Jason Street pedaled home from school quickly, the special flyer tucked safely in his 4th grade folder. They'd only moved to Dillon a month ago, during the last quarter of the school year, but he knew his way home well. He'd even found two short-cuts from the elementary school to the house.

It seemed to him that 90% of the people who lived in Dillon had been born in Dillon. Occasionally, someone might venture out to college and never come back, or, desperate for a job, they might move to one of the big cities, but it was rare to do what Jason's parents had done – move into Dillon for a job. But Mitchell Street had always wanted to own his own store, and there'd been a corner store for sale, inventory and all, in Dillon. The price was right. So up they'd moved.

Jason's dad worked Friday through Wednesday at the store, and Thursday was his one day off, which meant he'd be home when Jason stumbled through the door. Jason didn't stop his bike so much as jump off it while it was still moving, leaving it sprawling on the lawn. He ran through the unlocked front door and into the kitchen, where his mom and dad sat sipping wine and talking to one another. They always had a "kitchen table date" on Thursday afternoons. Jason's mom stayed at home, so they were both home all day while he was in school on Thursdays. He wondered what they did with the morning hours.

He yanked open the zipper of his backpack and slapped the flyer down on the table. "I want to go to this camp!" he announced. He'd seen the flyers sitting in a stack on a hall table in his elementary school, where tutors and piano teachers and coaches were allowed to leave information.

Joanne Street looked down at the sheet, which said:

BEGINNERS' FOOTBALL CAMP
Rising 2nd– 5th graders
June 7 – 11, 8:30 AM – 11:30 AM
Hastings Park ~ 345 Flower Hill Drive ~ Yellow Field, TX ~ Field B

Yellow Field Junior High football coach will teach you the fundamental skills necessary for football.
Learn offense, defense, and special teams.
No experience necessary.

What to Bring:
Water bottle
Cleats
A positive attitude

$55 per camper
Make checks payable to Eric Taylor.

And then at the bottom there was a registration form and mailing information.

"This is all the way in Yellow Field, Jason," his mother said. "That's a thirty minute drive each way. Where did you even find this?"

"They were on the information desk at school."

His father peered at the sheet. "You play soccer, Jason, not football."

Jason had played soccer, when they lived in the San Antonio suburbs, before they moved. It was normal to play soccer there. Jason had started playing when he was five, and he loved the game.

"But everyone here just plays football, Dad. And I barely even know the rules!"

Mitchell Street was a busy man, so he didn't really follow professional football closely. That had been odd enough in San Antonio, but it was downright bizarre in Dillon.

"Can't you find a summer camp that's a little closer?" Joanne Street asked.

"Mom, all the camps in Dillon are for kids who have been playing since they could walk. They'll laugh at me! This says NO experience necessary! I HAVE to learn how to play football. They make fun of me at recess! I HAVE to go!"

"I don't know anything about the man teaching this camp," Mitchell Street said. "How do I know he's not some pervert trying to round up kids in one place? He drives all the way to Dillon to put flyers in the elementary schools?"

"It says he's a junior high football coach," Jason's mom said softly. "And if he works in an actual school, I'm sure he's been background checked. You know, I could probably find the time to take Jason. If it's that important to him." She put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "I didn't realize you were getting picked on, sweetie."

"So I can go?" Jason asked. "You'll mail in the check?"

"$55 a camper?" Mitchell Street asked. "If he gets 30 kids to sign up, that's $1,650 dollars." Jason was always impressed by the way his dad could do math in his head, just like that. "For 15 hours of work. That's $110 an hour. Not a bad little racket for Coach Eric Taylor."

"Well he probably has an assistant or two helping him he has to pay," Joanne said. "And herding kids that age isn't easy. And that means we're paying less than $4 an hour for Jason. That's less than we'd pay a babysitter."

"We don't need to pay a babysitter," Mitchell said. "You're home with Jason, darling."

"I don't need a babysitter anyway," Jason insisted. "I'm ten now. Tim Riggins has his own key. There's no one at his house until 7!"

"Who's Tim Riggins?" Joanne asked.

Tim Riggins was actually the ring leader of the kids who had made fun of him at recess when he'd tried to play football with the boys. He'd ended up dribbling a soccer ball around the square shaped, wooden edge of the playground by himself instead, over and over. The school had two soccer balls it put out for recess. It had fourteen footballs. No one touched the second soccer ball, but all the footballs were snatched up before the last kid had even made it out the school door.

"Just a kid at my school."

"Does this mean you're quitting soccer, Jason?" Mitchell Street asked. "After all the money I spent signing you up for that, and the equipment I bought, and the gas and hotels for when you were on that travel team last fall?"

"No one cares about soccer here, Dad," Jason said.

Jason's father sighed. "You can go to the camp if you really want."