The Quarterback

"Hut!" Greg called out twenty minutes before the first bell at Dixon High School. He stood in Coach Marconi’s office in the gym. A smile decorated his smooth, copper face. A blue sweater and gray corduroy slacks hung loosely on his tall frame. Greg’s right hand gripped a football. He pretended to fire perfect spirals to receivers as fans chanted his name.

Greg stopped when the short, chunky coach walked into the room. He wore a blue sports shirt, khakis, and a black cap with the school’s nickname, "Chargers," in white letters. His left hand waved a videocassette.

"This is Howard High’s last game," the coach said in a raspy voice. He bent down and shoved the tape into a VCR. "Nobody there thought I’d get it, but I did. Pays to stay the course."

"Thanks," Greg said. He put the football on the desk and sat in a padded chair.

"No problem," Coach Marconi said as he started the tape. "You have to see Howard’s defense." He left.

Greg leaned toward the screen while gripping the remote. A beefy defensive end named Brock Striker caught his eye. Striker’s black helmet and dark blue jersey blurred as he pushed past two opponents and rushed the quarterback’s left side. Striker made contact, knocking the quarterback’s helmet off his head. The quarterback laid on the field while grabbing his right shoulder.

Greg’s right hand shook. He turned off the tape and put down the remote. After grabbing his purple backpack, he fled the gym and bolted up a flight of stairs to the second floor. He reached his homeroom and sat without making a sound. He did the same in English class. Ditto for music.

Striker stayed on his mind during Mrs. Mojeska’s Spanish class, his only A. As the rest of the juniors recited sentences or took notes, Greg slumped backward at his second-row desk. His eyes were aimed at the poster of a matador waving a red cape in front of a bull. Gradually his eyes drooped lower and lower. In his mind, the bull turned into Striker.

The sound of Greg’s name woke him. A grim Mrs. Mojeska with folded arms stood next to him. "What are you doing?" she asked.

Greg sat straight up. A few classmates chuckled.

"Pay attention please," she said and stalked to the front of the room.

He managed to keep his eyes open for the final sixteen minutes. After the bell, Greg jogged down three flights of stairs toward the lunchroom. The cooks had made chicken wings the day’s special. Greg crooked his head and scanned them until his right shoulder twitched. Feeling some kinship with the dead chickens, he took a pass. Sausage pizza, fries, and a Coke got on his tray instead. After paying, he spotted two teammates sitting opposite each other: Bob, a barrel-chested running back, and Scooter, a lanky receiver.

"What’s up?" Scooter asked as Greg sat to his right.

"Just hanging."

"Did you see the Sun-Times yet?" Bob asked.

"No," Greg said. "What’s in it?"

"A preview of tonight’s game. Striker says you’ll meet your match."

"We beat those fools by 20 last year," Scooter said. "They were mad!"

"Yeah," Bob said. "Howard’s Mustangs had no kick."

He and Scooter laughed and high-fived.

"Greg threw for 250 yards in that game," Scooter said. "Right, Greg?"

"That's right," Greg said. He stared at his plate without eating.

"Are you okay?"

Greg looked up. "I’m cool," he said with a weak smile. "Just thinking about the game."

Scooter nodded and said, "You’ll show them who’s the best quarterback in town."

Several hours later, Greg remembered those words as the team’s bus stopped at Mack Stadium’s rear lot on 103rd Street. Everyone strolled toward the locker room. Inside the musty space, teammates took turns sitting on a table while Coach Marconi taped their ankles. Then they slipped on each layer of equipment. Long sleeve shirts. Pads. White jerseys. Gold pants. Blue helmets. And cleats that added a half inch in height.

The players walked on the field’s hard artificial turf for warm ups. Greg threw to the receivers. The stadium’s lights bounced off the ball as it flew under the dark sky.

Meanwhile, spectators packed the metal bleachers. Most wore sweaters and jackets to combat the crisp late-October air.

Just before kickoff, the team jogged back inside for Coach Marconi’s pep talk.

"Brock Striker talked some trash," he said. "Let’s shut him up!"

Greg and his teammates jumped up and yelled, "Yes!" Some high-fived. The chant, "Chargers! Chargers! Chargers!" echoed in the room.

Dixon’s team stormed to their sideline. The band saluted them with a fast version of "Wade in the Water." Cheerleaders waved pompoms and yelled "Let’s go Chargers!" The fans clapped and cheered.

Howard kicked off. Bob returned the ball to the Chargers’ 29-yard-line before a pack of opponents tackled him.

