Football Genius (2007) (2 page)

ONE OF THE RICH
people who lived inside the wall was the Atlanta Falcons' star linebacker, Seth Halloway. Troy knew because he'd been there. In fact, every time he snuck through the wall, that was where he went. To Seth's house. To the big green backyard beyond Seth's pool.

It was a yard where players, real NFL players, would toss footballs to one another and goof around like Troy and his friends. Troy had watched them from the bushes. He'd seen them tossing footballs back and forth. Diving. Grabbing. Rolling on the ground and laughing. And he knew that Seth Halloway kept the balls in a mesh bag that hung from a nail underneath his deck. There were dozens of them. The first time Troy had seen Seth spill them out onto that big lawn, he felt his heart ache.

Now his heart was pounding. When they came to the hole--really just a big crack--the three of them stood and stared.

"Can't you just tell them your mom couldn't get the football?" Nathan asked.

Tate and Nathan loved football too. They all played together on the Duluth Tigers, a junior league team coached by fathers. Tate was the kicker. Nathan played on the line. Troy was the second-string quarterback. Nathan and Tate agreed that he should be first string, but Jamie Renfro's father was the coach, so Jamie got to be the Tigers' quarterback. In fact, it was because of Jamie that the three of them were out at night when they shouldn't have been.

It was hard for Troy, being second string when he was a better player than Jamie. Troy was faster, he had a better arm, and he practiced throwing almost every night. Besides, he knew the game way better than Jamie. He could read a defense in the blink of an eye and sometimes even seem to know what the other team was going to do. Tate and Nathan said it was a gift.

He couldn't explain how he knew. No one taught him. He just knew. But Troy didn't have a father of his own to be the coach, so he sat on the bench, calling the plays before they happened to his friends. And, while he really was a good kid, the situation with Jamie made him mad. Troy's mom sometimes called him a hothead. Sometimes she was right.

At Tuesday's practice, after standing by with his helmet off for ten plays in a row and watching Jamie throw a bad pass to the wrong receiver every time, Troy couldn't help himself. Jamie's father was yelling again. Yelling at the receivers. Yelling at the linemen. Everyone but Jamie. Jamie's father told them that yelling was what coaches did.

"Maybe he can coach you to throw a pass," Troy said as the kids on the first-string offense were getting into the huddle. He meant to say it low, but the hothead part of him made it too loud.

Jamie's freckled face went red behind his face mask. He walked out of the huddle and stood face-to-face with Troy, his dark, curly hair spilling out of the back of his helmet. Jamie was bigger than Troy. In fact, he was a whole year older even though he was still in seventh grade.

"At least I have a father," Jamie said.

Troy felt his eyes fill with tears, his real weakness. Even though he was tough and a good athlete, he sometimes couldn't stop the tears, no matter how hard he tried. His cheeks grew hot. He swallowed, stuck out his chin, and said, "My mom is worth ten fathers."

Jamie looked around with his mouth and eyes wide open, like he was in shock.

"That's funny," he said, wagging his head around. "I don't see her on the football field."

"She's on a football field that's a lot more important than this goat lot," Troy said.

"Right," Jamie said.

"She works for the Falcons," Troy said, swallowing and looking around.

"Since
when
?"

"Since she just started."

"I bet not."

"I bet so," Troy said, clenching his fists, ready in case Jamie said something bad about his mom.

"So good," Jamie said, grinning in a mean way. "She can get a Falcons football for the game Saturday. My dad's got one signed by Billy 'White Shoes' Johnson. He says the way you know a real Falcons ball is 'cause the team name is stamped right on it. It's cool. My dad's ball has it. Now your mom's a big shot working for the Falcons, man, she can get one for us to use, right?"

"She can get whatever I want," Troy said, and he looked past Jamie from Tate to Nathan. The pain in their faces made his stomach tight. They knew that he wasn't quite telling the truth about his mom.

There had been an ad in the newspaper for an assistant in the public relations department for the Falcons. Troy's mom had just finished getting her master's degree in public relations at night school that summer. One of her professors knew someone who got her an interview. She was one of ten. Troy got her to promise that if she got the job, she would somehow get him that ball.

