Just A Game Read online

  Rarely did any of these guys bother to eat lunch, and if they did they would begrudgingly leave the game five minutes before their next class. Many of them, as a result, were also skilled in the art of inhalation.

  The second group of students was pretty much everyone else. These students all went straight to the lunchroom after class, stood in line for their food, sat around their tables gossiping. Eventually, they would bore of this and head to the gym, which became a social mall for the remainder of the period.

  Clay was one of the few individuals that didn’t fit into either category.

  The year before he started packing his lunch every day, coinciding with the school’s decision to stop serving sweet tea. The school became swept up by the national campaign to remove sodas and candy from schools and in the process sweet tea was also axed.

  Clay had never much cared for soda but sweet tea, along with Cheese Pringles and peanut butter M&M’s, was his major vice. Take away the tea, lose a customer immediately.

  As a result, Clay started packing his lunch. In the process he discovered just how the lunchtime flow worked and if he went straight to the gym he could eat in virtual silence before the place become abuzz with students.

  Today, Clay pulled the insulated Indiana Hoosiers lunch sack Colt nabbed for him from his truck and went to the gym as usual. What little foot traffic existed on this end of the school was headed in the opposite direction.

  “Afternoon, Miss Clairmont,” Clay said as he entered.

  “Hello, Clay,” Miss Clairmont responded. She was a small, stooped woman in her fifties that most students were absolutely terrified of. The reputation was not without merit, as she was known to be rather harsh, but such treatment was generally reserved only for the students who deserved it.

  “How are you today?” he asked.

  “Little warmer outside, which is nice.”

  “That’s true,” Clay agreed. “Makes practice a whole lot easier, that’s for sure.”

  “You know I’m not technically supposed to let you eat that in here,” she said, pointing to his lunch sack the same as she did every day.

  “I know, Miss Clairmont, but I was hoping some dark chocolate might make you look the other way.”

  She smiled and shook her head as he handed her the same mini-Hershey’s bar he did each day. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “I appreciate that,” Clay said, smiling, and made his way down to the bleachers towards the far end.

  Most days the gym was empty except for the guys playing basketball. They were already out on the court, choosing up sides and talking trash.

  Down at the end of the bleachers though, sat a dark haired girl that wasn’t usually there. Clay ambled the length of the bleachers and pulled up just short of her, trying to put a stern expression on his face.

  “You’re in my seat.”

  She raised her eyebrows a notch and looked from one end of the gym to the other at the empty bleachers. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good,” she said, leaning back against the row behind her.

  Clay smiled, chuckled lightly, and sat down beside her. “What’s up, Stud? You’re not usually in here now.”

  “Well, I heard there was this tall drink of water that usually frequents this area around now.”

  Clay craned his neck in either direction in an exaggerated fashion. “Really? Sounds dreamy.”

  “Oh, he is,” she replied in earnest.

  Clay put the lunch sack on the ground beneath his feet and opened it up. “Naw, seriously, what brings you in here this early?”

  “Sadly, today we said goodbye to Maybelle forever.”

  “Ooh,” Clay said, drawing it out slowly. “Poor Maybelle, she will be missed.”

  “Indeed. Made for a wonderful Monday morning too, let me tell you.”

  Natalie Pritchard had been Clay’s neighbor since the two of them were born. They had been brought into the world within a month of each other and had lived their entire lives just a half mile from one another.

  Natalie had an older brother that was the same age as Colt, and the four of them grew up in the yard together. Each summer they managed to beat a makeshift baseball diamond into the grass, each winter they’d trample the fallen snow around the basketball hoop.

  Growing up with three competitive males as her closest friends, Natalie blossomed into a tomboy and tremendous athlete. She was attractive in a natural, plain sort of way that suited her personality to the letter.

  “What happened?” Colt asked. “I didn’t see you along the road on my way to school, though I had to come in early to meet with Morris today.”

  “Oof, how’d that go?”

  “Same stuff, different day,” Clay deflected.

  “Well, you probably wouldn’t have seen me anyway. I was running a little behind this morning, tried to gun her coming off the stop sign by the gas station. A loud snap, a few sputters, and she was done.”

  Maybelle was Natalie’s 1986 Honda Accord with over 200,000 miles on it. The two had logged many fun afternoons trolling around in the car, but everybody knew it was only a matter of time before it could take no more.

  “Ouch,” Clay said. “Where is she now?”

  “Red came and towed it to his shop for us, took a quick look under the hood. Says the block’s cracked, probably take more to fix it than she’s worth.”

  “Something everybody likes to hear.”

  “Exactly,” Natalie said as the first wave of people began filtering in from the cafeteria.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing yet. We told him to wait a couple days so we could make some phone calls and decide what we want to do. Didn’t feel like messing with it until after tomorrow at the least.”

  “Why, is there something going on tomorrow?” Clay asked, trying to sound sincere.

  With one fluent movement she snapped out a quick jab and struck him full on the shoulder. “You know damn well what I’m talking about, and you better be there.”

  Clay rubbed his arm and said, “Big bully, watch it. I’ve got a game this weekend.”

