Crackback Read online

  What’s he on? We’re not in business. We’re in school. Then I remember Dad’s warning about respecting Stahl.

  “Men.” Stahl scans the bleachers looking at each of us. “You are about to begin the most important six weeks of your lives.”

  I watch faces. Zach’s listening closely. So are most of the guys. I hope this isn’t the most important six weeks of my life.

  “That’s right, men.” I can tell already how much Stahl likes calling us men. “Because the next six weeks will determine whether you’re champions or first losers. Think about it, men. You decide.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Coach Sepolski never talked to us like this. Stahl paces with his hands behind his back like he’s a general addressing soldiers. “That’s right, men. It’s up to you. Let’s see a show of hands: How many of you think of yourselves as first losers?”

  I’m tempted to raise my hand. After Kyra Richman, I’ve got as much reason as anyone.

  “Now, who wants to be a champion?”

  Everybody raises their hands. Some of the sophomores raise two, but that’s not enough for Stahl.

  “I asked you a question. I want an answer. Who wants to be a champion?”

  “I do,” some of the linemen bellow.

  “I can’t hear you. Who wants to be a champion?”

  “I do,” everybody yells. Everybody but me.

  At practice, everything’s different. “We’re going to play power football, smashmouth football. You need to be in shape for that. Let’s have fifty sprints.” With Sepolski we used to do ten. “Don’t give up. Don’t give up.” Stahl looks at me. I keep my head down and run.

  We do endless laps of “darkness.” Every time Stahl blows the whistle, we fall to the ground, do a push-up, and jump back up. He blows the whistle again and again. “I have a high tolerance for other people’s pain,” he yells. “You need to be bigger, stronger, faster. You’ve got two choices: Become men or quit.”

  I’m totally wrung out. I’m bending over with my hands on my knees. Zach’s grinning. He’s holding up better than anybody. I just want to make it without puking.

  “One hundred push-ups,” Stahl shouts. “Make sure your chest touches the ground.” Coach Sepolski seems light-years away. This is Stahl’s team now.

  “Starting tomorrow, I want everybody in the weight room an hour before school four days a week,” Stahl says. “I’ll post a schedule with stations and reps. We’ll see who’s serious. It’s simple. If you don’t lift, you won’t play.”

  I know I should lift more, but weight lifting doesn’t determine how hard you hit or how smart you play. It doesn’t matter what I think, though. There’s one way now: Stahl’s way.

  Later, when we break into first defense, Coach Stahl comes down to talk to us. “Men, there are two types of football players,” he says. “Thinking players and reacting players.”

  Stahl points to his head. “Thinking players observe, analyze, and make correct decisions. These are the players best suited for offense.”

  What’s his point?

  “Reacting players don’t think; they react. A play happens. Boom. They’re on it. These are the players best suited for defense.”

  Thinking and reacting aren’t separate. You need to do both in football.

  “Now, men, as defensive players, you react. When you see movement, you pursue. You’re lions ready to kill. Don’t think. React.”

  This is stupid. Dad always says good players are smart players.

  “The coaches will prepare the defense. React properly, and you will be champions. React poorly, you’ll be first losers.” He looks at me. “Is that clear?”

  Of course not. How do you not think? But nobody, including me, has the guts to say it.

  I go to the library because the book I requested is in. The Middle Passage: White Ships, Black Cargo has a picture on the cover of black men with ropes around their necks being guarded by a white soldier. In the distance, a ship waits to take them across the ocean.

  I sit down in a chair by the window and open the book. After the introductions, it’s all black-and-white illustrations, one horrible picture after another. The ghostly image of a sailor rips a mother away from her child. Rats gnaw on the bodies of slaves in chains. A diagram of a tightly packed slave ship is imposed on a black man’s body.

  But the most disturbing picture is one of people jumping overboard to kill themselves. Sharks swirl around the bodies, and at the bottom of the ocean is a trail of skeletons. I can’t get this image out of my mind, and rather than take notes, I stare out the window and imagine the horror.

  chapter sixteen

  “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” Stahl’s pacing around the weight room. He’s wearing shorts and a blue muscle shirt with B T T R in huge letters.