The Tigers practiced every night during the week, and every night Jamie asked Troy where the ball was. And every night Troy said he'd have it for the game on Saturday.

When Troy got home from school on Friday, his mom was sitting at the kitchen table dunking a tea bag. She looked sad, but when she saw him, she smiled.

"What happened?" he asked, out of breath. "Did you get it?"

She shrugged and said, "Maybe. Now they're saying they might not know until tomorrow, or maybe Tuesday, after Labor Day."

Too late for the game. Too late to keep Jamie from laughing at him, telling everyone he was a liar, and flashing that nasty smile. That was too much for Troy to think about. Especially because of what he knew was on the other side of that wall. A mesh bag full of Falcons footballs. A bag so full, no one would miss just one.

That's why the three of them stood there in the moonlight, staring. That's why Troy didn't look at his friends as he ducked down and squeezed sideways through the dark hole.

Into a place he knew he shouldn't be.

TROY'S MOM HAD A
saying she used all the time: "Some things are just meant to be."

He left his friends and dodged and ducked from tree to tree, from one clump of bushes to another, past the giant homes with their wrought-iron fences and their big swimming pools. It took ten minutes before he stood bent over with his hands on his knees, peering through the branches at the gray stone mansion where Seth Halloway lived.

It was meant to be.

A fountain trickled into Seth's pool and a raft floated along under the moonlight, bumping the stone side. The lawn was littered with footballs like strange Easter eggs in a magical land. Under the shadow of one giant oak tree was a
JUGS
machine, with its two tan rubber wheels that spun and fired footballs like bullets. It was an awkward machine that reminded Troy of a stork, with the motor and wheels perched at a funny angle on top of its three metal legs. NFL players used it to practice catching.

Troy looked up at the big house. Three scattered windows shone with yellow light, but nothing moved inside. He waited and watched, then realized if he kept waiting, he'd never do it. He thought about Jamie and that nasty smile. He took three deep breaths, counting them out loud. Then he ran out of the shadows and into the bright moonlight of the lawn.

He scooped up a ball and, clutching it tight, darted back into the bushes. Branches and brambles whipped his arms and face. Thorns bit at his bare legs. Still, he ran, plowing forward away from the house, heading for the wall.

Somehow, in the trees, he got turned around. When he burst through a hedgerow, he tripped and tumbled down a grassy bank, flat onto the blacktop of a street. He picked the gravel out of his mouth and got to his knees. He was wet, and it took him a minute to realize that the sprinklers were running. He heard the security truck before he saw its big white shape with the yellow light on top turn the corner and blind him in the glare of its headlights. Without thinking, he shot back up the bank, but his sneakers slipped on the grass. His feet shot out from under him and he tumbled back down.

The ball, wet and slick, popped out of his arms and rolled out into the street. The truck came to a stop, its headlights burning the pavement all around Troy. He shivered, partly from the chill, but mostly from fear. The door opened.

"Hey!" the security guard shouted. "You! Kid!"

Troy hesitated, but only for a second. He darted out into the street, scooped up the ball, and started to run. This time he stayed on the road.

Behind him, the truck door slammed and the engine revved up. Troy's legs were numb. He knew he was fast, but he didn't know he was that fast. He got to the end of the street and took a left, out of the truck's headlight beams. He kept going, but there were no turnoffs, only driveways to the big homes, and soon the headlights were on him again and the yellow light on top of the truck was flashing. Finally, he came to another intersection. This time he went right, and before the truck's lights could catch him, he jumped over a low hedge and flattened himself under some bushes.

His head thumped and his lungs burned. The truck eased past him and drove up the street. But then its taillights glowed red. It stopped and turned around, pulling up to where he hid, stopping on the street right in front of him. Its engine purred, and Troy heard the electric window hum down.

The truck door opened and the security guard got out. When he crossed the beam of the headlights, Troy saw the blue pants of his uniform with their white stripe and he saw the man reaching for the gun in his belt. As he moved toward the hedge, the guard switched on a flashlight. Closer and closer he came, swinging a flashlight. Twenty feet from Troy, he stopped.

"Hey, boy. I know you're here," the man said in a soft, creepy voice. "And I know you ain't from here. You little thief."

