Beauty and the Baller

Skeeter pumps his fist in the air. “All right, Bobcats! Who’s with me? Huh? Huh? Win the heart, win everything!”

Their reply is half-hearted, and it cuts into my heart.

I heave out a breath and follow them out the door.

By the end of the third quarter, the score is twenty-eight to seventeen, and we’re losing. I pace the sideline and run a hand through my hair, my cap gone since I tossed it on the ground earlier. My offense jogs off the field, shoulders slumped. On our last play, Toby threw an interception, his second, letting the Rams score again.

He jogs over to Skeeter—not me—and I walk over to him.

“Look at me, Toby.”

He whips off his helmet and chews on his bottom lip so hard it looks painful.

“It’s my fault,” he grumbles as he rubs his face and stares at the ground. “They’re beating me on the routes . . .”

“They’ve been studying. They know your habits. Listen to me.”

It takes him a moment, but he finally looks at me.

“Okay, look, you’re angry with me, yes?”

He nods tightly.

I sigh. “The best quarterbacks learn to have amnesia. Pretend today never happened, okay? For the team’s sake.”

“Not sure I can. I don’t want you to leave.”

I hear the pain in his young voice, and my hand goes to his shoulder, like it has a hundred times. “That’s not the way I would have told you. You’re important to me, you hear?”

He starts the lip chewing again.

“You are. I see myself in you, Toby. You have a big future ahead of you, and tonight is just the beginning.”

He shrugs and looks away from me.

“Think about the day you saw those stuffed animals on our field. Remember your anger? Take that, and form it into determination. Huddersfield thinks they got one over on us. But we’re stronger, smarter, meaner. I already know you’re the most talented high school quarterback in Texas. Prove it to them.”

He nods, his gaze narrowing on the other team across the field. That’s it. Focus.

I pull the rest of the team in. “All right, we may be down, but we’re not out. Defense, tighten up your lines. Their center took a hit earlier. Press him. He’s not on his best game. Offense . . . we’re gonna focus on the running game and some screens. Bruno, be ready for the ball. After that, downfield will open up. Everybody good?”

They nod.

“I need more enthusiasm, boys!” I lean into their huddle. “Whatever you think, whatever opinions you might have about me, leave it on the sidelines. Think back . . . those players snuck into our school and trashed our field. They made a mockery of our mascot. Don’t you think it’s payback time?”

“Yeah!” they call.

I clap. “Make it happen!”

They huddle, their arms around each other, chanting.

I glance up to the stands, my gaze searching for Nova, not seeing her. With a long exhale, I turn back to the field.

With thirty seconds left in the game, we’re down by four points.

Our offense is on the Rams’ fifty-yard line, and it’s third down and ten. Toby catches the snap and drops back, looking for his receiver. Milo is covered; then Bruno misses a block. Toby scrambles, fake pumps the ball, and then tucks it under his arm and darts. I run down the field with him, waving my hands. Behind us, the crowd screams. He dodges a tackler, spins, and then hits the end zone. I bend over and clutch my stomach, then rear back up and pump my fists.

Bruno picks Toby up and twirls him around in the end zone. Milo and the rest of the offense join them. They do the lasso from the pep rally, and I wave them in before they get called for celebrating.

Our kicking team runs out and kicks the extra point, and we lead thirty-one to twenty-eight.

I gather the defense around me. “There’s fifteen seconds left, and all they need is a field goal to tie. We can’t let them score. Anything can happen. They can throw a Hail Mary, a hook and lateral, or just run for it.” I pull out the note the Huddersfield guys left on our field and wave it around. “I’ve been carrying this around, waiting for the right time to show it. It says they’re going to tear us apart piece by piece! It says we’re losers! Are we going to let that happen?!”

They pass it around, faces darkening. “No!”

I slap their helmets. “Go kick their asses.”

Their offense snaps the ball, and the quarterback throws a pass—which is intercepted by one of our linemen, a burly fellow who can’t run but tackles like a pro. I bellow out a “Heck yeah!” as he blunders and stumbles through their offense, hops over a player, uses an arm to hold one back, and then slowly runs to the end zone. It’s a dream come true.