WE CLIMBED TO THE TOP of a little hill to watch practice. The players were in shorts with no helmets. McNulty had them running forward, backwards, sideways left, sideways right. Then they'd do push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, stretches, run through tires, run through ropes, hit tackling sleds. "Well," Kimi said after a while. "What do you think?"
"About interviewing the guy wearing the number five jersey."
"It's a good idea, Kimi, but we can't just go talk to him."
"Why not?"
"Because we've got to check with McNulty first."
"Why?"
"Coaches control access to their players."
She held the camera up to her face, and then handed it to me. "Mitch, look at his eyes."
I focused the camera and then used the zoom to pull in close.
"Do you see it?" she said.
"See what?"
"The haunted look. His eyes are old and sad. He's lived through more than anybody else out there."
I peered through the camera. I tried to see a haunted look, but I don't know what haunted looks like. He did look old, though. I'd have guessed he was twenty-two or twenty-three if I hadn't known he was in high school. I handed back the camera. "Sometime I'll ask McNulty if we can interview him," I said.
"Ask him now, Mitch."
"I can't interrupt practice," I protested.
As if on cue, McNulty blew his whistle. "Water break. Ten minutes." Then he climbed down from his makeshift coaching tower and walked toward his assistant coaches.
"Come on," Kimi said, and before I could answer, she broke into a jog to intercept him. But a jog for her is a sprint for me. For the millionth time, I told myself that I had to lose weight.
"Coach," she yelled when we got within ten feet of McNulty.
He stopped and turned around. "What?"
I was panting so hard I couldn't speak. Kimi saw me gasping. "Mitch wants to interview the guy wearing the number five jersey."
McNulty looked at me. "Why?"
I'd caught my breath a little. "He was throwing off to the side," I panted. "And he's got an NFL arm. He throws harder than Horst."
McNulty stared at me as if I were from outer space. "Harder than Horst? Like an NFL quarterback?"
I felt like a foolish five-year-old, but I plunged on. "Have him throw for you. You'll see."
McNulty looked up at the sky, disgust on his face. "One hour and the kid knows more than I do about my own team."
"You, the guy wearing the Philly jersey" McNulty's voice boomed out, interrupting me. "Come over here. Coby Eliot, you come too."
The two players trotted over to where we were standing. McNulty looked toward Kimi and me. My face and neck flashed hot and red, which always happens when I get excited.
"What's your name, son?" McNulty asked Number Five.
"Angel Marichal," came the whispered answer. Up close, he seemed even bigger.
"Where you from, Angel?"
"Houston."
"You play football last year?"
"I got cut. It was a big school."
McNulty shot me a look, then turned back to Marichal.
"What's your position, Marichal?"
"Linebacker."
"Ever play quarterback?"
He shook his head. "No, sir."
McNulty nodded toward me. "This guy thinks you throw the ball like a professional quarterback."
Angel shook his head. "I'm not a quarterback," he repeated.
"Throw a few for me anyway," McNulty said.
Angel shrugged, and then stepped off to the side to play catch with Coby Eliot. I looked at Kimi, and her dark eyes glittered with excitement. Maybe Angel didn't know how good he was, but we did. Soon McNulty would know, too.
Coby Eliot stood about twenty-five yards from Angel Marichal. Angel cocked his arm, and I waited for the ball to sizzle through the summer air, waited for McNulty's eyebrows to go up, waited for him to look at Kimi and me with respect.
Only the ball didn't sizzle. It looped, high in the air. It wobbled off to the right. Eliot ran under it, caught it, and flung it back. Again Marichal threw. Again a pathetic moon-ball drifted in the general direction of Eliot. A third pass, a fourth, a fifth. All moon shots.
"That's enough," McNulty said. "Go on, get back with the other guys."
Eliot and Marichal trotted off; McNulty wheeled on me. "Like an NFL pro?"
"He threw a hundred times better before," I mumbled, feeling ridiculous. "A thousand times."
McNulty scowled. "The next time you discover the second coming of Joe Montana, call ESPN. Don't bother me again. Understand?"
"We still want to interview him," Kimi insisted. "He's a fresh face."
"Well, you're not interviewing him," McNulty barked.
"Why not?" Kimi persisted.
"Because I've got twenty-two seniors on this team who've busted their butts for Lincoln for three years. Angel, or whatever the hell his name is, hasn't finished his first practice. You write about those guys and then talk to me about a new guy." With that, McNulty spun around and headed back to his assistants.
I turned to Kimi. "You want to go?"
"I haven't taken pictures of Horst yet," she said, her voice trembling.
We returned to our spot on the grassy hill and sat looking down at the practice field as McNulty and his assistants ran the players through more drills. Kimi trained her camera on Horst and snapped photo after photo, but I kept my eyes glued on Angel Marichal.
In every drill, Angel was mediocre, which made no sense. There was no way Kimi and I had imagined those bullet passes or the natural athleticism. I leaned back on my elbows and chewed on a blade of grass.
Something was missing. Mr. Dewey always told us to look for just this situation. He said that a reporter's job is to find that missing piece. This wasn't a big, earthshaking, terrorist story like Melissa Watts had had her hands on. But it was a story.
"What's wrong?" Kimi said, pulling the camera away from her face.
I nodded toward the field. "Angel. He's not really trying."
McNulty had the players doing shuttle runs, checking their quickness. Angel was constantly adjusting his speed, making sure he stayed near the middle of the pack. Kimi watched, and then turned to me. "You're right. And he's not very good at faking." She paused. "Why would you try out for a team and then not try?"
"I don't know, but he's got a story. And before the season is over, we're going to get it."
As soon as I finished my little speech, I felt dumb. Who did I think I was—some big-time CNN reporter? I peeked at Kimi. I was afraid she'd be laughing at me, but she wasn't, and I liked her even more.