Not Everybody Likes Football
Chapter 9 – More than Just a Game
Eric watched his players file into the locker room before practice as he settled into his office. Three days left until the Arnett Mead game and he still had a quarterback controversy on his hands, if you believed the various talking heads of Dillon. He tapped on his window to get Andy's attention, and then once he came into the office, told him to bring Tatum for a minute.
Voodoo sat down across from Eric without saying a word. The way he moved off the field, the way he looked around or didn't, especially the way he almost never talked, all his body language looked older than it was. He looked bored all the time, like he'd already seen and heard it all before. Not that Eric cared much about that, he wasn't much of a talker himself, but it was unusual for a boy Voodoo's age, especially a successful quarterback.
"You know I'm going to be making a decision soon about Friday," Eric told him as an introduction, to see how he'd react.
He didn't. He just nodded his head about half an inch and the rest of his face didn't move at all. Was he really only sixteen?
Eric decided to give this one more try. "This would be a good opportunity for you to chime in and tell me how much you relish the opportunity and how you're looking forward to taking the field. Or to tell me how you feel you're getting on working with your new teammates. Or even to give me your take on the Arnett Mead defense, because I heard you asked to watch some of their tape yesterday. Give me something to work with here."
Voodoo leaned forward a bit and shook his head about one inch each way. "I'm not here to make friends, Coach," he said in a very low voice. "I don't like the food here, the music, the weather. And I could definitely do without everybody going on and on about the great state of Texas."
Two could play at this game. Eric crossed his arms and kept his face impassive, while he waited for Voodoo to continue, which he did, eventually. "You and me, we're an arranged marriage. I'm here to get noticed, recruited, get my ass to LSU. And you? You're just trying to scrape by, win a few games, keep your job. You've seen what I can do. You want to start Saracen? You go right ahead." Then he got up and walked out.
"Leave the door open." Eric told him. He didn't. He slammed it behind him.
Eric didn't move for a moment. He didn't want his emotions to get the better of him. Besides, it wasn't the first time that he'd had to work with a player who was full of himself and full of talent at the same time. Even way back during his two years as a Dillon Panther, he'd had the ball snapped to him by a center named Mo McArnold, who enjoyed every single perk the town gave him more than a seal enjoyed fresh fish. They'd never liked each other one bit, especially after Eric met Mo's girlfriend and saw how he treated her. And after Mo noticed how he looked at her. Too bad for you, Mo. Tami found a man who could appreciate her for real and not treat her like a toy. Guess I just grew up faster than you did. Fortunately, he hadn't laid eyes on the guy in more than ten years and had no reason to expect to see him again anytime soon.
A couple of hours later, Tami found Eric in his office with a grim look on his face, watching practice tapes. He watched, he rewound, he watched again in slow motion, then he slotted in another tape and watched it three times, and then he sighed and fake-slapped the television, stopping his hand just before actually hitting it. At that point, she noticed he had his shoes off and decided to knock on the door. Eric looked around a second, found his shoes, and motioned for her to come in.
"Hiya, honey," he said in a voice that was missing most of its energy.
"Are you ready to take Julie home so we can go out to dinner?" she asked him.
"Oh, yeah, right," he drawled, "and I'm gonna need to change my clothes. Can you give me maybe another half hour here?"
"I can, but I'm not sure about Julie," she said. "And if you add in the time we need to go home, get ready, and go to Barton, my stomach might start growling eventually. Even yours might, Eric. And watching more and more game tape is just going to give you a headache."
"I need to make a decision," he said, with his voice still half-dead. "I need to put one of those two guys under center Friday, and I'm getting sick and tired of everyone calling me indecisive. I can't just flip a coin or something, even if I'm tempted."
"Eric, you're burned out for the day, I can tell." That was the way he'd always been. When he had a problem to deal with, he'd just focus on one thing, and look at it from so many possible angles and so many times that eventually he just lost his focus and got worn out. Even with some of his homework assignments back in high school: he was smart, but he didn't have a study technique beyond working hard. "Let me help you. Take a break."
Eric reached over to the side and held onto her wrists. "Tami, why don't you sit down here next to me and tell me about your day, how it went. That'll help me. And then – I dunno, you want to try making the call for me?"
