Goal-Line Stand (7 page)

“Two o’clock, just like all the Saturday games. So, you’ll be there? You promise?”

“I promise.”

On game day, Cody walked to school after eating a lunch of microwaveable chicken noodle soup, followed by two peanut butter sandwiches. He reached the school at 12:30. The East bus hadn’t even arrived in the parking lot. Entering the locker room moments later, he saw Coach Smith seated on a bench at the far end. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him and he backed away, hoping to exit unseen.

But Coach Smith saw him before he took three steps. “Hey, Martin,” he said. His voice was tired. Cody walked slowly toward his coach. As he drew near, he saw that the man’s eyes were red and weary.

Maybe he’s allergic to something,
Cody thought.
Hope it isn’t me.

“Sit down, Martin.”

It sounded more like a suggestion than a command.

“You ready for today, Martin?”

“Yes, sir, Coach. I’m going to give it everything I have. We all are. We’re going to play hard for you.”

“Thanks, Martin.”

Coach Smith began massaging his temples with his stubby fingers.

“Coach,” Cody asked tentatively, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he answered absently. “It’s just been a long season. A disappointing one.”

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Martin,” Coach Smith said, interrupting himself with a long sigh, “your class is the best crop of athletes this school has had in a long time. Then Alston decides not to play football. Doesn’t want to mess up that pretty face or whatever. Berringer has an off year. Can’t grasp the concept of running around defenders, not into them. I get out-coached half the time. I try to put in these trick plays to confuse the opposition, and the only person I confuse is myself—and my own team.”

“Yeah,” Cody said, trying to inject maturity into his voice, “it’s been a tough season all the way around.”

“You ain’t lyin’, Martin. You know, I’ve been here eight years and never won a league championship. Not even when Doug Porter was here, and he’s the best I’ve ever seen. Hands down. We were six and zero when he was in eighth grade and then he gets his hand stepped on and broken. We lose our last two games and finish second.”

Cody nodded and said the only word that entered his mind, “Bummer.”

Coach Smith stood. “Anyway, that’s enough groaning and moaning from me. We better both start getting our game faces on. Who knows, Martin, maybe today we’ll go out with a bang.”

“Like I said, we’re gonna play hard for you, Coach,” Cody said sincerely.

“I know. Thanks.”

As Cody dressed out, players began to trickle into the locker room. He smiled when he saw the Evans twins. Brett nodded at him, but when Bart’s eyes lit on Cody, he quickly looked away.

Pork Chop came in behind Betts, headphones on and rapping along with a hip-hop song Cody recognized but couldn’t identify by title.

Once Chop was in his game pants, cleats, and gray undershirt, he put his Discman in his locker and began working the room, circulating among his teammates.

“Cabrera is a fast little dude,” Cody heard him tell Berringer. “But so are you. Don’t let him get behind you on pass patterns. And don’t let him get up a head of steam in the open field.”

Then it was on to Matt Slaven, who played next to Chop on the offensive line. “We give up no sacks today, big Matt. Bart gets all day to throw. And when we run, we’re gonna blast holes so big you can march elephants through them. Sideways.”

Cody smiled.
This is the guy who, just yesterday, thought we were gonna get stomped?

Coach Smith’s pregame pep talk was short. “This whole season has been mediocre,” he began. “You haven’t always played well.”

Cody, who was staring at the circular drain in the middle of the locker room floor, looked up when Coach Smith stopped talking. He saw the coach looking at him. “And I,” Coach Smith said, “sometimes haven’t coached well. And maybe I’ve been a little hard on some of you.

“But that is all behind us. In front of us is one more game. Your last game in a Grant Middle School uniform. For some of you, this will be your last real football game. East is undefeated. They killed Central, and Central killed us. I’m not saying we can beat them. We probably can’t. But we can go out with an effort we can all be proud of. An effort your parents and your school can be proud of.”

Coach Smith gave the whole speech without changing his tone. He wouldn’t get much of a grade in Speech & Communications, Cody thought. But he spoke the truth.

Then the coach turned to the chalkboard and began to write, his chalk stick scuffing and scratching against the slate surface. When he was finished, he set down the chalk and brushed his hands together briskly. Chalk dust floated in the air in front of him, the effect reminding Cody of the smoke machines used to add drama to a rock star’s or professional wrestler’s big entrance.

