CHAPTER EIGHT

I stared down on the field where my dad brought me as a kid. Late in the afternoons, after he clocked out. Grease packed beneath his fingernails. He managed mechanics, had a desk in the front office, but he wore his name on his shirt and couldn’t resist getting his hands dirty. He hated that desk, and he’d much rather show you how to do something than tell you. Several days a week we’d rumble up here in his old F-150 and play catch on the field.

This is where he taught me a buttonhook. Fly. Post. Down and in. Fade. Hitch and go. And this is where he taught me to throw. Grip it like this… Left hand pointed at the target. Come over the top. Look at the target, or where your target’s going to be—not at the ball. Rip the left arm straight down and follow through. If you hear footsteps, either tuck it or get rid of it. Get back up when they knock you down. And—I remember him laughing. His head falling back. Teeth showing. They’re going to knock you down a lot. It’s part of the game. Might as well get used to it. Then we’d throw. Back and forth. Thousands of times. Over the weeks, the distance between us increased but the bond grew stronger. Pretty soon, he was running routes and I was throwing. Once I could manage the throws, he inserted my first major hurdle—an imaginary defense. This meant that not only did I have to know his route, and how and where to throw to him when he ran that route, but now I had to think through the fact that there were several imaginary men running around out there with varying assignments—and I had to know those as well.

It was glorious fun.

Dad explained defenses and began using words like “zone,” “man,” “Cover 2,” “Cover 3,” “goal line,” and “nickel defense.” Each code explained assignments and responsibilities for several of the defensive players—primarily the safeties, but it also included the inside and outside linebackers. Just as every man on the offense had a specific individual assignment, so did every defensive player. With every trip to the field, he added another defense, stuffing my brain with exponential possibilities. This meant that as a quarterback calling the play in the huddle, I had to think through—beforehand—what would be open, or might be, and where the other team’s players should be if they executed their assignments. In short, my job was to know the defense as well as my offense.

I don’t remember exactly what route he said he was going to run or what defense he had called on the other side, but one day, all my wires got crossed. The x’s and o’s merged into alphabet soup and I lost track of pretty much everything. Dad stood waiting on me to snap the ball but all I could do was tuck the ball under my arm, shrug, and say, “I have no idea.”

He jogged over to me and waved his hand across the field. “This is nothing but a chess match, and you’re just moving pieces around the field. Take your time. Think it through. We’re not in any hurry. You control the clock.” He smiled. “Worst thing that can happen is a delay of game. No biggie. The ump backs us up five yards and we start over.” A chuckle. “Only with more field to work with.”

“What if they—” I looked away, afraid to voice every quarterback’s fear.

He interrupted me. Raised both eyebrows. “Take you the other direction?”

I nodded.

“You play this position long enough, and it’s not a matter of if, but when. Might as well get over that now. What matters is not the fact that some defensive player intercepts you. What matters is what you do when you get the ball back in your hands.” He waved across our imaginary opponents, chuckling. “They can’t beat us.” A smirk. “They’re good, but they ain’t that good.”

While that day tested the capacity of my brain, it was grammar school recess compared to the paradigm shift I had coming.

It was late afternoon, sun going down. Dad stood on the left hash, his pants tucked into his boots. Grease stains on the back of his hand. I was standing in the center of the field, ball in my hand. He’d line up wide left, and we were playing against a defense that was lined up in Cover 1—which meant the imaginary cornerback across from Dad was playing man coverage, two yards off and one inside, forcing Dad outside and taking away the quick slant. I visualized how that imaginary guy in front of Dad would be in his back pocket the entire time he ran his route and knew my throw could not be off more than a few inches or it’d get intercepted.

Having thought it through, I moved to snap the ball to myself.

“Blue forty—”

Suddenly, Dad lifted his head and began pointing wildly at the cornerback and then the entire defense. “Change Cover 2! Change Cover 2!” He shouted.

