Page 52 of The Cheerleader

Clenching the cage of my helmet with my fingers, I feel like throwing it, but I don’t. Coach Torino is trying to protect me. Too bad if I can’t impress the fucking scouts today by running the ball for a touchdown on the kickoff return. There’s nothing more spectacularly impressive than that in football, at least not if crowd noise is any measure.

He reads my mind. “You’ll have your chance for a return TD later in the season. When you’re healed.”

I nod. But I don’t believe him as I watch my backup, Jerry, take the field at the twenty-yard line to wait for the kick. In football, like life, there’s a strong likelihood you won’t be around for a second chance because injuries are commonplace.

Jerry loses yards instead of moving the ball forward. Now we’re starting from inside our ten-yard line, but after a couple of plays, Eldy passes the ball to our best tight end, Chuck, to get a first down. So far, Jerry’s not very impressive. Coach takes him out for the second set of downs, and I follow Coach around on the sideline so he won’t forget to put me back in.

We’re at third and six on Maine’s thirty-five yard line, and they call a time out.

“Coach. Put me in.”

He gives me a hard look, but I give him a harder look back.

After a few beats, he nods. Calling us in around him, he talks us through the play, though he’s mostly addressing Eldy and me. “Sell the play fake for all you’re worth. Don’t mess this up.”

“Don’t worry, Coach. We can do this one in our sleep.” Eldy grins, but the coach slides his eyes to mine for reassurance, and I nod.

Eldy claps his hands when the ref blows the whistle, and we trot out to the line of scrimmage. I’m in the backfield with the other running back and the fullback.

The play calls for me to break out for the goal line. As soon as the ball is snapped, I’m on Eldy, and he hands me the ball. Tucking it under my arm, I run behind Chuck Wayne, who throws a killer block. Cutting back inside, I see a tackle lining me up, so I dive over the top of him and roll, hitting the ground on the other side of the goal line.

“Touchdown,” the ref yells.

I get a long rest while Maine has the ball, but we hold them, and their kicker misses the field goal attempt from our thirty-eight-yard line.

At half time, with the score tied 7-7, I guzzle water and sit with my head against the metal locker, breathing and ignoring the yelling and swearing by the coaches. Ignoring the dull pain in my ribs where the shot is starting to wear off. Torino lets his assistants do the dirty work, point out all the flaws and errors of our ways, which there are many.

I silently catalogue my own, knowing I need to keep my eyes everywhere, to not look at my feet, to not look down until it’s time to drop my shoulder and make contact.

The coaches let us be for a minute, and Eldy nudges my leg.

“You okay?” I like that he doesn’t ask specifically about my ribs.

I grunt. “No worse than anyone else.”

He grins, then motions for the team to come to our feet. “Bring it in. On me.”

“Go Huskies!” we shout in unison, then herd to the door to march back out onto the field. There is no tunnel like in the pros or the bigger schools, and I sometimes wonder what that would be like. Like right now, as the sun beats down on us and we trot over the grass.

To start the second half, we kick off, and I pace the sidelines, knowing I need to do more if I want to impress any NFL scouts that might be in the stands. Desperation gnaws and climbs my throat. I swallow it down and watch as Mack races across the line of scrimmage, right past the offensive line, to take down Maine’s QB.

A smile almost cracks my face as I snap the chin strap of my helmet in place, ready to take the field. There’s no doubt in my mind we’re going to win this game, and I plan to have something to do about it with my receiving skills and yards after the catch.

Catching Eldy’s eye, I motion to him, and we huddle. “What are the chances we can call that catch-and-run play, maybe when we get inside the thirty-yard line?”

“For you?” He squints his eyes like he’s thinking. “Let’s talk to Coach.”

It’s against my better judgment, but I can’t stop him, so I go along, and Eldy makes the pitch. Coach looks at me because he knows it’s my idea.

He nods. “If we need it. But you’re not the only guy on the team, Granger.”

“Understood.” Shit. “Never mind.” What was I thinking?

Eldy puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me from walking away. He looks at Coach. “But he’s the only guy on the team who might have NFL scouts watching him.”

Coach smiles and then blows the whistle.

Watching Maine take the ball down the field and score a touchdown is painful. We’re supposed to win this game by ten points, according to the bookies—or so Lenny Dobbins, our wide receiver, tells us. I know we should be doing better than this, but I notice Fletcher limping slightly, and their QB sees it too. He’s throwing the ball right at the receiver Fletcher is supposed to be covering.