Dinged, page 10
I can see Eric and Jamie, at another table, looking at us.
So I close my eyes.
22
The first thing you realize when you’re shooting a commercial is that the lights are hot.
Really hot.
The second thing is that there are a lot of people working on the commercial, but as far as I can tell, they spend most of their time eating cookies at the food table.
My dad and I are standing there in his showroom, with two sweet-looking cars behind us. The director, a no-nonsense woman with spiky hair named Ruby, is telling us what to do.
“Now, Dad, you’re gonna stand here next to the one car, and you’re gonna say ‘My car’s a classic!’ and then Caleb, you’re gonna enter the frame and stand next to the other car and say, ‘Yeah, Dad, but mine’s the hottest new model, and sometimes you have to make room for the new guy!’ And then you wink at Dad, and Dad says, ‘Dang it, not again!’ And that’s when we’re going to cut to footage with the narrator talking about the best new and used car collections in the whole state. You guys got it? Any questions?”
My dad raises his hand, like he’s a fourth grader in school. “Uh, yeah . . . why are you calling me Dad?”
Ruby blinks a few times. “Uh, well, I’m sorry, Mr. Springer, no real reason. You’re the dad in the commercial, and so I guess maybe that’s why. Anyway, are we ready to get started?”
My dad takes his place in front of his car, and Ruby barks out some instructions to the crew, who finish their snacks and take their positions. Then she yells, “ACTION!”
My dad looks into the camera with his million-dollar smile. “My car’s a classic!”
I run out in front of my car. “Yeah, Dad, but mine’s the hottest new model, and sometimes you have to make room for the new guy!”
I wink at Dad, he winks back, and I wait for him to say his line. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, in fact. The only thing that happens is that his million-dollar smile disappears.
After a few seconds, Ruby yells, “CUT!” She hurries over to my dad. “Everything okay, Mr. Springer?”
“Call me Sammy,” he says, quietly.
“Sorry, Sammy . . . everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s great. Just forgot what I’m supposed to say, that’s all.”
“ ‘Dang it, not again!’ ”
“What? That was only the first take!”
Ruby lets out a loud laugh, then immediately realizes my dad’s not kidding. “No, no, Sammy . . . that’s the line. ‘Dang it, not again!’ ”
“Oh!” Now my dad laughs. “Haha, yeah, that’s funny!”
“Should we give it a go?” Ruby asks, gently.
My dad nods forcefully, trying to look confident. “Yeah, yeah, let’s try this thing again.”
I glance over at my mom, who’s standing behind the camera, watching. She smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. Then she mouths something to me, but I don’t understand, so she does it again, more slowly.
This time I get it.
Keep an eye on your dad.
We go through the routine again—my dad says his line, I say my line, I wink, and this time my dad says, “Whoa, the new guy! What’s up?”
“CUT!” yells Ruby.
My dad smacks his forehead and says, “Damn! My bad! I got this!”
But he doesn’t have it. We try about ten more times, but my dad gets something wrong every time, either the second line or the first line, or he forgets to wink, or he starts talking before I finish talking—if there’s a way to mess it up, he messes it up. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is he keeps getting madder and madder at himself about it.
Finally, after one last mistake, my dad yells, “THAT’S IT! I SUCK! I’M OUT!” and storms off the set.
No one moves except my mom, who runs after him. The crew, the camera people, and I all wait for Ruby to tell us what to do. Finally, she says, “That’s a wrap, everyone.”
It’s only when everyone starts packing up their stuff that I realize that’s commercial-speak for, “We’re done here.”
A few minutes later, we’re standing in the parking lot, and my dad is saying, “Dang it, not again!” over and over.
I give him a hug and try to break the tension. “Nailed it, Dad! A little late, but nailed it.”
It works. He laughs. “Yeah, right? I’m gonna need to pay all those people to come back another day, that’s what kills me.” Then he smacks my shoulder. “You were great, by the way. If this whole quarterbacking thing doesn’t work out, you could be in the movies!”