Slowly, he moved toward Troy, stabbing the flashlight into the hedge, angling it all around. Troy wiggled down deeper into the bush, then froze. The light came his way. He put his head down.

When the light hit him, he shut his eyes and held the football tight, thinking of his mother's words, wishing he'd listened to her when she said he didn't belong there. Wishing he hadn't said his hothead words to Jamie.

Now he was caught. A boy who lied. A boy who snuck out at night. A boy who took something that didn't belong to him. It was
stealing
. He knew the word.

Maybe he really was
that
kind of a kid, and maybe
this
was what was really
meant to be
.

BUT THE SECURITY GUARD
kept going down the hedge. He called out a few more times, "Get out here, boy. You little thief." Then, after one final snarl, he cursed and got back into the big white truck and drove off.

When the pain in his chest started to fade, Troy stood and brushed off the pine straw and the dirt. He turned the ball in the moonlight and read the words
ATLANTA FALCONS
. It was official. He swallowed hard and crept out onto the street. He had no idea where he was.

The moon.

He'd seen it shining through his bedroom window. He found it now and went the other way as best he could, chasing his own shadow. Sooner or later, with the moon to his back, he had to find the wall. And he did.

His hands touched the cool surface. He put his cheek against it and looked down its length, straining for something he recognized. He walked one way for a long time. Panic began to rise up in his chest. That's when he heard a whistle. A whistle, clear and keen, like when you call a dog. A whistle like Tate McGreer.

He'd been going the wrong way, but now he doubled back, past where he had started, until finally he found the hole. His friends were waiting for him.

He squeezed through and held the football high, rolling it with his fingers so they could see where "Atlanta Falcons" was stamped into the leather.

"You're bleeding," Tate said, touching his arm.

"It's okay," Troy said, swatting at a mosquito.

Nathan asked what happened, and as the three of them walked back to the railroad tracks, he told them about the security guard.

"I heard that truck racing after you like a crazy man," Nathan said. The whites of his eyes glowed in the moonlight.

Troy shivered, then yawned.

"Well," he said, looking down the tracks in the direction of the apartment complex, then up ahead at the thick pines that surrounded his own home.

"You did it," Tate said, patting his shoulder.

"Here," Troy said, handing her the ball.

"What?" she said, rolling it in her hands.

"That whistle saved me. I'd still be in there," he said.

"No," Tate said, shaking her head and handing back the ball. "I can't."

"You helped," Troy said, pushing it at her.

"No, Troy, I can't."

"I mean it. Here. You can be the one to shove it in Jamie's face, the way he always pulls your ponytail."

But Tate wouldn't take the ball. She stood looking down at her feet, nudging a rock with her toe. Nathan, too, was looking down.

"There were footballs all over the yard," Troy said, his voice sounding small next to the song of the crickets. "He's not going to miss this one."

"Okay, Troy," Nathan said, holding out his hand for Troy to slap him five. "I gotta go. Good job."

Troy gave him five.

"Yeah, good job," Tate said. She slapped hands with Troy, too, then the two friends turned and started down the tracks.

Troy looked at the ball, running his fingers over the "Atlanta Falcons" imprint.

"Hmmph," he said, tucked the ball under his arm, and marched home, thinking about the look he was going to see on Jamie Renfro's face. Jamie's dad might be the big shot with a junior league football team, but that was nothing compared to being connected to a real NFL team.

When he saw his own face in the mirror, he gasped and winced at the same time. He examined his arms and legs under the light. Scratches everywhere, dried dribbles of blood. Pink welts. Too many to hide. His mother would know he'd been out. He would be grounded. He might even be sent off to military school. That subject came up whenever he was unruly. His mom said boys sometimes needed that kind of discipline.

He looked back into the mirror at his own green eyes, the eyes he thought he got from his mother. But sometimes he looked at those eyes staring back at him and wondered if they really were his mother's eyes, the eyes of a good kid. Because maybe they were the eyes of his father. The eyes of a person who'd leave his family and never return.

Troy knew how he could get away with having scratches all over him. The answer came to him without even trying. It was kind of like the gift his friends said he had with football, but this gift was nothing to be proud of.

He would have to lie.