  I’m finishing ten reps of 110 pounds on the bench. Lifting first thing in the morning isn’t my idea of fun.

  “Push it, Manning. Push it.” I strain on the last lift. “You’ve got to do better than that,” Stahl says. “We need strong corners.”

  On the next bench, Zach whips off twelve reps of 150. Do the steroids make it that easy? Would I be lifting like that if I were taking them? “That’s the way, Zach.” Stahl claps. “Lookin’ good.”

  When we finish, Stahl hands out muscle shirts. “B T T R, men, stands for ‘better than the rest.’ You’ve made a commitment to football, a commitment to weight lifting, a commitment to excellence. You are superior to other students. You bleed and sweat for the glory of the school. You are better than the rest.”

  I can’t believe he’s saying this.

  “Wear these shirts with pride. You know what B T T R means, but don’t tell other kids. They wouldn’t understand.” Stahl chomps his gum. “Men, you are members of an elite fraternity. Head off to first period.”

  Last year, I remember how proud I felt when I wore my varsity jersey. Everybody in school could see that I was on the team. Now, after chanting yesterday and B T T R today, I feel like I’m in some kind of cult.

  In Halloran’s class, kids scramble to staple papers. Strangler claims he didn’t finish because he had to take his ferret to the vet.

  “Your ferret wasn’t sick because he ate your homework?” Halloran asks.

  “Not the final paper,” Strangler says. “He ate the rough draft, and he’s allergic to ink. That’s why I had to take him in.”

  “Bring it in tomorrow,” Halloran says. “I’ll take points off for being late, but if you write a story about your inkeating ferret, I’ll add a few back.” Halloran collects papers. “What was the most shocking thing about the Middle Passage?” he asks.

  “How long slavery lasted,” says Strangler. “Africans were taken as slaves for over four hundred years.”

  Halloran nods. He seems surprised Strangler knows this.

  “How strong people had to be to survive the journey.”

  “How many Africans died.”

  “How the ships were packed so tightly because they knew many people would die.”

  “How Africans were treated worse than animals.”

  “How much money was made in England, Holland, and Spain and how the American economy was built on slave labor.”

  “Yeah, slaves helped build the Capitol,” Strangler says.

  All kinds of kids are raising their hands, including some who usually don’t. Halloran doesn’t comment. He keeps calling on people.

  “Lucia.”

  “I’m shocked by how religion was used to justify slavery. Many people believed it was God’s will.”

  “Anybody else?”

  I raise my hand. “I’m shocked that people dove off the ships to commit suicide rather than be slaves.”

  “Yes,” Halloran says. “All these things are shocking. It’s difficult to imagine, but I want you to try. Close your eyes.”

  I shift in my seat. Everybody closes their eyes.

  “Let’s explore this,” Halloran says. “Imagine if someone showed up in Confluence, put a g
un to your head, and locked you in chains. Imagine being dragged from your family, held in prison, packed in a boat. Imagine being beaten by people who spoke a language you didn’t understand.”

  I try to picture this.

  “Now imagine what you would have done if you had the chance. Would you have jumped overboard to kill yourself or would you have tried to survive?”

  My mind blanks. I don’t know.

  “Which action do you think was braver?”

  I don’t know that either.

  At lunch on Friday, guys are talking loudly at the football table. Fox already looks nervous. What’s he going to be like tonight with blitzing safeties and trashtalking linebackers?

  “You’ll do fine, Foxy.” I slap him on the shoulder. He doesn’t look convinced.

  Zach waves me over. Am I imagining it, or is he getting bigger? “Shipment’s in.”

  At his locker, Zach looks both ways, then opens the door. On the middle shelf are three bottles and three syringes. “This is the best way to juice,” he says. “Meet me and Tyson here after school.”

