Authors: Tim Green
Perfect Season
For the coaches and players of the Skaneateles 2011 football team and their 9â0 perfect season!
TROY'S MIND SPUN THE
entire car ride to the school. He dug deep for an ideaâany ideaâthat would give them a way out. The junior high and the high school stood side by side, two brick buildings that might have been prison cell blocks. Rusty chain-link fences surrounded them. The only things missing were barbed wire and some guard towers.
“That's disgusting.”
“Troy.” His mom had her hands planted on the wheel of the VW Bug. “Don't judge a book by its cover.”
“Why do we have to
do
this?” The question exploded from his chest.
She scowled at him. “Do I have to go through it again?”
“I just don't see how we can
owe
money when we don't
have
any money.” Troy banged his head softly against the window.
“The IRS doesn't care that your . . .
father
”âshe could barely say the word because, to her, the man was a snakeâ“put five million dollars into a criminal enterprise. They don't care that the FBI seized every penny, and they don't care about you going to a private school to play football. They care about
us
paying taxes on the money we had. They're the I-R-S. They don't have feelings.”
They pulled around to the side of the school where the football field sat wedged between the parking lot and another chain-link fence holding back nothing but an empty lot grown over with crabgrass and old tires. Slung between two bleached telephone poles, the scoreboard read “VIS T RS” on one side and “OME” on the other.
“See?” His mom pointed to the worn Astroturf covering the field. “It can't be all bad? Artificial turf is good for a passing offense.”
“That looks like a plastic rug from a crummy putt-putt golf place.” Troy frowned at the faded green field.
“Hey, you get to play football,” his mom said.
“Four wins in seven years?” Troy shook his head. “The
other
teams are playing football. These guys are playing hopscotch or something.”
His mom parked the car and got out. “Look.”
Troy spotted two men wearing construction vests and hard hats and a thirdâthe tallest, skinniest man Troy could imagineâin a dark business suit in the far corner of the field. The manâwho was tall enough to be an NBA player, maybe six foot nineâstood with his arms folded across his chest as he watched. One of the workers held a ten-foot stick in the corner of the end zone. The otherâalong with the tall man in the suitâwalked across the field to a surveyor's tripod mounted with a little yellow telescope.
“What are they doing?” Troy asked.
“Getting ready for an upgrade? Hey, maybe new bleachers. Maybe a whole new field. Look at the bright side, Troy. It's easy to be grumpy.”
In the guidance counselor's office, Mr. Bryant could hardly say hello before he started asking football questions. “Can you really predict NFL plays? I mean, I know you signed a contract with the Jets and all. I just . . . I see you're a very good math student. Is that part of how you do it? You know, I'm sorry. Really. You're not here to talk about football.”
“I'd rather talk about football than math,” Troy said.
His mom rolled her eyes. “Troy's a little disappointed at Summit's football program, but he knows the purpose of school is education, not sports, Mr. Bryant.”
Mr. Bryant blinked at her. “Well, honestly, I agree in part, but I'd still like to see our football program improve.”
“I know the high school team really suâ” Troy glanced at his mom's frown. “. . . is bad. But what about the junior high team?”
Mr. Bryant's face grew even longer. “Closest game last year was fifty-four to six against Union. Our starters scored against their fourth string. I hate to say it, but the program is like a fish on the beach, rotten from head to tail. You can smell it a mile away. People are starting to talk about dropping it because the stadium is falling apart and the school is going to have to spend some serious money to fix it.”
“We saw someone out there with survey equipment.” Troy's mom nodded her head in the direction of the field.
Mr. Bryant gave her a puzzled look and scratched his neck. “I don't know about that. Nothing's been approved, I can tell you that.”
“How can this guy who coaches even keep his job?” Troy asked.