When the dust had settled to the floor, Coach Smith stepped to the side of the board, admiring his work, as if he’d just painted the Mona Lisa. But he had crafted only words, not pictures.

Cody recognized the verse immediately, “The battle is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift. But time and chance happen to them all.”

Pork Chop leaned toward Cody and whispered, his breath heavy with the aroma of bologna and mustard. “That’s from your favorite book, isn’t it, dude?”

Cody nodded.

Pork Chop stood and slapped Cody across the back. “My man here says those words are from the Bible, so I say it’s time to get out there and give East a whuppin’ of biblical contortions!”

“You heard the man!” Coach Smith chimed in. The team sprang to their feet and cheered. “Apparently,” Cody hollered to his best friend as he joined the mass of jumping and whooping humanity in the middle of the locker room, “nobody even cares that you said biblical ‘contortions,’ instead of ‘proportions.’”

Pork Chop smiled. “You weren’t listening. I said we’re gonna give them contortions of biblical proportions!”

W
ith the crowd on its feet, stomping and cheering, the Raiders received the opening kickoff from East. Berringer secured the pigskin at his own fifteen and bolted eighteen yards up the center of the field before running into a green wall of defenders.

Three handoffs—all to Berringer—later, Grant had gained only seven yards and was forced to punt.

After a fair catch of the punt, East began operations from its own thirty. The Eagles went for a quick TD on first down, but Nottingham, their QB, overthrew Cabrera by five yards. Cody whistled through his teeth as he saw the ball sail well beyond Cabrera’s outstretched hands.

My man,
he scolded himself angrily, thumping himself on the chest.
And he had a step on me. That coulda been trouble. No way do I catch Cabrera from behind.

As he jogged back to the line of scrimmage, Cody had an additional thought,
Hmm, if old Solomon were watching this game, I bet he’d tell me, “See what I mean about the race not always being to the swift?”

On second and ten, East sent Williams, their fullback, into the center of the Grant defense. Pork Chop was the center of the Grant defense. Third and ten.

“They’re gonna pass,” Pork Chop told his teammates in the ensuing defensive huddle. “DBs and ’backers, be ready.” Then he winked at Cody. “Monsters, too. They double-teamed me that first pass. They’ll probably do it again, so that’s gonna create a gap for somebody. And if it doesn’t, that’s okay. Because they can block me, but I won’t stay blocked!”

On the third-down snap, both of East’s wideouts went long. Landers, the tight end, ran a down-and-in, with Cody on him like a shadow. Cody stole a glance into the East backfield. Nottingham was scrambling to his right, Pork Chop in furious pursuit. Landers broke from his pattern and sprinted downfield. The move caught Cody by surprise, and he dashed to make up the five-yard cushion Landers had put between the two of them.

Cody scanned the backfield again as he closed in. Near the sideline now, Nottingham hurled the ball in Landers’s general direction. But he was off balance and panicked when he threw, thanks to Pork Chop, and the ball floated, not zipped, toward its target. That gave Cody time to move alongside Landers, who then changed direction and tried to run under the rainbow of a pass. Cody noted the receiver’s eyes as he moved with him. He saw them widen. Then, predictably, Landers’s arms came up to receive the pass.

Reacting to the tell-tale signals, Cody shot both his arms up too, as if Mr. Dawson had just asked the class a history question, and for once, Cody Martin knew the answer and was desperate to get his teacher’s attention.

Cody turned his head just in time to see the ball and deflect it with his right hand. He sighed audibly as the pigskin bounced harmlessly to the ground.

As Cody trotted back to the line of scrimmage, Pork Chop intercepted him and head-butted him so hard that he saw tiny fireworks popping before his eyes.

“That’s what I call pass defense, Crash!” Chop gushed. “That’s the way to read a receiver. Oh, baby, that was shades of Neon Deion on ESPN Classic. That was prime time, baby!”

Smiling, Cody scanned the bleachers, searching for his dad. He saw Blake, sitting between Robyn
and Doug and Mr. Porter, but Luke Martin wasn’t among them.
Maybe he’s just running a bit late,
Cody thought hopefully.

Back on the field, the Raider offense couldn’t build momentum from the defense’s stellar play. Bart overthrew his brother twice, and Berringer could manage only six hard-fought yards on a run off tackle. Cody sat out the entire offensive series, hopeful that he would get back in the action next time the Raiders had the ball. Coach Smith usually used his receivers to shuttle in plays, but on this series, he resorted to signaling them in from the sidelines.

