Out of His League Read online

  Braidie gave him a blank look. “They do that themselves.”

  It didn’t take long for the defensive coach to start getting loud. He was overseeing a drill where big Tex ran with the ball at top speed while two players ran in from the opposite direction and tried to tackle him. The trouble was none of them could. Tex kept slapping them to the ground like mosquitoes and the coach didn’t like it. “You friggin’ fraidy cats!” the coach yelled.

  “We’ve got a tackling problem,” said Braidie matter-of-factly.

  The girls murmured in agreement.

  Tex lined up again. He was big and strong and mean, just what you want in a football player. “Come on, you pussies,” he said to the next pair, “tackle me! I’m an Armadillo about to score a touchdown.”

  “Tackle him!” yelled the coach. “Hit him harder! Make him bleed!”

  The players hurled their bodies like missiles at Tex, but instead of knocking him down they bounced off like pinballs.

  “Their technique’s all wrong,” Ozzie said.

  “Pardon?” said Bradie.

  “They’re gutsy, I’ll give ’em that. If it weren’t for those pads I reckon they’d be dead. But if you want to bring a big bloke down, one should go around the legs and the other up high, across the chest.”

  “Believe me,” said Toni, “it’s not as easy as it looks.”

  Tex got through the entire defensive team, twelve pairs, without once hitting the manicured turf. The coach sat the players down and spent a good twenty seconds eyeballing them; it was so quiet you could have heard a loose tooth drop. Finally he spoke. “You know, guys, this is a school that’s won six state titles. Six.” He counted them on his fingers, using his thumb twice. “One, two, three, four, five, six. We’ve got a tradition as a great football school. Not a good football school, but a great one. Do you agree?”

  “YES, SIR,” yelled the entire defense.

  “Well, let me tell you what I see this year.” His voice became louder now. “A bunch of little BOYS who’d rather hide behind their mommas’ skirts than put their bodies on the line.”

  Most of the players looked down.

  “Is this what you want to be? Mommas’ boys?”

  “No, sir,” mumbled the team.

  “I didn’t hear you!”

  “NO, SIR!”

  “Because right now, I reckon I could call down some of the girls in the bleachers and they could tackle better than you.” The coach pointed at the Hopettes. “And if those girls were to do a better job than you, you know what that would mean?”

  Some boys said, “Yes, sir,” and others, “No, sir.”

  The coach continued. “They’d take your place on the team, that’s what! And you’d be the ones sitting up there deciding what to wear to the game and exchanging cookie recipes. Is that what you want?”

  “NO, SIR.”

  The coach looked up at the stand. “Let me say this, girls. I know y’all are pretty as pictures, I can see that with my own eyes. But what I want to know is this: can you tackle? Because I tell you right now, I need some people who can tackle on my team and I don’t know if these boys can.”

  Some of the girls gave a nervous giggle.

  Then the coach spotted Ozzie. “How about you, boy? I know you can talk to all the purdy girls, but can you tackle? If you can, come down here right now, ’cause I need some players who can tackle on my team.”

  Ozzie knew he wasn’t supposed to say anything. When he made the Queensland primary school team they were down 24–0 at halftime and the big-name coach had tried the same thing; called them girls and yelled and blustered, and the players had hung their heads in shame. The team lost 60–6. Near the end, when Ozzie scored the team’s only try, he gave his coach a curtsy. He never made another state schoolboys’ team again.

  Ozzie stood up. “Yeah, I’ll give it a go.”

  The girls stopped giggling.

  “Shush!” whispered Braidie.

  Dead silence.

  The coach was taken aback but decided to play along. “Okay then. Come on down. Hell, I need somebody who can show these mommas’ boys a thing or two.”

  Ozzie sauntered down the stairs and jumped onto the field.

  “What’s your name, son?” said the coach.

  “Austin.”

  The coach turned to his players. “You see, team. Even Austin thinks he can tackle better than you, and you know why? Because he’s watched you. He’s seen how bad you are, haven’t you, Austin?”

