Slugfest, page 16
For a moment, he’s gone, obscured by a mammoth splash of puddle-slop. Then an arm comes up, holding the ball in the end zone.
Final score: 28–24, Slugfest.
Miracle.
25
Arnie Yashenko
I can’t believe we won.
I’m not just saying that. I keep looking up at the big board, where it shows that Slugfest has advanced, like maybe I imagined the whole thing.
My teammates are chattering at a hundred miles an hour, replaying every minute of the contest. I listen in, almost like a proud parent. And Cleo—she was huge out there, growing into the game, developing a better feel for football with every snap. We never could have won without her.
Finnerty presents us with peanut butter protein balls iced in V for victory.
“Come on, Coach,” I protest. “No way you knew we had a chance.”
“You always have a chance when you believe in yourself. But”—with a mischievous wink, she shows me a squeeze tube of icing sugar in her purse—“add another line and the V could be an N for ‘nice try.’”
We’ve got a break while the rest of the first round plays out with the other teams. I drag Kaden, Jesse, and Stuart into the bathroom, and we try to wash some of the mud from our clothes and ourselves, doing our best to dry off with paper towels. We’re still pretty smeared and dirty and you can barely see the Slugfest logo on our shirts.
Kaden admires himself in the mirror. “I’m gross,” he decides with satisfaction. He raises an arm and sniffs. “And I stink too.”
“I stink worse,” Jesse claims.
“I’ve got you both beat,” Stuart brags. “I was muddy before the game even started.”
The girls do a slightly better job in their bathroom next door. There are hair dryers there to get the wet out of their clothes.
We split up, and I use the alone time to scout some of the competition. Watching the six teams in action on the three fields makes me dizzy. I can’t help thinking that our first-round win had to be a colossal fluke. The other squads are so much better than us that it doesn’t even seem like we’re playing the same game. Not everyone’s an all-star, but there are no Fionas and definitely no Kadens. While flag football isn’t tackle, a lot of the same skills apply. Our opponents are real football players, and we just aren’t.
One team that impresses me is the Forsberg Falcons. They’re up against St. Stephen’s—last year’s champions—but they’re really holding their own, trading scores in a seesaw battle. The thing is, Forsberg is the school Nate would be going to if he wasn’t lying about where he lives so he can play on the Comets. Supposedly, Nate’s dad thinks the Falcons aren’t good enough for his son. But they look pretty good to me. Nate would have a solid group around him if he would just go to school where he should.
At least that’s what I think until I visit field four. The Clarington Comets are taking on Buxton Country Day School and the word massacre doesn’t even begin to describe it. The Comets have a four-touchdown lead, and it’s still the first half. And even though Nate is not my favorite person, I have to admit that he’s awesome. His short passes sizzle into his receivers’ chests; the longer ones float in compact arcs, always finding their targets. As a runner, he’s shifty and lightning fast. He’s easily the best player on either team.
Watching him, I’m aware of a weight the size and shape of a bowling ball in the pit of my stomach. Around here, I’m supposed to be the only one who can play like that. Yet here’s the evidence right before my eyes—this newcomer, this trespasser with all the skills that should be just mine. Is he better than me? I can’t go that far. But at the same time, I can’t confidently say I’m better than him.
And one thing is crystal clear: He’s the one at the helm of the Comets—my team. I watch Nate complete back-to-back passes to Hammond and Amir. The one to Amir is for another Comets’ touchdown.
I picture Slugfest and, suddenly, despair is pressing down on me.
With effort, I try to shake the awful idea out of my head. How could I even think this way? The slugs have gone to incredible lengths for me. They supported me in ways my former teammates never would. They even helped me deliver an unbelievable first-round victory. And yet—
Watching the Comets steamroll the competition, I can’t escape a single notion—a terrible notion, but also one that’s simple and obvious: this is where I belong.
And right now, it doesn’t seem like I’m ever going to get there—not with Nitro Nate standing in the way.
