Backfield Boys Read online

  “But, regardless of whether that happens, you will listen to your coaches and you will not question their decisions.” He paused to let that sink in. Then he leaned back in the chair. “You boys know how long I’ve been coaching football?”

  “About thirty years,” Jason answered, a little surprised that he could find his voice.

  “Thirty-two to be exact,” Coach Johnson said. “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s longer than the two of you have been alive combined.”

  He pointed in the direction of the assistant coaches. “Together, these four here have another fifty years of coaching under their belts. That’s more than eighty years of coaching experience. Successful coaching experience, I might add.” He leaned forward again. “You think you know more football than the five of us in this room, Jefferson?”

  For a moment Tom didn’t answer and Jason thought perhaps he was going to tell Coach Johnson what he and his assistants could do with their eighty years of coaching experience.

  Finally, though, Tom shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t,” he said.

  Coach Johnson turned to Jason. “You, Roddin?”

  “No, sir,” he said.

  Coach Johnson smiled. “Glad we got this straightened out once and for all. I’m sure you boys understand that none of us in here expect to hear about this again.”

  They both nodded—but that apparently wasn’t good enough.

  “You do understand?” Coach Johnson repeated.

  “Yes, Coach,” they both answered.

  “Good, because the next time you misunderstand, there won’t be a clear-the-air meeting like this one. You’ll be meeting with Coach Winston at five a.m. for workouts I doubt you’ll enjoy very much.”

  At least now, Jason thought, they knew why the strength coach was there.

  Coach Johnson sat back to indicate the meeting was over. The boys stood up.

  “You’ve got about fifteen minutes to make it back to the dining hall, grab something to eat, and hustle to your fifth-period class,” Coach Johnson said. “You better get moving.”

  There were no handshakes or nods. The boys just turned and left. As they half walked, half ran across the campus, Jason asked Tom what he thought.

  Tom shrugged. “My dad always says to not make snap judgments,” he said. “Much as I’d love to call our parents and tell them to come get us, I think we have to wait and see how things go for a while longer.”

  “How much longer?” Jason asked.

  Tom didn’t slow down a step or even turn in his direction. “Let’s give it a week,” he said.

  That didn’t sound like a whole lot longer to Jason. Then again, given what the first two days had been like, it might end up feeling like forever.

  6

  Tom and Jason managed to stay out of trouble for the rest of the week. The good news was that Jason liked his teachers and found the work stimulating, if not easy.

  Tom, the better student, agreed. “At the very worst, we’re getting a pretty good education for free,” he said on Friday night, sitting in the chair at Jason’s desk. His roommate, Anthony, was sitting in Billy Bob’s chair, and Jason and Billy Bob were sitting on their beds. The four of them had become fast friends, even though Jason was struggling a little with the fact that Billy Bob was a much better quarterback than he was. Better than Tom? Probably not, but at least for the moment, that was a moot point.

  “Yeah, there’s a reason TGP kids get into good colleges,” Billy Bob said. “Of course, some of the kids they take, like that baseball player who’s one of our managers—what’s his name again, Jason?”

  “Juan del Potro,” Jason said.

  “Right. From what I’m told, he’s a reasonably good baseball player but a fantastic student. He’s here because he’ll get a scholarship to Harvard or something, and that’ll look good for TGP.”

  “Harvard doesn’t have athletic scholarships,” said Tom. “None of the Ivy League schools do.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve got financial-need scholarships, and lots of good athletes tend to qualify for them,” Billy Bob said. “My daddy told me when I was in fifth grade that if I ever got into Harvard he’d take out another mortgage on his house to pay for it if he had to.”

  One thing Jason had figured out quickly about Billy Bob was that for all his ain’ts and y’alls and his distinctive good-old-boy routine, he was right there with Tom when it came to being smart.

  Anthony was more like Jason: smart enough, but someone who wasn’t likely to be applying for financial aid at an Ivy League school anytime soon.

  Jason had become friendly with Juan during the week, talking to him in the locker room after practice while Juan was collecting dirty jerseys and other gear to give to the equipment guys for laundry and, occasionally, in the halls between classes. Jason had asked him if he and Tom could sit at his table in the dining hall the next week, and Juan had laughed.

  “If you want to sit at a table with a bunch of Hispanics, sure,” he’d said. “There’s six of us. That leaves room for four more.”

  “Don’t you have to sit with different guys every week?” Jason asked.

  Juan shook his head. “You have to sit at a different table every week,” he said. “There’s nothing that says you have to sit with different people. At least no one’s ever called us on it.”

  That surprised Jason.

  “They don’t care if you get to know anyone,” Juan said. “That’s just myth-building. The younger guys sit with different people, but after a while you just sit with your buddies.”

  Jason told him that Tom, Billy Bob, Anthony, and he would be joining Juan and his friends the following week.

  * * *

  The first scrimmage of the preseason was Saturday morning, and Jason was dreading it—because he doubted he would play very much. The coaches had said the depth charts would be posted in the locker room in the morning, and Jason suspected he’d be no higher than fourth on the quarterback list. He believed he was in a close battle with Frank Kessler for that fourth slot, but Frank was a sophomore and hadn’t upset the coaching staff.