"My day was all right," she said, and filled in with a few details. She could see a bit of relief settle in around Eric's eyes. His hands weren't gripping the edge of his desk like they were when she'd first arrived, and they weren't squeezing her like he was drowning either. And then, when she was running out of things to add, she said "Try starting Saracen."
"I can't," he said without moving his head. "Kid's not ready yet."
"Start Voodoo then," she countered, and he snapped "I don't want to. He's a jerk. He slammed my door."
"Then what's left?" Tami raised her eyebrows. "Start me."
"And let those guys from Arnett Mead get their hands on you? No way!"
"Well, that's a powerful statement of confidence in your o-line," Tami did her best possible job of imitating Sammy Meade's voice. It wasn't actually very accurate, probably because she was a woman, twenty years younger, and didn't smoke.
"It's not that," Eric sounded serious now, and a lot more awake. "I don't want to give them a chance. What if everybody's covered and you have to run? They don't get to tackle you ever, not even after a first down." Tami had to laugh at that one.
Eric went on after a second. "Saracen, he's a good teammate. He's getting a lot better in practice, and I know he's gonna leave it all out on the field. I trust him, he trusts me. Voodoo, he's different, he's got a huge ego and one helluva lousy attitude, says he's not here to make friends, doesn't even want to talk opposing defenses with me, keeps it all in his own head. But I believe he can win this game."
"That sounds like a decision to me, Eric," she nodded.
A quick knock on the door, and then Julie appeared in the office window. Eric, who noticed her first, gave her a wave, and she opened the door and walked in. Her face was flushed, as though she'd been running or at least walking fast.
"I've been looking for you all over the place," their daughter said. "Would you mind taking me home?"
"Sure, honey," Eric said. "Just let me get a bit of my stuff squared away and we can go."
"We got trouble, Eric," Buddy Garrity said to him in a low voice just outside Hermann Field, right after he'd said goodbye to his family.
"What're you talkin' about, Buddy?" Eric turned to face him. "You told me everything was on the up-and-up. What the hell is it now? And make it fast, I got a game to get everyone ready for."
"Look over by the cars," Buddy said, still speaking at one-quarter his usual volume. "You see the blonde with the wavy hair in the blue suit talkin' to the camera crew?"
Eric nodded. He'd seen her, or someone who looked like her, at the press conference when his signing was announced. "What's with her?"
"Name's Karen Stark, she covers West Texas for CBS. Ever since she caught her husband with his hand down a cheerleader's bra -" then he paused a second as she stepped into the path of one of the Arnett Mead assistant coaches, a gray-haired man with a mustache. "Major league attack dog. Just watch, Eric. She's gonna eat him alive."
At first, whatever Karen Stark and the coach were saying to each other wasn't loud enough for Eric to hear. After about a minute, though, he could see that the coach – what was his name again? Kenny Grayson, Grossmann, something like that – was getting red in the face very quickly and starting to look around. Then, the first thing they could hear was "You can't seriously be asking me these questions."
"Oh, but I just did." Journalism school or wherever had clearly taught her to control her voice and make it carry. "And your silence is speaking just as loud as a lot of other things I've heard." And then the volume went further down than they could hear, except for a few words, "disappointment", "quarterback", and "offer."
"Let's get away from here." Buddy made an anxious turn sideways. Just like Eric did, he must have heard the coach say a few words that sounded like "... Panthers. Ask them."
The last thing Eric heard Buddy mutter before they parted ways, Eric heading into the locker room and Buddy to his usual place in the stands, was "The agent guy, Maddox, he's gotta be behind this."
"Gentlemen." That was enough, just one word from Eric and everybody looked up. "You've probably been hearing all week about how important this game is, how far back the rivalry between Arnett Mead and Dillon goes, everything that's happened back and forth – hell, we've even experienced some of that."
"And I want to tell you something. If that's what you're thinking about when you go out onto the field to play, you are going to be making one huge mistake." Pause for his words to sink in. "Cause that's what they want you to do. Focus on being mad at them, and then you overrun your assignment, miss a tackle, block the wrong guy, and lose your grip on the ball. That's what they're hoping you do."
