Some other kids at school seemed to be jealous of what I had. They either snubbed me in the hallway or cut in front of me on the lunch line. I just tried to let it all roll off my back.
Then there was my math teacher, Mrs. Harper, who had a major chip on her shoulder. Five years ago, Carter had her as a freshman. But she’d been at Beauchamp much longer than that. She was almost a senior citizen and completely out of touch, with a weird pointed hairdo that made her look like the grandma of Wolverine from X-Men.
“Travis Gardner, rest assured you won’t get any special treatment from me because you’ve already secured a college scholarship,” Mrs. Harper told me as I first passed her desk. “That’s the beauty of a mathematics grade. Numbers don’t lie. They’re not influenced by popularity. Your brother Carter understood his obligations as a student. I hope you have the same work ethic.”
That part about my work ethic ticked me off more than anything else.
Besides PE, history had always been my favorite subject. That class looked like it could be a blast. The history teacher, Ms. Orsini, was also my guidance counselor. She was young and fun with a bobbed haircut that swung around her face nearly every time she moved her head.
She’d fooled us all during our first class when she asked, “Where’s the Sea of Tranquility?” Kids guessed almost everywhere in the world without getting it right. After we’d run out of places, I even tried, “Inside the Devil’s Triangle.”
But that was wrong too.
“It’s on the Moon. And it’s not filled with water. It’s a large, dusty crater. It’s interesting how we can be deceived by a name.”
After class, on my way out the door, Ms. Orsini said, “Travis, I hear you have a lot of big things going on in your life. Drop by the guidance office one day and let’s talk about them all. I’d love to hear what’s on your mind.”
“Sure,” I said, thinking there’d be worse ways to spend my time at school.
Lyn Wilson had started at Beauchamp High at the same time as me and her brother, Damon. She wasn’t in any of my classes, but we shared the same lunch period.
“Damon told me you’re starting quarterback,” Lyn said when I saw her in the cafeteria. “That’s great.”
“Yeah, too bad your bro won’t be snapping me the ball,” I said.
“I don’t think he minds being on the bench. He’s not into football the way he used to be,” she said. “He’s getting interested in bodybuilding.”
“I saw all the weight he lost,” I said, then changed gears. “Did you go to softball camp this summer?”
“Three weeks. I loved it.” She made a windmill motion with her right arm. “Worked a lot on my fastball.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t want to hit against you.”
“That’s right. I’d dust you back off the plate.”
And I couldn’t tell if she was joking with that or warning me not to bother asking her out again.
* * *
At practice, I worked super-hard on my play-fake. Over and over, I’d take the snap, turn around, and put the ball into the running back’s stomach. Then, at the last possible moment, I’d pull it out, hiding the ball behind my back. That would slow down a pass rush, making the defense think we’d picked a run play. The safety might even creep up closer to the line, looking to help out on the tackle. Then there’d be less pressure on me and more open receivers. Pisano asked Aiden to show me a few things to polish it up.
“It’s all about having a good base,” Aiden told me in a condescending voice, putting his two legs into the ground like nothing in the world could move them. “When you go to pull the ball out, you’d better have your balance. Or else it’ll be a disaster.”
Aiden worked on that with me for about twenty minutes. When we were done, I tried to give him a pound. Only he left my fist hanging out there. I ran that play-fake during our scrimmage, with Pisano watching on the field from just beyond the D-line.
“Not bad,” said Pisano. “Two things a quarterback needs to survive—a good play-fake and a short memory about the mistakes he makes.”
Even Cortez, who completely froze in his tracks on a couple of those fakes, gave me a nod of approval. That same day, the team’s equipment manager handed out uniforms. I got the number I wanted, the one I’d always worn: twelve. Within five minutes of coming home with my Bobcat jersey, I’d texted a photo of me wearing it to Dad, Carter, and the Gainesville media department, for my Twitter account. I must have looked at myself in the mirror with it on for over an hour, going through different poses with the football and trying to get my expression just right as I imagined my first Sports Illustrated cover—somewhere past confident but less obnoxious than cocky.