  There was no doubt about who would be the top three on the list, only about the order. Jason believed Billy Bob had outplayed all the quarterbacks during the week with the possible exception of Jamie Dixon. At worst, he should be number two on the depth chart. Still, he was convinced Ronnie Thompson would be number two because he was a junior and because he was clearly one of Coach Ingelsby’s favorites. Every time Ronnie made any kind of reasonably good play, Ingelsby turned into a cheerleader.

  There was one other thing: Billy Bob, as Jason’s roommate, might be guilty by association.

  “Don’t really care,” Billy Bob had said when the boys were hanging out after dinner that Friday night, avoiding homework. “As long as I get a chance to show them I’m pretty good, it’s fine. I’m relyin’ on Coach Johnson and Coach Ingelsby’s morality to eventually get me the startin’ job—or, worst case, number two.”

  “Morality?” the other three boys had said at once.

  Billy Bob grinned his disarming grin. “Or should I say lack of it,” he said. “They’ll do about anything to win. They ain’t gonna play Thompson if I’m better, ’cause they flat-out don’t like to lose ’round here.”

  Jason couldn’t argue with that. Except for one thing: If they flat-out didn’t like to lose ’round here, why was the fastest receiver on the team playing quarterback? And why was someone who might be the best quarterback in the school practicing as a slotback receiver?

  Sooner or later, he thought, the coaches would figure it out. Or would they?

  * * *

  There was a crowd around the bulletin board inside the locker room door the next morning when the four friends walked in after breakfast. They waited for some space to clear, then pushed forward to get a closer look.

  Jason found his name right away—it jumped off the page at him under the quarterbacks list: 7. Roddin.

  There were six other quarterbacks. Jason was las
t string. He knew he hadn’t played all that well in practice—how could he be expected to play well at quarterback since he was a wide receiver? But he knew he’d been better than Brooks or Koepka, neither one of whom threw the ball any better than Jason did, and couldn’t run it nearly as well as he did. And yet there they were, listed ahead of him on the depth chart.

  As expected, Jamie Dixon was number one and—surprise—Ronnie Thompson was number two, with Billy Bob at number three and Frank Kessler at number four.

  Jason was still immersed in staring at his name—as if staring at it would somehow make what he was seeing disappear—when Tom’s voice brought him back to earth.

  “Hey, J, you still here?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jason said, still not completely back. He shifted his gaze to the wide receivers and saw that Tom was listed as the number 5 slotback. There were five slotbacks on the team. He was also last string.

  “Something’s up here,” Tom said. “I’m not any good as a receiver, but I’m still better than Day and Tomasulo.”

  Jason was back on earth now. “They’re punishing us. They didn’t make us show up at five o’clock to run, but they knew they were going to humiliate us this morning.”

  “You think we’ll see the field?” Tom said.

  “We’ll find out later,” Jason said. “But one thing’s for sure: if we complain, they’ll bury us even more.”

  “Got that right,” Tom said.

  * * *

  They did see the field—from the sidelines. There were, according to Jason’s count, eighty-two players in uniform. He knew that, because he had plenty of time to count.

  He guessed that at least seventy of them—perhaps more—got onto the field during the scrimmage. He and Tom stood next to each other the entire time without getting so much as a glance from the coaches.

  The only good news was that Billy Bob and Anthony, both playing with the second team offense, played very well. Billy Bob, listed as number three, took as many snaps with the second unit as Ronnie Thompson, and even got a few with the ones. As far as Anthony could tell, Billy Bob completely outplayed Thompson most of the day. It was far more difficult to judge line play, but Anthony was moved to the first unit for the last two series of the morning. That was clearly a good sign.

  “This is humiliating,” Jason said to Tom as the scrimmage was winding down and it was apparent they weren’t going to play a single snap.

  “I think that’s the point,” Tom said.

  “What about the other guys who didn’t get in?” Jason said.

  “I suspect they didn’t get in because they can’t play,” Tom said. “We can play.”

  “Yeah, just not at the positions we’ve been assigned.”

  “Actually, we’re good enough that we should at least be getting a chance to play, even out of position,” Tom said. “But that’s not the issue here.”

  “How long do they keep doing this to us?” Jason asked.

  “Good question,” Tom said. “They do have a good deal of money invested in our scholarships.”

  “Maybe they want us to quit,” Jason said. “Costs them nothing if we leave.”

  Tom nodded. “True that,” he said. “Which is why we’re not leaving.”

  “Yet,” Jason said.

  Tom glanced at him sideways. “Yet,” he repeated. “Exactly right.”

  * * *

  When the scrimmage mercifully ended, they all jogged to midfield, where Coach Johnson told them how pleased he was with the way everyone had competed. There had been a couple of injuries that had looked pretty serious and a couple of players who had to be taken off the field because of the heat, but overall the coaches were happy with what they’d seen.

  “Get some rest the next couple of days,” Coach Johnson said. “Pay your respects to the Lord in the morning, and then get caught up on your schoolwork. Monday, we start getting ready for DeMatha.”

