Chapter Thirteen
Bryan
“Where you going, Granger?”
Coach Torino says, slapping a hand on my shoulder.
I stop mid-motion, putting my helmet on, ready to take the field for the kickoff return.
“You’re not returning the ball. We’re saving you for the offense.”
Clenching the cage of my helmet with my fingers, I feel like throwing it, but I don’t. Coach Torino is trying to protect me. Too bad if I can’t impress the fucking scouts today by running the ball for a touchdown on the kickoff return. There’s nothing more spectacularly impressive than that in football, at least not if crowd noise is any measure.
He reads my mind. “You’ll have your chance for a return TD later in the season. When you’re healed.”
I nod. But I don’t believe him as I watch my backup, Jerry, take the field at the twenty-yard line to wait for the kick. In football, like life, there’s a strong likelihood you won’t be around for a second chance because injuries are commonplace.
Jerry loses yards instead of moving the ball forward. Now we’re starting from inside our ten-yard line, but after a couple of plays, Eldy passes the ball to our best tight end, Chuck, to get a first down. So far, Jerry’s not very impressive. Coach takes him out for the second set of downs, and I follow Coach around on the sideline so he won’t forget to put me back in.
We’re at third and six on Maine’s thirty-five yard line, and they call a time out.
“Coach. Put me in.”
He gives me a hard look, but I give him a harder look back.
After a few beats, he nods. Calling us in around him, he talks us through the play, though he’s mostly addressing Eldy and me. “Sell the play fake for all you’re worth. Don’t mess this up.”
“Don’t worry, Coach. We can do this one in our sleep.”
Eldy grins, but the coach slides his eyes to mine for reassurance, and I nod.
Eldy claps his hands when the ref blows the whistle, and we trot out to the line of scrimmage. I’m in the backfield with the other running back and the fullback.
The play calls for me to break out for the goal line. As soon as the ball is snapped, I’m on Eldy, and he hands me the ball. Tucking it under my arm, I run behind Chuck Wayne, who throws a killer block. Cutting back inside, I see a tackle lining me up, so I dive over the top of him and roll, hitting the ground on the other side of the goal line.
“Touchdown,”
the ref yells.
I get a long rest while Maine has the ball, but we hold them, and their kicker misses the field goal attempt from our thirty-eight-yard line.
At half time, with the score tied 7-7, I guzzle water and sit with my head against the metal locker, breathing and ignoring the yelling and swearing by the coaches. Ignoring the dull pain in my ribs where the shot is starting to wear off. Torino lets his assistants do the dirty work, point out all the flaws and errors of our ways, which there are many.
I silently catalogue my own, knowing I need to keep my eyes everywhere, to not look at my feet, to not look down until it’s time to drop my shoulder and make contact.
The coaches let us be for a minute, and Eldy nudges my leg.
“You okay?”
I like that he doesn’t ask specifically about my ribs.
I grunt. “No worse than anyone else.”
He grins, then motions for the team to come to our feet. “Bring it in. On me.”
“Go Huskies!”
we shout in unison, then herd to the door to march back out onto the field. There is no tunnel like in the pros or the bigger schools, and I sometimes wonder what that would be like. Like right now, as the sun beats down on us and we trot over the grass.
To start the second half, we kick off, and I pace the sidelines, knowing I need to do more if I want to impress any NFL scouts that might be in the stands. Desperation gnaws and climbs my throat. I swallow it down and watch as Mack races across the line of scrimmage, right past the offensive line, to take down Maine’s QB.
A smile almost cracks my face as I snap the chin strap of my helmet in place, ready to take the field. There’s no doubt in my mind we’re going to win this game, and I plan to have something to do about it with my receiving skills and yards after the catch.
Catching Eldy’s eye, I motion to him, and we huddle. “What are the chances we can call that catch-and-run play, maybe when we get inside the thirty-yard line?”
“For you?”
He squints his eyes like he’s thinking. “Let’s talk to Coach.”
It’s against my better judgment, but I can’t stop him, so I go along, and Eldy makes the pitch. Coach looks at me because he knows it’s my idea.
He nods. “If we need it. But you’re not the only guy on the team, Granger.”