Goddard got off a decent punt, and East took over at its own twenty-six. Cody watched in near disbelief as the Eagles ran Cabrera three times up the middle. Each time, Pork Chop smothered him like a huge grandma welcoming her five-year-old grandchild.

The first quarter ended as the East punter shanked one off his foot. It would be first and ten for Grant at midfield.

Between quarters, Coach Smith quickly gathered his team on the sideline. “Fellas,” he said, “we’re winning.”

Betts and several other players whipped their heads around toward the scoreboard, which stood behind the south end zone. It read, Grant–0, Guest–0.

Reading the minds of his players, Coach Smith
chuckled. “No, guys, you didn’t miss a touchdown or anything. I’m talking about winning the war of field position. Every time they get the ball, they’re deeper in their own end. And look at where we are now. Halfway to pay dirt. Listen to me—we can win this thing. An hour ago, I wasn’t sure. But now I can feel it. Let’s take advantage of where we are. First offense back on the field. Now!”

On first down, Berringer scooted around the left end for seven yards. Brett Evans sprinted in from the sidelines, bearing Coach Smith’s play for second and three—a three-step drop by Bart, then a quick-out pass to his twin.

As the play developed, Brett was blanketed by an East cornerback. Bart tried to force the ball to him anyway. If the corner had possessed better hands, it would have been an interception. Grant was lucky to come out of the play with a third and still three yards to go.

In the huddle, Brett looked at his brother and shrugged, his palms to the sky. Seizing the opportunity, Pork Chop interjected, “Martin was wide open, Bart. I saw him after I pancaked their tackle. C’mon, man, don’t force ’em like that, or you’re gonna get picked. You’re lucky that DB has hands of stone.”

Then Pork Chop looked to Brett, who nodded in agreement.

“Just do your job, Porter,” Bart muttered, “and let me do mine.”

Dylan shuttled in the next play, sending Brett sprinting for the sideline. Cody felt a jolt of excitement when he heard the plan—an eight-yard hook route for him. As the center hiked the ball, Cody blasted from the line of scrimmage, as if going out for a long bomb. But once he saw he was past the firstdown marker, he stopped short and hooked his body back toward the line of scrimmage.

Bart’s pass was a burner—low and hard. Cody bent at the knees and drew himself downward. He placed his hands together, palms up and fingers spread wide, forming a flesh-and-bones football-sized basket. He could feel blades of grass tickling the backs of his hands as he scooped the ball into his gut.

As he clutched the ball close to his body, he braced himself for the impact, which came almost immediately. The East corner hit him high on his back, and his shoulder pads absorbed the blow. Cody was driven face-first into the turf, but he popped up like a piece of toast and handed the ball to the nearest referee. He smiled as he saw the first down chain move.

Grant earned another first down on a twelve-yard QB scramble around the right end. Brett, back in the game, threw a vicious block to spring his brother. The
Raiders had marched to the East twenty-nine, their deepest penetration of the game. Coach Smith signaled the play in from the sideline this time. Cody nodded as he processed the signals.

This could work,
he thought.

Cody and Brettmanned the two wideout positions, bookending the offensive line. Cody studied his defender, who was playing only two yards off of him.

Go ahead and get right up in my face, dude,
Cody thought.
If I can get by you on this slant route, you’re toast. And I think I can outrun your safety.

He stole a quick glance toward the stands. He thought he might have caught a glimpse of his dad, next to Robyn, but he couldn’t be sure. And there was no time for another look because the center had snapped the ball.

Cody took two deliberate strides toward the sideline, then ricocheted back to the middle of the field, at a crisp 45-degree angle.

The corner had bitten on the fake to the outside and was now scrambling to atone for his mistake. But he was too late. Bart’s pass was near perfect, nestling into Cody’s waiting hands at the twenty-two.

As Cody angled his way toward the end zone, he saw the safety, who was pursuing him, stumble and tumble to the ground.

Pay dirt, here I come,
Cody thought gleefully, as he crossed the fifteen.

“Clear sailing, Code,” called a voice behind him.

Cody whipped his head around and saw Brett trailing him by about three yards, escorting him to the end zone.

“Brett,” he said breathlessly, as he crossed the ten, “heads up!”

