Over the summer before eighth grade, I shot up an inch, to six-foot-even. I put on some muscle too, and got up to a hundred and sixty pounds, pumping iron with Carter three times a week.
I didn’t see Coach Goddard again until August, on the morning of Carter’s first official college football practice. Mom had the morning free because she was working the late shift at her dental office that day. She liked football more than any mother I knew, so I didn’t have to ask twice before she agreed to drive down to Gainesville. We were among the first in line, getting there about an hour before the gates opened. When they did, Mom and me hurried inside and grabbed two field-level seats in the front row. The Gators don’t practice in their stadium. That’s only for real games. They have a separate practice facility. Even on a Wednesday morning, nearly two thousand fans were there to watch. But that’s a Fightin’ Gators crowd for you—insanely passionate about its team.
Carter was one of the first players on the field, along with a few of the receivers. My skin tingled as I wished I could be out there too.
“Woo-hoo! That’s my son! Number eighty-five!” Mom hollered at the top of her lungs.
I could see Carter fighting back a smile as his teammates poked at him. The practice started with a few wind sprints. Surprisingly, the quarterback hadn’t taken the field yet. Carter threw a pass to his roommate, Alex Moore, missing him by a mile. Then Alex did the same on the pass back to Carter.
“Honey, they’d be better off with you throwing the ball,” Mom joked.
Somehow that was all the encouragement I needed. I jumped the short metal railing and my feet touched down onto the field.
“Travis, what are you doing?” Mom screamed. “You can’t go out there!”
I didn’t even turn around. Instead, I picked a football up off the ground and waved for Carter to cut across the middle. He hesitated at first, then made the move. I reared back and fired him a perfect strike.
Next, Alex Moore, number eighty-eight, a pencil-thin sophomore with blazing speed, raised his hand for a long pass. He was one of the Gators’ leading receivers. A few years back, I’d seen Alex play against Carter for Santa Fe High School, Beauchamp’s biggest rival. Now Carter and him were roommates in the athletes’ dorm. I really launched one deep. For a second, I thought I’d put too much arc on the pass, overthrowing Alex. But he glided down the field like a gazelle and caught the ball in full stride.
I looked up and saw a uniformed security guard heading right for me. I froze in my tracks. Then, just as that security guard got within arm’s reach of me, I heard Goddard’s voice boom from off in the distance, “Leave him be! I’ll handle this!”
Goddard’s slow walk over to me was like torture. Carter looked concerned too—his entire upper body practically deflated.
“Big arm, Travis. That’s how to lead a receiver,” said Coach Goddard, behind a widening grin.
“Uhhh, thanks, Coach,” was all I could get out of my mouth.
“I watched that game video you sent me, of you at quarterback,” he said.
“You did? Really?”
I’d sent it almost four months back and hadn’t heard a word. Mom told me Coach G. probably asked for it just to be polite. So I didn’t get my hopes up about hearing anything back.
“I was impressed,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “You showed a lot of maturity and poise under pressure.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
Coach G. walked out to the middle of the field toward Carter, where they started to talk. Alex jogged over in my direction, flipping me the football and flashing a big smile.
“My brother’s brother,” he said, making a fist and then reaching out to bump his black knuckles against my white ones. “You can throw that pass even deeper next time. I had another gear left.”
“I will,” I replied, completing the fist bump. “Careful what you wish for, though. I can really let it fly.”
“You see this number eighty-eight I wear? Laid out on its side, that’s double-infinity,” Alex said, leaning over nearly parallel to the ground, like he was diving to make a catch. “You can’t overthrow double-infinity. It catches up to everything.”
“Oh. O-kay,” I said, a little confused as Alex loped away.
I was totally psyched about that praise from Coach G. But I began to stress, thinking Carter might be catching grief from Coach over me stepping onto the practice field. The two of them were far enough away that I couldn’t hear a word. Still, Carter had a look on his face like he wasn’t completely enjoying the conversation. So I dropped the football on the ground and headed back to the stands.