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  So, even though it looked like everything was going against me and that the entire day—and then my whole life—were going to fall apart, I dug in my heels. It actually made me more determined, and the doubt I saw in my teammates’ eyes enraged me.

  I grabbed Jackson’s mask, yanking his glum and sweat-soaked face so close he had to blink and wince at the tiny flecks of spit jumping from my mouth alongside my words. “Don’t you dare quit!”

  I released him and he stumbled back. The other players on my team and even Coach Vickerson stepped back to give my crazy rant room to breathe. I shook my finger all around.

  “We are not going to lose this thing! That was one bad play! We will not lose!” I glared at them until their faces softened with the possibility that this wouldn’t be a blowout; then—head held very high—I marched through them to get a slug of Gatorade before replacing my helmet, moving to the edge of the field, and cheering on our kickoff return team.

  Griffin Engle got pummeled deep in our own territory again, but I bounced out onto the field like a cricket in a frying pan, shouting and clapping my hands. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Here we go!”

  I think there is a joy in fighting that’s not quite like anything else—fighting for something that’s right, fighting against a wrong, or just fighting for something. Sometimes it hurts, yes, but there’s something so primal about it, like there’s this secret inner part of our hearts and brains that was built just for that.

  So, we battled.

  I stopped worrying about looking good for my mom, or Izzy, or the fans, or even Mr. Dietrich, and instead eagerly agreed with Coach Hubbard that we had to give the ball to Jackson almost exclusively.

  In the huddle, on our first play back on offense, I snarled at Jackson. “They need a taste of the Big Dawg! You gonna eat?”

  Jackson’s eyes rolled in his head and he bellowed like a lunatic. Our teammates shifted in discomfort, not sure if he’d lost his mind completely. I called a run play, right up the gut. We broke the huddle and I whispered to Jackson. “You see that Dillon? He’s looking right at you. He’s growling at you! What are you gonna do about it?”

  Jackson couldn’t even speak. A howl tore through his chest and he smacked his own helmet. I went to my spot behind the center.

  Dillon crept up close to the line, sneering at me. “Gonna wipe you up again, Tiny!”

  “Nice.” I sneered right back, knowing that he was about to get a mouthful of Jackson Shockey.

  “Blue 27!” I shouted. “Blue 27! Set! Hut, hut, hut!”

  I took the snap and handed it to Jackson.

  I should have carried out the fake, but I just couldn’t. I had to watch. Jackson shot through a gap and Dillon met him in the opening.

  SMACK!

  Helmet to helmet, they hit. Dillon literally flew through the air. More defenders poured toward Jackson, but he quickly dipped his shoulders and blasted through them, too, leaving a trail of bodies until he got tripped up and dragged down by three Eiland players. He burst from the pile, an exploding volcano, and stomped back to the huddle, pointing at Dillon all the while. “I’m comin’ for you, hotshot! I’m comin’ for you. Big Dawg gonna eat all day!”

  I have to say that I loved it.

  Passing became a counter to the steady diet of runs up the middle, off tackle, and around the end. We gave Eiland more than they wanted of Jackson Shockey. The only touchdown I had was on a play action fake to Jackson. I pulled the ball from his gut, stuck it to my hip, then bootlegged around the end, tossing an easy pass over the head of Dillon Peebles before he smashed me into the turf. I got up with a hunk of sod hanging from my face mask. I peeled it away, filling my nose with the fresh hot scent of dirt and grass, and saw Griffin holding my touchdown pass up in the end zone.

  “That’s all you got?” I laughed right in Dillon’s face.

  Still, for every score we had, they answered with one of their own. While Dillon was a defensive player first—fast, aggressive, and mean as a snake—he also played tight end for the Eiland offense, and had two touchdown catches. Added to that was a running back quick as a hiccup, built low to the ground, and powerful enough to shake half the tacklers who got ahold of him.

  Back and forth we battled. The game was close and we were down by three with time running out when Jackson exploded around the right side of the line. He made it past midfield when two Eiland cornerbacks tangled themselves up in his legs like shoelaces tied together. Still Jackson lurched forward. That’s when Dillon Peebles caught up to him.