“Hey,” says my mom. “What do you actors say we go get some brunch at Rawley’s? May as well make the most of the day, right?”
I’m fully on board with that idea. Rawley’s has these chocolate chip pancakes that will fix anything—for an hour, anyway.
We get there, and immediately five people come over to my dad to shake his hand. He’s incredibly sweet with all of them—sharp, funny, friendly. That’s the thing that’s so hard to understand. Whatever’s going on in his head seems to come and go in a matter of seconds.
The waiter comes over to take our order.
“I’ll have the eggs over easy with sausage and wheat toast,” says my dad. “And the strawberry pancakes, the French toast, a cheeseburger deluxe, a spinach and cheddar omelet, a chocolate shake, and a chicken noodle soup.”
The waiter glances over at my mother. “You got more folks coming?”
My mom shakes her head. “Nope,” she says. “My husband is just extremely hungry.” I don’t need to look at her to know what she’s thinking. She’s not going to ask my dad why he just ordered the whole left side of the menu. This is one conversation not worth having.
At the end of brunch, my mom packs up all the extra food and puts it in the trunk. She’ll drop it off at the food pantry later. When we get home, I tell my parents that I’m going over to Nina’s house to do homework.
My dad looks at me, winks, and says, “Dang it, not again!”
Walthorne High vs. Ramsdale High Season Record: 10–0 State Semifinal
WWHS
WALTHORNE HIGH SCHOOL RADIO
TRANSCRIPT OF PLAY-BY-PLAY
ALFIE JENKS AND JULIAN HESS
ALFIE:
Well, there’s no doubt that Walthorne faces its toughest test of the season tonight, as the Wildcats take on the 8–2 New Bradford Titans in the state semifinal. New Bradford is led by their six-foot, four-inch, 305-pound defensive end, Marcus Wingfield, who has racked up seventeen sacks on the season. He’ll be trying to chase down Caleb Springer, Walthorne’s sensational quarterback, who’s looking to break single-season passing records in completions, touchdowns, and total yards—as a freshman! There’s a great crowd on hand, and they should be in for a treat . . .
Buck works overtime tonight.
If it weren’t for him, I’d probably be dead and buried about now.
The first time I get popped is halfway through the first quarter, when New Bradford’s ginormous defensive end closes down on me like an angry bear. I manage to sidestep him, but unfortunately I run right into the linebacker from the other side, who’s not quite as big but still hits plenty hard.
He cracks me shoulder to shoulder, a perfectly legal hit, but I don’t have time to brace myself, and my head hits the turf with a CRUNK!
I feel it—oh yeah, I feel it—but I pop up. I’m fine.
In the huddle, I say to Ron, “Hey, what do you say we try to prevent these guys from knocking the living crap out of me?”
He growls at me. “What do you think we’re doing out here, having a tea party?”
“Hard to tell, to be honest,” I say.
“Go eff yourself.”
“Happy to, as long as you block for me.”
We’ve reached the point in the season where who’s a senior and who’s a freshman doesn’t really matter anymore. We’ve been through the wars together. No one’s better than anyone else, and no one person can do it alone—it’s everyone or no one. We don’t have to like one another; we just have to look out for one another.
On the next play, Ron levels the giant dude, and Ethan Metzger catches a slant for eighteen yards.
ALFIE:
Two minutes to go in the first half, and Walthorne is trying to build on their 14–6 lead. It’s third and nine at the New Bradford seventeen yard line, which is definitely a passing situation. Springer is in the shotgun, he takes the snap and drifts out to his right . . . The protection is good, Springer looks downfield, no one open . . . He cuts back upfield and decides to take it himself. Oh, the coaches have to be holding their breath here . . . Springer is at the first down marker, he goes into the protective slide . . . but oh! He’s popped by Wingfield! The all-state D-lineman comes in late and practically rips Springer’s head off! Ron Johnson runs over to protect his quarterback . . . Now there’s a scuffle!