  Ozzie didn’t say anything.

  “But Austin knows that if y’all showed some heart, showed some pride in the Hope uniform, you could tackle as well as anyone. Am I right?”

  Ozzie remained silent.

  “So let’s try the drill again, and this time, let’s remember we are Hope Shooters. Let’s remember we are MEN. Okay?”

  “YES, SIR.”

  “Okay?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  Guys started slapping each other’s helmets. Tex jumped to his feet. “Aren’t you going to give Austin a chance? He said he could tackle me.”

  The players laughed and so did the coach. “I think Austin will be happy going back and sitting next to all the purdy girls,” he said. “Won’t you, Austin?”

  Ozzie hadn’t walked down there for nothing. “You asked me if I could tackle. I can.”

  The players who understood him laughed even louder. “You think you can tackle Tex?” said the coach.

  Ozzie shrugged.

  The coach dropped his voice, speaking just to Ozzie. “Well, I’d love to let you try, son, but if you get hurt, I’m in big trouble. Why don’t you head back up to the stands and enjoy the company?”

  “I play footy at home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Australia.”

  “When did you arrive in Hope?”

  “Last week.”

  The coach stroked his chin. “And you really think you can tackle Tex?”

  “I’d give it a go.”

  There was a pause. “I suppose we could call it an official tryout,” said the coach. “You eighteen years old?”

  Ozzie nodded.

  “Well then, be aware that as an official tryout this is done of your own free will. If you get hurt, you can’t sue the school or us for damages.”

  “No worries.”

  By this stage the whole team was listening. Coach McCulloch came over and looked at Ozzie. “You’re not that big.”

  Ozzie shrugged.

  “It’s your call,” said the defensive coach.

  Coach McCulloch hesitated, then turned his palms out. “Let him try.” Then he added to the other coach, more quietly. “What have we got to lose?”

  Tex was told to take off his helmet and pads, to make it fair. Coach McCulloch whispered in his ear, “No matter what, this boy is not to be hurt. Run half-pace and shrug him off softly.”

  Trouble was, Tex didn’t know the meaning of the words half-pace or softly.

  The whole team sat and watched, and Jose drummed up some support for Ozzie. “Come on, amigo. Bring the big man down.”

  Sam Wilson yelled for Tex. “Squash him, man. Make him hurt, Texas-style.”

  The team started a slow hand clap as Tex walked back twenty yards and then began his run. He tucked the ball under his left arm and wound up like a steam train, and the clapping got faster. Tex was 240 pounds and his huge legs powerful as pistons. There were cones set up ten yards apart, marking how wide Tex could run, but they really weren’t needed. Tex wasn’t going to sidestep anyone; he was going to run right over the top.

  Ozzie didn’t tackle like the others. He didn’t yell and sprint at Tex like a warrior. Instead, he crouched low and did a split step as Tex approached, making sure he was in the right position.

  Tex leaned his left shoulder forward and put out his huge hand to knock Ozzie into oblivion, but both shoulder and hand missed. All Tex felt was something driving hard into his legs, and arms wrapping around the back of his
knees like tentacles. He tried to keep his big legs pumping, unwilling to believe that someone of Ozzie’s size could knock him down, but he felt himself falling and realized he was in trouble.

  Big Tex hit the ground with a resounding thump, and for a few seconds there was silence.

  chapter 12

  “Hurry up already!” Dave yelled at Alison through the bathroom door. “We’re leaving in five minutes, with or without you.”

  David Jr. walked past barefoot, playing his computer game. Dave snatched it from his hands. “For the last time, polish your boots and put ’em on your feet!”

  They all finally piled into the Buick, only to get stuck in a traffic jam a mile from school.

  “If you kids had done what you were told we’d be there by now,” grumbled Dave.

  “I think Dad’s got his belt on the wrong notch,” said Alison. “It’s too tight.”

  David Jr. laughed. Ozzie did well not to join in.

  Dave raised his voice. “I don’t need any cheek from you, missy!”

