Crackback Read online

  “That’s not your job. You looked like a couple of morons. Do you have any idea who was sitting behind me watching that crap?”

  “No.”

  “Two college recruiters, the guys who give scholarships. They liked that first play of yours, but after that you didn’t do a damn thing. Just pranced around the sideline. They noticed that, too.”

  I’m sure those scouts were watching Tyson, not me, but it’s better to stay quiet.

  “A college scholarship is worth a lot of money. I suppose you haven’t thought about how to pay for college.”

  Dad’s right. I haven’t thought about it.

  “When I played football, if we weren’t serious, we got our butts kicked. If I pulled a stunt like that, my dad would have whipped me good.”

  I never knew my grandpa. It’s hard for me to picture anyone whipping Dad.

  “And why did Sepolski have Stillwell in there in the fourth quarter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why the hell’s he calling that center screen?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t ask me.”

  “That’s the dumbest call he’s made yet. Up by twenty-eight and running a center screen. Getting your quarterback hurt.”

  I nod my head and avoid eye contact.

  “Don’t let me catch you doing that crap on the sideline again. Next time, I’ll come out of the stands and haul your ass out of there.”

  “Okay.” I look at the laces of my shoes. Please let this end.

  “Don’t forget.” Dad storms into the house.

  chapter thirteen

  I don’t want to be around when Dad’s like this, so I walk downtown. He’s always exploding. He takes something small and makes it huge. Why do I just stand there and take it? I cross over to Crescent to avoid going by the paint store. I don’t want to see it.

  Not much is happening downtown. Not much ever does. A woman in a flowery hat looks at romance novels outside the used bookstore. Drivers of matching PT Cruisers honk at the bank drive-through. Who’d drive a PT Cruiser? They look stupid.

  The library overlooks the spot where the rivers come together. The AC will feel good, and I’ve got something to look up.

  At the computer, I type my library card number and Google “Dianaball.” Sounds like a girl’s name.

  It is. Diana Ball’s a wrestler from Finland who’s into weight lifting. That’s not what I want.

  I scroll down and click on Dianabol, the steroid. Up pops a picture of the pink pills. “Dianabol is an anabolic steroid used to produce rapid weight gain.”

  “GET HUGE AND SHREDDED IN NO TIME” flashes the banner. “Guaranteed to add fifteen pounds of pure muscle in three weeks.” What football player wouldn’t want that? It takes months of weight lifting to gain muscle. I’d love to speed it up. I’d look better for girls, too.

  A box pops up for a free issue of the magazine Testosterone Extra. I type in my name and address and click the send button.

  Another site describes “stacking,” using multiple steroids for maximum growth. Charts show recommended dosages and schedules. “CLICK HERE FOR HOME DELIVERY.” It’s that easy?

  When I go to sites that are not selling steroids, though, the information is different. “Steroids, which are artificial means to increase testosterone, may cause health problems. These include liver damage, cancer, shrinking testicles, reduced sperm count, severe acne, and impotence.”

  Zach didn’t mention any of this. With that list of side effects, it’s odd that the one I focus on is severe acne. Maybe because I’ve got bad skin. Impotence sounds bad, too. I don’t want that.

  When my computer time’s up, I log off. Then I remember my homework for Halloran’s class. The librarian at the reference desk looks helpful. “Do you have information on the Middle Passage?”

  “That’s not a request we get often.” She glances up from her screen. “You’re the second person to ask today.” Silver flashes in her mouth as she talks. She’s got a tongue stud. “Is this for a class?”

  “Yes. Who else asked?”

  “A tall girl with dark curly hair, green eyes.”

  Sounds like Lucia.

  “Here’s the section number for books.” The librarian hands me a slip. Does a stud like that hurt? “You can also check the Internet and the holdings of other libraries on the combined catalog. We can have books sent from any library in the state.”

  “Thanks.”

