GAME FACE

Before I knew it, we were at game day. First game of the season! The team was all suited up. Mom was there. Mr. Fanucci was there. Jeanne Galletta was there. Everyone was there.

Once we did our warm-ups, they introduced the team over the loudspeaker, and all the guys ran through this giant piece of paper that said GO, FALCONS! Or at least, the guys at the front did. I was at the back, so I just ran over some little scraps of paper by the time I got there.

After that, it was time for the game to start. And I’ll admit it—I didn’t mind taking a nice safe seat on the bench one little bit. I’d already told Mom she shouldn’t bother coming, since Coach Shumsky wasn’t putting me in. But she said she wanted to be there anyway. When I looked up in the stands, she was sitting with Georgia and Grandma, waving these Falcon banners like they were born football fans.

The game was against our archrivals—Southside Middle School. But nobody expected us to win. Hills Village never beats Southside at anything. And while I sat there on that bench and the game got going, I started thinking about what a weird concept that is. I mean, how can another school—basically buildings and lawns and a parking lot—be our archrival?

Then after a while, I started thinking about some other stuff, like what I wanted to draw next for Operation: S.A.M. It was going to be something different—a picture of The Thinker, which is this cool sculpture by a guy named Rodin. I kind of wished I had my sketch pad with me, since I was getting some good ideas and I had all this time on my hands—

“OOOOHHHHH!”

That was the sound the crowd made all of a sudden. And I realized I hadn’t exactly been paying attention. When I looked up again, the scoreboard said VISITORS: 21 HOME: 0. Southside was kicking our butts, no surprise.

But that wasn’t all. Something had happened on the field. Flip was limping, with his arm around Assistant Coach Flynn’s shoulder for support. Tug Vincent was holding his own arm against his chest. And our quarterback, Michael Alvarez, had an ice pack on his head.

I guess flag football was rougher than I thought. I’d been too busy up inside my head to even realize what was going on. Now three of our best players were out, and the crushing by Southside was really going to start. I even felt sorry for the guys Coach was going to send in next, because from the way Flip, Tug, and Michael were looking, it didn’t seem like—

“KHATCHADORIAN! ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?”

Ooops! (That’s kind of a bad habit of mine.) This time when I looked up, Coach Shumsky was pointing right at me.

“What’s up, Coach?” I said.

“I’m not going to tell you twice,” he said. “Take that jacket off and get in there!”

My heart felt like it had just started playing a little tackle football of its own, right inside my chest.

“Me?” I said.

“You know any other Khatchadorians around here?” he said.

People were cheering for the guys who had just come off the field—and also for the ones who were about to go in. Including me!

And as I got up onto my feet, all I could think now was—Welcome to the meat grinder.