* * *
Our first game of the season took place on a Friday night in early September, under the lights at Beauchamp. In Florida, Saturdays are all about college football. They belong to Coach G. and the Gators. But on Fridays, high school football is king. Anytime the Bobcats take the field at home, nearly the entire student body, along with half of Alachua, turns out to watch. We opened up against Santa Fe High. That’s the school where Alex played. The Gators were starting their season the next night at home. So Carter and Alex had come with Mom to see me play. I ran up to them near the stands, about an hour before game time.
“Are you rooting for Travis tonight or your old school?” Carter asked Alex in front of me.
“Sorry, lil bro,” Alex said, shaking his head. “I hope you throw five touchdown passes and make all the newspapers. But I want to see my Raiders score six TDs.”
“I thought we were fam,” I teased Alex.
“We are. But on the field, football trumps family. That’s how blood brothers can whip each other’s butts and still go home to the same dinner table. It’s off the field that fam wins out.”
“Sounds smart,” Mom said, looking at me and Carter. “At home, it should always be family first, not competition.”
I blew Mom a kiss and started backpedaling toward the field, not wanting to hear a longer lecture from her.
Then I pointed at Alex and said, “I’m going to kick Santa Fe tail tonight. You’ll just have to smile and suck it up.”
All through the warm-ups, my nerves were tighter than I’d let on to anyone. I heard one of our players say he thought he’d seen Coach G. in the stands. I didn’t believe it for a second, not with the Gators playing a game in twenty-four hours. Still, it gave me goose bumps.
We won the coin toss, and Pisano wanted the football first.
After the thump of the ball coming off the Santa Fe kicker’s shoe, our special teams returned the kickoff to our own thirty-six-yard line. I put on my helmet, tightened the chinstrap, and listened to the applause as I jogged onto the field.
On our first play from scrimmage, I stepped to the line and looked over the Santa Fe defense. Their coach must have been convinced Pisano would take the pressure off me and begin by running the ball. He was right. Santa Fe had eight of their eleven defenders crowding the line, ready to stop our runner cold. So I decided to call an audible and change the play at the line.
“Omaha! Omaha!” I hollered out left and then right. “Eighteen rocket! Eighteen rocket! Hut!”
My voice was still echoing inside the stadium as the center snapped the ball. I took a quick two-step drop and spotted our slot receiver slanting across the middle. I planted my right foot into the ground. Then, my left arm, up around the ear hole of my helmet, whipped forward with the football. I could visualize a bull’s-eye on my receiver’s chest—and I fired the pass right on target.
The cheers were almost deafening as our receiver streaked downfield for a forty-yard gain. They became the soundtrack to confidence building inside of me, beating back every last doubt.
There were more than fifty plays on a five-inch-long wristband attached to my right forearm. Pisano would send in the call. Then I’d find its number on the band and give the play to our offense.
I broke the huddle with a loud clap of my hands. Ten other guys on offense were moving in rhythm to me. I handed the ball off to our fullback, who gained a few yards. But I stayed extremely conscious of the position of my legs, waist, and shoulders. A couple of plays later, using that exact same form, I turned to hand the ball off again. Only, this time, I pulled the ball out from our fullback’s stomach. It was a perfect play-fake, and Raider defense took the bait, with the safety cheating up. Standing calmly in the pocket, I rifled the ball downfield. It spiraled through the air without wavering an inch. My receiver hauled it in and raced into the end zone.
We took a 7-to-0 lead, but that was just the start.
I stood on the sideline with my helmet off, gazing into the stands. I was trying not to smile too wide or too often, wanting people to believe this was nothing out of the ordinary for me. I was talking to all of my teammates, and they were all talking back.
After that, I connected on my next nine passes. I was dropping balls into every open window, no matter how small. The Santa Fe D couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
Just being out there gave me the most incredible feeling, the reason I started playing quarterback to begin with. The same feeling had hit me when I was a little kid, tossing the ball around with Dad and Carter. But now I was sharing it with an entire stadium full of fans. I wanted to keep that feeling forever. I wanted to ride it through four years of high school, and maybe win a state championship, before cruising into Gainesville to quarterback the Gators.
We crushed Santa Fe, 37–6.
I prayed Coach G. would catch the highlights on the local sports report and that ESPN would give me a shout-out. Now I had a win to back up all the hype. My teammates were looking at me like I was their leader. And I’d erased any last doubts about who should be the Bobcats’ quarterback.