  78

  I can’t say for certain that it was intentional, but I think it was. Dillon launched himself at Jackson’s knees and when he hit, he turned his body and rolled so that Jackson went down face-first with his knees twisted beneath him.

  “Jackson!” I screamed.

  His howl made me shiver and I ran over to him.

  He lay on his back, wincing in pain, gritting his teeth, and breathing fast and shallow. “My knee, Ry-Guy. They got my knee.”

  Tears welled in his eyes and it scared me.

  The coaches and trainer swept me and everyone else aside. They helped Jackson up and carried him to the bench. The crowd politely applauded.

  “Ry, don’t worry about me. We’re so close. We can’t stop now.”

  I nodded and looked at the scoreboard.

  We were down by three and out of time. The clock read :07.

  It was fourth down. We had just one play to win or lose the game.

  In that brief moment, I thought about who I was and what I’d proven that day. The times I got smashed into the dirt, I bounced back up. When I had twisted an ankle, I walked it off. When blood poured from the missing chunk of flesh on the back of my hand—removed courtesy of Dillon Peebles’s helmet in the third quarter—I had ignored it as Coach Vickerson wrapped it in tape. I proved to my teammates that day, and even more to myself, that I belonged there. Would I end up as an All-American or in the NFL?

  No idea. The odds were against me, but I was a football player through and through.

  But then there was the contest between Ben Sauer and Eiland, me and Dillon. If the TV cameras hadn’t made that clear, Mr. Dietrich’s presence certainly did. One of us would win, one would lose. One would be the kid owner of the Dallas Cowboys, the other would not. These were the thoughts running through my mind as I jogged over to Coach Hubbard and Coach Vickerson to talk things over.

  They had spent our last time-out to consider what our final play would be without Jackson Shockey in the backfield. Coach Vickerson looked angry, not at me, but at the gods of football for bringing us this close without a very good prospect to pull off a win in the end. Coach Hubbard looked frightened, not by losing, but by making the wrong call and opening himself up to criticism from others as the coach who couldn’t finish the deal.

  The three of us leaned into a mini huddle and Coach Hubbard gripped my arm tight enough to make me wince. “What do you think, Ryan?”

  Bootlegs and throwbacks and double passes skittered across my brain, maybe a hook and lateral, something really big, something that would make me the hero and win us the game.

  But then it came to me.

  I didn’t like it at all, but I could see no real choice.

  I knew what we had to do.

  79

  I took a deep breath and looked up into the stands. There was Mr. Dietrich, on his feet training his binoculars right at me and my coaches. Not too far away sat my mom with her hands clasped like someone in church. Right next to her sat Izzy with her friend Mya.

  I looked Coach Hubbard in the eye. “Estevan.”

  Coach Hubbard wrinkled up his face. “Estevan, what?”

  I looked out onto the field at the forty yards between where the ball sat and the goal line we needed to cross. Everything I wanted was mine if I could just get that stupid funny-shaped leather ball across it, but it was too far for me to throw it. It just was. The truth of it was as painful as Jackson’s hurt knee. I wanted to win and I want
ed it to be me, but something Coach Hubbard said was rattling around in my brain.

  When you want to win, he had said, you put yourself second.

  “Estevan,” I said, repeating his name. “You got to put him in for me.”

  “Wait, what?! You’re taking yourself out?” Coach Vickerson didn’t try to hide the disgust in his voice. To him, I was quitting, folding under the pressure and giving up on my team.

  That made me mad. How could he question me after all I’d been through? But I realized that everyone else’s reaction would be the same as Coach Vickerson’s. It looked like a cowardly move on my part. Even if we miraculously got the touchdown we needed to win, I couldn’t help thinking that Mr. Dietrich might give the team to Dillon anyway. After all, it wouldn’t be me beating Dillon. It would be Estevan.

  Coach Hubbard’s words replayed themselves in my mind again. “Coach, I want to win this thing, just like you.”