Mr. Bryant's eyes darted at the office door and he lowered his voice. “It's just his job. Every summerâthey just did it two days agoâthey post the position, and every year no one else applies, so it goes to Mr. Biondi. He's the athletic director, so he feels like he
has
to do it. He doesn't want it. He doesn't even call himself âCoach.' Honestly, the program is in bad shape. We barely have enough kids to field a team.”
Mr. Bryant lowered his voice even more. “There's some talkâyou know, with budget crunchesâabout just dropping the program. The district business manager has been pushing for it, especially because of the cost for a new stadium, and people just don't seem to be interested.”
“No football?” Panic jolted Troy.
MR. BRYANT HELD UP
a hand. “Well, it's in the budget this year, but . . .”
“There's no such thing as a school without football.” Troy knew it couldn't be possible.
“Not in Georgia,” Mr. Bryant said, “but this is New Jersey. It actually happens.”
“There's no one in the entire district who can coach football and get things turned around?” Troy's mom asked.
Mr. Bryant put his fingers together and made a teepee in front of his chin. “Honestly, when I knew you were coming in, I couldn't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, with your connections you might know someone who'd come here and coach the team. I mean, players are constantly retiring from the NFL. Sometimes they coach.” Mr. Bryant laughed. “A pipe dream, I know, but can you imagine if we got someone like that to turn things around?”
Troy looked at his mom to see if she thought the counselor was for real.
Mr. Bryant leaned forward. “Right, why do I care?”
He pointed to a photo of a kid in a football uniform. “I think my son, Chance, might have some ability. He plays left tackle. I know you might not think it looking at me, but he's a huge kidâtakes after his mom's sideâand I'd like to see him in a better program than what we've got at Summit. But . . . this is where we live. There is a football powerhouse not too far from hereâSt. Stephen's? But . . . well, you can't imagine what it costs.”
The mention of St. Stephen's left Troy's stomach flopping in his gut like a fresh-caught catfish.
He
was supposed to go to St. Stephen's! That was before his father ruined everything. Now he was stuck in a run-down rental house at the end of a run-down street ready to attend a run-down public school with a rotten football teamâor maybe no football team.
Troy glanced at his mom. She tightened her lips.
“Mom,” Troy said, “we know someone who could coach the team and do an awesome job, right?”
“Seriously?” Mr. Bryant's eyes widened.
“WHAT?” TROY'S MOM WRINKLED
her face in confusion.
“Mr. Bryant, do you know who Seth Halloway is?”
“From the Falcons? The linebacker? I'm a Giants fan, but of course I know who Seth Halloway is.” Mr. Bryant grinned and nodded.
“Oh, no.” Troy's mom held up her hands.
“Mom, he
wants
to coach. Look what he did with our junior league team.” Troy turned to Mr. Bryant. “We won a state championship with Seth.”
“He wants to coach in the NFL, or college,” Troy's mom said. She turned to Mr. Bryant. “No offense.”
“Right, but it's not happening for him,” Troy said. “I know. He's been on about twenty interviews and the only thing he got is Furman saying he can âhelp out.' They won't even pay him. Those jobs are, like, impossible to get. But if he got some experience?”
“In high school?” Troy's mom asked.
“Why not? It happens, doesn't it?” Troy said.
His mom turned to the counselor. “It's too complicated, Mr. Bryant. I'm sorry. Let's talk about classes. Taking Spanish is a good idea.”
“Mom, can we at leastâ”
His mom held up her hand. “Spanish.”
Troy knew anything after the hand would be a waste of breath.
They made Troy's schedule. Mr. Bryant printed it out and handed it to him with a shrug. “It was just a thought.”
They left and Troy's mom offered to stop at Dairy Queen for ice cream sandwiches. Troy thought about saying no so that she would understand just how upset he was about everything, but he couldn't hold out. The summer sun baked the blacktop outside the restaurant, but when they entered a blast of cool air greeted them. They got two DQ sandwiches and sat in a booth by the window, eating them, when a black Escalade pulled into the lot.
“Oh, boy.” Troy could see that his mom saw who was in the vehicle, too. “What do we do now?”