Dinged, page 3
I noticed her right away.
The first thing I noticed about her was that she didn’t notice me.
She didn’t care who I was. She didn’t know that I was Caleb Springer. She didn’t know that my dad was Sammy Springer.
That was cool.
I didn’t talk to her for the first two months.
She sat in the front of the class with the kids who wanted to learn.
I sat in the back with the kids who wanted to goof off.
If you know anything about seventh grade, you know that those two groups of kids don’t really hang out.
Then one day she came up to me in the hall while I was on my way to lunch.
“What is it about you?” she asked.
I looked at her.
I could make something up right now, and tell you that I said something funny and clever back, something like, “Uh, everything, I guess.”
But the truth is, I froze.
Because even though I was Caleb Springer, and even though I was Sammy Springer’s kid, the quarterback, that doesn’t mean I’d ever actually talked to a real live human girl before.
Like I said, I hadn’t been interested.
But all of a sudden, I was interested.
“Huh?”
Her eyes twinkled. “What is it about you?” she repeated.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, all the other boys in the class seem to follow you around like little ducklings.”
“Hahahahahaha.” She was still waiting for me to say something else, though, so I went with “Huh?” again.
Real smooth, right?
“They obviously worship you,” she said. “Like you’re the king of the school or something.”
By now, we were in the cafeteria. Heads were turning in our direction. Caleb Springer was talking to the new girl. This qualified as big news at Walthorne North Middle School.
“No, they don’t,” I said. “We’re all, like, best friends. We hang out together.”
She pointed, and I looked. Eric, Jamie, and a bunch of other guys were sitting at our usual table, looking up at me, waiting for me to take my usual seat.
All of a sudden, they reminded me of . . . well . . . little ducklings.
“Yo, Caleb!”
“Sit down awready!”
“What are you doing, bro?”
“Check out this video on Eric’s phone!”
“Dude, let’s go!”
The little ducklings were getting impatient.
I looked back at the new girl. “I gotta go.”
“Quack, quack,” she said. “I’m Nina.”
Now here we are, the Monday after the Meadow Ridge game. I’m in the cafeteria again, but a few things have changed.
The first is, I gave up baseball and basketball. I had to. I mean, I love those sports, but in high school, football is a year-round thing. Training, conditioning, lifting, camps in the summer. You don’t have a choice, especially if you’re a quarterback.
Second, every day is like a big decision in terms of who I eat lunch with: my friends, who I’ve sat with pretty much every day since fourth grade, or my girlfriend, who I’ve sat with most days since about a month ago.
I walk into the seating area and see Eric and Jamie—they’re at a table with a bunch of other guys, most of them on the freshman football team. They all look at me with hope in their eyes, and it’s weird, I can’t explain it, but there’s something about that look that weirds me out a little. Maybe it’s the pressure, or the expectations or something, I don’t know. But I hesitate.
“You gonna sit, or what?” Eric half-asks, half-demands.
“Uh . . . actually I told Nina I’d get some homework done with her.”
He nods without smiling. “Okay, yeah, cool.”
Jamie squints up at me. “Since when do you do homework? Especially in the middle of the day?”
“He’s a new man,” Eric says.
They both laugh.
I don’t.
“So, how are you feeling?” Nina asks as soon as I sit down. She’s looking at me the way she does sometimes, the way that makes me feel like I’m a science project and she’s the scientist.
“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know what she means.
“Your head. How is it?”
“Oh yeah, uh, it’s fine.”
“How fine?”
“Totally fine.”
She might not think I’m telling the truth, even though I am—my head doesn’t hurt at all anymore. Over at the other table, Eric and Jamie have started balancing french fries on their noses. There is no way they would be asking me these questions right now. Or ever.
But Nina would, and is.
Which is one of the things I don’t love about her.
And one of the things I love about her.
“Last night, you said it still hurt a little,” she says.
“Yeah, it was just a headache and it was gone when I woke up.”
Nina snorts with disgust. “Just a headache. Just a broken leg. Just a crushed pelvis or a separated shoulder or a sprained neck. And football’s just a game, right?”
I laugh, which is what I always do when Nina goes on one of her anti-football rants.
She frowns, which is what she always does when I laugh after one of her anti-football rants.
“Seriously, I’m good,” I tell her, hoping to end this conversation.
“Okay, fine,” Nina says, deciding to let it go.
She takes a sip of her gross health juice. I sit back in my chair and stare up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.
“What?” Nina asks.
“What what?”
“What are you thinking about?”
I shrug. “I don’t know . . . Sometimes I wish you liked football, even a tiny bit. You only see the bad stuff, or you only want to see the bad stuff, but it’s so much more than that. It’s, like, just so awesome.”
“ ‘Just so awesome!’ ” she says, imitating me. Then she reaches across the table and squeezes my shoulder. “I like football players. Isn’t that enough?”