  I search the library, but Lucia’s not here. I sit down at a table and begin looking at books. “The crossing between Africa and the Americas was called the Middle Passage. Over four centuries, millions of Africans were captured and shipped to North America, South America, and the Caribbean. Exact numbers are not known, but estimates are that thirty to sixty million Africans were taken from their homeland. As many as twenty to forty million people died on the way to ships or crossing the ocean. Only one-third, approximately ten to twenty million, reached the New World.”

  Thirty to sixty million people taken as slaves is so overwhelming that it’s impossible for me to get my mind around the number. But then I read something very specific. “So many people died and were thrown overboard that schools of sharks followed the ships. If the Atlantic Ocean were drained, there would be trails of bones indicating the major routes of the Middle Passage.” Why haven’t we learned this before?

  Walking back from the library I decide four things:

  One, I need to know more about things like the Middle Passage.

  Two, I’m sick of Dad running my life.

  Three, I’m not asking anyone else to homecoming.

  Four, I’ve always done things with Zach, but I’m not sure about steroids.

  At home, Mom’s gardening in the front yard. “Look, Miles, the monarchs love the meadow blazing star.”

  “Yeah.” Orange butterflies flit among purple spikes.

  “Monarchs winter in Mexico,” Mom says. “They look fragile, but they’re resilient. They’ll be back next year.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Grandma called. She’s eager to see us next week.” Mom weeds around the blazing star.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” She stands up.

  “Why’s Dad got to be like that, always blowing up?” The words burst out. “Why do we have to walk on eggshells trying to be perfect, trying not to make him angry?”

  “Listen, Miles. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not the only one with problems.” Mom pulls off her gloves. “Your dad hasn’t had it easy. Don’t forget, he lost his mom when he was thirteen, and those boys had to look out for themselves.” She shakes her gloves at me. “Your dad’s father was difficult, very difficult.”

  “But why’s he always on me?”

  “He wants you to do better. He doesn’t want you to make the same mistakes he did.” Mom sits down on the front steps. “Your dad cares deeply, Miles. He loves you.”

  “Well, why doesn’t he show it?”

  “He shows it in lots of ways. He always has. I remember in the delivery room when you were born. He was so excited. ‘Look at the size of this guy,’ he told the nurses. ‘He’s going to play football.’ The hours playing catch with you. Coming to your games. Your dad supports you in lots of ways. It’s not his way, though, to talk about how he feels. You have to accept that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way he is.”

  On Tuesday, Fox is running first offense and Coach Stahl is clapping. “Let’s go, men. Crisp blocks. Drive them. Look sharp.”

  Jonesy in his sling and Stillwell on his crutches stand by the bleachers. Fox floats a pass that begs to be picked off, and Jonesy shakes his head. It’s a huge drop-off at quarterback.

  On defense, we run drills, but the energy level is low. Everybody’s still in shock after losing two quarterbacks in two weeks.

  “We’ll end with special teams. Punting team, line up,” Coach Stahl shouts. “Go live.”

  We haven’t
hit in practice since Jonesy got hurt, so I’m ready to crack someone.

  “We’ve made some changes,” Stahl says. “Defense, go all out to block the punt.”

  Zach jogs back to receive. Brooksy spots to prevent a fake, and I line up at right end.

  “Down, set, hit,” Adams calls.

  I charge out of my stance and cut the corner. Nobody blocks me, and I’ve got a wide-open shot. I dive and feel the solid thump of the ball on my arm.

  “Good block, Man,” Zach cheers.

  “You’re holding the ball too long, Adams,” Stahl says. “Punt the damn thing. Do it again.”

  “Down, set, hit.”

  I rush off the line, and again nobody touches me. I dive and block it a second time.

  “Dammit, Adams. Quit jacking off.” Stahl smacks him on the helmet with his clipboard. “Speed it up, or we’ll get a new punter.”

  When the offense comes to the line, Tyson points at me. “Don’t block it.” Should I let up? Stahl said to go all out.