  “Oh that’s right, because football is the only sport still going on this week, right?”

  Clay threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. How did you know?”

  “Just good like that I suppose,” Natalie said.

  “And of course I’ll be there. Be mighty lonely around here to be the only one not at the game.”

  “Damn right you will be,” Natalie said. “Also, any chance I can bum a ride off you for the next couple mornings?”

  “Sure thing, what time?”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “Done,” Clay said.

  “Alright, I need to go eat. I’ll see you in the morning, if not before then?” she asked, leaning over and giving him a hug.

  “Sounds good,” Clay said, responding with his right arm.

  Natalie bounced away as Clay turned back to his lunch of a Myoplex protein bar, a banana and sweet tea. He had barely unwrapped the bar before Chelsie dropped down in the spot Natalie just vacated.

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked with a slight hint of sarcasm.

  “Not at all,” Clay said, taking an enormous bite from the bar. “Natty P just needed to ask for a ride in the morning.”

  “Oh, well, isn’t that nice.”

  Clay continued eating the bar and said, “Don’t do that. You know there’s never been anything at all between us. We go back years with never a minute of anything but friendship.”

  Chelsie pursed her lips a bit and said, “Well, I still don’t see why she has to hug you all the time.”

  “Don’t you hug your brothers?” Clay countered.

  “Well yeah, but she’s not your sister.”

  “Might as well be,” Clay said, turning to the banana.

  The rest of the cafeteria began to empty into the gym and soon a crowd had formed around them. A few minute
s later Chelsie let the incident go, the two of them becoming the center of a massive swirl of social interaction.

  Chapter Eleven

  In a strange way, Brian Matthews tearing his ACL at practice four years before was one of the best things that ever happened for Huntsville football players.

  Prior to that, Monday afternoon practices were an exercise in physical punishment. Coach Stanson believed the week should start with a pounding that slowly eased off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Thursday was a light walkthrough and Friday was game day.

  That particular afternoon, the team was doing the Oklahoma drill, which consisted of an offensive lineman, a defensive lineman, a linebacker and a running back all within a narrow running lane. Two men on either side of the ball hurtling themselves headlong at one another.

  Brian Matthews was the running back on the first play of the drill. He paused a half second to let his blocker fire out, then put his head down and ran forward as hard as he could.

  On that particular play, his lineman battled the defensive lineman to a standstill and as Brian ran by, the defensive lineman fell to all fours and grabbed hold of Brian’s right leg. A moment later the linebacker came forward and slammed into him, spinning his body hard to the left.

  Aided by the defensive lineman, his right foot remained stationary as the rest of his body violently twisted one hundred and eighty degrees. The sound of his ACL snapping could be heard by all, followed a second later by Brian screaming.

  That knee injury didn’t just tear the ACL of Brian Matthews, it took down an All-Ohio running back and ended the Hornets bid for a state title.

  And it ended Monday afternoon hitting practices.

  The locker room was already dark with a large blue square from the projector on the wall when Clay finished taping his ankles. He pulled on his team issued sweatpants and long sleeve shirt, then shrugged his practice jersey on over top of it.

  The benches were still arranged in rows in front of the video screen from Saturday morning and Clay pulled up on the end of the front row with the other seniors. Behind them sat the juniors, followed by the sophomores and freshmen. The other classes had enough people to each fill their rows, while the seniors barely covered half of their long wooden bench.

  At exactly three o’clock Coach Stanson turned on the projector and began running tape for Sentinel. Clay kept his gaze aimed up at the wall in front of him as he laced his cleats and tied them into place.

  “This is Sentinel’s base front,” Stanson said. “They run a 4-3 in the box with Cover Two on the back half. As you can see, their down linemen are just space eaters. They let their ends and linebackers do all the up-field rushing.

  “They will bring pressure on all passing downs, usually from the weak side. Clay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You see number 47 start creeping up, he’s coming every time. That’s Ziemann, pretty good player. I’m sure you remember from last year.”

  “Yes, sir,” Clay mumbled. The year before, Chris Ziemann had hit Clay with a blindside sack that left him wheezing for several plays thereafter.

  “Goldie?” Stanson snapped. “You see him creeping up like that, want you to get a piece of him before you release on your routes. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stanson let the film roll for a few moments, stopping several plays later. “See here, in short yardage and on the goal line they’ll shift into a Bear front. Take a linebacker out and bring in another down lineman for extra size. We see this, we may try to call a long one. Pop a big gain in short yardage while their coverage guys are on the sideline. Clay, feel free to audible here if you see it, alright?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Matt, you hear the audible, sell your block then take off like hell. You with me?”

  “Yes, Coach,” Richmond responded.

  Stanson showed a few more plays then sped through several. “This here’s Sentinel on offense. They are a pass heavy team, so backs, linebackers, have your running shoes on and be ready to cover. They’ll run a lot of trips and four-wide sets, try to spread us out.