Before I can respond to that with absolutely and definitely, a booming voice rings out. “SPRINGER!”
I turn around. Ron Johnson, our team captain, is approaching our table. He’s trailed by some other kids on the team.
They kind of look like little ducklings—or, actually, large ducklings—but I’m not about to say that out loud.
Ron yells “SPRINGER!” again. By now, he’s at our table. He pulls up a chair, flips it around backward, and sits down, right between Nina and me. The other guys stand around him in a semicircle.
“Excuse me, you’re kind of, like, in my space,” Nina says, but no one seems to care.
“What is UP!” Ron says. He has this way of speaking where he always puts extra emphasis on the last word he says. “Tell me EVERYTHING!”
“Uh . . . about what?”
“About the dude who came to the game with your DAD!”
“Oh, him. Yeah, he’s an old friend of my dad’s; they played together. He coaches up at State. I guess maybe he might want me to go there to play football.”
Ron guffaws. “HA! That is freakin’ NUTS!” He looks back at his friends, who all nod their agreement. “I mean, come on, man. You’re a KID! You haven’t done SQUAT!”
I try to laugh. “Ha! Yeah, no, I know.”
Ron leans in and lowers his voice to practically a whisper. “You got one job, Springer, and that is to win football games for this team.” It sounds more like a threat than a statement. “So don’t you be thinking about playing any college ball. You focus on your JOB. Winning football games for Walthorne. That’s IT.”
“Of course, Ron, of course. I got it. You got nothing to worry about.”
I can see Ron’s body relax a little. “Okay, cool.” Then he looks over at Nina and his eyes go wide, like he just realized she was there. “Whoa! We better let you get back to your little girlfriend. She’s quite the HOTTIE!”
Nina rolls her eyes. “I’ve never been referred to as a ‘hottie’ before,” she says. “I find it both rude and flattering. So stop it, and thank you.”
Ron looks like he’s just seen an alien, or a ninth-grade girl who had the nerve to give attitude to the captain of the varsity football team. “Uh, SORRY,” he sputters. “No offense or anything, OKAY?”
Nina picks up her sandwich and takes a big bite. She chews slowly while everyone just watches and waits.
“Okay,” she says, finally. “No offense taken.”
Ron regains some of his status by jabbing a finger in my chest. “See you at PRACTICE. Get there early for extra stretching, CAPICHE?”
I give him a thumbs-up. “CAPICHE!”
Ron nods at his friends and they all walk away, mumbling to each other.
Nina shakes her head at me. “I was wrong before.”
“Huh?”
“I like one football player.”
WWHS
WALTHORNE HIGH SCHOOL RADIO
September 19
ALFIE:
Hey, everyone, it’s me again, Alfie Jenks, associate sports editor, and you’re listening to “Talking Sports.” This is Alfie Jenks reporting.
RON:
You said that already.
ALFIE:
Said what?
RON:
Your name. You said it twice.
ALFIE:
Oh. Sorry.
RON:
I’m just razzin’ you, bro. It’s all good.
ALFIE:
“Bro”? I’m a girl.
RON:
So?
ALFIE:
Okay.
RON:
What grade are you in, anyway?
ALFIE:
I’m a sophomore.
RON:
So, like, how’d you get to be associate sports editor, and, like, call the games already, and stuff?
ALFIE:
Because I take my job really seriously, I guess, and I’m pretty good at it.
RON:
Cool. Respect, bro.
ALFIE:
Right, thanks. I’m here with Ron Johnson, senior captain of the Walthorne High School Wildcats. Ron plays center on offense and noseguard on defense, and he’s a two-year starter and was all-county last year. Ron, thanks for joining us.
RON:
You got it.
ALFIE:
So, Ron, the team is off to an undefeated start this season, with two easy wins. Tomorrow you’re playing a pretty weak team in Comstock Prep. Can you tell our listeners what the game plan is?
RON:
Of course not.
ALFIE:
Uh, sorry, what?
RON:
Of course I can’t tell you our game plan, because then everyone would know. Including the guys over at Comstock. You’re pretty good at your job, Alfie—you should know that.
ALFIE:
Oh! [LAUGHS] Good point! So, uh, what are the keys to winning? Can you tell me that?
RON:
Yeah sure, but it’s not exactly rocket science. We need to score more. And we need to make sure they score less.
ALIFE:
Got it.
RON:
Happy to help.
ALFIE:
Okay, well, thanks for—
RON:
Dude, I’m messing with you!
ALFIE:
“Dude”?
RON:
To win, we gotta stop their running back, that kid Garrabino, I think his name is, and we got to protect our QB so he can make plays. Simple as that.
ALFIE:
Yeah, he did take a pretty hard shot in the first game.
RON:
Yeah, no kidding. Our coach let us know about that.
ALFIE:
The QB we’re talking about, of course, is rookie sensation Caleb Springer. Was the coach concerned that he was hurt?