  “Down, set, hit.” The count is quick, and I’m a half second slow. I cut right behind Tyson, dive, and get my fingertips on the ball. Third block in a row.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Stahl yells. “You can’t get a punt off?”

  Normally everybody’s excited about a block, but nobody’s enjoying this.

  “Manning, where are you coming from?” Stahl barks.

  “End of the line,” I say. “Nobody’s blocking me.”

  “I didn’t ask you about being blocked,” Stahl shouts. “Do it again.”

  Now I don’t know what to do. If I go hard and block it, Stahl will explode. If I let up, I’m not showing how easy the punt is to block.

  “Down, set, hit.” I’m going after it. I run hard, dive, and feel the thump on my arm. I got it again. Adams gives me a look of sheer hate.

  “You guys disgust me,” Stahl says. “We’re going to run this until you get it right. I don’t care if we stay out here all night.”

  “Coach, I think if the end took one step back that would provide enough—”

  “I don’t care what you think.” Stahl yanks my facemask. His onion breath is overpowering. “Let’s get one thing clear, Manning. This isn’t a democracy. This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dick.” He lets go of my helmet. “Open your mouth again and you’re on the bench Friday.”

  Stahl’s out of line. Sepolski’s in charge, not him. “Do it again,” Stahl yells.

  “Let him get it off so we can go in,” Tyson growls. I ease up and let Adams punt.

  “That’s the way, Adams.” Stahl claps his hands. “See, Manning, it didn’t have anything to do with the blocking. Let’s run it one more time and then we’re done.”

  Should I block it to shove it in Stahl’s face or let it go?

  “Down, set, hit.” I slow down to let Adams punt.

  “That’s it, men.” Stahl claps his hands. “That’s better.”

  Sepolski stands on the far sideline with his arms crossed. He hasn’t said much all practice. Stahl’s run everything.

  Stahl blows his whistle. “Men, Coach Sepolski has something important to tell you.”

  We all walk over and kneel down in front of Sepolski. His face looks pale. “Uhhh, ummmm.” Sepolski clears his throat and rubs his head. “You guys have been a fine group to coach.”

  Have been? I didn’t hear right.

  “You know how much I love football, how much it means to me.” Sepolski’s voice is softer than usual. “But there are some things more important. One of these is health. I found out I’ve got prostate cancer. My doctor wants to do surgery right away to keep it from spreading.”

  What?

  “He says I can beat it, but he wants me to make some changes. He insists I cut down on my stress. He wants me to step down from coaching this season. I don’t want to do it, but I’m going to follow his advice.”

  I can’t believe it. It’s one thing to lose players, but Coach is Confluence football. I can’t imagine another coach. I can’t imagine playing for someone else.

  “I love working with you guys. It’s the best thing I do.” Sepolski rubs his hand across his eyes. “I will miss it more than you can imagine. But right now, I’ve got to beat this.”

  I feel numb. Coach is the one who made me a starter. He’s the one who encouraged me to play hard, play smart, have fun.

  “For the rest of the season,” Sepolski says, “Coach Stahl will be in charge.”

  chapter fourteen

  Nobody says anything in the shower. I turn the water on hot and it blasts my back. I fold my arms on my chest and stare at the pool of water in the bend of my arm.

  First Jonesy, then Stillwell, now Coach. Bad news comes in threes, but this is terrible. I don’t want to think about Stahl being head coach. I soap myself and piss. It’s a small release after all the bad news.

  “C’mon, Miles.” Zach is dressed. “Let’s go.”

  In the truck we ride in silence. Finally, Zach says, “Coach Stahl’s a good coach. He’s got a lot of energy, new ideas. We can use that.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “What kind of attitude is that?” Zach swerves to avoid a dead squirrel. “Coach Stahl deserves a chance. Give him a break.”

  “Why can’t he give me a break?”

  “Listen to what he says. And don’t talk back.” Zach turns up the CD. “You taking those pills?”

  “Yeah.” Why am I lying to Zach? He wants me to be a better football player. So does Dad. They have different ways. I’ve got to find my own.