“Understood.”
Shit. “Never mind.”
What was I thinking?
Eldy puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me from walking away. He looks at Coach. “But he’s the only guy on the team who might have NFL scouts watching him.”
Coach smiles and then blows the whistle.
Watching Maine take the ball down the field and score a touchdown is painful. We’re supposed to win this game by ten points, according to the bookies—or so Lenny Dobbins, our wide receiver, tells us. I know we should be doing better than this, but I notice Fletcher limping slightly, and their QB sees it too. He’s throwing the ball right at the receiver Fletcher is supposed to be covering.
It’s third and goal for Maine, and we’re all up on the edge of the field yelling encouragement for the defense to hold the line. Maine’s QB takes the ball, fakes a toss to his new favorite receiver, and then runs the ball into the end zone without being touched because no one sees it.
Fuck. Maine’s up a TD. But when they miss the point after, it leaves us with an edge.
I snap my chinstrap in place as Torino calls us into his huddle for a pep talk. While he’s talking, my gaze wanders and catches on the cheerleaders. They’re doing some kind of dance while the band plays, and I automatically find Liz, her legs kicking high and her smile so wide I can see it from here.
Then my eyes wander further down the line to find Susie. She’s not as wild, almost out of control, as Liz. But there’s something about her measured enthusiasm that makes me want to undo her, to find the girl I know she is underneath.
Torino’s voice sharpens, bringing my attention back to him where it should be. “Don’t fall asleep on this one, men. Let’s do some damage. Play like winners.”
As the punt-receiving team trots to the sidelines, we take the field, and Eldy is fierce in the huddle. The fire in my belly roars into an inferno of hunger and need for this win. There’s no thought about why, only acknowledgment that the gnawing sensation is there and it won’t go away. So I keep pressing forward, storming after my unnamed goal, a murky possibility I can’t let myself identify.
We set up on the line of scrimmage, and I feel like an overrevved engine, burning rubber as Eldy calls out, “Twenty-one, fourteen, fifty-two, hut, hut.”
The ball snaps, propelling me into another dimension, and everything is intense and automatic, like I’m a machine with only one purpose.
I carry the ball for the next three plays, breaking for a forty-two yard run to take us inside Maine’s forty-five yard line. It’s still too soon to call my number for the play-action pass play.
Lenny, the wide receiver, comes in from the sidelines with instructions from Coach.
“Fade away route number four,”
he says, smiling, because it’s his route. Eldy nods and claps. We disperse to our spots on the line. I’m blocking because the defense is bringing extra pressure.
Almost before the center snaps the ball, the play is blown, and Lenny slips at the line of scrimmage, missing his chance to get out on his route. Their linebacker is bearing down on Eldy. He needs to get rid of the ball.
I dart around the end and get free while Eldy darts the ball at me just as the LB hits him. The ball is high, but I leap to get it, and when I land, I twist left to avoid a tackle. Barely staying in bounds, I take off at a run, catch a block by Chuck, spin around a safety, and then bullet to the end zone, not stopping until I’m out the other end.
Chest heaving and the ball still tucked under my arm, I trot back to the sidelines where the team is cheering. Eldy runs to catch up with me, the first to clap me on the back. I hold in my wince.
“What the hell should we call that play, you fast bastard? Where did you get that extra speed?”
“It’s called game gear.”
“I never saw you run that fast in practice,”
Lenny says, slapping my helmet.
I reach the bench and grab a water bottle, squirting it in my mouth in between gasps for air. Shit. I thought I was in shape. But I expended every bit of energy and wind I had in me, and I’m fucking depleted.
Al Preconi, acting like he’s my personal athletic trainer, grabs me by the arm—on my good side—and sits me on the bench.
“How’s the ribs?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer as he lifts my jersey and starts unwrapping the ace bandage.
“I wasn’t paying attention until now,”
I say through gritted teeth.
I don’t get back in the game after that, but our defense wakes up and Maine doesn’t score again. UConn scores two more touchdowns, but Eldy points out to me that I scored the winning touchdown.