RON:
Nah, I don’t think so. The kid said he was fine.
ALFIE:
It’s not supposed to be up to the player.
RON:
I was there, he was fine. The coaches said he was fine, the trainers said he was fine.
ALFIE:
Got it. Speaking of Caleb, what’s it been like working a superstar freshman quarterback into the starting lineup? Any growing pains?
RON:
Nope, no growing pains. Caleb is a great QB, for sure, and everyone is talking about him, I get it, but people need to realize it’s not all about him, you know? We got, like, fifty kids on the roster, and no one player is any more important than anyone else. As the captain, I need to be sure we’re all about the team, the players, and about winning and staying together. That’s my job. So yeah, Caleb is a great player, but he’s nothing without the rest of the guys. You feel me?
ALFIE:
Yeah, absolutely, I feel you.
RON:
Cool.
ALFIE:
This has been “Talking Sports,” with Alfie Jenks. I’d like to thank my guest, Captain Ron Johnson.
RON:
Well, go ahead, then.
ALFIE:
Go ahead what?
RON:
Thank me.
ALFIE:
Oh. Uh, thanks.
RON:
You’re welcome.
5
“Are you Sammy Springer?”
“Holy smokes, I know you.”
“Hey, you’re that guy! The football player! What’s your name again?”
“Wait a second . . . No way! Hey, look, you guys, it’s Dinger Springer!”
These are just a few of the phrases I’ve been hearing pretty much all my life whenever I’m out in public with my parents.
Mostly, it’s really cool having a famous dad. All the things you might have heard are true—you get the best table at restaurants, maybe skip the line at an amusement park ride, your friends think you’re cool, that kind of stuff. But it can get tiring. I know my mom gets sick of it sometimes. It’s like she has to share my dad with the whole world.
Or, like on this particular occasion, she’s sharing him with everyone at Stokeley’s BBQ.
We go to Stokeley’s the night before every game. It’s a tradition that started three years ago. I’m usually pretty full from our team pasta dinner, so I only get a salad. My dad always gets the baby back ribs, my mom always gets the salmon, and my dad makes us share a macaroni and cheese. “Carb-load,” he likes to say. “Best part of football.”
Tonight, there’s a steady stream of people who come up to us while we’re eating. It’s usually someone we don’t know. They ask for an autograph or a picture. The men all want to shake my dad’s hand.
“I used to watch you back in the day.”
“Man, you were lightning quick.”
“Can I get a picture? My dad is gonna love this.”
We see a lot of people we know, too, but they don’t bother us. They know better.
I’m amazed at how easily my dad deals with the fans. He’s always friendly, making small talk, cracking jokes. And every time someone wants a picture, my dad grins like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The people walk away like they won the lottery.
“You’re so good at being nice to people,” I tell my dad.
“Watch and learn,” he says. “Someday it’s going to be you doing all this smiling and chatting.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
My mom glances at my dad. “That’s enough talk about that. Let our son finish ninth grade first.”
“Fair enough,” says my dad. We all laugh. It feels good. Our team is off to a hot start and we feel like a playoff team.
While we wait for dessert to come—peach cobbler and key lime pie—my dad and I do what we always do.
We start talking about the next day’s game.
This week we’re playing Comstock Prep. They’re never very good, and they lost big in their first two games. We’re supposed to win by four or five touchdowns at least.
“Did you guys work on the two-minute drill?”
“Yeah, Dad. We covered it in practice.”
“I noticed in the last game the play-calling was getting a little predictable.”
“Dad, it’s cool. We’re playing Comstock.”
“Doesn’t matter. You need to be ready. Anything can happen. That’s why they play the game.”
I glance at my mom, who gives me a little eye roll. This is another part of our dinner tradition. My dad second-guessing everything our coach does. It would be even more annoying if my dad was ever wrong. But he never is.
He’s about to ask me another question when a fan walks over to us—an older woman with white hair and a bright smile. My dad immediately jumps up to take her arm.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she says. “My name is Rose, and I just have to tell you, my husband and I enjoyed watching you play very much.”
My dad gives her his A+ grin. “That is so sweet of you to stop by! What’s your husband’s name?”
“Oh, he’s passed on,” says the woman. “His name was Ed.”
My dad gives the woman a hug, and you can see her melt into his arms a little bit. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Rose. I’m sure Ed was a great guy. Would you like a picture, maybe for your kids, or grandkids?”
She beams. “Oh yes, I’d like that very much.”
My dad gives me a quick look, which is my cue to get up. “You’re a sweet young man,” Rose tells me as I take her phone. “What’s your name?”
“Caleb,” I say.
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Caleb.”
“Nice to meet you, too, ma’am.”
My dad puts his arm around her. “It’s people like you that make me glad I played the game, Rose.” She smiles, and he smiles, and I take the picture.
