Three-Point Play (2 page)

Watching most of the first half from the sidelines, Cody couldn't understand the strategy. The middle of the Grant line was occupied by Gordon “ATV” Daniels, a 210-pound tank who bench-pressed 340 pounds and owned legs like tree trunks.

Playing right behind ATV was Brendan Clark, among the state's best middle linebackers. He was a fierce hitter, and Cody felt himself cringing every time Clark collided with Michaels. The big fullback had more than thirty pounds on Clark, but more often than not, the latter stopped him cold.

The first half ended with the Eagles up 7–0. ATV, who was an even better fullback than a D-lineman, rumbled up the middle for a thirty-eight-yard touchdown run late in the second quarter to give the home team the edge.

After cups of Gatorade had been guzzled and a few ankles re-taped, Coach Martin Morgan gathered the team around him in the locker room. “You've seen the tapes,” he said evenly. “You know what they're gonna do—keep blasting Michaels up the middle, hoping to wear us down physically and mentally. Most teams can't stop that big bruiser for a whole game. But you're not most teams. You keep plugging up the middle, and they're gonna get desperate. And that's when we slam the door on'em.”

ATV stood and began slamming the door of a locker behind him. Such was his power that Cody feared the door would fly off its hinges.

“Slam the door!” ATV bellowed after each effort. “Slam! Slam! Slam! Game over!”

Cody saw Coach Morgan catch the eye of Coach Curtis, one of his assistants. The latter flashed a quick smile and wagged his head admiringly. Since joining the varsity earlier in the season, Cody had found himself understanding football better and better each week. He had come to appreciate that motivating players was a huge part of a coach's job.
That must be why the coaches love a guy like ATV
, he thought.
I'm pretty sure he was
born
motivated!

Neither team was able to generate much offense in the third quarter. Bryce Phillips, the Eagles' best wideout, picked up fifteen yards on an end-around, but as he struggled to churn out a few extra yards, he fumbled near midfield, halting Grant's only promising drive of the quarter.

The Bulldogs took over and, for the first time in the game, sent in two wideouts. “Okay,” Coach Curtis barked. “Standard defense in—now! Two safeties, two corners!”

Cody swallowed hard as he buckled his chin strap and slid in his teeth guard.

He lined up at cornerback against number 84, a lanky wide receiver on the weak side (opposite the tight end) of the Bulldog line. As the center hiked the ball, the receiver charged at Cody, growling and snarling like an angry beast.

Cody held his ground, sending 84 a telepathic message:
All that noise might have worked against me early in the season, dude. But since then I've been growled at, screamed at, cussed at, and threatened by all kinds of guys bigger than me. So you're gonna have to bring something more than noise.

Cody raised his arms and chucked 84 hard across the shoulder pads, then stepped inside him as he saw Michaels slide off-tackle and rumble upfield. Clark leaped on Michaels' back, swiping at the football, which the Bulldog runner held tucked in his right arm.

Oh, boy
, Cody thought, as he saw the play develop,
here goes. This is gonna be like throwing myself under a truck or something.

He angled in on Michaels, who was moving pretty well for a guy toting a fierce middle linebacker on his back. Cody dipped his left shoulder, getting as low as he could.

He held his breath as he sensed that the thrashing bulk of humanity was about to stumble over the top of him.
Please don't let Michaels step on me
, he prayed fervently, eyes closed tight.

Less than a second later, the impact came. He felt a sharp
thwack
as his left shoulder pad drove into something.
Either a fence post or Michaels' shinbone
, Cody reasoned. The force of the blow threatened to drive his shoulder blade down into his rib cage, but then the pressure and pain disappeared as quickly as they had come. There was the sound of a mini buffalo stampede rumbling over him, then a desperate groan erupting deep from within the chest of either Michaels or Clark.

Lying flat on his stomach, Cody turned to see Michaels falling, Clark still on his back and still chopping desperately at the ball. The duo hit the turf with a thud.

Clark quickly scrambled to his feet and head-butted Cody so hard that he thought his helmet might fly from his head. “That's the way to get low, Martin!” the linebacker roared. “That's the way to have my back!”

Cody tried to reign in his smile for a moment, then gave up. “That was cool—an assist on the tackle,” he whispered to himself. “And I'm still alive! I can't believe it!”

Bishop Moreland picked up twelve yards on the play, so Cody wasn't surprised when they ran it once more. This time, 84, growling and snarling again, tried to block him high across the shoulder pads. Cody ducked under the block. ATV had snagged Michaels by an ankle, but the fullback, with a Neanderthal grunt, pulled free. Still, he was slowed enough for Clark to get to him, grabbing him around the waist this time.

Michaels charged forward, trying to fling Clark off of him. As Cody closed in, it looked like the fullback might be successful. Clark seemed to be losing his grip.

In desperation, Clark clawed at the ball as he began to slide off of Michaels. Cody saw Michaels counter the effort, switching the ball from his right arm to his left.

Cody reacted instinctively. He knew it was instinct, because logic would have told him to run to the sidelines right away to avoid being trampled again. (Then turn in his football uniform, grab a clarinet, and join the marching band.) He saw the ball, moving in what seemed like slow motion. He swiped at it with both hands, bringing his arms down with all the force he could summon.

Just before Michaels hit him flush in the chest, Cody saw the ball tumble to the ground.