Greg led the team on the field. He snickered while thinking about his favorite play, nicknamed "The Special." It starts when receivers Scooter, Matt, and Terrance line up at the quarterback’s left. They cross each other to confuse defenders. One guy gets open. Greg finds him for an easy touchdown.

The team huddled. "We’ll soften up these boys real quick," Greg said. "Let’s run ‘The Special.’"

"Chargers!" his teammates yelled. They clapped once in unison and jogged to the line of scrimmage. Greg took his place behind Melvin, the bulky center. The quarterback’s eyes strayed toward the left at Striker. He stood a head over Donnie and John, the Dixon players assigned to block him.

Greg yelled: "Move! Set! Hut!" Melvin snapped the ball.

Opponents lunged at each other while grunting. Bodies hit pads, sounding like muffled firecrackers. Receivers sprinted downfield. Greg dropped back and spotted Scooter streaking to the right sideline. But a sight caught his eye. It was Striker at full speed. Greg ran right and threw off balance. The ball sailed over Scooter’s head.

"Punk!" Striker said to Greg while running back to his teammates.

That temporarily halted Dixon’s passing game. Greg handed off to Bob. Howard’s players yielded only a few yards before piling on him. On third down, the quarterback gave the ball to Bob again. This time, Howard stopped him for a two-yard loss.

The Chargers faced fourth down. They punted.

Coach Marconi met Greg on the sideline and said, "That’s OK. It’s early."

"Thanks," Greg replied. "We’ll beat ’em just like last year."

But Greg rushed passes while keeping an eye out for Striker. Some connected. Most did not. One toss in Terrance’s direction hit a fence. A man sitting among Howard’s fans yelled, "That’s not a receiver, loser!"

Even halftime chats with Scooter and Coach Marconi did not help. With 4:41 left in the game, Greg overthrew Matt on third down. The score board read Howard 24, Dixon 13. Only Bob’s two rushing touchdowns had kept the Chargers close.

Dixon's offense ran off the field as the fans booed. Some chanted, "Greg sucks! Greg sucks!"

[BB]

The quarterback stood by himself along the sideline. He took off his helmet and dropped it. His eyes were closed, and his throat ached. Greg wiped his runny nose with the right sleeve. Then he leaned against a fence and hung his head.

A cheer rose from Dixon’s fans. Greg saw Ron, a teammate, racing down the field with an interception.

"Go, Ron, go!" Greg shouted. Ron reached the endzone and the scoreboard changed to Howard 24, Dixon 19. After the extra point kick, Dixon had 20.

Greg checked the clock. It read 2:17. Just enough time to win if Dixon’s defense forced Howard to punt. Greg grabbed his helmet as his team kicked off. He retrieved a ball and spotted Scooter. "Let’s hook up!" he yelled. The two jogged to the end of the field and played catch.

Meanwhile, Dixon’s defense stopped a run up the middle on first down. On second down, a Charger blocked a pass. Another sacked the quarterback on third. Howard punted on fourth down. After a short return, Dixon's offense ran on the field and huddled.

Melvin looked at Greg with narrowed, blood-shot eyes and asked, "Are you all right?"

Greg stared back and replied, "I’m cool." He made eye contact with the rest of the players. "Let’s do this," he said. "Receivers look sharp. Balls are coming your way."

The team started on its 24-yard line with 1:05 left to play and no time-outs. As Greg walked to his position, shouts of encouragement and abuse pelted his ears.

"Your turn, Greg!"

"Get off the field, loser!"

"Show them what you’ve got!"

His heart pumped faster and his chest heaved. He set up behind Melvin. Greg wiped his right hand on a leg, took a final deep breath, and yelled "Hut!" Melvin snapped the ball. Greg dropped back a few steps. Scooter faked left and cut right toward Dixon’s sideline. Greg threw.

The ball drifted behind Scooter. Greg’s eyes widened. "Oh no!" shouted Dixon’s fans. But Scooter stopped, reached back, and grabbed the ball with his fingertips. He turned and chugged down the field. A Howard defender knocked him out of bounds. That ended a 15-yard play and stopped the clock.

Greg exhaled and took the next snap. He ran right. Matt streaked down the middle. Greg flung the ball. That netted another 11 yards. The quarterback tossed a short sideline pass to Terrance. Terrance shook off the hand of one defender, bounced off another, and spun around before a group tackled him. The seven-yard play put Dixon firmly inside Howard’s part of the field.