Slugfest isn’t the only first-round upset winner: Forsberg squeaks out a two-point victory against St. Stephen’s, which means the Falcons will be our opponents in the next round.
“Nate’s team,” Arabella says in a distant voice. “I mean it would be . . .” She’s really got Nate on the brain.
As we prepare for game two, Coach Finnerty breaks out another Tupperware. “Oat clusters,” she explains, handing the container around. “Sweetened with plum juice, not sugar. At this point in your day, you need whole grains, not complex carbohydrates.”
You’d think that the crowd would thin out as the eliminated teams and their families go home, but that’s not how it works at seven-on-seven. As the day progresses, the stands get even more packed. The semifinal round is where the stakes get really high, because the two winners will go on to play for the championship.
Forsberg football hasn’t had much to cheer about in recent years. But as the word spreads that they knocked off last year’s champs, cars are pouring into the parking lot with flags and bumper stickers of green and gold—Forsberg school colors.
Jesse scans the bleachers, a bleak expression on his face. “Looks like it’s all Falcons fans. Nobody’s going to be cheering for us.”
“My mother will,” Kaden offers shyly. “We might not hear her though. She’s a radiation physicist. Too much noise excites the molecules.”
“We didn’t need fans to beat the Spartans,” Cleo reminds everybody. “Our families are here to support us. That’s all that matters.”
I bite my tongue. My parents don’t even know I’m playing today. I didn’t lie to them, exactly. My folks already believed I was out of the tournament and I just let them keep on thinking that. The truth is I was embarrassed to let them see me with this team.
Now I feel like a jerk. The slugs have always had my back, which is more than you can say about any of my friends these past two months. But it goes beyond that. The slugs have become my friends. They deserve better from me. As I watch my teammates waving to family members in the crowd, it hits me that the person I should be apologizing to is myself. I’m totally alone here, and it’s my own fault.
When the game starts, I can see right off the bat why this year’s Falcons are such an improvement. They don’t have the most talented roster at the tournament, but one thing they are is organized. They hustle on and off the field like clockwork. They substitute on practically every down, so they’ve always got exactly the right personnel, no matter what the situation. At the center of it is their coach, directing all this like a traffic cop at a busy intersection.
Cleo notices it too. “Look at the guy. He’s like Supercoach.”
She’s got a point. I’d never take anybody over Finnerty in a bake-off. But on the football field, the right plan can be even more important than the right players.
It’s like we’ve forgotten everything we did right during the Spartans game. We fumble twice in the opening series of downs. The first time, I leap on the ball a split second before the Falcons pick it up for a scoop-and-score. The second time, it gets booted across the grass where it lands at Kaden’s feet.
“Grab it!” The call comes from every Slugfest throat.
And Kaden does, but the operation of bending down to pick it up gets him turned around. He starts to run—in the wrong direction!
“Wrong way!” I howl.
Kaden doesn’t hear me over the roar of the crowd. “Everybody’s cheering!” he exults, clutching the ball with crossed arms.
“That’s because they’re rooting for the other team!”
Cleo swoops down on Kaden and spins him around so he’s heading for the Falcons’ goal line instead of our own. At that point, our opponents are so confused and out of position that they’re nowhere near the play. Nobody gets close enough to Kaden to pull his flag until he’s at the eight-yard line.
I’m not the kind of guy who passes up a golden opportunity to take an early lead. On the next snap, I leave nothing to chance. I fake a throw, pull the ball down and sprint for the corner of the end zone. To my surprise, the Spartan defenders are in perfect position, grabbing for my flag. I bounce away from their reaching arms, but now my path is too wide and I’m heading for the sidelines. I’m not going to make it!
Just before I’m about to go out of bounds, I plant both feet, stop on a dime, and launch myself forward in a swan dive, holding the ball in front of me like it’s a bouquet of flowers. The muddy ground swings up and hits me full in the face with a wet wallop.
