Cody's Varsity Rush (8 page)

“Cody,” his dad said, forcing his mouth into a smile, “don't you have anything to say?”

“Sorry, Dad. I guess I'm just surprised. Plus, it's been kind of a weird day. Congratulations, really, to both of you.” He moved to his dad and hugged him. Beth was next.
Still wearing too much perfume
, Cody thought as he embraced her awkwardly. She raised on her tiptoes and kissed the top of his head.

Man, I hate when she does that
, he thought.

“Would you like to see the
ring
?” she asked, her voice going up about an octave on the word “ring.”

“Sure,” Cody said.
So much for
“
Thou shalt not lie
,” he thought.

After Beth dangled her left hand in front of Cody's face, she and his dad began gushing about their wedding plans. Finally, his dad drew in a deep breath and leveled his eyes at Cody. “And buddy-o,” he said, his voice cracking around the edges, “I want you to be my best man. That would mean so much to me.”

“Sure, Dad,” Cody answered, wondering if his smile looked as fake and forced as it felt.

His father thanked him, then launched into a detailed description of the best man's responsibilities.

When that discourse was finally over, his father stood. “I'm going to take Beth home now. Maybe stop somewhere for coffee and dessert. Oh—what was your news, Cody? I hope it's as good as ours.”

Cody watched the two of them, arms around each other, smiling like they were doing a toothpaste commercial. “Oh, it's nothing, Dad. Just had a really good game this afternoon. That's all.”

“Way to go, tiger,” his dad said. It sounded like a line from a high school play.

“Yeah, way to go,” Beth added. Then they were gone, giggling all the way to the car.

Cody stood sandwiched between Paul Goddard and a lanky junior named Dilts on the south goal line of the practice field. Brett, next to Dilts, shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

Coach Morgan and Coach Alvin faced them. The rest of the team stood along the east sideline looking on. “As you know,” the head coach began, “we have been decimated by injuries. Because of this, I have adjusted our defense from a forty-three set to a fifty-three. As often as we can, we'll go with three DBs and put an extra guy up front. But three of the teams remaining on our schedule have fine quarterbacks and good receivers. We can't give them a skeleton defensive backfield to pick apart. In those cases, we'll need two corners and two safeties.”

Cody exchanged a quick glance with Brett. They both knew what was coming.

“Our challenge,” Coach Alvin added, after getting an approving nod from Coach Morgan, “is that we are seriously hurting at cornerback. Dalton Rhodes has plenty of corner experience, and we'll be okay with him replacing Craig Ward. Goddard, you have done an adequate job of moving from safety to corner. But we are concerned about your speed. So we're going to stage a little race. We know what your forty-yard-dash times are wearing shorts. But we need to see who is the fastest in full pads.”

With that, both coaches stepped aside. “It's one hundred yards to the other goal line, gentlemen,” Coach Alvin said. “On my whistle, I want you all to run like crazy. Whoever wins doesn't have to run gassers tonight. And he gets to play some games as starting varsity cornerback.”

Dilts poked his hand up. “So does that mean, like, we're gonna race?”

Coach Alvin stared at Dilts. “No, genius, it means we're gonna bake cookies!” He looked to his boss. “Coach Morgan, was I unclear about anything I said?”

The head coach's face was expressionless. “No,” he said, “I don't believe you were.”

“I didn't think so. Now, if there are no more questions, may we begin?”

“Yes sir,” Dilts mumbled.

“Are you sure Mister Dilts? Are you clear on which direction you are running? On how far?”

Dilts nodded.

Coach Alvin blew a shrill, rippling blast on his whistle. Cody knew he was first off the line. He had watched the coach inhale and did his best to get a fast start. He knew he would need it.

Dilts pulled alongside him as they crossed the forty-yard line. He had a long stride, but from the desperate, rattling breaths he was taking, Cody knew he was tiring. Sure enough, as they hit midfield, Dilts's form started to break down. He was cooked.

As they neared the other forty, Cody felt Goddard on his heels. Then, five yards later, Goddard was even with him. Goddard looked over and said “See you at the club, Code,” then accelerated by him.

Before the comment, Cody was ready to concede the race to the senior. He didn't want to play varsity football as a freshman, and—although he disliked losing a race—it was no disgrace to be outrun by a senior.

But “See you at the club”? That was cocky. That was disrespect. Cody pumped his arms furiously. He lengthened his stride but still fought to keep his legs turning over at maximum rate. Eighteen yards from the finish, Goddard began to tie up. Cody drew even with him at the twelve. Goddard tried to find another gear, but he had used them all. In desperation, the senior lunged for the goal line.