Cody lay stunned, staring up at a near-cloudless sky.
Okay
, he thought,
my breathing can resume any day now
—

This was football's scariest moment. On your back, afraid to move. Afraid of lifting an arm or leg and feeling that sharp dagger of pain that meant a serious injury. Or struggling to stand, putting weight on one leg, then feeling an ankle or knee crumple like it was made of foam rubber.

Cody blinked as he saw someone standing over him. For a second, he thought it might be an angel, but then he realized that angels didn't wear eye-black— and, most likely, didn't sport two days' worth of razor stubble. Clark extended an arm. “You okay, Code?”

“That's a good question,” Cody gasped. “Hey, how's Michaels? I didn't hurt him, did I?”

“Ha!” bellowed ATV, who had joined Clark. “You're something else, little man.” He extended an arm too.

Tentatively, Cody lifted an arm toward each teammate. He marveled at the ease with which they pulled him to his feet.

“Everything intact, dude?” ATV asked.

Cody shifted his weight to his left foot, then his right. Then he rotated his head in a slow, clockwise circle. “Yeah,” he said, noting the genuine surprise in his voice. “I think I'm okay.”

He saw Dutch and Coach Curtis jogging toward him. He waved the trainer and coach off, then gave a double thumbs-up.

He turned to Clark. “You think they'll run off-tackle this next play?” he asked sarcastically.

Clark smiled cryptically. “Not this next play, that's for sure.”

Cody cocked his head. “What makes you so certain?”

Clark gestured to the scoreboard, which now read Grant—13, Visitor—0. “Berringer was all over the fumble you forced, my man. He was in the end zone before any of the Moreland guys figured out what happened. You mighta just made the play of the game! Now, get off the field so we can boot the extra point.”

As the game clock ticked down to 3:58, the Bulldogs' sense of desperation grew. They couldn't afford to send Michaels up the middle any more, as it would burn too much time off the clock, so they tried to scoot him around the ends so that he could run out of bounds and stop the clock. But Grant's pursuit was too good. And Michaels was strictly a north-and-south runner. He couldn't build up that frightening momentum while running laterally, and Clark bulldozed him on play after play.

On the Bulldogs' second-to-last possession of the game, number 84 (whom Cody had nicknamed Wolfman) beat him on a slant pattern. But Berringer, who was playing deep safety twenty yards from the line of scrimmage, came up to knock Wolfman's stilt-like legs out from under him.

The Bishop Moreland drive stalled at midfield with less than two minutes left in the game. Rather than go for a desperation fourth-down toss into the end zone, the Bulldogs punted, pinning the Eagles deep in their own territory, at the twelve.

Three straight running plays netted only eight yards for Grant—but forced the Bulldogs to relinquish all their time-outs.

A booming punt from ATV sailed over the head of the Bulldog return man and bounced and rolled all the way to the Bishop Moreland thirty. By the time the returner tracked down the ball, the Eagle pursuit was on him. Led by Clark, they held a team meeting on his body.

Wolfman beat Cody on a fade route on first down, moving his team to midfield. On second down, Moreland set Wolfman over the middle. Cody felt panic splash over him as he squared himself to put a hit on his much larger opponent.
Great,
he thought,
they're picking on me. That's great—go after the littlest guy on the field, why don't you?

Cody was giving Wolfman plenty of cushion. He saw the ball streaking toward the receiver. He hoped he could time his hit so that he wouldn't be whistled for pass interference.

He needn't have worried. Clark had dropped back into coverage. He timed his leap perfectly and intercepted the pass at the Eagle thirty-five. He mashed the ball into the turf. “Game over,” he said emphatically.

Cody joined Clark as they trotted off the field, smiling as he saw the Grant fans on their feet, screaming and clapping. “Thanks, Clark,” he said. “Guess those guys decided their best chance for a comeback was to pick on the 140-pound freshman.”

Clark shook his head. “You saved my bacon a while ago. I was just returning the favor. Besides, you had the coverage. You woulda dropped him if I hadn't gotten the pick.”

Cody pondered the statement
. I'd like to
think
I would have
, he confessed to himself.
But that was one big Wolfman!

Chapter 2

Haunted

H
ere's to you, my little brutha,” Pork Chop said, raising his large chocolate milk shake in a toast. “To a skinny frosh who's bad enough to play varsity football. Varsity
play-off
football. And forcing a fumble from that brute Michaels? That was fierce, dawg. That brother's a load!”

Cody lifted his medium strawberry shake and nudged his cup against his friend's. It was Tuesday evening, time for the traditional Cody Martin/Pork Chop Porter football summit at the Dairy Delight.

“Thanks for the props, Chop,” Cody said. “Sometimes I still can't believe this is real. I didn't even think I'd make the JV team this year. But varsity? It's like a dream. But a good dream, which is a nice change from all the bad ones I still have.”

Chop took a long pull from the two straws he had plunged into his shake only moments ago. “Bad dreams, huh? Like what?”

Cody sighed. “Well, some of them are bad dreams, others are more like—sad dreams, I guess. Like, I can't help thinking how proud Mom would be if she were still alive, sitting in the stands and watching. I mean, it's the second round of the play-offs this weekend. I'd give anything for her to be able to see that.”

“She can see you, dawg. I just know she can.” Pork Chop's voice was uncharacteristically soft.

Cody tilted his head toward the ceiling. “I hope so,” he whispered.