Dinged, page 8
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“You wrote that you agreed with me!”
“I wrote maybe!”
We both take a deep breath.
“What else could it be?” Nina asks, in a softer voice.
“I know a ton of retired football players who are doing great,” I say, which isn’t exactly an answer to her question. “My dad’s friends. Brandon, the guy who coaches up at State.” I don’t mention Jimmy “Thunder” Lewis. I don’t have the guts to say it out loud—to her, or to myself.
“Okay, sure, fine,” she says.
I take a sip of root beer. “It could be like I said, just extra stress, related to the season and all the pressure I’m under.”
“Whatever you want to tell yourself, Caleb. I know you love the game more than anything, but you need to think about this. For real.”
“Think about what?”
She hesitates for a split second before speaking. “About playing. About sticking with football.”
Even though I knew that’s what she was going to say, I’m still shocked. “Are you serious right now? I knew I shouldn’t have said anything to you about this!” Nina’s eyes look wounded, and I realize I’m getting way too wound up, so I try to calm down. “Listen, Nina, that was a totally different time. The game is so safe now. They come out with new equipment every year designed especially to protect the players!”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t say anything, and it’s quiet. I mean, not quiet, exactly, because we’re in a crowded pizza place. Then suddenly she gets up and starts to walk away. I’m deciding whether to go after her when she turns around and comes back to the table. But she doesn’t sit down. Instead, she stands over me.
“So that’s it then, Caleb? You’re going to just keep playing and allow your body and brain to get destroyed?”
I look up at her. “How did this become about me?”
“Because I don’t want you to end up like your dad, that’s how.”
I stand up, too, so we’re face-to-face. “My dad is awesome! He’s a freakin’ legend and a superstar! I would be, like, completely honored to end up like my dad!”
I stop talking. Actually, I stop yelling. I notice I’m breathing hard. I sit back down. Nina sits back down. We watch each other. She suddenly takes my face in her hands, and I lean into them. It’s the most intimate physical thing we’ve ever done.
“I didn’t mean anything bad about your dad, Caleb. I’m sorry if it came off that way. I just meant—you could stop playing football if you wanted to. You could save yourself from the danger of the same thing happening to you.”
I close my eyes for a few seconds, because if I leave them open, I think there might be some tears to deal with. “Stop playing football?” I can’t even believe I’m saying those words out loud. Life without football doesn’t seem possible. “I’m the starting varsity quarterback and we’re in the middle of the season, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Nina leans in close and speaks softly. “I know how important football is to you. I know how much you love it, and I know how good you are at it.”
“So then why are you trying to take it away from me?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Nina’s eyes harden again, and I suddenly get the panicky feeling that I blew it for real this time. “I’m not trying to take anything from you,” she says, staring me square in the eyes. “But I know what might happen if you keep playing. And so do you.”
I’m having one of those moments when there is so much going on in my mind that nothing is going on in my mind.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
Nina’s eyes lock onto mine.
“Are you?” she asks.
This time, she really does leave.
WALTHORNENEWS.COM
WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE
A HIGH SCHOOL SPORTS BLOG ABOUT
THE WALTHORNE WILDCATS
BY ALFIE JENKS
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 26
Football Team Continues to Dominate; Frosh QB Leads the Way
A few months ago, at the beginning of the football season, Walthorne High School’s varsity football coach William Toffler wasn’t about to put too much pressure on his freshman quarterback, Caleb Springer. “He’s young, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he told me at the time. “This is high school football, and even the most talented kids need a little time to get used to it.”
Well, here we are just past the halfway mark for the season, and it’s become clearer with each passing game (pun intended) that Caleb Springer isn’t your average “talented kid.” Sporting a 6–0 record, the Wildcats have the whole town buzzing. They’ve been led by an offense that’s averaging 38 points a game, behind Springer’s passing and running talents. “It seems like every week, he does something that just basically shocks us,” says Coach Toffler. “I’ve been coaching a long time, and even I can’t believe some of the throws he makes, or how he scrambles out of trouble. I gotta believe this kid is pretty much the best QB in the history of Walthorne.”
That may be getting ahead of ourselves, but right now, Caleb is averaging 269 passing yards and 53 rushing yards a game, both of which would put him in the history books as top five all-time at Walthorne High. And the fact that he’s a freshman makes it even more amazing.
“I mean, he comes from a football family, and his dad was a total superstar, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised,” added the coach. “This kid is in a league of his own, and he’s only going to get better. All I can say is, I feel bad for the other teams in this league for the next four years.” Then he laughed and said, “Well, actually not that bad.
I asked Caleb for a comment, and as usual, he was humble. “I’m just really lucky to be part of such a good team, with great coaching, and an unbelievable offensive line,” he said. “Ron and the guys give me all day to throw the ball. Without them I’d be lost out there. Oh man, I’m late for bio, gotta go.” Then he walked away, already a star, but just a regular kid, too.
18
I’m at the store, buying some compression shorts.