  Nancy cut in. “Dave, why don’t you tell Austin about tonight? He really should know what he’s in for.”

  Dave glared at Alison through the rearview mirror, then took a breath. “Okay, sure.”

  Alison mouthed a “thank you” to her mom.

  “On the third Monday of every August, the Shooters are introduced in a night called ‘The Beginning.’ The gym is packed, and the joke is that thieves could steal whatever they want in town tonight, except they’re all at ‘The Beginning,’ too.” Dave gave a little chuckle.

  Alison rolled her eyes.

  “Dave’s one of the boosters,” said Nancy. “They raise money for the team.”

  “We fixed up the parking lot at Shooter Stadium. Fits a thousand cars,” said Dave. “And there’s a trust fund that pays Coach McCulloch’s salary, so he doesn’t have to worry about teaching classes.”

  “I wonder what Coach Mac will say tonight?” said David Jr. “He must know this is his last season.”

  “Coach Mac’s a good man,” said Dave.

  “He just can’t coach,” said David Jr., turning to Ozzie. “Last year when the team lost forty-nine zip to Denham, there were twelve For Sale signs stuck in his front yard.”

  “His wife told me they were like stakes through his heart,” said Nancy.

  “Is the team s’posed to be better this year?” asked Ozzie.

  “Nope,” said David Jr.

  “Yes,” Dave said, almost at the same time. “We’ve got Sam Wilson, Malivai Thomas, and Tex Powell. All great players.”

  The traffic started moving and Dave eased down on the accelerator. “And a special recruit,” he added. “One who just might make all the difference.”

  For the first time that evening, everyone smiled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to ‘The Beginning!’” said the announcer. “Before we introduce the team, let’s see who’s in the audience tonight.”

  He unclipped the microphone from the stand and walked forward. “Now, if you’ve ever played for the Shooters before, I’d like you to stand up.”

  A few people stirred.

  “Go on, don’t be shy.”

  Dozens of men slowly got to their feet, Dave Graham one of them.

  “And if you’ve ever been a Hopette or a cheerleader, can y’all please stand.”

  About the same number of women rose, including Nancy.

  “And if you want to play for the Shooters one day, please rise.”

  Lots of boys jumped to their feet, David Jr. included.

  “And stand if you want to be a Hopette or a cheerleader, and go to the best parties in town.”

  Alison was one of the many girls who accepted the invitation, giggling.

  “And get to your feet if you’re in the marching band, or if you’re a friend or relative of a player, cheerleader, Hopette, or band member.”

  The announcer waited a minute. “Now look around the room.”

  Most of the crowd were standing.

  Outside, fifty restless boys wore new black-and-white jerseys with the logo of a six-shooter revolver on the front and their game number on the back. Beside each stood a Hopette, also in a new jersey, with a number the same as her player. There was one boy, however, who had a jersey with no number embroidered on its back. He also had no girl beside him.

  “The whole town showing up to watch us walk into a hall?” Ozzie said to Jose. “People here must be footy crazy.”

  “Not the soccer team. Last year they made the play-offs, but never got more than a hundred come to watch. We went five and six, but still got nineteen thousand to the Armadillo game.” Jose cuffed Ozzie’s shoulder. “So how you doing, amigo? Nervous?”

  Ozzie shook his head. “Nah. It’s all a bit of a joke, don’t you reckon?”

  Jose put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say that. Not around here. For most of these guys this is the highlight of their lives. Not just so far, but ever.”

  “Fair dinkum?”

  “Fair what him?”

  Someone shouted from the door. “Everyone ready.”

  Boys slapped other boys’ hands. Girls hugged each other.

  “What about you?” asked Ozzie. “Is this the best thing you’ll ever do?”

  “It’s pretty good. But the day I graduate from law school will be better. And the day I buy my parents a house, better still.” Jose ruffled Ozzie’s hair. “Break a leg, man.”

  Set up on the bleachers was a brass band and the “Yellow Rose of Texas” rained down. The team moved to wait behind a giant banner. The band stopped and the lights went out. You could hear whispers in the darkness.