  “Occasionally they’ll try to pop a few runs or some screens through the middle, but most of the time they’re running a West Coast offense. Defensive line, we’re going to need a huge effort out of you. We’re going to be back in coverage a lot and won’t be able to blitz much. It’s going to be on you to bring pressure and keep Witten off balance.”

  Coach Stanson showed them several Sentinel offensive plays, displaying the quick tempo and wide open aerial scheme they’d be facing. He trolled through a few more series on either side of the ball, then cut the tape and called for the lights.

  A freshman in the back scurried from the room and a moment later the lights popped on as Coach Stanson made his way to the front of the room. “Alright fellas, this is it. Unfortunately we know we won’t be playing next weekend, meaning we have no excuse not to give every ounce of energy we can towards preparation this week. I expect mental focus to be high and full hustle at all times. That understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the room said together.

  “Alright, I’ll see you out there,” he said and disappeared back into his office.

  Clay rose and stretched his hands over his head, then went to his locker and took down his blue and gray Nike gloves from the top shelf. He pulled them on, leaving the straps to swing freely, and grabbed his helmet down from the hook it rested on.

  His locker made a loud metallic clang as he slammed it shut, walked out the door and down the half dozen stairs to the concrete below. Goldie and Lyle fell in beside him as they marched out to the practice fields, the sound of their cleats scraping on blacktop ringing in unison.

  “How many we got this week?” Goldie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clay said. “Can’t be that many.”

  “Yeah, but don’t forget, we lost,” Lyle added.

  The moment the three reached the grass that lined the field they broke into a jog towards their respective position groups. Spread around the field were the five assistant coaches of Huntsville High, each assigned to coach a different position group. At the start of each practice players reported to one of them, depending on where they played.

  Offensive guards and centers, like Rich and Lyle, reported to Coach Peterson. Tackles and tight ends went to Coach Harwood while receivers worked with Coach Brennaman. Goldie and the other running backs went to Coach Cox while Clay and the two younger quarterbacks behind him were coached by Chan Bellick.

  Clay was the first quarterback on the field and jogged out to midfield where Bellick was tossing a football up in the air to himself. As Clay approached he hefted it underhand to him and said, “How you feeling?”

  “Loss is about the only thing still hurting.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Bellick said. “Barely slept all weekend and I still don’t know how we let that one get away from us.”

  Clay tossed the ball back to him. “What do you think of Sentinel?”

  Bellick made a face and said, “It’s all about that rush. If you get time, you’ll pick apart their secondary. It’s weak at best. Most people just don’t stay upright long enough to figure that out.”

  They were joined by Leb Harden, a freshman quarterback, and Mitch Wegman, the sophomore incumbent to quarterback after Friday.

  “Alright boys, give me two laps around the field to start out with,” Bellick said without preamble.

  Clay clamped the helmet down over his head, the cold plastic of the inner-pads rock hard against his skin. He left the chinstrap open as they jogged three across around the field, the other position groups beginning their warm-ups as they went.

  They returned to the middle of the field where Coach Bellick put them through a series of form running drills to get them loosened up, followed by stretching. The full warm-up took fifteen minutes, after which Coach Stanson brought the team together in the middle of the field.

  The freshmen each pulled gold beanies on over top of the
ir helmets as the offense lined up in their base formation. Coach Stanson then arranged the freshmen into Sentinel’s defensive front.

  He walked through each of the players and gave their size and year, followed by a brief scouting report on them. At the end of it he had the freshmen show various defensive fronts with the offense running basic plays against them.

  This continued for nearly half an hour, after which they switched sides and the freshmen played Sentinel’s offense for the defense to see. Even during a walkthrough session, Clay could see that the coaches were right about the amount of passing Sentinel did.

  After another half an hour, Coach Stanson blew his whistle and the team retreated to the sideline. The players grouped themselves up by class and spread themselves the length of the field.

  “I’m thinking ten,” Goldie whispered as the seniors took their place on the line.

  “We lost, that’s five automatically,” Marksy said.

  “But we didn’t have but a couple penalties,” Goldie countered.

  Each week, the number of gassers the team performed on Mondays was a combination of the number of games remaining and penalties committed the week before. If they lost, an extra five was added to the total.

  Sometimes, at Coach Stanson’s discretion, a few more could be added as well.

  Coach Stanson stood in the middle of the field with his whistle in hand and said, “Alright boys, since this is the last week of the season, you have one gasser. We had five penalties last week, so that’s five more gassers. And we lost, so that’s another five. Eleven total.”

  “That’s not too bad,” Richmond said.

  Coach Stanson paused for a moment and said, “And this week we play a team that likes to throw the ball from sideline to sideline. They’re a lot bigger school than we are and have a lot more players, so we can’t afford to get tired. So just for good measure, let’s double it. Twenty-two gassers!”

  “Aw hell, spoke too soon,” Richmond said.

  A few groans went up from the underclassmen, which Coach Stanson responded to by pushing the number to twenty-five.

  Gassers were a conditioning drill where the players sprinted across the length of the field, touched the opposite sideline and returned in under eighteen seconds. If someone didn’t make it in time, the group ran another one that was untimed and didn’t count towards their total.