I sent Dad one of the Beauchamp High jerseys with my name on it. Only, his reaction wasn’t anything like I thought it would be.
“I think we need to be careful with your name,” Dad said. “I’ve researched it a bit. Amateur athletes can’t make money endorsing products. But that doesn’t mean we can’t begin to shape your public image. Then when you’re finished playing in college, corporations will be lining up for you to represent them.”
“Do we really have to worry about this now?” I asked.
“Travis, the average NFL playing career is just over three years. And that’s if you make it.”
“If?” I said. “I don’t know any other high school freshman with jersey sales.”
“There are no guarantees in life. That’s why you take advantage of these opportunities and market yourself while you’re hot.”
“Last time I checked, Coach G. did give me a guarantee. At least to make the team and be a Gator.”
“It doesn’t bind him to anything, Travis. Remember that. So we’ve got to be smart.”
I didn’t expect my quarterbacking skills to cool off anytime soon. So after that, I just answered, “Sure. Sure,” to all of Dad’s concerns.
The next game on the Beauchamp schedule put us on the road, against Chiles, one of the weakest teams in our division. On paper, their defense looked like Swiss cheese. I was drooling at the idea of going up against them, to really pad my passing stats.
Lots of kids from Beauchamp made the bus trip to see us play, and there were plenty of Gardner jerseys in the stands. In the visitors’ locker room, I drew #88 on my cleats, like Carter and his teammates had. This way, I’d be carrying part of Alex’s memory with me, instead of fighting myself to block it out. Before kickoff, I went to find Cortez.
“I’m going to give sixty minutes today. Count on it,” I told him. “I figure my offense is good for at least forty points. All your D has to do is hold them to less than that.”
Cortez grinned so wide, the dark hairs over his upper lip spread apart.
“That’s what I like, a quarterback with confidence,” he said. “I hope you’re talking that way two weeks from now, when we play Lincoln. I want to see your face after you get a look at those monsters.”
“I’m not scared of any defense,” I said, spinning a ball in my left hand. “They should all be scared of me.”
“Hang on tight to that ego. You’re going to need it,” Cortez said, spreading his helmet at the earflaps to fit it over his head. “Just make sure it doesn’t get too big for you to carry.”
* * *
The Chiles defense played five or six yards off every one of our receivers. That extra cushion was like buttercream frosting on a red velvet cake with my name on it.
I put every ball I threw right on the numbers. Even if those defenders had been glued to my receivers at the hip, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was so hot, I would have delivered the football into any window, no matter how small.
Every time Pisano sent in a running play, I groaned. I called an audible on a few of them, changing the plays to passes. All I wanted to do was throw the football against a defense that didn’t want to step up.
I’d connected on my first twelve passes when the equipment manager told me the Beauchamp High record for consecutive completions stood at thirteen. We were already ahead 21–0. So I focused on getting my name into the record book.
“Soon as we get the ball back, I want to try that deep crossing route we’ve been working on in practice,” Pisano told me on the sideline, while our defense was on the field. “Let’s work on the timing in a game situation, so we have it down on a day we really need it.”
The deep cross involved a risky pass and a route our receivers hadn’t run a lot. But I couldn’t tell Pisano I wanted that record without sounding selfish.
When the time came for Chiles to punt the ball back to us, I peeked at my wristband for a more high-percentage pass. I called Pisano’s play in the huddle—but I already knew I was going to audible out of it.
At the line of scrimmage, I looked over the Chiles defense. Their D was still giving our receivers plenty of cushion, playing back on its heels. A short pass would be almost an automatic completion.
“Tango! Tango!” I barked, letting my offense know I was changing the play call. “Sightline! Sightline!”
I followed that with some numbers and code words that had no meaning. My receivers knew sightline meant the ball was coming to one of them right away.
I took the snap and immediately pivoted to my left. A kid named Marshall, who had a thick unibrow that stood out beneath his helmet, didn’t have a defender within seven yards of him. He was basically all alone. As the throw left my hand, I could tell it might have been a half-foot too high and a bit too far out in front. But it was still a ball that Marshall should have had for lunch. Instead, the pass bounced off his hands.
I felt my heart sink as the football fell to the ground.
Pisano stared at me from the sideline, his arms out at his sides, mystified at why I hadn’t thrown deep.
I pointed at my eyes, to let him know I’d seen something.
Maybe it was my adrenaline pumping, or maybe I was just angry at myself. But when Marshall returned to the huddle, I couldn’t hold back.
“Come on, man. You should have caught that ball easy. We’re trying to accomplish something here.”
“My bad,” he muttered.
I completed my next two passes but couldn’t ditch the image of the dropped ball. Marshall had cost me a record that should have been mine.
Later, I found Marshall wide open. His defender had tripped. So he streaked straight downfield, waving at me, a good ten yards behind the rest of the defense. I lofted the ball up high into the lights and stars, like it might never come down.
When it did, it landed right in his arms for a score.
I ran full-speed to the end zone to celebrate.
“So you do have a pair of hands!” I hollered, slapping Marshall on the helmet.
He smiled and said, “I owed you one.”
I wanted to tell him that he hadn’t owed me anything. That my incomplete pass to him was a dud. But I just slapped the side of his helmet again and said, “Debt paid.”
* * *
Early in the fourth quarter, we were destroying Chiles 49–12. Pisano wanted to take me out of the game and let my new backup get some playing time. But I already had four touchdown passes, and a fifth would improve my state ranking big-time.
“Just one more series,” I pleaded with Pisano. “I want to work on my timing with some of our second-stringers.”
Pisano swallowed that line and let me back onto the field. On our next pass play, I had a receiver about to break open on a slant route. Holding the ball for an extra beat, I could sense the pocket starting to collapse around me and Chiles’s D-line closing in quick. So I stepped forward to throw.
I released the ball clean. But on my follow-through, my elbow slammed against somebody’s helmet.
The feeling was part intense pain and part tingling at first. Then the tingling stopped, leaving nothing but pain shooting up and down my left arm. I bolted to the sideline.
“Looks like you hit your humerus, the funny bone,” our trainer said. “It’s beginning to swell a little. We’ll get an X-ray to be on the safe side.”
After the game, Mom and him took me to the emergency room.
“If you’re not crying, I don’t think it’s fractured,” Mom said.
“I don’t cry over anything,” I told her. “Not anymore.”
But I was paranoid, thinking the worst, like six weeks in a cast. I cursed myself for not letting Pisano take me out of the game. The only thing in my favor was that Beauchamp had a bye week coming up. Our next game wouldn’t be for another fourteen days.
The doctor diagnosed the injury right away, after putting my X-ray up to a bright light: “Just a bruise and a slight ligament strain to the ulna. As far as football’s concerned, you’re either going to have to rest it or deal with the discomfort until it fully heals.”
“Discomfort’s not a problem. Neither is playing in pain,” I said, with Mom giving me a look that told me a lecture was coming.
We got home just before midnight. Galaxy greeted us at the front door, jumping up for attention. I had to rub him under his neck using my right arm.
Mom tried to give me that your health is more important than football speech. But I let out a yawn and rubbed my eyes, using exhaustion as an excuse to duck it.
@TravisG_Gator Beauchamp Bobcats 3-0. I’m ranked in the Top-10 QBs in FL again. This is either heaven or a great dream. Nobody pinch me.