After the game, while the cheerleaders dance and the marching band files out playing the UConn fight song, Coach has a few of us stay on the field as the local press and others gather near the bench. I notice the cheerleaders still there, waiting like they’re supposed to be the last fans to leave the stadium.
“Picking up where you left off, Granger?”
It’s the Connecticut Daily Campus sports reporter, according to the press credentials hanging around her neck, reading Anita Yardly. I hope it’s a coincidence that she has the same name as our comp professor.
She’s chewing gum fast enough for me to tell that her tough-girl exterior is mostly bravado. The Hartford Courant and New Haven Register reporters shove their way in front of her.
Shifting my stance, I work around the two guys and answer her question even as the two men toss questions at me, assuming that I’m paying them attention.
“Doing my best. We won.”
It goes against my grain to elaborate as she pauses, waiting for more. I want to give her a fair shot, but I’m not going to do her job for her.
The New Haven Register reporter jumps into the void, brusque and louder than he needs to be. “Is it wise for you to be playing through an injury just to break a record or impress the scouts?”
Shit. I don’t say a thing. Coach Torino, even though he’s in the middle of his own interview, turns to me with a silent command, but he doesn’t need to worry. I’m all on board with the mind-your-business philosophy of handling the press when it comes to injuries and health, or anything that’s personal. The only thing that’s fair game for Q&A, as far as I’m concerned, is the game we just played.
“I play to win the game.”
I turn to the next question, which is about whether I’m trying to break a yards-gained-in-a-season record—my own, from last season.
“I always intend to improve my performance.”
“So your goal is to break your own record then?”
he says, “Whether you’re injured or not?”
I don’t answer since I already answered the guy once.
Anita Yardly raises her hand and whistles through her teeth to get my attention, so I oblige, meeting her eyes and waiting for her question, hoping she makes it a good one, something I can answer, something about the game.
“On your second touchdown, it looked like you used a new move, a lateral stutter fake or something…”
“Yes.”
I answer her even though she didn’t exactly ask anything. I might even owe her for distracting the questions away from my injury.
“So is it a new move?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it from?”
“My imagination, practice, natural evolution through repetition.”
“Over the summer? Who were you practicing your move on? The cows?”
A few of the guys laugh and nod at her in approval. I stare her down because she thinks she’s goading me, winning points and making her tough-girl reputation with her fellow reporters. She has to be related to the professor. No more favors for Anita Yardly.
Torino finishes his interview and slides in next to me, putting a hand on my shoulder as if he’s heard the rumors and believes them—the ones about me punching a guy out for farmer boy jokes. It was only half true.
Shrugging his hand off my shoulder, I say, “No. The cows are too slow. I practiced against the bull. He’s quicker and more dangerous.”
The laughs are bigger this time, and Coach doesn’t mind when I turn away to head to the fieldhouse, ending the interview.
“That’s all for now, folks,”
Coach says. “It’s time Granger gets to his celebration.”
I hear the reporters yell questions at him as he follows me, and I hear Anita shout out, “I thought Granger didn’t believe in celebrating because he’s in training.”
She needs to learn how to ask questions instead of making provocative statements like a difficult twelve-year-old. She’s insecure. I slow my steps because, damn, the ribs throb like a fucker. Coach catches up with me.
“Well done, Bryan.”
“The interview or the game?”
He laughs. “Both.”
He lowers his voice. “How are the ribs?”
“I’m upright and walking.”
I’m sure he notices the slow, less-than-graceful way I’m walking with the distinct tilt of my torso to the right, like I’m the Leaning Tower of Granger. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Bainbridge from the Courant was right about the scouts. They were in the stadium. Chenerski, the ticket manager, arranged passes for a couple of guys from San Francisco.”
I almost trip. Fucking San Francisco 49ers?
Before we get far, I automatically turn to the space in front of the stands where the cheerleaders are gathered. My eyes search and find Susie first. Then I force my gaze to skip to Liz. And there she is. Smiling. She looks happy, but I wonder how deep it goes.
Taking a breath, I return my gaze to Susie. She’s collecting her pom-poms and megaphone, talking and laughing with the others. Not watching me. But why should she?
I’m the dangerous guy she’s supposed to keep her distance from.