  I glance at the syringes. This is moving too fast for me. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure.” I’ve never liked needles, but I can’t tell Zach that. “I looked up some side effects: liver damage, acne, shrinking testicles, impotence.”

  “You scared?” Zach closes the locker as a group of band students comes down the hall.

  “I’m not scared. I just don’t know if it’s worth it.”

  “Of course it is. You need some guts. You need to be willing to pay the price.” He slams his hand on the locker, turns his back, and stalks off.

  Roid rage. That’s another side effect. Guys going off. Zach didn’t used to blow up like that.

  I’ve got half an hour after school before the bus for Twin Falls. I’m not as fired up as I was last week. Maybe because Fox is the quarterback. Maybe because Stahl is the coach. Maybe because I’m not down with Zach and Tyson shooting up.

  At my locker, I move my Spanish book from the middle shelf to the lower one. Sometimes I play these games, as if changing which shelf a book’s on will improve my luck. Lots of athletes are superstitious, whether it’s what they wear, how they get dressed, or who they stand next to. I carry this into my school life, too.

  When the books are right, I close my locker. Coming down the hall carrying a violin case is Lucia. Light reflects off the blue beads of her necklace. She’s seriously pretty.

  Zach would know what to do. He’d say something smooth. I freeze. The only thing I can think of is, “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She keeps walking.

  I turn to watch. I wouldn’t have a chance with her. She takes long strides away from me. Say something. Talk to her.

  “Lucia,” I call.

  “Yes?” She turns around.

  “I’m Miles Manning.”

  “Hi.” She comes closer. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. She’s wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt that says: SAVE THE DRAMA, CALL YOUR MAMA. I don’t know what that means, but I like it.

  “I heard you were at the library Saturday.”

  She squints.

  “The librarian said someone tall with dark hair and green eyes had been in.” I can’t believe I’m talking about the library. “I thought it must be you.”

  “Yes, I was there.” She sounds puzzled.

  “How do you like Confluence?” Why am I so nervous? Why am I talking like an idiot?

  “It’s okay, but I miss my friends. I miss the city.”

  “Yeah.” My mind races for what to say. Lucia seems so calm standing there. She’s got beautiful eyes and long lashes. “Are you going to the football game tonight?”

  “No, I go to my dad’s on the weekend.” She checks her watch. “I’ve got to get going.”

  “Have fun.” I try not to sound disappointed that she’s not here on weekends. I open my locker and pretend to get a book so I can watch her. She moves gracefully down the hall, like a dancer.

  “Lucia,” I call.

  She turns. “Yes?”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Lombrico.”

  Lucia Lombrico. I like that name. “See you Monday.”

  “Yeah, see you.”

  Sometimes, moving a book for good luck works.

  chapter seventeen

  In the locker room at Twin Falls, Zach puts on pads next to Tyson. I choose an empty spot on the other side of the room. Sam Hunter is bent over with his pants stretched out on the floor.

  “What the hell are you doing, Hunter?” Tyson asks.

  “Putting both legs on at the same time. If their coach says, ‘Those guys put their pants on the same way we do,’ I want him to be wrong.”

  Tyson shakes his head. “You’re one weird mother.”

  “Thanks, Ty.” Sam slides his pants past his knees, both legs together.

  Coach Stahl enters. “Attitude plus aptitude equals altitude. Think about it, men. If you have the right attitude and the right aptitude, which is another name for skills, you can go as high as you want. Attitude plus aptitude equals altitude.” Stahl rubs his mustache.

  That must have taken him ages to think up.

  “Some of you need to work on your attitude.” He looks at me. “Some of you need to work on your skills, your aptitude. But when you put them together, we can conquer the mountain that is the state championship.”

  Where does he get this stuff?

  Stahl climbs onto a bench. “You know what you need to do. Just win, Eagles. Just win. We’ve got two victories. At the end of this game, I want three. Three and zero and we’re on track to be…”

  Stahl rips down a piece of paper exposing the word CHAMPIONS. “What do you want to be, men?”

  “Champions.”

  “What?”

  “Champions!”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “CHAMPIONS!”

