The Heartbeat of Halftime Read online

  “Hold your ground,” Heat said. “That’s all we want you to do.”

  When we got back to the station wagon, I looked at it proudly. “This will work,” I said to myself. “This will work.”

  24

  THE FIRST PLAY-OFF GAME

  I was up early the next day. I had been getting up earlier on Saturdays ever since my father went to the hospital. At first I did it because he wasn’t there to get my gear ready. But I think the real reason I did it was to be alone with him again. Even though he wasn’t there, I could think about him. I sat that morning thinking about the talks we used to have on Saturday mornings. It would’ve been nice to talk about the things that were going right. I had worked so hard to win, and when it finally happened, Pop wasn’t there to see it. So I spent the time anyway, thinking of what I would say to him. “We’re getting good blocking on the sweeps. We could use more time on the pass plays and I wish the timing on the counters was better.” But he wasn’t there to hear any of it.

  Darrel picked me up again. He drove a lot, since Mom was so busy. She said she had an appointment that day and would try to make it. She said it so quick, it made me wonder if she really did or if there were just other things she would rather do.

  “Can you get a ride with Darrel?” she asked me the night before.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. That was about as much as we talked then.

  When we got to the field, Coach cut our warm-ups short and gathered us together in the end zone for one of his talks. As always, he fiddled with his glasses, which were falling apart. He talked about the Romans, and he talked about honor. But none of it really made sense. I think he was more nervous than we were.

  The band started playing then. We didn’t realize it at first; we thought they were still warming up, but then we could almost recognize a melody. We waited for the flip. Spray Can and Bam went out to midfield as the captains. We watched from the sideline. Every one of us could see the coin float through the air, catching pieces of the sun as it turned slowly and dropped to the ground.

  We lost the flip and West would receive. Another bad sign.

  Heat kicked it deep and it rolled into the end zone, where the return man downed it. The ball came out to the twenty and the defense—rather, Spray Can—went to work. He was everywhere. He made three unassisted tackles in the first series. We were all wondering what had gotten into him. On fourth down they punted deep and I returned it to about midfield. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed.

  Then our offense took the field. On the first play we lost three yards. On the second we lost seven. On the third it was another two. Heat punted on fourth down, and he barely got the ball off. Not only was Farts an open door, but the rest of the line wasn’t doing much either. The whole first half we gained only seven yards. But West wasn’t scoring either. So at halftime we got the “Prove it” speech again. It did help some, but we missed Taco Bell pulling ahead of the sweeps. You just gotta have that one lead block to bust it open. We figured the only thing we could do was throw the ball to keep the linebackers from crashing. I grabbed Farts by the face mask in the huddle on our first possession of the second half.

  “Plug the hole,” I said. “That’s all you gotta do!”

  He nodded his head. He was already tired. It was the most football he had played in his entire life. On first down Bam launched a deep pass. He had to rush it, so he overthrew me by five or six yards. But it worked. It spooked the defense and they adjusted to play the pass. We threw short the next play, a little slant-out to Heat, and he turned the corner for a first down. Farts was plugging the hole. Bam was getting just enough time to throw the ball. We completed one more pass before Bam threw the interception. It seems like everybody who’s ever played football has one play they replay in their heads for the rest of their life. They tell it over and over to whoever will listen to it. It’s the first story they tell someone they just met, and they tell it every Christmas no matter how many times it’s been told before. That’s how this interception will be remembered by Farts. Every time he tells it, it will get bigger and bigger until it’s the only thing he remembers about football.

  I ran a deep post. Heat ran a deep flag, and Flame cut across the middle. Bam fired the ball to Flame, but the middle linebacker stepped in front of him and picked off the ball and started running straight upfield. We were helpless; no one was even close. Except for Farts.

  Farts got a bead on him early. The linebacker was running madly, waving the ball out in front of him like he knew he had a touchdown. He had a clear alley all the way to the goal line. He had to get by only one man, the biggest man on the field, the player who had finished dead last in the hundred-yard dash every time he had ever run it: Farts. Our whole season, everything we had hoped for, dreamed of, punished ourselves for, now rested on a kid whose only claim to fame was that he once ate eleven pies at the state fair in seven minutes. Farts seemed the Goliath about to be humiliated by a quick-footed David. As the linebacker sped toward Farts, Farts could do only one thing: guess. He wasn’t quick enough to react. To get the jump, Farts would have to guess which side the linebacker would cut to, then lunge in that direction. Somehow, we all knew this. We were frozen, watching each step as if it were in slow motion. At the last second, Farts threw his big body to the left. A good guess, since it was the linebacker’s right. Most ball carriers prefer to cut right, including this linebacker. He cut at almost the exact same time Farts threw himself. When the linebacker realized his mistake, he tried to hurdle the huge mound that had rolled in front of him. But it was too late. Farts hit him in the knees and the linebacker went head over heels before slamming into the turf.

  That’s how the third quarter ended, all of us cheering and slapping Farts. He had saved the game. Farts had saved the game.