JULIAN:
Oh, you don’t like to see this, Alfie, but sometimes it’s unavoidable, with emotions running so high . . .
ALFIE:
That’s right, Julian. This is a physical game and sometimes these guys are gonna get into some extracurricular activity . . .
JULIAN:
Excellent metaphor there, Alfie. My English teacher, Ms. Priore, would be very proud.
ALFIE:
Thank you, Julian.
JULIAN:
Oh boy, check this out!
ALFIE:
Ron Johnson and Marcus Wingfield are now pushing and shoving each other, the two biggest guys on the field! The crowd is screaming, loving it, but this could get ugly! The refs run over, coaches are on the field . . . Now it seems to be settling down . . . Both players head to their respective sidelines . . . Definite unsportsmanlike penalties on Johnson and Wingfield . . . Meanwhile, Springer took quite a shot on that play, but he seems to be fine . . .
We end up scoring on the drive, and at the half we’re up 21–6. On the way to the locker room, I see my dad sprinting down the sideline. He usually doesn’t talk to anyone until after the game, so I brace myself for something I must have done really wrong. But he’s not heading for me, he’s heading for the referee, and as soon as he gets there, he starts screaming.
“WHY WASN’T THAT KID TOSSED?! THAT’S BULLSHIT, FRED, AND YOU KNOW IT! HE SHOULD BE GONE!”
The ref, whose name is Fred, I guess, gets right back in my dad’s face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sammy! Get out of here before I throw your ass out!”
The two keep going at it for a few minutes, and I’m getting ready for my dad to get tossed, but from one second to the next he stops yelling and gives the ref a big hug. “You’re doing an amazing job, Freddy. Keep up the good work! Say hi to Angela and the kids for me.”
My dad walks away without even looking in my direction. I catch the ref’s eye and shrug.
The ref gives me a short nod. “Your dad’s a freakin’ legend. Love that guy.”
I walk to the locker room, shaking my head. Only my dad could bite a ref’s head off and then be called a “freakin’ legend” two seconds later by the same guy.
ALFIE:
Well, the second half has been all Walthorne, and with five minutes to go in the fourth quarter and the score 45–17, the Wildcats take over on downs at their own forty-seven yard line.
JULIAN:
I’m a little surprised that Coach Toffler still has his first team in, but this will probably be their last drive. I’m sure they’ll keep the ball on the ground, trying to eat some clock as this game winds down. Coach will want to get his starters some rest before the championship game next Friday night.
ALFIE:
Excellent point, Julian.
JULIAN:
Wait, seriously?
ALFIE:
Yes, seriously.
JULIAN:
Alfie complimented me! It’s official! I rock! I totally rock!
ALFIE:
Easy, Julian. It’s first and ten . . . Oh, look at this: Springer is dropping back to pass. This is a surprise! Protection is good, no one open downfield, Springer starts to scramble . . . and he’s taken down by Wingfield. Looks like Springer landed hard on his shoulder, his right shoulder, his throwing arm . . . You don’t want to mess with that . . . Yup, sure enough, Coach is motioning Springer to the sidelines. He’s done for the night.
JULIAN:
He did his job, though, throwing for well over two hundred yards and three touchdowns . . . This freshman never fails to impress, and the larger the expectations, the better he performs . . .
I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure the big guy turns his body just so he can slam his entire weight down on top of me as my right shoulder mashes into the ground.
But that’s what shoulder pads are for, right? I never gave my shoulder pads a name; maybe I should.
I’m fine, though, and two of my linemen help me up. We’re heading back to the huddle when Coach Toffler starts waving his arms wildly over his head. He wants me to come out. My instinct is to protest, to ask to stay in the game, but I know that’s not going to work. I slap hands with my replacement QB, Arch Daniels, and run over to the coach.
“Should have thrown that one away to avoid the sack,” he says. “Take a seat.”
Would it kill you to say I played a good game? I want to ask him, but don’t.