  I jammed the end of my mouth guard between my teeth and bit down, spending my frustration and anger before I removed it to speak. “We got one play. Their corners have been jumping our routes the entire game. I know what their coaches told them, not to worry about the deep ball against me. I can’t throw it deep. But Estevan can.” I stared at Coach Hubbard. “From the old offense, the Hail Mary. Estevan can throw it. Griffin can catch it.”

  “What are you going to do?” Coach Hubbard asked, still not fully understanding.

  I huffed. “I’m gonna stand here and watch with you. When you want to win, you put yourself second, right?”

  I can’t even explain the look on Coach Hubbard’s face: the surprise, the wisdom, and the pride all at the same time. “Okay.” He nodded and gave me a hard wink and hollered for Estevan. Estevan bounced over with his helmet under his arm. His uniform was sweat-soaked as much as anyone’s because Estevan was the starting free safety on our defense.

  “You can throw it forty yards, right, Estevan?” I asked.

  Estevan grinned. “You know I can, Ry-Guy.”

  I nodded at Coach Hubbard, who cleared his throat. “Okay, Estevan, Hail Mary play. Double slots. Throw it to Griffin’s side. Just chuck it up there, whether he’s covered or not. Got that? It’s our last chance.”

  Estevan’s face went instantly serious. “Got it, Coach.”

  I watched, standing there beside my coaches, second-guessing myself with every step Estevan took toward the huddle. I knew how dangerous a move this was. If we lost, I’d be painted as the kid who bailed in the final moments of a hard-fought battle, a total loser. If we won, I was hoping people would credit me for the self-sacrifice. That’s not the way it works in football, though, especially in Texas. Estevan would be the hero and everything good I’d done would be forgotten.

  It wouldn’t be my win, it would be his. Dillon—and I had to believe Mr. Dietrich—would point out that I’d quit, pulling myself from the game and thereby losing the contest that my father’s letter had said was between Dillon and me. I hadn’t stopped to figure out any of this. I’d only been thinking of winning.

  Either way, it was too late. Before I knew it, Estevan was jogging to the line with my offense, taking my snap and dropping back into my pocket.

  Dillon came at him fast on a blitz, too fast, leaping over the top of one lineman and swimming Bryan Markham like a stack of Jell-O.

  Whether Estevan would even get the pass off was in serious doubt.

  He reared back in total panic.

  80

  Just as Estevan’s arm began its forward whip, Dillon hit him in the chops.

  POW!

  Estevan blew up. The ball flew into the air like a mortar, high but far. Dillon and Estevan lay in a heap. The only person on the field with a chance to keep the game alive was Griffin Engle.

  Griffin must have known that, too. He darted forward from out of the end zone, stretching and reaching for the ball as it fell near the ten-yard line. Just before the ball struck the ground, Griffin scooped it in one beautiful motion, got one foot miraculously down on the ground, and kept going like a tightrope walker trying to stay upright. It would be like the miracle play I’d seen on ESPN Classic, Franco Harris scooping the ball and running it in to beat the Raiders in their famous rivalry of the seventies. Griffin had a long way to go, more than ten yards now with eleven Eiland defenders screaming toward him from every direction.

  Griffin dodged and ducked, heading not to the end zone but sideways and backward to avoid being tackled. He looped around, then took off through the open space on the other side of the field. My heart rose in my throat because they looked like rodeo clowns scrambling after a crazy calf. All the possibilities flashed in my mind at once: us winning, me being celebrated as brilliant for my suggested play, Izzy and my mom being proud, Dietrich seeing things my way, and me owning the Dallas Cowboys without having to worry about that stupid Dillon messing with things.

  Dillon.

  Here he came, a lightning bolt, streaking toward Griffin in a blink, not like the rest of them, fumbling and bumbling, but like a heat-seeking missile. Griffin taking a false step to fake out a defensive back, ducking to avoid a hustling lineman. Fury blinded me. After destroying Estevan, instead of lying there in the grass to enjoy his kill, he must have gotten up unnoticed and taken off after Griffin, pursuing his prey all the way down the field. Dillon caught up with Griffin, pounced on his back, and swatted the ball from the crook of his arm with an iron paw.

  The ball skittered and spun in the air.