"I was a Dillon Panther too back in high school, and in my junior year we handed Arnett Mead their first loss in ten games. We showed them up on their home ground. And do you know how we did it? Because we didn't focus on the rivalry and all that stuff, we didn't focus on that we were playing the Arnett Mead Tigers – we focused on the jobs we had to do, and made sure we did them right."
"So don't get distracted, trying to make a statement or I don't know what. There's going to be lots of trash talk out there – if you listen to it, if you react to it and keep thinking about it, you are a fool. I don't need fools out there, I need football players. Guys who know what they're supposed to do and put every ounce of effort in their bodies and minds to make sure they do it. The scoreboard at the end of the game is the only statement we need to make. Get your game right, run the plays the way they're supposed to be run, and that will happen. And even when you're not on the field, I want you thinking. What you've seen them doing, what you can do against that, whatever you can do to play your game better. That's right, your game. Our game. We want to play our game, not their game. You do your job, you play our game, make sure you get it right, and we will come out on top of this."
As they went out onto the field, before the coin toss, Eric turned to his defensive coordinator, Roy Spivey, a former teammate of his from his days back at Baylor. "If we kick, if we receive, it doesn't matter. I want you to blitz them the first five plays they get on offense. Whether they're showing run, whether they beat it the first time, who cares. I want to get them rattled."
The former defensive end clapped his hand on his boss's shoulder. "You got it, thirteen. I figure they're gonna pass a lot, thirty and forty sets, want to show us missing out on Voodoo hasn't held them back none."
A few moments after that, it was time to bring his captains together for the coin toss, and the game started.
For the first quarter of the game, Eric felt good about his decision to start Voodoo Tatum. He led the team to a touchdown on its first drive and a field goal on the second. Meanwhile, Arnett Mead hadn't gotten its act together offensively: after a couple of three-and-outs, where Spivey's blitzes clearly forced the quarterback into some hurried throws, they only managed to move themselves into position for a long field goal. On the next drive after that, things started to go wrong.
On the surface, everything looked fine. Except Eric could see that Voodoo was arguing with his teammates in the huddle, and a couple of incompletions showed clearly that he wasn't on the same page with his receivers. Still, both times the next play after that led the Panthers to a first down. On the next play after that, Eric sent in Smash Williams with a couple of plays: a couple of runs to improve field position, and then a slant to Hendrick, the tight end. Except Voodoo shook Smash off and changed the call. Both of the wide receivers were running deep crossing routes, and Voodoo hit Dolia in stride as he went across the middle of the field. Dolia took the ball twenty more yards for a touchdown.
"You get one free pass. One only. You hear me?" Eric said to Tatum as the offensive unit came to the sideline.
"Look at the scoreboard, Coach," Tatum said. It was only the second quarter, though. Things could change.
And change they did. Arnett Mead ran the next kickoff back for a touchdown, and just like that it was 17-10. And on the next kickoff, the Tigers ran an unexpected onside kick – you couldn't have told it was coming from their formation - and recovered it just past midfield. Spurred by their recent success, the Tigers put together a touchdown drive and the game was tied.
"We don't give it back to them." Eric told his quarterback. "Control the ball, work the clock, mix in some runs and some short and mid-range passes. Don't take deep shots until there's less than a minute left. I want us scoring right at the end."
"I'll get us into the end zone." Voodoo said. Which left aside the question of whether he was going to follow orders or not.
The Dillon offense took the field again at the 25, with three minutes left in the half. At first, the Panthers moved the ball well, with their run game working. And then Voodoo decided to go his own way again. Instead of passing to Smash Williams in the flat on the tight end's side, he threw to the receiver on the other sideline. Except he underthrew him and the other team's cornerback noticed and came up with the interception. Eric didn't need to watch to know that it was getting returned for a touchdown. "Get Saracen warming up now," he told McGill, and then he ran towards Tatum, who came off the field shaking his head as though these things weren't allowed to happen.