  The fourth quarter was all defense again. Spray Can was still playing out of his head. Our offense moved the ball with the short pass, but we couldn’t get another first down. The linebackers were pounding us. We couldn’t move the ball on the ground, either, and our line wasn’t giving Bam enough time to throw it deep. So on our last offensive possession, Coach called time-out.

  “Drastic times call for drastic measures,” he said. “They may be bigger and faster than we are, but they’re not smarter.”

  Then he drew up a play that wasn’t like anything we had ever seen before. He lined up the whole team on the right side of the ball. The receivers were all wide right, nearly on the sideline. When the ball was snapped, they all ran straight up the field. Bam lined up for the deep snap like we were going to punt. He’d look to the right first, then throw left. See, with everybody on the right side of the ball, that makes the center the left end; it makes him eligible as a receiver. And no one expects the center to go out for a pass. When we asked Coach about it later, he didn’t say if it was legal or not, only that it was worth a try. And I guess he did it with so much confidence, the referees figured it was all by the book. We never did look it up.

  Anyway, Cobra was a tall, skinny kid. He played basketball and had great hands. He made a good center because he was quick on his feet for a big kid, and he handled the ball well. His eyes lit up at the thought of scoring a touchdown. We charged out onto the field after that time-out knowing we would win the game. When we broke from the huddle and everybody lined up on the right side, it put the defense into instant confusion. They were jumping around, not knowing what to do. At the last second they all shifted to the same side of the field we were on, figuring it was a fake punt. Cobra snapped the ball. It seemed the whole world rushed to the right side of the field, except for Cobra. He ran a few steps left and Bam dumped the ball off to him before being smothered by the rushing defense. Cobra snatched it out of the air with one hand like he would a rebound and ran down the left sideline while everybody on West’s team stood there wondering if we could really pass to the center. The West coach was furious. He stomped around, screaming and throwing things for the rest of the game. But it was no use. We had won. And
no matter how many times the referees explained it to him, he still wouldn’t believe it. We had robbed him. We had beaten his team with a second-string guard who had made a lucky guess and a backyard play drawn up in the grass that had made our center a receiver. We had snuck in as the underdog and stolen away their chance at the championship game. It wasn’t football at its finest; it was desperation, it was trickery, it was brilliant. The least likely team to win a game at all had made it to the championship. It was the year of “the holy transformation,” as Coach kept saying when the season was over. It was a miracle and we all knew it.

  25

  WINNERS PAY

  On Monday, Ed Stebbings filled up my locker with shaving cream. I didn’t care. I figured it was kind of a compliment. Besides, I didn’t have time to think about getting even. I spent every night that week at the hospital with my pop. I did my homework, and talked to Pop, which wasn’t very often because he mostly slept. But when we did talk, it was always about the same thing: how amazing it was that we had made it to the championship game.

  “You deserve it,” he said to me every night with his hoarse voice. “You worked hard, you deserve it.”

  And every time we talked about it, I wanted to ask him the same question, but I never could. I was too afraid of what the answer might be. Finally, on Friday night, I asked him.

  “Can you make it to the game, Pop?”

  He didn’t answer me. He just looked at me and I could see his eyes getting watery. I couldn’t stand that. I couldn’t stand seeing him so weak, so helpless. I needed him to be out of bed, stuffing pads in my uniform, taping my ankle, walking with me to the field and standing there on the sideline where I could get a glimpse of him between plays, standing there solid like he belonged there, like he would always be there, like nothing could move him. I hated seeing him lying there in that bed, tubes everywhere, machines keeping him alive, his voice as weak as a grandmother’s.

  He reached out and touched my hand, grabbed ahold of it. I wanted to leave but he wouldn’t let me.

  “I need you … .” he said.

  He held on to me for a long time. I stood there being angry and sad at the same time. I had never thought my father could need me. It made me somehow feel responsible for what he was going through. I wanted to say something, I wanted to give him something. I wanted it all to be easier. But the only thing I could think to give him was a win, a championship. He deserved it more than I did.

  When I got home that night, Leisl was at my house. I couldn’t talk to her very long because I was due at Spray Can’s. That night was the biggest territory-marking ritual of the year. We were playing the championship game at the university. There would be bleachers, benches for players, a place for the band, and even a trainer. But it also meant that we had to sneak past the security guards the night before, get onto the field to mark both end zones, then get out of there without getting caught. We were afraid that if one of us got busted, he wouldn’t be allowed to play. But we were more afraid of what would happen if we didn’t call on the forces of nature for the biggest game of the season.

  So I didn’t spend much time with Leisl. I guess I wish I had. Because I miss her now, and that’s not something you can make up for.

  “I’m leaving after the game,” she said to me. “I was supposed to leave last week, but I wanted to see you win one more time.”

  “Maybe we won’t win,” I said.

  “You will,” she said. “I know it.”

  Then she showed me the bottle cap from our football lessons. She had tied it on a string and hung it from her neck.

  “For good luck,” she said. “Just in case.”

  “Won’t I see you after the game?” I asked her.

  “You’ll be celebrating with Taco Bell and Heater,” she said back.

  “Heat,” I said. And I realized she was right. We had all worked hard together, and for better or worse we would be together after the game.

