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"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!"