Making sure he had eye contact with his teammate, Cody carefully lobbed the ball to him.

Brett bobbled the lateral momentarily, and Cody felt panic clutch his heart like a cold hand. But, as he reached the five, Brett gained control of the oval and secured it into his gut as he sprinted into the end zone.

Cody waited for Brett to toss the ball to the referee, then chest-bumped his fellow wide receiver. Seconds later, Bart sprinted into the end zone, bear-hugged his brother and hoisted him off his feet.

Goddard booted the extra point, and the East Eagles trailed in a game for the first time in almost two years.

Brett found a place beside Cody on the sideline, and they watched the ensuing kickoff together. “Code,” he said, as the ball blew off the tee and Goddard had to re-set it, “thanks, man. You didn’t have to do that. But I’m glad you did. You know, that was my first real touchdown. Ever.”

Cody turned to Brett. “Really?”

Brett nodded. “Really. Never had one in Bantams. And not even in Mighty Mites. And what’s cool is that my whole family got to see it. Even my big brothers are here. So, like I said, thanks.”

“Brett,” Cody said tentatively, after Goddard finally got his kick away and Cabrera returned it to his own twenty-seven, “don’t thank me.” He pointed to the sky. “Thank him.”

The two receivers stood in awkward silence for a moment.
I hope I didn’t freak him out,
Cody thought.
But, oh well. I’m glad I said it. I know who deserves the credit for what I did. It sure wasn’t my idea.

Bart Evans interrupted Cody’s self-reflection with a playful slap on the helmet. “Martin,” he said, “what you did out there, that was classy. I don’t know too many guys who would give up a TD like that. You didn’t have to do it, but I’m glad you did.”

“I know I didn’t have to,” Cody said. “But I needed to. So, we’re cool now?”

Bart let a smile stretch across his face. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “we’re more than cool. And if we win this game, we’ll be subzero!”

East couldn’t answer Grant’s score. On third and ten, Pork Chop erupted up the middle and sacked Nottingham at the twenty.

Dylan fair-caught the ensuing punt at the Grant forty-five, and the Raiders looked to pad their lead, fearing that a mere touchdown advantage wouldn’t hold up against East.

Coach Smith called Dylan’s number on a fly pattern. A strong runner, Dylan got behind the Eagle defense, and it looked like another touchdown pass for Bart. But in his eagerness to get the pass off, the Grant QB threw a knuckleball that helicoptered only twenty yards, fluttering into the eager arms of Cabrera, whom the East coach had inserted at cornerback to bolster the team’s pass defense. Cabrera returned the interception all the way to the Grant thirty before a frustrated Bart leaped on his back and rode him to the ground.

Nottingham gained six yards on a first down quarterback draw, and Cody was certain he could feel the energy and momentum draining from his team. As the defense huddled, his eyes met Pork Chop’s, and they nodded almost simultaneously. Cody wondered how many times during their long friendship it had happened. More times, he was sure, than he had fingers and toes.

“Okay,” Chop said, smacking his fist into his palm, “it’s time to bring the war. It’s time for jailbreak!”

“You sure, Chop?” Brett countered. “An all-out blitz—that’s kinda risky. We gotta protect our lead.”

“Look,” Pork Chop said evenly, “we’re not gonna protect anything. This is our game. We gotta go out and grab it.” He turned his attention to Cody. “Co,” he said, “I’m gonna take my blockers inside. You should be able to shoot off my left hip. Get the sack! We need it!”

Cody felt his muscles tingling as he took his place behind the D-line. “Monster left,” he called. His eyes locked on Pork Chop’s ample backside. He was ready to rip through the path his friend would no doubt clear.

Then he turned his attention to the ball, resting under the center’s hands. That was his cue. He would block out the cadence of the snap count. It was all about the ball. As soon as that brown oval moved, even twitched, he would be off, like a sprinter exploding from the starting blocks.

Don’t look away, even for a second. Don’t even blink,
he ordered himself.

Five seconds later, Cody was grateful for his keen concentration. As soon as Nottingham moved in behind the center, the snap came immediately, before a word from the QB. East had hoped to catch Grant unaware, but Cody was ready.

And, true to his word, Pork Chop herded the East guard and center to their left, giving Cody a clear lane to the QB, who had taken only two steps back
from center when Cody slammed into him, toppling him easily.