"I told you!" Eric screamed into his quarterback's face. There were times to keep your cool and times to lose it, and this moment went into the second category. "Make up your own plays and that's what you get. You owe me seven points, Tatum! Get your rebel ass off the field, you're done here! You're not my quarterback until you learn how to listen!" And he stayed in Tatum's face, inching him backward until he actually went into the locker room. As he turned his back, he heard the sound of a helmet hitting the ground hard. So much for Voodoo seeming older than sixteen.
One, two, three seconds and a deep breath. Then he went to find Matt Saracen, who had started some stretching exercises to get ready to throw. In the meantime, the special teams units went on the field for the extra point.
"Matt." He put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Don't try to score quick right yet. Run a couple of plays to get yourself comfortable. Second half's yours for the taking."
"Yes, Sir," Matt nodded.
"Talk with Mac during halftime. Keep yourself focused, and those guys from Arnett Mead will see they were right to be scared. I know you got it in you, son."
"I'm on it, Coach," his quarterback said as he set himself to make a throw.
Halfway through the third quarter, Julie Taylor noticed that she was turning into a football fan. How on Earth did that happen? No, it didn't happen. She was just a fan of her dad, just like if he ran a store or a restaurant she'd want him to have lots of customers. Or if he worked for some big company, she'd want him to get a promotion or an employee of the year award or something. Right, that was it. Except then why was she cheering?
She found another explanation for herself. It was just her way to support the underdog. After Jason Street's injury, everyone had counted the Panthers out. And besides, somebody from Arnett had thrown a brick through the front window of her house – of course she wanted their team to lose! Also, Mom had always been an enthusiastic fan at the games, so maybe that rubbed off on her a bit. Except then why didn't the same thing happen to her brother, who always cheered only for their dad, not even mentioning the team's name? He'd even stopped cheering for Jay Greer when it was time for a field goal, which made her suspect something had gone wrong between them.
It was third down and Matt Saracen dropped back to pass, except his receivers were all covered. He made a motion to throw a couple of times, but nobody was open. So he stepped up in the pocket and then ran for it, barely fitting into the gap between two of his linemen. An Arnett Mead player – maybe the biggest one on the field – was heading towards him, and if he was tackled there, the Panthers would have to punt. Matt pretended to start sliding – once his knee touched the ground he'd be considered down and the play would be over – and then in a split second he made a leap off his back foot, broke away from his opponent, and ran the few yards he still needed to make the first down. Julie shocked herself by shouting "Come on, Matt!" as the play unfolded and letting out a wild whoop a few plays later when the Panthers scored on a pass that Matt lofted into the end zone.
So that was who she'd become a fan of. If either her mom or her brother had commented at that point, or even given her a certain kind of look, she might have turned purple.
This made no sense. She'd never liked football. She'd had all sorts of late-night conversations with Brendan over the years about the whole corrupt system, the sad stories, the drug scandals, the players' short-lived and ultimately undeserved swagger. She'd seen it all in action in the towns where they'd lived. She even knew that both her parents to a certain extent shared her reservations. And she didn't like the idea of boys thinking or being taught to think they were God in cleats because they could run fast or knock somebody down. Besides, those helmets and shoulder pads were ugly. At least astronauts got to go into space.
Time for another round of re-thinking. What was wrong wasn't necessarily the game of football itself, just the way everyone in Texas went crazy about it and how it seemed to take over everyone's lives. And Matt Saracen seemed a bit different from the other players: after all, he liked to paint and he liked watching her dance, how un-macho was that? His grandma was kind of funny too. And he was smaller than a lot of the other players, which made her wince one time that he got sacked. And smile when she saw how he celebrated the touchdown that brought the Panthers within one point of tying the game with a lineman almost twice his size.
"Dad's going for it." Brendan said next to her. "He's not waiting for overtime, he wants to win now." He was right. The offense had stayed on the field, aiming for a two-point conversion that would give them the win.
Julie Taylor, who took your brain away? What made your heart start racing when Matt Saracen handed the ball off to Smash Williams? What made you hold your breath when Smash leapt into the air and came down on the other side of the goal line?
"That was for our front window, Arnett!" Brendan yelled. That was right, it was personal. It was for their family. Mom was cheering like it would make her lose weight, not that she needed to.
Then why did she look down at the players again?
