I was standing on the sideline of the football field, watching our high school quarterback get annihilated. It wasn't a cheap shot, by any means, but the edge rushing lineman was a big dude, and he crash-landed right on Howie's head.
The crowd silenced. All the players went down on bended knees.
My heart felt like it was on an elevator, and the cable snapped, free falling into my stomach. I had tunnel vision.
Please get up, Howie. Please get up, Howie.
The medics sprinted onto the field along with Coach Carlson. They stood over the senior quarterback who led us to the playoffs last year. He had hopes of playing for a D1 school, maybe not a big University like Ohio State, but probably somewhere smaller.
The medic waved over to the ambulance tucked away behind the concessions building. Another person came out with a stretcher and ran out onto the field. They put Howie on the stretcher, lifting his hands up a little, but he seemed like a zombie.
Holy hell.
Coach Carlson, a tall, athletic man with a black beard and some gray hairs, came jogging back to our sideline. I still couldn't shake the memory of what I had just witnessed.
Coach Carlson came up to me and yelled in his scratchy voice, "Magpie! You're in!"
I stood there like a statue. I couldn't comprehend the words.
"Magpie! What's going on? You're going in!" Coach Carlson repeated.
Another player approached us from the side, but I was still gazing out at the field.
"Coach! Why are you putting Rollie in? He's just a freshman," Brian said -the junior backup quarterback.
Coach Carlson focused on me. "Magpie, this is your last chance, you in?" he asked calmly. "Sorry for hollering. I'm just frazzled. We lost Howie back there."
"It's okay. I can go in," I said.
"Great. These are the plays I want to do no matter what." Coach Carlson gave me a breakdown of what to do next. Run, run, pass to slot receiver, and then I get to throw the ball if we're still moving along.
I nodded at him before jogging out onto the field where the rest of my teammates were waiting for me. We huddled up, and I gave them the game plan.
I looked up at the scoreboard. It was Pirates: 21 Away: 7. We were losing.
We executed the following plays. Two running plays that didn't get us very far down the field, but then I threw my first pass, but it was just to the receiver directly to my right (hardly much effort). But he ran it up ten yards. Then, we were in the red zone, and on the next play, I would throw the ball to one of the three available receivers.
Standing behind the centered offensive lineman in the trench filled with 8 other burly men, I hollered for the ball, which was thrust into my hands. I backed away as the defensive linemen rushed at me. Still, I had laser focus on the receivers running routes. I saw my target in the end zone and rocketed the ball out of my hand. It cut through the air in a perfect spiral and reached the receiver at the end of the route.
"Touch down number 72 on the visiting team, Rollie Magpie threw a pass to number 88 Gerald Mullins." The announcer stated over the PA.
The away bench erupted with applause and tears. The kicking unit came out and got the extra point.
The score was 14 to 21. The 3rd quarter was coming to a close.
Returning to the sideline, my team swarmed me and cheered my name.
"Rollie! That was a dart, man. Incredible throw!" a teammate said to me. I couldn't tell who it was because I was getting showered with many compliments.
"There's still a lot of game left," I uttered. But I don't think anyone heard me.
The fourth quarter began.
We kicked the ball back to the opposing team. Our defense went out on the field, and we made major stops. The opponents punted the ball back to us.
Our chance to tie up the game.
Before I took the field, Coach Carlson approached me and said, "Rollie, we are going to stay with your hot hand. Let's see another few passing plays on this drive."
I nodded and ran onto the field with the rest of my team.
Giving the ball to our running back didn't get us very far. But we wanted to switch it up. When I got the ball and threw a pass, it felt like regular football practice. Slinging passes midfield and down the field, every ball had a picture-perfect spiral and nailed the receiver's hands. It was a long drive that ate away the minutes on the clock.
"Touchdown reception by the visiting team. Number 72 completed a pass to the receiver number 50, Duncan Hill."
Once again, the away bleachers thundered with applause and cheered. Someone was even smacking the life out of a cowbell.
We punted the ball back to the Pirates. Our defense needed quick stops, but they kept missing tackles and losing coverages, allowing the other team to run and pass the ball all over us. The home crowd roared and clapped. No matter where I stood on the field, it felt like a megaphone of a hollering audience was right in my ear.
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Coach Carlson shouted out more plays at the defense, and we finally were able to stop them on a fourth down near the ten-yard line.
They decided to kick a field goal to try and win the game.
The ball was set for the kicker. The kid nailed the ball and sent it sailing through the goalposts.
Three points.
The fourth quarter ended. 24 to 21; the Pirates won.
I hung my head, drowning in my own self misery.
A firm hand patted my clunky shoulder pad.
"Incredible game, Rollie. If you hadn't taken the reins, we never would've had a chance," Coach Carlson said. "I wanna see you start next week. Keep it between us." He patted me again and jogged toward the center of the field, waving us all forward to tell the opposing team, "Good game."
The bus ride back to the high school was silent. Coach Carlson was the last to get on, talking on the phone as he entered. He told the bus driver he could start. The twenty-minute drive back to the high school began as the bus engine grumbled on.
"... Okay, thank you for the update. The whole team here gives our love and support. We'll talk soon." Coach Carlson pressed a button on his phone and slid the device into his pocket. He stared at everyone on the bus. I sat alone near the front.
"Guys, I just want to say, great work tonight, it was a game that was expected to be a blowout, and they only won by three points. They have a lot of great talent on their team, but so do we. If we were to play them again, perhaps even in the playoffs, we'd get a win, but it'd be a battle."
The bus was silent.