I take stock of myself. I’m stretched across the hashmarks, totally in the field of play—except for the very tip of the ball, which extends forward about half an inch over the goal line. The referee raises both arms. Touchdown, Slugfest!
During the celebration, Cleo pulls me aside. “Look at Supercoach!”
The Falcons’ coach is already organizing his players, diagramming plays on a mini chalkboard.
“What about him?”
“Don’t you see?” she demands. “He’s got that team so organized that they can’t figure out what to do when the unexpected happens.”
I’m in the dark. “So?”
“Slugfest is the unexpected!”
I picture Kaden starting off in the wrong direction and totally confusing our opponents. Cleo’s right! The Falcons have been trained to stick with their positions like glue. Which means they’ll never figure out our team because nobody plays their positions!
“We can beat these guys!” I breathe.
Being out of position may be our ace in the hole, but it’s also our weakness. It means fumbles and intercepted passes. And on defense, it means being nowhere near the right place to grab a flag and stop a touchdown run.
The Falcons pull even with us by halftime and take the lead as soon as play resumes. I try running the ball myself, but Supercoach is too smart for that. Our opponents are triple-teaming me—assigning three spies to watch me in the pocket.
Out of options, I reach out and tap Sarah on the shoulder. “Are you going to let him badmouth you like that?” I hiss.
She stares at me. “Who?”
I know it’s a rotten thing to do, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Stuart,” I tell her. “He said you kicked another dog!”
“What?” Sarah takes off after her brother like she’s been fired out of a cannon. I pitch him the ball and he catches it just as he notices Sarah bearing down on him.
“Go, man!” I urge.
When Stuart starts to run, it has nothing to do with football. He’s running for his life.
The Falcons are caught flat-footed. No amount of training could ever prepare a person for the power of the family feud.
I’m racing flat out, but even my top speed can barely keep up with Sarah on a revenge gallop.
The three of us have left the Falcons far behind. The only player who can stop Stuart is his own sister. She reaches out to grab him with a devastating horse collar, her hand mere inches from the back of his neck.
At the last second, I hurl myself forward and slam both hands into Stuart’s shoulder blades, shoving him free of his sister and sending him sprawling into the end zone.
There’s no time to celebrate though. I scramble to my feet, throw my body between the warring twins, and gasp, “He didn’t say you kicked a dog! He didn’t say anything about you! I made it up! If you have to kill somebody kill me—”
I have more to say, but I’m so out of breath that my words degenerate into a series of wheezes. That’s when I realize that both Fidelios are laughing at me.
Stuart puts an arm around my shoulders. “Good one, Yash!”
“That was pretty funny,” Sarah adds with a smirk.
It turns out the twins are much better at forgiving other people than they are at forgiving each other.
The Falcons score again to take a 19–14 lead and time is running short for Slugfest. Facing fourth down and long, I fire a pass to Cleo, who is sandwiched by two defenders, and both of them pull a flag.
We’ve got our first down, but the clock is moving again—and we have no way of stopping it.
“Line up!” I bellow, herding my teammates into position. One eye is on the scoreboard as the clocks ticks down under ten seconds.
The ball slams into my hands, bending two of my fingers the wrong way.
I scan the field, searching for Cleo—option one—and Stuart—option two. They’re both covered. Ditto Jesse, and Sarah slips on the muddy ground while making a cut.
The ref finishes his five-count and the pass rushers come after me, reaching for my belt. I spin away from the first guy, but Falcons swarm me. I may be good, but nobody’s that good. I’m not going to get away.
Suddenly, there they are—a pair of small hands with pink nail polish, waiting for the ball. Out of options, I make the handoff a split second before my flag is pulled. I drop to the ground from a mixture of exhaustion and horror over what I’ve just done. I’ve put all our tournament hopes in the custody of Fiona Loftus.
It seems like she’s really moving, but her stride is so short that she isn’t actually covering much ground. A Falcons defender is hot on her tail, streaking down the sideline and closing fast.