The clock continued to move. 51 seconds. 50. 49. 48.

Howard’s fans yelled "Defense!" and stomped on the bleachers. The Mustangs’ coaches barked instructions. "Watch your left!" "Tackle with two hands!" Two Howard defenders crept closer to the line of scrimmage. Greg dropped back, but the defenders stayed close to his players. Striker broke free from Donnie and John and rushed the quarterback. Greg ran right for three yards and slid to avoid a hit.

Time kept slipping away. 41 seconds. 40. 39. 38.

The Chargers ran back to their side of the ball and lined up. Greg took the snap. Two Mustangs covered Scooter. Terrance fell down. But Matt popped open near Howard’s sideline.

Greg could have starred in a training video. He spread his third and fourth fingers over the ball’s white lace. His shoulders pointed at the target. He held the ball near his ear and cocked his arm. Greg stepped forward and threw, snapping the elbow and wrist.

The ball started a foot over the quarterback’s head and spiraled through the air. The lace blurred. The ball gradually descended. After 19 yards, it hit Matt’s midsection. He held on and ran out of bounds. A referee put it on Howard’s 21.

"First down!" the announcer shrieked over loudspeakers. "The Chargers are on the move!"

As if on cue, Dixon’s band sprang to life. Drums and trumpets competed for loudest honors.

The clock showed 34 seconds left to play.

Greg called "Hut!" Howard’s players smothered Dixon’s. Greg opted for a short pass to Terrance. He gained three yards before a defender grabbed the back of his jersey and dragged him down. Scooter dropped the next ball and smacked his helmet.

Dixon’s players huddled. Several teammates panted. Greg patted Scooter on the back, then announced the next play—Apache. That meant Bob would get the next pass.

Melvin snapped the ball. Bob sprinted left around Greg. The quarterback drifted backward and spotted him. No Howard player covered Bob. Greg zipped the ball.

Striker shot forward. Greg watched with his mouth agape. The ball bounced off Striker’s chest. He leaned forward and reached with his fingertips. But the ball landed on the field.

"Aww!" screamed Howard’s fans.

"Whew," Greg said under his breath.

Thirteen seconds remained on the clock. The Chargers faced fourth down.

Greg took the snap and dropped back. The clock started. 12 seconds. 11. 10. 9.

He looked downfield, but his players were covered. Striker broke free and charged. Greg rolled right and stood. Striker got to within five feet of him. Greg waited for someone to get open. Striker’s shadow covered the quarterback’s feet. Finally, Scooter cut left. Greg fired.

A microsecond later, Striker hit him. Greg’s back and head slammed on the turf. The mouthpiece shot from his helmet. Striker landed on top of him, then stood and pumped his fists.

Greg laid face up. His eyes stayed shut. Red and white splotches swam inside his brain. His ears picked up a slight ring. Then instinct took over. Greg shook his head. Images of football players materialized before him. Cheers grew louder.

He mumbled, "Get up." He slowly turned over. His arms pushed up his chest. Then he lifted the right knee and began to rise.

Coach Marconi ran on the field and grabbed the quarterback’s right arm, helping him on his feet. "Are you okay?" the coach asked.

Greg staggered before patting himself. He inhaled deeply and took his time releasing the air. Finally he announced, "I’m fine."

"Thank God," Coach Marconi said. "Son, throw the ball away next time. We don't have to win that badly."

"Win?" Greg asked. He twisted toward the endzone and saw his teammates mobbing Scooter.

"Yes!" he yelled. He broke his coach’s grip and trotted downfield.

He and Scooter hugged. Dixon’s players ran to their sideline and watched as the extra point kick gave them a 27-24 lead. The cheerleaders shook as the band played MC Hammer’s "U Can’t Touch This."

Dixon’s fans yelled "Go Chargers!"

The team kicked off with five seconds left. Dixon's defenders stopped the returner as time ran out.

Both teams walked along midfield in separate lines and exchanged handshakes. Greg flashed a toothy grin when he saw Striker. "Nice game, Brock," he said and held out his hand.

Striker smirked and stomped away without a shake.

Dixon’s players had gathered at the south end of the field for Coach Marconi’s post game chat. Greg jogged midway, then stopped. He doubled back to the sideline and looked up. Close to thirty fans lingered at the top of the bleachers. Some wore white jerseys that glowed under the lights.

The crowd waved and chanted, "Greg! Greg! Greg!" The quarterback lifted his helmet with the right hand and smiled.

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