She sat silent and serious.
“Look,” said Calhoun. “Yes, a lot of these boys are going to get athletic scholarships, but I’d be more than shocked if you didn’t land an academic one. You’re going to go on and make everyone at this school proud.”
“Thank you. It means a lot.” She looked down.
The coach sighed in frustration. “Chris, you’re asking the unrealistic.” He held up the tryout sheet. “Do you know how many students we’re going to have to cut as it is?”
“Coach, I don’t care if I have to ride the bench. I don’t care if I never play. I would just be proud to wear the uniform.” She placed a hand on her chest where the numbers would go. “As I said, no favors. If I don’t earn it, so be it. But I’ve really been working on my kicking over the summer. Can you just come out to the field and take a look?”
Calhoun slowly began to nod. “Okay, you’ve more than earned a look. But promise me that this won’t get your hopes up . . .”
The receivers coach, the one named Odom, had been promoted to the head position a couple seasons back. He heard a knock on his office door.
“Lamar, come in. What’s up?”
The coach pulled out a chair. “I want you to keep an open mind.”
“Uh-oh, I’ve heard that one before.”
Calhoun explained what he had in mind. “What do you think?”
A long pause. “Lamar, I know how fond you are of Chris. And you know I am as well. But we already have two solid place kickers coming back from last year, and an even better punter.”
“A lot of teams carry three place kickers,” said Calhoun.
“I know, in case of injury or ineligibility,” said Odom. “But often the third-stringer plays another position. We have a cornerback who can easily fill in.”
“Would you send him out for a field goal in the final seconds?”
“Are you trying to tell me Chris will be our best kicker?”
“No, third best. But a solid third,” said Calhoun. “Can you do me a favor? . . .”
Minutes later, both coaches stood with folded arms on the side of an empty field. Chris was waiting at the thirty-yard line with a big sack of footballs spilled onto the ground.
“Okay, Chris!” shouted Lamar. “Show him what you showed me.”
She teed up a ball between the hash marks, took the requisite steps back and stopped. She let her arms dangle in concentration. Then she loped forward and let it fly.
It was a perfect end-over-end kick—that hooked left of the upright.
Calhoun looked sideways. “But it had plenty of distance.” Odom didn’t respond.
She teed up another. It split the uprights.
“See?” said Calhoun.
“That’s just one-for-two,” said Odom.
Chris proceeded through the rest of the balls on the grass. Except for one that bounced off the crossbar, they were all true down the middle.
“What do you think now?” asked Calhoun.
“It’s different in helmet and pads,” said Odom. “Even more so in game situations . . .”
The next day, all the returning players and would-bes covered the field. Whistles blew. Students were sorted according to position. And a handful collected around the coach in charge of kickers. They started at the fifteen-yard line. The coach made notes on a clipboard as each player took shots at the goalposts.
The field had been such chaos earlier, with so many more players than usual, that they didn’t notice. But now they did, nudging each other and pointing downfield at a particular player with the number 00.
Chris kicked a modest-length field goal. Then the players didn’t pay any more attention. They were too busy trying to make the team. They moved the kicking tees back ten yards and the hopefuls went at it again . . .
Tryouts continued pretty much as they all do. Triage. The ones who were definitely going to make the team, the ones who had no prayer, and the middle group clinging to a dream.
The day of reckoning came. Tryouts were over. Players filled a hallway, nervous silence, waiting. A door opened and they perked up. The head coach came out of the locker room and taped a sheet of paper on the wall. The final list. Students lined up single file, taking turns, one by one, looking for their name. Then either an under-the-breath “Yes!” or demure heartbreak.
Chris’s nerves couldn’t take it. She had deliberately placed herself at the very end of the line, because she didn’t want anyone else around when she got the news. Finally there was only one boy left in front of her. He read down the list, twice, then hung his head and walked away. She watched until he was out of sight, and took a deep breath. “This is it.”
She stepped up to the wall and read down the first column with no luck. Her eyes started down the second and she had to take a break from the tension. There weren’t a lot of names left, and that would be it. Chris summoned courage and went back to the list. Almost exactly where she had left off, she immediately saw it. And her hand went over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
Her name.
She kept blinking and checking again because she didn’t trust her eyes. But each time it was still there.
The empty hallway echoed with joy. “Wooooo-hooooooooo!”
She jumped up and down and spun around, crashing into Coach Calhoun. He steadied her by the arms. “Easy, you don’t want to hurt yourself before the season.”
“I didn’t know you were there. Where’d you come from?”
“I kind of wanted to be here.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
Now Calhoun grabbed her wrists and pulled them back. “Okay, new rule. You don’t hug coaches.”
“Sorry, it’s just . . .”
“I know.” He began walking away. “Get some sleep. Practice starts tomorrow.”
Chapter 28
Okeechobee Rodeo
The gate burst open wide with an explosion of horse.
It was the encore performance everyone had been awaiting from the service veteran. This bronco bucked even meaner than the first, but Kyle Lovitt was more than up to it. This time, the ride went flawlessly through the required eight seconds, and Kyle jumped down like a dismounting gymnast to stick the landing.
The PA announcer needn’t comment. The crowd was already on its feet.
A smaller gate opened, and a cowgal ran into the arena. She tearfully hugged Kyle. “You were magnificent!”
Serge strolled over. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
The woman turned, and suddenly Serge had tight arms around his neck. “I saw what you did for Kyle! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! . . .”
“Easy now.” Serge grabbed her wrists to pull them down. “All in a clown’s day, Cheyenne.”
“Thank you . . . Wait, how do you know my name?”
The clown removed his red-ball nose and replaced it. “It’s me, Serge, from the motel. You’re my little history helper.”
“Serge?” Cheyenne said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were with the rodeo.”
“Neither do they,” said Serge. “So I guess Kyle’s your boyfriend.”