While I wait in line, I notice this guy staring at me like he knows me. He looks like he’s around my dad’s age, and I have no idea who he is. A few weeks ago, I might have been creeped out by the guy, but at this point I know what’s coming.
Sure enough, a few seconds later he breaks out in this big grin. “I knew it was you! Caleb Springer, right?”
“Nailed it,” I say, which is something I’ve heard my dad say to people when they recognize him.
The guy looks like he hit the lottery. “Man, it’s so cool to meet you. I saw the game last week against Branchville—you were on fire! That third-quarter touchdown pass was a total DIME!”
“Thanks, man, thanks a lot. We did some good things in that game.”
The guy grabs his phone. “You cool with a selfie? My kids are gonna love this!”
“Yeah, no problem,” I say. I’m thinking how weird it is that this guy is acting like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him, and I’m also thinking how it’s even weirder that I’m getting so used to it.
He snaps the picture, then starts pumping my hand. “Great to meet you. Good luck this weekend!”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The guy leaves, I go to pay for my shorts, and the woman who works there gives me a smile. “It’s wild, right?” she says. “People around here treat high school football players like rock stars.”
“We are rock stars,” I say to her, and we both laugh, because she knows I’m kidding, even though I’m kind of not.
Biking home, I think about what the salesperson said. It’s true, the crowds have gotten bigger at every game. They were big at the beginning of the season, but now they’re overflowing, with every seat filled and people standing around the edges of the field. You see signs up around town—at the community center, in store windows, tacked up on telephone poles—all cheering on the Walthorne Wildcats.
It’s like our team’s success is the town’s success, and so everyone kind of lives through you and looks up to you and loves you.
I’m not gonna lie, it’s fun.
One time I asked Coach Toffler why football was such a huge deal in Walthorne, and he said, “Well, that’s how it goes around here. Life is hard, so people need something to feel good about. It just so happens that high school football is easy to feel good about when you win every game.”
“But what happens if we lose?” I asked.
Coach laughed. “Then you better run for your life. I’ll be right behind you.”
School is different, too. The other kids are different. A few days after my argument with Nina, I’m sitting at lunch with Eric and Jamie. The next thing you know, these two girls come up to us. I don’t know who they are, and I’ve never seen them before. The only thing I know for sure is that they’re older than us. Maybe even two or three grades older.
“Hey,” the shorter, blond one says.
“Hey,” the taller, brown-haired one says.
“Hey,” we all say.
Okay, so we got the heys out of the way.
The taller girl says, “Which one of you is Caleb?”
Jamie and Eric give each other a look, like, Here we go again. “He is,” says Jamie, pointing at me.
The shorter girl sits down next to me. “I’m Shawna. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”
Eric says, “Uh, how can you be a huge fan if you didn’t even know what he looked like?”
Shawna giggles. “Well, usually he has a helmet on, doesn’t he?”
“I’m also a football player,” Jamie says.
“And I play basketball,” Eric adds.
“Super,” says Shawna, dismissively. The two girls are focused on me. I don’t want to sound cocky, but that’s just a fact.
The taller girl starts looking at Jamie, who stares back at her hopefully. But then he figures out that she just wants to sit in his chair, so he gets up. Poor guy.
“I’m Camille,” she tells me. “Ron told us that you’re, like, going to the pros in football.”
I try to laugh, but no sound comes out. “I, uh, well, I don’t know about that. Uh, I’m just trying to help us get to the playoffs.”
That makes the two girls crack up, as if I just said the funniest thing in the world.
“You are SO CUTE!” says Shawna.
Camille takes one of my french fries. “Mmmm, delicious,” she says, even though they’re soggy and not delicious at all.
Both girls get up as suddenly as they sat down. “We gotta go,” Shawna says.
Camille stretches like a cat after a nap. “So, Caleb,” she purrs, “sometimes we get together at my house after the Friday night games. Just a few close friends. Could you come, or is that past your bedtime?”
“I don’t have a bedtime,” I say, like a dummy.
The girls find that hilarious, too, of course. “Ooh, big boy, all grown up,” Camille titters. She sticks her hand out. “Hand me your phone.” I do. She types, then hands it back. “I just texted myself from your phone. I’ll text you when we have the next party. Hope to see you.”
Shawna glances at Eric and Jamie. “And you can bring your backup dancers, if you want,” she says.
The girls walk away. The guys stare at them, then at me.
“Hanging around with you is getting more brutal every day,” Eric says.
“What the hell was that about?” Jamie adds.
I feel bad for them, but not so bad that it ruins my mood.
“I have no idea,” I say, “but you guys better start practicing your dance moves.”
19
At night is when the doubt creeps in.
After the school day, when everyone treats me like a celebrity, and after practice, when I run the offense on the top-ranked high school team in the state and the seventh–ranked high school team in the country, and after getting home, where I check out social media, do a little homework but mostly just hang out, after all that is over, then it’s nighttime, and my parents come home from work, and everything changes.