I hesitated, raised an eyebrow. But we’d already called the play. So I continued my count. “Blue forty-two—”

Dad began jumping up and down and pointing at the defense and shaking his head. Finally, I motioned time-out to the imaginary referee and called Dad over. He was breathing heavily. He turned away from the defense and spoke in a low tone. Hands on his knees. “Cover 1 was a decoy. The farther you get in your count, the more they start backing up to Cover 2. If you throw that deep ball”—he smiled—“that I know you’re itching to throw, that strong side free safety will time your throw, intercept it, and run eighty yards the other direction.”

This made no sense to me whatsoever. It violated all the rules he’d taught me. “But, Dad, they’ve already called the defense. They can’t change it just before the snap.”

He smiled and his head tilted just slightly. “Hate to break it to you, sport, but yeah, they can.” He leaned in closer. “They can change it anytime they want.”

The weight of this revelation was more than I could bear. I almost sat down. “But that’s not fair… How do we beat that?”

He put his arm around me. “It’s called an audible.”

Incredulous, I just looked at him.

“It’s when you get to change the play at the line of scrimmage.”

The tectonic plates, which once formed the foundation of what I knew to be the game of football, shifted inside my head. I pointed a few feet behind me. “But what about the play I just called inside the huddle?”

“You can change it. You’re not locked in. An audible is an if-then statement.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I looked at my dad as if he’d grown three heads.

He explained. “If the defense does one thing, then we do another.”

I motioned to my offense. “Great, but how do I tell those ten guys without”—I pointed at the defense—“those eleven knowing?”

He snapped his fingers. “Pick a word.”

“What?”

“Any word. Something catchy.”

I said the first thing that came to mind. “Matthew.”

“Good word. But how about ‘Mike,’ ‘hot check,’ or ‘Rocky’? Words that are easy to say and hear. The word itself doesn’t matter. It’s a verbal bell—a way to get their attention. That’s all. It’s your way of telling your offense that you’re changing the play at the line of scrimmage. Their job is to always listen to the sound of your voice—for that one word—and make adjustments as needed. Your job is to read the defense and know what play will work, given what the defense is showing you.”

We agreed on hot check.

But that only solved half the problem. I scratched my head. “But how do I tell you what route to run?”

“We assign routes to words. In this case, when the defense shifts from Cover 1 to Cover 2, that opens up the slant and maybe the hitch and go. So if you want me to run a slant, you say, ‘Bomber.’ Want me to run a hitch and go? You say, ‘Razor.’ ”

That meant that as a quarterback I had to know our offense as well as all the defensive possibilities we might face and the audibles for changing our offensive play at the line when the defense shifted cover. In that moment, football became chess played in 3-D, with a little cardiovascular challenge thrown in for good measure. Not to mention the marauding horde.

Dad grinned. “Ready?”

I called the play in the huddle, and we walked up to the line of scrimmage. I stood under my imaginary center and Dad lined up wide left. In my mind, I returned the defense to its rightful place and began my count, “Blue forty-two. Blue forty-two…” With the stands in my mind full of people screaming and waving towels and shaking penny-filled milk jugs and the scoreboard showing we needed a TD to win, I scanned the field and watched as the defense began shifting—changing coverage. A giant hand moving the pieces around the board. I shouted and pointed at the same time. “Hot check! Hot check razor. Hot check razor.”

Dad nodded once, smiling. He knew I couldn’t resist throwing that long ball.

Dad gave me a closed fist behind his back to let me know that he’d heard my “hot check” and knew his new route.

Hut-hut-hut. I snapped the ball, dropped five steps, read my primary receiver, who had been stuffed at the line, faked to a back in the flats to draw the safeties in, and then turned, ducked under the nose tackle who’d beat my center, rolled right to evade the outside linebacker, and threw the ball deep into the corner of the end zone—where Dad wasn’t yet but would be in about a second. The ball spiraled, turned nose down, and Dad caught it over his left shoulder in the end zone. The crowd went wild.

That’s where my dad taught me to dream.

My anklet had rubbed my skin raw, but I ignored it. I sat on the rusty hood of that Buick, stared down at the cut grass, and tried to remember my dad’s face. But it had faded. I could hear his laughter, feel his hand resting gently on the back of my neck as we walked back to the truck, but his features were blurry. My dad saw me play one high school game when I was a freshman and died that night in his sleep. I had given him the game ball. Mom said he never uttered a word. He just died—holding that ball.