Coach rubbed his forehead." Sorry I wasn't able to talk to you all right away. I was on the phone talking with Howie's parents. And, uh, it's not easy to hear this, but Howie suffered a concussion today on the field. I'm sure that doesn't come as a surprise, but I just wanted to let you all know that he is awake and doing much better. I uh." Coach Carlson cleared his throat. "We play this game, and all know the dangers and risks. But every time I see a kid get injured, it shakes me up. It's not right. It bothers me so much that sometimes it makes me regret coaching the game. So I just wanted you all to know that you can talk to me about any concerns. And if you ever want to play a different sport, just know this is a judgment-free zone. I understand any decisions you young men make. But, good game tonight, boys, we played hard, and Rollie, the freshman, deserves a hand."
Everyone on the bus clapped for me, but it fizzled out quickly. They barely knew me, and I didn't really know them. It was a strange feeling. Sure it was nice being recognized, but they never talked to me.
The bus pulled into the parking lot of the Holland High School building, "Home of the Bulldogs," the digital sign glowed red out front.
I got off the bus first and went straight to my parents' gray 2008 Ford pickup, rust eating away the metal above the back tires.
"Rollie! My son! My boy! We're gonna celebrate tonight!" My dad yelled from the driver's seat with the window rolled down.
I faked a smile, quickly opened the back door, and hopped inside. It reeked of tobacco, but then again, so did everything in my life.
"Rollie, boy, that was incredible! My son goes out on the varsity field and whips the ball all over the place! I couldn't tell you how proud I was. I was bothered that you wouldn't be getting good experience in junior varsity, but you were a real natural out there!"
"Dad, can we just go home?" I asked, following it up with a sigh.
My mom sat silently in the passenger seat. "Yeah, c'mon, Len, let's go home," my mom said.
"Well, Sorrrrr-y. I just wanted to celebrate my boy's outstanding performance in his first-ever varsity game. He was a sensation out there. Rollie, did you, by chance, catch your completion percentage?"
"I have no idea." I rolled my eyes as I gazed out the window.
"You went 100%! That's unheard of!"
"Len, please, can we just go home already?"
"Yeah yeah yeah, fine." My dad fired up the truck engine. It bellowed, and the cabin vibrated. "I don't get what's the rush." My dad shifted the gears into drive, and we motored out of the parking lot.
My mom was more reserved than I thought she'd be. Not even a measly "Good job tonight, kiddo." My dad was annoying, but I understood. He's excited. I can't fault him for that.
"Hey, mom, is everything all right?"
She kept her head forward. "Yes, I'm fine." Then she flashed a smile and stared back out at the window.
"You've been pretty quiet. It's just a little weird, considering I played my first ever varsity game tonight," I said.
"Yeah, you have been quiet," my dad added.
My mom muttered something under her breath.
"What's that, HUN?" My dad blurted obnoxiously.
"Len!" She snapped.
I regretted saying anything. Misery was eating away what little excitement I had from the night. My parents began arguing about something stupid.
If I keep champing it out in football, I can go live on a college campus with an athletic scholarship. They won't even care about grades.
Finally, after their verbal fight, my mom said, "Rollie, I don't mean to rain on your parade. You played amazing tonight but did you see what happened to your teammate, Howie? That kid looked like he died out there, and the game just carried on as if it wasn't a big deal."
"But mom, he's fine. He just had a little concussion," I said.
"A little concussion?" My mom scoffed. "A concussion is a big deal, especially for a kid his age."
"Mom, he's fine."
"Rollie!" She yelled in her authoritative voice. "You have no idea how this could impact him! He was carried to the hospital." She paused, and she glared at me. "And I don't know how I feel about my son playing this horrific game. What if that was you? We'd be in the hospital, and I'd be crying my eyes out! I'm just not sure if letting you play this game is a good idea."
I was fired up. My heart rate became fueled by frustration. "But mom! Football is the only thing I have going for me!"
"Yeah, and maybe if you didn't play this violent sport, your brain might have a chance to recover for once, and maybe you might get better grades!"
"Madeline! Now that's uncalled for!" My dad hollered.
"Wow. That's not even fair, mom. Lawrence Smith, our running back who takes more tackles than anyone else on the team, has a 3.6 GPA. I don't even get tackled that much. What happened to Howie tonight is rare! It's like it's once in a blue moon! Besides, Coach Carlson said he wanted me to start next week, even if Howie returns."
"What! No way!" my dad shouted. "Rollie! That's incredible! Aw, Madeline, you gotta let the boy keep going! If he starts, we have to see what it would look like if he played a full game! As long as he's comfortable with it. Look, son, I understand if tonight shook you up, but if you're starting next game, I think you really gotta give it a chance."
"Okay!" My mom snapped. "If you wanna keep playing football, I'll let you, but you HAVE to get your grades up! Will you do that for your stupid game?"
"I'll do what I can!" I said.
The rest of the car ride back to the trailer park was silent. The truck pulled up in front of our house, and I stormed inside first. Going straight to my room, I slammed the door shut and jumped on my bed. My room hardly had anything inside: a lamp, a nightstand, a dresser, and a vinyl record player. My worn-out white walls had cracked from unleashing punches over the years. It paired well with the constant mildew odor.
I plugged in my headphones, put on The Clash's self-titled album, and blasted the music as I lay in bed.
Unfortunately, I could hear my parents arguing inside the house. I turned up the volume knob to ten, thrashing overdriven guitars pained my ears, but at least I didn't have to hear my parents.
After an hour went by, I removed my headphones. My ears rang, but there was silence. My parents must've been asleep. There was no light under my door either from the hallway. I dragged myself out of bed, snuck into the bathroom, returned to my mattress, and fell asleep. But I was tossing and turning a while before I had any rest. I probably got around 4 hours of sleep; the next day was Saturday. I wanted to sleep in, but I couldn't. My alarm went off at 9:00 a.m.