matt and Phil were out of the locker room quickly and walking home before five o'clock.

“I hope we both make it,” Phil said as they neared the end of the first block.

“Don't worry, Philly, how could they cut two future nfl stars like us?” Matt said, pulling Phil's maroon South Side baseball cap down over his eyes.

“It's not you I'm worried about,” Phil said, his broad face creasing with concern. “I'm just not sure there's room on this team for a small, slow Chinese kid.”

Matt laughed. Phil was always poking fun at himself. But he was a terrific athlete. Although short, he was much stronger than he looked and he had a rifle for an arm. Phil was a terrific catcher and a dependable hitter in baseball, his best sport. And he had developed into a major three-point threat in basketball. He had been struggling to find the right position in football, though. He didn't have the type of speed needed to consistently get open and he was smaller than all the defensive backs on the South Side roster.

“I'm sure you'll do just fine,” Matt said reassuringly. They were already at the corner of Anderson and Seventh, the place where they parted ways each day. Phil would continue on to Wong's Grocery, the corner store run by his grandmother, and Matt would head home. “Catch you tomorrow,” Matt said.

Matt was deep in thought the rest of the way home. He had tried to sound confident in front of Phil, but he knew neither of them was guaranteed a spot on the team. Both were new to the sport and both had experienced their share of ups and downs during practice. The Maroon-and-White game was going to be a big test for both of them.

chapter three

It was strange. This wasn't even a real game, but Matt felt his stomach fluttering worse than it had ever done before any big game in any other sport he had played. Even his legs felt weak and shaky as he ran through the calisthenics White team captain Kyle James was leading on their half of the South Side field.

Matt had been placed on the same team as a pair of star ninth-graders—James, the team's likely starter at quarterback, and Nate Brown, the tall receiver with the blazing speed. Matt wasn't starting. In fact he was listed under Brown on the depth chart that assistant coach Kevin Stone had drawn up. Coach Stone was controlling the Whites for this scrimmage while Coach Reynolds had the Maroon team. There were fifty boys suited up this afternoon, with many of them fighting for one of the forty spots on the final South Side roster.

It might not be a real game, but Coach Reynolds had hired real officials for it, and already, there were a couple of hundred people in the bleachers that lined one side of the field. Of all the sports at South Side, football drew the most community interest. Even people who had no formal ties to the school seemed to be interested in how the Stingers were doing on the field. That was one of the reasons Matt had wanted so badly to go out for football this year. He wanted to be part of the biggest thing in school sports, even if he didn't have a single down of experience.

The whistle sounded and both Kyle James and Nate Brown jogged to midfield to talk to the officials, along with the captains of the Maroon squad. It was impossible to tell the two Maroon captains apart. They were the Evans twins, Reggie and Ron. The two ninth-graders had long, fiery red hair and freckles and both played the linebacker position. Their tough run-and-pass coverage and open-field hits were major reasons why the South Side defense figured to be one of the best in the league this year.

The Maroon side won the coin toss, and the Evans boys elected to receive the kick. Nate lined up the football on the tee near midfield, and as the whistle again sounded, the game was on. Brown booted the ball deep into the Maroon zone, about twenty yards short of the goal line. Phil, who was starting on special teams, drew a bead on the ball, preparing to catch it. But as he stretched out his arms to grab the football, he stumbled slightly, throwing off his timing. The ball bounced off his arms and right into the hands of an oncoming White player who was gang-tackled at the twenty-yard line. On the first play of the game, Phil had made a huge mistake.

Knowing it would be a tough error to make up for, Matt watched his friend shuffle off the field, head down. Meanwhile, the play continued with White quarterback Kyle James lining up behind hulking center Steve Donnelly, an eighth-grader who was so wide that Matt literally had to walk around him in the corridor at school. Matt had often thought it must be difficult to be so huge, but size was a big advantage playing on the line in football. Donnelly, wearing number 75, provided enough protection all on his own to give James plenty of time to find an open receiver.