  A deep voice echoed through speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen. Put your hands together for … the Hope Shooters Football Team!”

  The lights burst back on and the band started again. Fifty-one boys broke through the banner and bounced down the center aisle. The crowd stood as one, clapping so hard that when they stopped their hands would be numb. Those close enough reached out and touched the boys.

  When the walking and backslapping and hollering finished, the boys sat on chairs facing the crowd. Behind each player stood his Hopette, glowing with pride. The cheerleaders performed their first routine of the year and Unity was thrown high into the air, landing with a smile in the arms of two boys.

  The announcer came on again. “A very special welcome to the brains behind Hope football. I give you the Head Coach of the Shooters—Ben McCulloch.”

  As he walked to the front Coach McCulloch was applauded, although not as enthusiastically as the players, or even as loudly as the cheerleaders. “Thank you. Thank you all very much.” He paused. “Last year was a difficult year. This year”—he raised a finger in the air—“will be better.”

  Jose leaned toward Ozzie and whispered. “That’s what he said last year.”

  “When a team goes through a tough time there are different ways to think. We can get down on ourselves and blame someone, usually the coach.” A few smiled at this. “We could even, Lord have mercy, move to Denham.” Some people booed and put their thumbs down. “Or”—he raised a finger in the air again—“we can focus on the positives, work hard on our weaknesses, and prepare for the day the Shooters will be a force in Texas football again.” The coach looked at the boosters. “And believe you me, that day will come.”

  He now turned to the row of chairs behind him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the starting quarterback and team captain, a player who has a real shot at a Division 1 College Scholarship. Make welcome, Sam Wilson.”

  Sam stood and waved, people whistled and screamed. Unity gave her boyfriend a hug.

  “And our other captains: big Tex Powell, a defensive lineman who’s gonna rough up some pretty-boy quarterbacks this year, and Malivai Thomas, the wide receiver who can outrun any defense in the state, including the Armadillos.”

  When Tex and Malivai were suitably adored, the coach introduced the rest of the team. The fifteenth player w
elcomed was “a senior split end who caught eighteen passes last year and scored three touchdowns.” Jose stood up and bowed. “And he’s also an honor student,” Coach McCulloch added, “which makes him the smartest person on the team, besides me.”

  As Coach McCulloch introduced the last player, David Jr. dug his fingers into his best friend’s ribs, and even Alison gave her friends a look and a smile.

  “Our very latest addition comes all the way from Yuranigh, Australia,” said the coach. “In fact, he arrived in Texas only last week. But when y’all see him tackle you’ll know why he made the team. A senior linebacker, Austin Eaton.”

  Dave Graham, sitting in his special booster seat in the front row, turned to his left and then his right. “That’s my boy,” he said, for all to hear.

  There were a few murmurs from the crowd. Perhaps some were wondering how an Australian kid so new to the school could make it onto the Hope football team.

  “This is a night of believing, a night of community, a night of tradition,” Coach McCulloch said in closing. “Because no matter what, through tornado or terrorism, we’ll be here again next year, every year. ‘The Beginning’ is part of who Hope is. My dream is that we can stop looking over our shoulder and become something even greater than our past.”

  The band played for the last time, a chest-expanding rendition of the school fight song, and everyone marched out into the thick, warm air, laughing and talking and slapping backs.

  chapter 13

  Outside, Dave called Ozzie over. “You see those men talking to Coach Mac?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the thin one, Pastor Slipper, runs the big church in town, and the small, chubby guy, Mayor Green, he runs the town. They’ve both got wives on the school board, which makes them the most powerful people in Hope.”

  “What’s a school … bored?”

  “They decide things, like what books kids are allowed to read. Violence is okay, but sex, ’specially the homo sort, is not.”

  Ozzie raised an eyebrow.

  “They also choose who gets hired and fired, including principals and football coaches.” Dave chuckled. “I’ll bet Coach Mac is nervous just speaking to them.”