We end up winning 45–25, meaning we made it to the finals, but when we huddle up after the game, Ron tells us not to celebrate. “This isn’t what we came for. This is nothing. NOTHING! We’re NOWHERE! We haven’t done ANYTHING!
We don’t gloat, we don’t strut, we don’t preen, we don’t party, we don’t SMILE! We get back to WORK! We start thinking about tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and we FOCUS! We got ONE MORE GAME!”
Everyone screams, “ONE MORE GAME!”
Ron looks at me and winks. The guy has made my life kind of miserable, but I gotta admit, he knows how to get the guys fired up.
We’re walking back to the locker room when I hear a voice behind me. A voice I know very well.
My dad’s voice.
“Billy! Billy! BILLY!”
Billy is Coach Toffler’s first name.
I turn around and see my dad running, just like he did at halftime. I guess his days of waiting for everyone to come to him are over. My mom is right behind him. A crowd is starting to gather in anticipation.
He pokes a finger into Coach’s chest. “What are you doing, Billy? You trying to get my kid killed out there?”
“Listen, Sammy, that was gonna be his last series—”
“Last series, BULLSHIT!”
I realize where the expression “spitting mad” comes from, because my dad is spraying as much as he’s yelling.
“You’re playing with his future! My kid has a million-dollar right arm and you’re out there messing around!” Except he doesn’t say “messing.” He says something way worse.
I sprint over and try to help. “Dad! Dad! It’s all good! Remember last game, you were mad because he took me out early? So this time I stayed in the game! But I was always coming out in the fourth quarter!”
But my dad is so focused on the coach, it’s like he doesn’t even realize I’m there. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime talent, Billy! He’s already being recruited at State! We’re getting letters every day! This kid is special and you’re trying to get him killed out there! You guys were up by thirty! I’m going to be talking to the director of athletics about this!”
My mom is pulling at my dad, but he just keeps saying, “Not now, not now!”
Coach Toffler catches my eye quickly and makes a face, like, Help me out here, kid. I realize that my dad isn’t doing anybody any favors, especially me, by throwing a tantrum at the coach. So I try again.
“Dad! You know how you’re always saying that the worst thing about high school sports is the know-it-all parents who think they’re smarter than the coach, and who get in the coach’s face telling him what to do, and how obnoxious that is, because all these parents don’t know what they’re doing and only care about their own kids?”
I glance up and see a bunch of those parents I’m talking about, now with weird looks on their faces, but I don’t care. This is more important. “And remember how you said if you ever become one of those nightmare parents that I should tell you to knock it off? Well, I’m telling you now. Knock it off!”
It seems like I’m getting through to him, because he stops yelling for a second. I take the opportunity to repeat myself, but ten times louder. “KNOCK IT OFF, DAD!!!”
The whole place hears that, and everyone and everything gets quiet. The only thing you can hear is the AV crew packing up their equipment.
My dad blinks a few times, like he’s just waking up after having been hypnotized, then takes a few steps backward. “Billy, I . . . Yeah, listen, let’s forget it. Forget it. I’m sorry I yelled. I just don’t want to see my kid get hurt, that’s all. You’re doing a great job. Good luck next week in the championship.”
Coach Toffler’s face softens in relief. “No, no, Sammy, I get it. I totally get it. We all remember what happened a few years ago with that freshman kid, Teddy Youngblood. You have to know, my only goal out there is to protect these kids and keep them safe, you know? Everything else is secondary, doesn’t matter. You have to know that.”
I exchange glances with Kenny, who’s dressed in street clothes, still out with that concussion he got. We both know that’s not exactly true, but this is not the time to say that out loud.
“Right, right,” my dad says. “All good.” He walks over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re okay? Nothing hurts?”
“All good,” I tell him. “Nothing hurts. Clean hit.”
“Great. I’ll meet you at the car.”
And just like that, he turns and walks back up to the parking lot. My mom leans into the coach and says something I can’t hear, probably an apology, and hurries after my dad. Everyone else is still standing there, processing what just happened, trying to figure out how many seconds have to go by before they can start gossiping about it.