  “Tyson’s ordering some new stuff, better gear,” Zach says. “We’ll get it this week.”

  I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t like lying to Zach.

  September’s garden time at our house. At dinner we have corn, eggplant, zucchini, basil, potatoes, cucumbers, and tomatoes that Dad grew. The only thing not from his garden is the bread, and if I mention that, he’ll probably start growing wheat and make me grind the flour. “I’ve got some bad news.” I set my fork down.

  “What?” Martha says. “You’re not going to the dance?”

  “No, it’s real bad.” Mom looks worried. “Coach Sepolski has cancer. He’s going to have surgery. He’s stepping down as coach.”

  “What kind of cancer?” Mom asks.

  “Prostate.”

  “What’s prostate?” Martha looks to Mom.

  “Part of the male reproductive system,” Mom says. “Did they catch it early?”

  “I’m not sure. Coach says he’s going to beat it.”

  “Who’s the new coach?” Dad stops buttering his corn. “Coach Stahl.”

  “He’s been waiting for his shot.” Dad frowns. “But this is a bad time to take over.”

  A week ago Dad was all over Sepolski, but he doesn’t look pleased now. “Coach Stahl’s walking into a tough situation,” he says. “Make sure you listen to him. Make sure you respect him.”

  My stomach twists in knots and I can’t eat. I’m sick of bad news.

  After dinner, Martha invites us to the front lawn for a science demonstration. “You fill a bucket with water and swing it around in a circle, and even when it’s upside down, not a drop spills. That’s because of centrifugal force.”

  “Centrifugal force,” Mom says. “That’s impressive.”

  Martha fills an ice-cream bucket three-quarters full and starts spinning it like a human windmill. She’s right; not a drop spills out.

  “Brava!” Mom claps.

  “Cool trick.” I pat Martha on the head.

  “What did you think, honey?” Mom asks Dad.

  “Big buildup for such a simple demonstration.” Martha’s smile disappears. “But it’s good. Good science.”

  The Villareals, neighbors from down the street, ride by on their bikes. They wave and we wave back. I try to imagine what we look like—a happy family together on the lawn. What a small part of what happens in a family other people see.
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br />   I’m floating like a bird, gliding above trees along the river. I can tell from the land that I’m above Confluence, but there are no buildings or people. I glide past the spot the rivers come together and continue north along the Clearwater. Then I realize I’m flying. I panic. How am I going to stay up? How do I avoid crashing? I drop lower. Trees come closer, darker, full of sharp branches.

  My arms flap faster and faster. That doesn’t help. I’m plunging down. There’s nothing to cushion my fall.

  Suddenly I jerk awake. I’m shaking. A dream, just a dream, but the images are so clear. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. My eyes are bright and wide, as if I’ve seen something bad.

  Back in bed, I can’t sleep. I roll and turn, and each time I close my eyes, I see green shapes with white dots shifting and spreading. They look like cells under a microscope and then form a word in block letters: CANCER. Coach Sepolski said he’s going to beat it. As if cancer were our next opponent. As if he can call new plays, make the right adjustments, and score more points.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven.” I pray for Coach, who’s been like a father to us. The repetition helps ease my anxiety.

  Then I remember Stahl’s head coach. That’s a real nightmare.

  chapter fifteen

  On Wednesday, there’s a note on the locker-room door: FOOTBALL PLAYERS—REPORT TO THE GYM IMMEDIATELY!

  “File in, men. Take a seat on the bleachers.” Coach Stahl wears a gray shirt marked HEAD COACH. Behind him is a huge blue sign: SECOND PLACE IS FIRST LOSER.

  “I don’t want any of you thinking about second place.” Stahl points to the sign.

  I’m confused. I haven’t been thinking about second place. I’ve had other things on my mind, like Coach Sepolski having cancer.

  “Second place…” Stahl holds the pause for emphasis. “…is first loser. We’re not in the business of being first losers.”