  That was the season opener—Thomas Gatch Prep versus DeMatha High School, which was located outside Washington, D.C.

  After the players had put their hands in for a breakup cheer—“Together!” was what the captains had asked for—Tom turned to Jason and said, “Pay your respects to the Lord? Is he serious?”

  Jason was about to answer when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Convinced he and Tom were in trouble again, he flinched. He turned around and saw Coach Cruikshank.

  “Can I see you for a minute?” he asked.

  Jason actually liked Coach Cruikshank. He was different—or so it seemed—from the other coaches. He encouraged the players, only raised his voice on occasion, and usually found something positive to say. Jason had felt let down by him, though, when he’d seen the depth chart. He had to assume that each position coach decided on who fit where on the chart.

  “Sure, Coach,” Jason answered.

  “Meet you in the locker room,” Tom said, and turned in that direction.

  Jason and Coach Cruikshank walked in the opposite direction. They were soon alone, with everyone else trying to get inside and out of the heat as quickly as possible.

  “I know you have to be disappointed right now,” Coach Cruikshank said as he and Jason stood facing each other along the sideline where Jason had already spent his morning. “I don’t blame you.”

  Jason started to answer, but the coach interrupted.

  “Let me finish and then feel free to unload. If you repeat this anywhere, you’ll jeopardize my job, even though I’m going to tell you something you already know. You should have been fourth on today’s depth chart and, from what I understand, Tom should have been no worse than third. You guys were punished today because you publicly complained about where you were playing.”

  “But—”

  “But it’s not fair. I know that. Jason, guess what, football’s not always fair. TGP isn’t always fair, and life isn’t always fair. The good news is, you and Tom both start with a clean slate Monday. If you practice next week like you did this week, you’ll both be in uniform for the DeMatha game; you might even get in the game—depending on how things go. Just do me a favor: bite your tongues, and don’t get into any more trouble.”

  “Coach, there’s still the larger issue. You guys are missing the boat not giving Tom a chance to show you what he can do at quarterback.”

  “And I know your speed makes you an ideal receiver,” Coach Cruikshank said.

  “And?”

  Coach Cruikshank looked him right in the eye. “And it’s not going to happen.”

  “Ever?”

  “I never say never,” Coach Cruikshank said. “Things change.”

  “What would have to change?” Jason said.

  Coach Cruikshank smiled tightly in a way that looked like he was clamping his lips. “Try to be patient,” he said after a moment. “I know that isn’t easy for a high school freshman. But at this point, you don’t have a choice. Neither does Tom.”

  “Unless we leave,” Jason said.

  “Don’t give them what they want,” Coach Cruikshank said.

  With that, he turned and walked away.

  7

  Jason didn’t say anything to Tom, Billy Bob, or Anthony in the locker room or at lunch—too many ears, many of them unfriendly, were around.

  They had the afternoon off, presumably to spend on schoolwork, so they retreated to Jason and Billy Bob’s room—it was bigger than Tom and Anthony’s—so that Jason could fill the other three in on his conversation with Coach Cruikshank. When he finished, they all sat in silence for a while.

  “There’s a message in there,” Jason said finally, “but I’ve got no idea what it could be.”

  Tom nodded and let out a deep sigh. “You’re right about the message,” he said. “I think Coach C’s a good guy, don’t you, Jason?”

  “I do,” Jason said. “He’s about the only coach who’s been even a little bit sympathetic since we got here.”

  “Which is why he’s trying to send you a message without jeopardizing his position with Coach Jo
hnson,” Tom said.

  “Yeah, but what’s the message?” Anthony said.

  “I’m not sure you want to hear it,” Tom said. “I’m not sure, for that matter, that I want to hear it.”

  “I’ve got a theory,” Billy Bob said. “And I bet it matches your theory, Tom.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jason asked. He was worried about the expression he saw on his friend’s face, a mix of anger and something else—sadness?

  “Jason, tell me honestly, who do you think is a better quarterback, me or Ronnie Thompson?” Billy Bob asked. “You’ve seen us both play now for a week.”

  “You,” Jason said. “The only reason he was with the second team today was because—”

  “He’s a junior and I’m a freshman, I know,” Billy Bob said, finishing his sentence. “But now answer this one for me—and be straight: You’ve seen me for a week, you’ve seen Tom all your life. Which one of us is a better quarterback?”

  For a moment Jason didn’t answer.

  “Go ahead,” Billy Bob said. “The truth.”

  “Tom is,” Jason said. “You’re a little faster than he is, and your arm strength is pretty close. But he’s a lot more accurate than you are.”

  “Am I that bad?” Billy Bob said, grinning for an instant.

  “No!” Jason said. Then he smiled, too. “He’s that good.”

  “Okay, if that’s true and if we assume that the coaches ’round here know football—which I think they do—and they want to win games, why in the world is Tom playing wide receiver? Why is he playing a position where he ain’t all that good?”

  Jason and Anthony both started to answer, but Billy Bob interrupted.

  “Hang on, not finished yet. Tom, you’ve seen all the receivers on the team this week, right?”

  Tom nodded.

  “If Jason was playin’ receiver, where would he be on the depth chart?”