  It was now anyone’s game.

  81

  If I were writing a fairy tale, Griffin, or even Bryan Markham—any Ben Sauer player—would have recovered his wits and flopped down on the ball in the end zone, securing our win, defeating my half brother and his unbeaten team. This isn’t a fairy tale, though.

  Dillon got the fumble. The whistle blew the play dead and ended the game.

  The Eiland players went wild. Their fans screamed themselves silly. It was salt in our gaping wounds. I felt as if I’d been skinned alive. Everything hurt: the sun, the breeze, the noise, every footstep that brought me closer to the army of Eiland players when they’d settled down and lined up to shake our hands.

  The person who thought of that hand-shaking business after a game must have never played in a game like ours, a game that left him feeling worse than a million toothaches in the center of his brain. When you lose a game like that, you want to just melt right into the earth and disappear without a trace. Instead, you hold your head as high as you can, keep your eyes fixed on the ground, hold out your slap hand, and mutter something sportsmanlike.

  “Good game. Good game. Good game . . .”

  Dillon brought up the rear of the Eiland team’s line. Another nice possible ending: Dillon tells me he respected my incredible effort, wishes us luck the rest of the season, and suggests that two football players as dedicated and tough as him and me can certainly get along well enough to run an NFL football team together.

  Instead, he said, “Good game.” Like it was the punch line to a joke.

  Turning to join his teammates, Dillon marched boldly toward our sideline and the fence beyond it that separated the Ben Sauer crowd from the field. He acted like he owned the place, like it was the Dallas Cowboys stadium. My first thought was that he’d lost his mind. Then I saw Izzy.

  She stood there with her lower lip tucked under her front teeth, a look of concern. A look of confusion.

  She wasn’t alone. Mr. Dietrich stood there, too, smiling at Dillon. My mom appeared, not with them but behind them, clasping her hands and looking at me with the saddest face you could imagine.

  Like a moth spiraling down into the flames of a campfire, I stumbled along after Dillon toward my own complete destruction.

  82

  I didn’t hear what kind of greeting Izzy and Dillon traded.

  It might have been “Hi” or it could have been “What’s up?” Their eyes were locked, though, and I did hear Dillon’s invitation to her quite clearly. “We’re ha
ving a pool party at my house to celebrate. You should come.”

  Before Izzy could answer, Mr. Dietrich reached over the fence to shake Dillon’s hand. “Outstanding, Dillon. Congratulations. That was some game. You win, Dillon. You won it all.”

  Then Mr. Dietrich saw me. “Ryan . . . very nice effort.”

  He held his hand out to me, too. I shook it. Dillon turned, sneering. “Smart move, taking yourself out on that last play. Knew I’d be coming on the blitz, huh?”

  I hated Dillon more at that moment than I realized I could hate someone. He’d beaten me, at everything. Still, he had to rub it in, had to insult me, had to slice me open and stomp on my guts. My eyes felt hot and wet and I bit back the urge to cry, forcing my chin up. There was no answer I could give that would easily explain, but I had to say something. “No. We had to get the ball into the end zone. I don’t have that kind of arm.”

  After a bark of delight, Dillon said, “That we know.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Izzy’s face color with embarrassment for me.

  Mr. Dietrich removed his sunglasses and tilted his head like he was peering into one of the cracks in my broken soul with those cold blue eyes. “What did you say, Ryan?”

  I had no idea why Mr. Dietrich would torture me by dragging this out. To that point, I thought he might have actually sort of liked me, even if I wasn’t going to be the kid owner. That he would instead be cruel to me was startling, and I blurted out the answer.

  “I’m not strong enough. I’m not big enough. I don’t have the arm.” I crossed my arms. “There. Everyone happy?”

  Mr. Dietrich waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “No, I know that, but why didn’t you try?”

  I didn’t think I could despise anyone worse than Dillon until that moment. I hated Mr. Dietrich more. I couldn’t hold back the tears; they spilled from my eyes, shaming me into a flood and a sob. Izzy grew foggy through the prism of salt water. Of all the people there, I wanted her to understand. I no longer cared about Mr. Dietrich.