Cody didn't lunge. He kept his legs moving. He beat Goddard by half a yard and had to clutch the goal post to keep from crumpling to the turf. Gulping for air, he looked back down the field. He wondered what had happened to Brett, until he saw him limping to the sideline, holding his right hamstring.

Cody expected Pork Chop to be the first one there to congratulate him, but Chop couldn't run a 4.5 forty like Brendan Clark. For a moment, Cody feared that Clark was going to tackle him, but he stopped just short of contact. “That's the way to get your speed on, Martin!” Clark barked. “You sure you're just a freshman?”

“Yeah,” Cody said sincerely.

Pork Chop was next in line. For a moment, he appeared to be searching for words. Finally, he belched softly and said, “Welcome to the varsity, bro.”

Coach Alvin let a few more well-wishers congratulate Cody before he cut in. He handed Cody a cup of water. “Drink this,” he commanded. “Then follow me. We have a lot of work to do.”

Coach Alvin spent most of the practice with his defensive backs. He explained that when facing run-oriented teams, Paul Goddard would play one corner with Rhodes at the other. Berringer would represent the team's last line of defense as a roving safety. When battling a team that favored the pass, Goddard would move back to strong safety, his natural position, and Cody would start alongside Rhodes.

“I'm not gonna blow any smoke up your skirts,” Coach Alvin said, pointing a finger at Cody, then Rhodes. “Both of you are two or three steps slower than Winston Lydell. And you're a whole bunch of steps slower than Craig Ward. His 4.4 in the forty is a team record. So you're going to have to give receivers more cushion that we'd like. And you, Mr. Martin, are going to have to learn how to get low and knock guys' legs out from under them. You're not gonna be wanting to hit anybody high. I got a cat almost as big as you.”

Chapter 5 Road Kill

L
ightweight. Sissy-boy. Powder puff. Moron. Hapless idiot. Lying on his bed on Friday night, Cody ran through the list of names Coach Alvin had called him during his first three varsity practices. He chuckled to himself. A year ago, in middle school, Coach Smith had used similar terminology, and it had hurt. But there was something about the way Coach Alvin tossed the terms around, almost like nicknames. There was no venom dripping off them.

And Coach Alvin peppered everyone with monikers. When ATV would fumble during a scrimmage, he became “SUV” or “Minivan.” One missed tackle and Jeff Tucker became “Jeff Tuckered Out.”

Brendan Clark was the only player who had escaped the whiplash that was Coach Alvin's tongue. And that was because Cody hadn't seen Clark make a mistake or fail to hustle during even one drill.

With Ward injured, Clark always won the end-of-practice gassers, the grueling sprints across the width of the football field—six or seven times in a row. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight to see him clinging to the chain link fence after practice heaving his lunch.

Just before Cody slipped into sleep, he prayed, “Thank you, God, that I made varsity. This is the coolest thing to happen in a long time. Not to seem ungrateful or anything, but Lost Valley is a grind-it-out running team, and I wouldn't mind it at all if they stick to the run all afternoon tomorrow. Amen, and go Eagles!”

Lost Valley tried to surprise the Eagles by trying to hit a receiver on a drag pattern over the middle on the first play of the game. That was the first of their two pass attempts for the entire game.

The Vikings featured a hulking 230-pound fullback named Nash who touched the ball almost every play. By double-teaming Brendan Clark, also on almost every play, Lost Valley was able to spring Nash for several big gains.

ATV did his best to keep Grant in the game, piling up 188 yards on twenty-six bruising carries. But the team missed the luxury of putting Craig Ward in at receiver when they needed a big gain. Ward also returned kickoffs and punts. His backup, unfortunately, was Winston Lydell.

Grant trailed 14–7 and had the ball late in the fourth quarter, but ATV was too gassed to run effectively, and Dean Hammond, the Eagle QB, misfired on three straight passes to end the game.

“That's just great,” ATV snapped in the locker room after the game. “We get beat by Lost Valley. That doesn't even sound like a school. Sounds like a salad dressing!”

It was only five o'clock when the yellow school bus pulled into the Grant High School parking lot. Cody, who hadn't played at all, decided he would go for a run when he got home.
Might as well get some exercise
today
, he reasoned.

Man, it feels good to be running without all my football
gear on
, Cody thought.
And it feels good to not be
worrying about hitting somebody—or being hit.