  “Besides, she said. “My plane leaves at two. I’ll just have time to get there.”

  “I wish you could stay longer,” I said before I realized I had said it.

  She smiled and said, “It’s okay to feel alone.”

  When I looked at her, I knew she understood. She had been away from her parents for three months. And even though she was going back, she knew what it was like to be without them.

  “Yes, well,” I said. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  “The angry one,” she said, then kissed me on the cheek. “I will miss you.”

  Then she held the bottle cap in her hand.

  “Good luck,” she said. And walked away.

  I stood on my front porch for a long time staring after her. She had given me my first kiss, and even though it was on the cheek, it was one I would never forget.

  When I was about to step off the stairs and jog to Spray Can’s, an old plumber’s van pulled up in front of my house. I read the slogan on the driver’s door. MAXFIELD PLUMBING, it said. Call us first when you’ve got a leak.

  I looked at the driver and it was Spray Can. I started to laugh.

  “What are you doin’?” I shouted to him.

  “You the one with a leak?” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, running toward him. “Let’s get out of here before my mom sees you driving.”

  I climbed in the passenger side and found the rest of the team in the back, including Heat’s dogs.

  “This will work,” I said to Spray Can.

  “You bet it will,” he said back, and everybody laughed.

  “I got doughnuts!” I heard someone yell. I turned back around and saw Taco Bell’s scabbed face smiling big in the darkness.

  “All right,” I yelled. “Taco Bell is back!”

  Everybody cheered and we drove to the university like we owned the town. Then we drove around the stadium, just to get a look at it. Even though the lights weren’t on, we could see them standing like centurions, their heads disappearing into the night clouds.

  “Wow!” Taco Bell kept saying. “Wow!”

  We parked the van next to the fence so we could hop on it to climb over. Then we ran onto the field to throw the football in the dark. We couldn’t get enough of the place. We had to see everything. Where the players drank their water, where they sat, where they huddled on the sideline around their coach to talk about new plays, new blocking assignments. We were like grave robbers in the great pyramid, touching everything, looking for something to take home, some memento, something that would give us good luck for the next day’s game. Most guys found bits of tape or pages from programs. But I scored the biggest when I found a chin strap.

  “It’s a sign,” Taco Bell said.

  I held the chin strap above my head.

  “Is it a good sign or a bad sign?” I asked him.

  Everybody was quiet; then Taco Bell spoke up.

  “It’s a good sign!”

  We all cheered and danced like warriors. Heat’s dogs howled at us and we knew the force of nature was strong. We ran to the first end zone and marked it. Then we chanted and ran to the other end zone and marked it.

  That’s when the flashlight hit us.

  “What’s going on here?” we heard a voice yell at us.

  We were running before we had our pants zipped up. More than one player yelped, having panicked and zipped up too soon. We ran as fast as we could to the fence and piled over onto the roof of the van. It wasn’t until we were all inside that I realized I had dropped the lucky chin strap. Spray Can fired up the van.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “I dropped the chin strap!”

  Before I could scale the fence, Heat sent one of his dogs after it.

  “Fetch!” was all he said, and pointed to the chin strap.

  The dog clawed under the fence through a hole and bounded after the chin strap. The flashlight was headed in the same direction. We heard the guard scream in fear; then the flashlight fell to the ground and went out. Heat’s dog was back in a matter of seconds with t
he chin strap in his mouth. We could hear the guard cussing and looking for his flashlight as we drove away. The football gods were watching over us.

  26

  THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME

  I was awake long before my alarm went off the next morning. I couldn’t sleep that night and spent most of it staring at the ceiling in my room. It was too cold to sit on the roof, so I just lay there, staring, thinking, not thinking. Everything I’ve told you so far went through my head. That’s when I decided to write it down, that night when it all kept filling up my head so I couldn’t sleep. I figured if I didn’t write it down someplace, I’d never sleep again. I wrote on all the bits of paper I could find, writing everything I could think of on scraps that looked like some great puzzle laid out all over the floor of my room. Then I gathered them all up and stuffed them in my closet, where I would get to them sometime later, long after the game was over and I could sit with Spray Can and make sense of it all.

  When the sun was finally up, I sat in the middle of the floor with all my pads and slowly got dressed. Once again I was preparing for battle. I had my armor, and I had the spirit of my father sitting beside me. I talked to him about the game, about every play, every detail of each assignment. I talked about pass patterns, how soon to cut in on a man, how to brush him off, turn him around, outrun him. I talked about blocking, keeping my head up, my feet moving. I talked about running the ball, cutting back against the grain, turning the corner on the sweeps, getting the extra yard.

  When all the pads were in, and I had everything on but my helmet, I stood in the middle of the room.

  “See you at the game,” I said to my father. And I had this strange feeling that he’d heard me.

  I went downstairs and Mom had breakfast for me.

  “You’re up early,” I said to her. “I mean for a Saturday.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this game for anything,” she said.

  That surprised me. She had always hated football. Every season she would get upset that I was even playing; then she and Pop would argue about it for a while.