“Run!” I shout, but it’s no use. The guy’s a football player, and Fiona just isn’t. He’s going to catch up to her from behind.
Both teams are rooted to the spot, staring at these two players who, one way or the other, will decide the outcome of this game. The crowd is roaring so loud I’m afraid the sheer noise might knock Fiona over. Me, I’m not even breathing.
She crosses the five-yard line, but the other kid is right there. He leaps for her flag.
I hold my head and watch the rest through splayed fingers.
What happens next is one of the most astounding things I’ve ever witnessed in a game at any level—from the NFL on down.
Just as the guy’s hand is about to close on the dangling Velcro strip, Fiona shrinks into a running crouch, somehow making herself even smaller. The defender flies over her, hits the muddy turf, and rolls.
Totally alone now, Fiona straightens up and steps across the goal line.
Final score: 20–19, Slugfest.
We’re going to the championship game.
26
Jesse Darrowick
Did you ever see The Bad News Bears or The Mighty Ducks? You know, those great comedies where the lousiest team in the history of the world somehow manages to come together at the right time and push on to glory?
Oh, sure—a bunch of baseball/football/hockey/basketball/soccer players with zero talent suddenly get their act together and beat the champs. If you buy that, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I can sell you.
Except right now, we’re living one of those movies. Slugfest is going up against the Comets for the tournament championship. That’s not just The Bad News Bears; it’s Godzilla, King Kong, Predator, and a T. rex driving an M-1 tank versus an ant.
We’re the ant, in case you haven’t been paying attention.
Yash gives us a scouting report on the Comets, warning us about their strengths and weaknesses. Bottom line: there are no weaknesses. The crummiest of them is ten thousand times better than all of us put together.
I shrug it off. “The Mighty Ducks always win in the end.”
Cleo looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “That’s a movie. It isn’t even the right sport.”
Coach Finnerty speaks up. “When I was competing in Mexico City, there was an East German swimmer who was six foot eight. None of us was expected to beat her because she was so big and powerful.”
“But you did, right?” Cleo asks.
“Dear me, no,” the coach replies. “She got a stomach virus and they wouldn’t let her in the pool. But I suppose you could say we did beat her because she didn’t win.”
We all stare at her, and she beams back at us. The things she says kind of make sense, but they aren’t very helpful. For example, there’s not much chance that the whole Comets team is going to come down with a stomach virus now.
“The Comet we really have to worry about is the quarterback, Nate,” Yash finishes his briefing. “He’s a great passer, but he can also run. If he’s anywhere near you, don’t think; just grab for his flag. It’s our only chance of controlling him.”
During the Nate conversation, I look over at Arabella in the huddle. She doesn’t say a word, but her face is the color of an overripe tomato.
The bleachers are jam-packed and vibrating with the kind of excitement no comedy show could ever get. Extra spectators who couldn’t find seats are wrapped around the edge of the field several people deep. And the noise—I thought it was loud until kickoff. That kind of roar gets in through your ears and rattles your brain.
It takes the Comets exactly three plays to score on us: a handoff, a quarterback run, and a great pass. During Nate’s run, I line him up perfectly to grab his flag and the next thing I know, I’ve got a fistful of air and he’s already behind me.
I have to watch him beat the others to really understand what he did to me. He can change direction on a postage stamp, swivel a hip in an impossible motion, and sometimes I swear his feet don’t touch the ground. No wonder they call him Nitro. He’s explosive.
Yash is the only one who can get close enough to Nate to grab his flag. At that, the effort leaves him lying in the mud, the very tip of the Velcro strip clutched between his thumb and forefinger.
It doesn’t change anything. On the next play, Nate finds Hammond with a bullet into the end zone.
The crowd noise—already near agony level—gets louder. We know we don’t have a lot of fans, but this is where it sinks in. We’re nobodies—summer school losers who flunked PE. The spectators don’t just want the Comets to win. They want them to cream us.
