“I’m as serious as a goldfish funeral,” he said. “Miller would have to respect you then. You’d be on the same team.”

“There’s just one problem with that,” I said. “WE’D BE ON THE SAME TEAM!”

“Exactly,” Flip said.

See? He wasn’t getting it.

“I’ll tell Coach Shumsky everyone calls you the Cheetah ’cause you’re so fast,” Flip said.

“They do?” I asked, impressed.

“No,” he said. “But we could use another good runner this season. Coach likes to mix things up, and you usually don’t see a lot of rushing TDs in flag ball, except on reverses, jet sweeps, or QB scrambles—”

“I don’t know what any of that is,” I said. I knew some about football, but it sounded like Flip was speaking a different language.

“I’m just saying, if you can run, Coach will at least let you suit up. It’ll be great!” he told me.

“Forget it,” I said, but Flip wasn’t even listening anymore. Or at least, he couldn’t hear me. Junior was licking the inside of his ear like it was filled with gravy, and Flip was laughing his head off.

Not that it mattered, because there was NO WAY IN THE WORLD I was going to be trying out for that football team. Not in a million years. Not in a billion years.

At least, that’s what I thought.

But I’ve never been wronger.