Four plays later in the scrimmage, Reggie’s number was called and a perfect block off-tackle broke him into the clear. Only one safety to beat. It was open field, which called for a cut, then easily outrunning him for the sideline.
Reggie cut, and the safety reacted. Then something happened that the safety never expected. Reggie cut again, this time the other way, straight at the safety.
Reggie caught him running sideways, trying to twist back, and plowed right through him—lifting him off the ground and dropping him on his ribs—before trotting into the end zone. On his way back to the sideline, Reggie bumped into the safety from behind. “Don’t mess with Chris.”
Practice eventually ended as they all did. Players wrung out beyond what they imagined they could endure. They headed for the locker room.
Chris ran after one of the boys. “Hey, Reggie, thanks!”
“For what?”
“You know, out there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
“Can you teach me to cut?”
“To what?”
“Cut. You’re the best! All-state first team from last year and sure to repeat!”
“Why do you want to learn to cut?”
“I’m going to be a running back.”
A chuckle. “Okay, I’ll play along. I’ll teach you to cut.”
“Great!” Chris stopped walking.
Reggie looked at her oddly. “You mean now?”
Eager nodding.
“Why not? . . .”
Coach Calhoun finished the day and locked up his office. He grabbed his briefcase and headed out of the locker room for the parking lot. The field was empty. Except for two people in the distance on the far sideline. He stopped and stared. Could it get any stranger?
“Okay, stand here,” said Reggie. “You’re a cornerback or safety.”
“You got it.”
“Now, here’s the mistake most backs commit.” He tucked a ball in the crook of an arm. “They have to make a defender miss an open-field tackle, so they juke or shake-and-bake”—Reggie shuffled his feet quickly in the same spot—“trying to fake him out. The problem is that the runner is waiting to react to how the defender will react. That’s way too much time.”
“So what do you do?”
“Totally commit. You plan your cut ahead of time and take it no matter what the defender does.”
“What if he doesn’t bite?” asked Chris.
“Then you’re tackled.”
“Doesn’t seem like a good plan.”
“It does if you’re good at geometry.”
“I like math.”
“Then you’ll understand this. We’ll take it in slow motion.” Reggie backed up twenty yards and shouted: “We’re coming straight at each other.” He took a single deliberate step. “So now I begin a slow turn to the right, toward the sideline. And you’re going to follow.” They each took two steps in unison. “The closer you get, the more I increase my angle until I’m almost running east–west.”
“But that gives the defender the angle to run you out of bounds.”
“And that’s the whole key to selling your fake. You make it too good to be true. You run into their strength, which makes them commit.” More slow, tandem steps. “Now you’re just about on me, and I make my cut . . .” He sped back up and dashed by.
“Cool,” said Chris.
“Unreal,” said Coach Calhoun in the distance, and he walked to his car.
Coach Calhoun sat in his office going over the playbook for that Friday’s game.
Knock knock.
He looked up. “Chris, come on in. Have a seat.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“I have to admit, this is working out a lot better than I’d expected. And as for your report card . . .” He leaned back in a creaky chair. “I’ll confess that part of the reason I did this was to hold the manager thing over your head to improve your grades, but they’re already straight A’s. I didn’t know you were that smart.”
Chris shrugged. “I like school.”
“So what can I do for you today?”
“I need a favor. And I hate to ask, because of what you’ve already done for me . . .”
“Go ahead. You’ve earned it.”
“I kind of need to borrow a football.”
“Knowing you, I thought you’d have ten footballs.”
“Not really.”
“You can’t afford a football?”
She looked at the floor. The answer was worse. Certain neighborhood boys always stole them.
The coach got up and went to a bookshelf and grabbed a ball off a stand. He returned and tossed it over his desk to Chris.
She caught it and noticed writing on the side in white letters: Lamar Calhoun, a date from the eighties and 216 Yards. Chris looked up. “I can’t accept this.”
Lamar just smiled and looked down at his playbook. “Anything else?”
“Uh, actually there is one other thing . . .”
It was a coaches-only meeting.
Calhoun and Odom arrived early.
The field was empty save for a tiny person at the far end. A ball was kicked. It landed pitifully short and left of the goalposts. The person ran after the ball, then ran back. The process was repeated with the same results.
“Where’d she get a kicking tee?” asked Odom.
“I gave her one.”
“So now you’re a kicking coach, too?”
“She wants to be a running back.”
“How does this lead to that?”
“She said she read articles where a few girls in other parts of the country are now playing on boys’ teams,” said Calhoun. “I made the mistake of pointing out that those were kickers.”
“So she’s exploiting a loophole?”
They stared a few more minutes at sheer futile relentlessness. Then they went inside for the meeting. It was a marathon: rosters, films, discussion of college recruitment visits, and most importantly, the game plan for Friday. Their opponent was big on zone defense and double-teaming their best receivers, so they decided to rush between the tackles until it opened up the passing game. The agenda ran so long that it was night when they adjourned.
Calhoun and Odom were chatting about auto maintenance as they headed to the parking lot. They heard something near the far end zone. To them, the sound was unmistakable. A football being kicked.
“She still out there?” said Odom.
“I don’t know,” said Calhoun. “I can’t see her.”
“She’s kicking in complete darkness.”
“Maybe her eyes have adjusted.”
They stopped and listened to a few more kicks.
“Something about kids like that,” said Odom. “I’ve only known a few, but they’re easy to spot.”
“What do you mean?”
Odom faintly watched her tee up again, and miss again, and run after the stray ball again. “There’s a big emptiness in there somewhere.”
Chapter 14