Tonight, it changes when we sit down for dinner and my dad asks my mom to pass the bacon.
“There is no bacon, honey,” she tells him.
“Why not?”
“Well, because it’s dinnertime. We just came home from work, remember? But I can make you some if you want.” I notice that my mom’s tone of voice is like a mother talking to her seven-year-old.
My dad looks irritated. “I don’t want any bacon. Of course it’s dinnertime. I knew that.” I can’t tell if he’s mad at himself, or my mom. Probably both.
“I made mashed potatoes, though,” my mom says. “Your favorite.”
My dad looks genuinely touched. “Thank you, honey. I love mashed potatoes.” He gives my mom’s hand a squeeze, then he looks at me. “Caleb, I have some exciting news. I want you to make a commercial with me.”
I stop chewing. “A what?”
“A commercial, for the dealership. We’re shooting one next week and I want you to be in it. I want to show off the new star quarterback of the next state championship team and future college national champion and NFL Hall of Famer. You’re the new town hero, so it’ll be good for business.”
“Uh, okay, Dad, but, uh, I’ve never been in a commercial before.”
“It’s easy,” my dad says. “Just look into the camera and say the lines. You’re a good-looking kid. You’re a stud. Everyone knows it, right? I mean, why else would that singer girl want to get with you, right? Have you gotten with her yet?”
“Sam, that’s ENOUGH.” My mother has been really patient with my dad over the last few months, but even she has her limits.
My dad suddenly deflates like a balloon. He sits back in his chair, spent. “Let’s have some dessert and then go watch a little TV,” he says, softly. “It’s been a long day.”
It’s only when my heart rate slows down that I realize how fast it was beating.
Walthorne High vs. Ramsdale High Season Record: 8–0
WWHS
WALTHORNE HIGH SCHOOL RADIO
TRANSCRIPT OF PLAY-BY-PLAY
ALFIE JENKS AND JULIAN HESS
ALFIE:
Hello and welcome everyone to the final regular season game, with the 8–0 Walthorne Wildcats going up today against the 5–3 Ramsdale Rams. At stake today is not only an undefeated record for the Wildcats, but the number one seed in the playoffs . . . Walthorne has gotten off to a fast start this afternoon, with freshman phenom Caleb Springer completing his first seven passes, including a fourteen-yard touchdown strike to one of his favorite targets, tight end Amir Watkins . . .
JULIAN:
I saw Amir in the hallway the other day. He is one big dude.
ALFIE:
Yes, he is, Julian. Anyway, Caleb looks more and more comfortable back there every game, and the idea that he has three more high school seasons ahead of him must make every coach in this conference quake with fear . . .
JULIAN:
I don’t agree, Alfie.
ALFIE:
Wait, really? Why not?
JULIAN:
It makes every coach in the STATE quake with fear!
ALFIE:
Oh right.
JULIAN:
Nailed it!
ALFIE:
Julian, can you try to take this a little more seriously?
JULIAN:
Hold up, Alfie. Aren’t you the one who’s famous for saying sports should be fun? So let’s have some fun!
ALFIE:
Uh—
JULIAN:
Wait, is the great Alfie Jenks speechless?
ALFIE:
Of course not.
JULIAN: Could have fooled me.
ALFIE: You’re being annoying.
JULIAN:
Thank you.
The offense is firing on all cylinders in this game, and we’re up at the half, 27–6. Coach spends most of his halftime talk focusing on the defense, and the fact that Ramsdale’s tailback has broken off a couple of long runs. I sit at my locker, alone. We’re not supposed to use our phones at all during games, but I decide to try to sneak in a quick text to Nina.
i’m pretty sure I know the answer to this, but are you at the
game today?
Two seconds later, I add:
i miss u
I’m waiting for her to answer when Ron comes up to me. “Wait, were you just using your PHONE?”
“Uh—”
“Are you serious right now? You think the rules don’t apply to you? Come on, dude, that’s BULL!”
“I’m really sorry.”
Ron grabs the phone. “Who were you texting?”
“No one. Just a friend.”
“Was it that singer chick?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you sure? What’s your password, dude?”
“Ron, cut it out.” I try to grab the phone back, but he holds it out of reach. “Give it back!” I say louder.
A couple of the other guys start to gather around, laughing at the sight of me trying to grab my phone like a little kid.
“Aw, give him his toy,” says Jason Kimball, another offensive lineman. “He wants to go out and play.” But instead, Ron throws the phone to Jason, who throws it to this other kid, Chet, who throws it back to Ron.
This goes on for a few more minutes until Coach Toffler wanders over to find out what all the commotion is about. “What the HELL, boys?!” he hollers. “You’re supposed to be saving your energy for the second half!” Coach spots the phone in Ron’s hand. “Are you kidding me right now? Are you a bunch of three-year-olds? You know there’s no phones during games!”
Ron wouldn’t rat me out, but I decide to step up. “Sorry, Coach, it’s my phone,” I say. “Ron was just reminding me about the no-phone rule. I’m real sorry.”