  Stahl jumps off the bench and leads us onto the field. Sepolski used to shake our hands, then walk out behind us. I miss him more than ever.

  In the first half, both defenses shine and both offenses struggle. Coach Stahl is protecting Fox by calling running plays. Twin Falls knows this, so they’re stacking nine guys on the line, daring us to throw.

  On defense, we’ve shut them down and quieted the crowd. They’ve been three plays and out on every possession, and we’ve given the offense good field position. Fox hasn’t done anything with it.

  In the locker room at halftime, Coach Stahl sends the Gatorade jug flying. “This town is the scum of the earth. These guys are the scum of the earth, and you’re tied with them,” he shouts. “What does that make you? Scum of the earth.”

  Sweat drips off my face. I wipe it with a towel as Stahl barks at the defense. “If the other team doesn’t score, we can’t lose. It’s that simple. Hold them to zero. Anything more, you give them a chance.”

  I’m stunned. Rather than tell us we’re playing well, Stahl’s raising the standard to perfection. What about the offense? What’s he going to tell them? That no matter what they do, it’s still the fault of the defense if we lose.

  “I don’t care how bad you hurt. I don’t care what’s the matter with you. Go out and rip the heart out of them,” Stahl’s yelling. “Leave everything on the field.”

  I look down at the diamond pattern on the floor. Did the men who built this room ever think it would be the site of such stupid speeches?

  “Hold them to zero, men, and we won’t lose. What are we holding them to?”

  “Zero,” guys shout.

  “What?”

  “Zero!”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “ZERO.”

  I’m sick of this rah-rah crap.

  Halfway through the third quarter, our punting team runs onto the field. Twin Falls loads two guys on the end. They’re going for the block.

  “Down, set, hit.” Number 31 runs in untouched. He stretc
hes out and blocks the punt. The ball bounces right to a teammate who grabs it and runs in for a touchdown. The crowd bursts into cheers. Just like in practice. Nobody blocked the end. Extra point is good, too. It’s 7-0. Defense hasn’t given up a point and we’re still behind. Our special teams suck.

  Stahl throws his headset down and screams, “Adams, you’re done. Monson, you’re the new punter.”

  In the fourth quarter, Twin Falls plays conservatively, protecting the lead. On third and three, their pulling guard leads a sweep my way. I race up to fill the gap. I remember Dad saying, “Go low. Go underneath him.” I hit the guard at the ankles and come up underneath. I put my helmet into the ball carrier and rip at his arms.

  “Fumble.” Krause picks up the ball. Tyson flattens the quarterback. I cut the running back at the ankles. Somebody grabs Krause’s jersey, but he shakes loose. He cuts back and zigzags into the end zone. Touchdown.

  “We’re back in this.” Brooksy slaps my helmet.

  I smack my fist into my palm as I run to the sideline. Dad stands along the fence clapping. I’m glad he saw that.

  “Way to go, Man,” Jonesy yells. “We needed the D to score.”

  “Tie game,” Stahl shouts. “Hold ’em again, defense.”

  “Watch it deep,” Jonesy warns. We’re playing threedeep zone, so my responsibility is the right third of the field. I check the wind. The flag hangs limp on the pole.

  Three downs gain four yards, and Twin Falls prepares to punt. I line up outside.

  “Hut one. Hut two.” I rush off the line and try to slide past the blocker. He stays with me, though, and the punt booms off. Zach makes a fair catch at our forty-one.

  “C’mon, offense, one score,” I holler as we run to the sideline.

  Two running plays get nothing, so Coach Stahl calls a pass. This is risky.

  “Down, set, hit.” Fox drops back and watches Brooksy all the way. Fox lofts a pass to the sideline, and the defender steps in front for the interception. Luckily, he slips and his knee hits the ground. Otherwise, he had clear sailing for a touchdown.

  It’s 7-7. We’ve got to hold them.

  With 1:53 left, Twin Falls faces a third and five from our thirty-two. Tie game. I slide over to cover the wideout.