Mom did what she could. Worked a couple of jobs to put me through school. I remember her ironing other people’s clothes at midnight when she had to be up at four to open the coffee shop and bakery. When my trial came along, she mortgaged the house to pay for my defense. When we lost, something in Mom cracked, and she died my second year in prison. Given the possibility of children under the age of eighteen at the funeral, the state filed an injunction and wouldn’t let me attend the service until everyone had departed. I walked up the aisle in the empty sanctuary—my chains rattling and scraping the marble—and stood next to her coffin. Then I hung my head in my hands and soaked the floor with my tears.

I have known wonder and majesty and unadulterated joy in my life. I’ve also known some pain.

And I’m not sure which was greater.

The field spread out before me, the memories continued to flow back. My last game there returned. The end of my high school career. Twenty thousand people in the stands. Over a hundred college scouts. Radio. TV. To say our town was enthusiastic would have been an understatement. USA Today had ranked us number one in the country and covered the entire front page with a picture of the team. The number two team was on the field warming up. They’d brought busloads. The visitors’ stand was a sea of black and purple and noise. Jim Kneels had waited outside the locker room. When I walked out, he held out the microphone and, with doubt in his voice, said, “Lot of pressure on one so young. Think you can handle the weight of it?” I remember staring out across those stands and wondering the same thing. One second. Then two. Finally, I shrugged. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Ever the skeptic, he smiled, dropped the microphone, and said, “Yes we are.”

We made our way to the end zone, where the fog machine poured smoke around the paper banner the cheerleaders had made for us. It’d been raining. Falling steadily all day. The field was soaked, as were we. A breeze filtered through my face mask and dried the sweat across my face. Cut grass. Fresh paint. Sweat. Anxiousness. Nerves waiting for an outlet. Our stands were colored with garnet and black. Painted faces and proud moms waved towels, and dads with swollen chests told half-true, worn-out stories. The lights shone down on the pom-pommed cheerleaders, with their faces painted and hair in ponytails, and a shiny brass band.

The team had asked me to run out first, but I’d declined. I never ran out first.

“Guys, I been looking at Wood’s butt for four years. I don’t think we ought to change things now.”

They laughed. The tension-breaker was needed. When the speakers started blaring “Lunatic Fringe” by Red Rider, Co-Captain Wood, ever the clown, burst through the banner and the fog attempting a back flip gone awry, followed by Roddy who performed fourteen backflips in a row—in full pads—ending in a split. The other team got the message. One flip for each win, including that night.

The crowd went berserk.

I stood in the corner of the end zone, waiting for my name to be called. One last time. The end of one career and the start of another. 59–0. Tonight would, or could, make a perfect 60. Something that, according to the record books, had never been done in high school football. Every interview this week was the same. Even the national networks. Can you pull it off? Each interviewer wanted to make this about me, but it wasn’t. It was about us.

Big difference.

I stood surrounded by guys I’d sweated and bled with—guys that were as identified with their numbers as with their names. Mikey was bouncing on his toes, alone in the corner, racing downfield in his mind, wondering if this last game would soothe the thing with his dad. Kevin was sizing up blocks, over the middle grabs, and what girl would fill his imagination after the whistle blew. Ronnie had taken a knee, envisioning over-the-middle, bone-jarring tackles and wondering if and where he’d play college ball. Roddy was staring across the field, seeing himself breaking through the line, downshifting into that gear that few have. He was Street & Smith’s number seven. Its scouting report said, “He is one of the greatest combinations of strength, speed, agility, and sheer athleticism most recruiters have seen in a receiver in a long time.” The rest of the guys were milling around the end zone.

Finally, there was me. I wore number 8, for no other reason than I always thought it a good number for a quarterback, and Street & Smith’s had ranked me number one.

My left ankle felt stiff due to a few extra layers of tape. The week before, a guy named Thompson, the outside linebacker for the Bulldogs, held onto it while I dragged him into the end zone. He didn’t like that so he torqued it beneath the pile. It was the worry of all the interviews. It’d be okay. Early in my junior year, Coach had handed me the reins of the play calling. Thompson either didn’t know this or didn’t care. So on the following series we ran the option up his nose. Kevin crack-blocked him—breaking two ribs—and Roddy went forty-seven for the go ahead.

My left hand was throbbing; it was slightly swollen and felt like somebody was hitting it with a hammer. Fortunately, the broken bone had not broken the skin. The ER doctor wanted to operate on it the night before, but I wouldn’t let him. With or without surgery, he said it’d take weeks to heal. Wood and Audrey knew about it—and the events surrounding it—but they’d never say anything. There was a fourth person who knew, but she had her own reasons for keeping quiet. I knew if I could make it through the next forty-eight minutes without reinjuring it, that it would eventually heal.

What I didn’t know was that the events that caused it would not.

Audrey stood at her seat on the fifty yard line. The cameras were pointed at her as much as they were at me. Sixty-seven teams had offered me Division I scholarships, and the reporters felt she knew where I intended to go to school. We’d told no one. She guarded our secret closely.

She’d painted her face. Wore my freshman jersey. Was shaking a milk jug. Screaming. Her eyes were glued to me. National Signing Day wasn’t until February, but everybody was pressing both of us. Wanting to know. A few commentators were actually tossing back and forth the idea of my skipping college altogether. Straight to the draft. Petition the league to make an exception. He’s that good.

I wasn’t about to skip college.

The crowd was on their feet. Signs waving: ROCKET FOR PRESIDENT, ROCKET, WILL YOU MARRY ME?, and T-MINUS ONE GAME AND COUNTING. They were calling my name.

Deep in the third quarter, we were tied and we were tired. Their defense had put together a delayed blitz package that was wreaking havoc on my offensive line. The guys were all looking at me. Shaking their heads. Deer in the headlights. The score was 48–all and I’d been sacked seven times by the defensive tackle. The guy was a giant, and he was tossing Frank, my guard, around like a sack of potatoes. I grabbed Wood by the face mask, pressed my forehead to his, and said, “I need four seconds.” That meant that he would have to take on both the nose guard and that defensive tackle. “That’s all. Can you give me four seconds?”

He looked over his shoulder, sized them up, and nodded.

Wood snapped the ball, gave me all he had, and I hit Terry on a post. He crossed the goal line untouched. The momentum shifted, and we scored four more times. I threw eight touchdown passes that night. Ran for two more. We put up almost a thousand yards of total offense. Jim Kneels went on the air at halftime and said he was watching a performance that may never be surpassed.

And for the first time in the history of high school football, a small, unnoticed team from south Georgia won a national championship—among teams we were never supposed to beat. The team, headed by Wood, lifted me on their shoulders. I found my mom in the stands hugging Audrey. They were crying. Laughing.

I’ve known some good moments in my life.

I opened my eyes. The field was dark. I blinked and saw a lone figure tossing a ball in the air. He was thin. Tall. Several balls lying at his feet. He’d hung three tires from the crossbar of the goalpost. Differing heights. From this distance, he made no sound. He stood at the thirty, under center, ball in hand. On mental command, he’d snap it to himself, roll out, and throw at one of the three targets hanging from the crossbar. He was strong, athletic, and fast; he had good footwork, good hips, good speed, and his throwing motion was quick. But for all his talent, he looked confused. He looked to be wrestling with something in his head. It was working its way out in his throwing motion—and not very well. His motion was hitched. Ugly. Unnatural. And, as a result, inaccurate.

If I had to guess, I’d say some coach got in his head and told him to throw the way he thought he ought to. I watched this kid for an hour. Throw after throw after throw after throw. He was persistent, and determined, but his motion was a mess and seldom the same. And, judging by his body language, he knew it. After a hundred throws from the ten back to the forty-five, where few came near the tires, he packed up and then ran twenty hundred-yard strides, followed by a couple hundred push-ups and sit-ups, and then he left as quietly as he’d appeared. No fanfare. No entourage. Little, if any, success or improvement.

As he walked off, a familiar voice spoke softly behind me, and something in me smiled. “They say he’s the next coming of you.”