Juice

Eric Walters

orca soundings

Copyright © 2005 Eric Walters

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Walters, Eric, 1957
-Juice / Eric Walters.

(Orca soundings)
ISBN 1-55143-351-6

I. Title. II. Series.

PS8595.A598J93 2005   jC813'.54  C2005-900338-3

Summary:
When a new coach comes to their school, Michael and his teammates are convinced that steroids are the way to compete.

First published in the United States, 2005
Library of Congress Control Number:
2005920402

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Department of Canadian Heritage's Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

Cover design: Lynn O'Rourke
Cover photography: Eyewire

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Orca Book Publishers
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08 07 06 05 • 5 4 3 2 1

Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on 30% post-consumer recycled paper,
processed chlorine free using vegetable, low VOC inks.

For those who know that when
you play the game fairly, you win,
no matter what the score is
.

“Everybody shut up and listen!” Dave yelled.

The huddle fell silent, but the noise of the crowd rolled out of the bleachers and washed across the field. I'd never heard a crowd so loud. Then again, I'd never played in front of this many people, or in this big a game. There were thousands and thousands of people, and everybody was yelling and screaming and cheering like crazy.

“I need everybody to focus!” Dave said. “Forget about the crowd, forget that this is the most important game any of us are probably ever going to play in. Forget about everything except what's going to happen on this field in the next half a minute.”

Dave was the co-captain of the team. A senior and the strong safety, he called all of our defensive plays.

I looked past him to the big scoreboard at the end of the stadium. There were thirty-one seconds left and we were up fourteen to twelve. That was good. The problem was that they had the ball on our twenty-seven yard line. The bigger problem was that all twelve of their points had come from their field goal kicker. The biggest problem was that he hadn't missed from this distance all season.

It was awful to think that we could lose even though we hadn't let them get into our end zone to score a touchdown. We were going to lose to some scrawny little kid named Luigi, who couldn't have weighed more than a 120 pounds. Some kid who'd
never even seen a football game before his family moved here from Europe last summer. Maybe he still didn't understand the game, but he could kick a football like nobody's business. I'd heard that there were college scouts in the crowd who'd come from around the country just to see him play.

“Moose, are you listening?” Dave barked.

I startled back to reality. “Of course I'm listening,” I mumbled through my mouth guard.

“We're going to blitz,” Dave said.

“Who's going to blitz?” one of the corners asked.

“Everybody.”

“What?” somebody gasped. “You're joking, right?”

“Does this seem like the time for a joke? I want everybody to blitz.”

“But if we all blitz, then the quarterback just has to lob a little pass to a receiver and he's gone for a touchdown.”

“He's not thinking about passing,” Dave said. “He's going to take the snap, spin around and hand off to a back who is going
to try to move the ball into the very center of the field to set up the winning field goal.”

“How can you be so sure about that?” the other corner asked.

“I'm not. What I am sure of is that we have to push them back or they'll get a field goal. We have to gamble. If I'm right, we win. If I'm wrong, we lose—losing by one point or losing by five is still losing,” Dave explained, and it all made perfect sense.

“And if you get your hands on the ball carrier, don't tackle him to the ground. Hold him up and try to punch the ball free. Understand?”

Everybody grunted out agreement.

“Okay, break!” Dave yelled.

I started for the line. Everybody settled into their spots.

“Moose!” Dave called out and I stopped. He walked up and put his mouth right by the ear hole of my helmet. “They can't double or triple you on this play. Drive straight and hard for the hole—the moose is on the loose.”

I smiled and nodded my head and he tapped me on the side of my helmet.

He was right. All through the game I'd been having to battle two offensive linemen. They'd been double-teaming me on every play—except for the times I'd found myself battling through three men.

That had been happening more and more throughout the season. In the beginning, nobody knew who I was, but as my sack total kept rising, I got more attention. Today all I'd managed was a few tackles, a couple of quarterback rushes and a shared sack. My arms were sore and my legs were heavy. It felt like I'd been running through water all day.

I also felt like I was letting my teammates down. The Moose hadn't been able to break loose all game. That could change with one play. Just one play.

I stood over my spot and waited as the other team's huddle broke and the players got into position. They looked confident, cocky. But why shouldn't they? All they had to do was hold onto the ball and make the game-winning field goal.

If Dave was right, they were going to hand off the ball to the back. He would cut along the
line, right in front of me, to get to the middle of the field. The only thing between him and me was his offensive line. All I had to do was listen for the snap, explode off the line, knock down my man and probably another, and … Wait a minute, what if I hesitated for a split second? What if I waited for them to see the blitz coming from everywhere and then shot into the gap? The gap that would form when they left to try to cover the extra men?

“Three-ninety-eight!” yelled out their quarterback.

I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. This was the play that was going to decide the season, decide who would be champions.

“Three-ninety-eight. Hup. Hup. Hup!”

There was an explosion of sound and fury as both lines surged forward and bodies collided. I stutter-stepped and then shot through the little opening between two players, splitting them, practically untouched. I was suddenly standing in the backfield with the quarterback just off to the side! I launched myself at him as he turned to hand the ball off to the running back. My helmet hit his
back with a sickening thud. I wrapped my arms around him, and the ball shot free and into the air! It bounced against the back's hands and then up and off his helmet and soared into the air. It was like I was watching in slow motion as the ball turned, end over end, hitting first one player and then another until it hit the ground and rolled and wobbled right into my outstretched hands. I pulled the ball toward me until it was right against my chest, protected, shielded and cradled there as bodies piled on top of me. It was mine.

The dressing room was filled with sounds and smells and emotions. Cheering, screaming, swearing, yelping. People chasing each other around the room, spraying soda that they'd shaken up. Lots of laughing. Some were even fighting back tears. Tears of joy. A few of the guys had stripped down to their boxers and others were still in full uniform, as if they thought that when they took off their uniform, the party would end, or we'd
have to give back the trophy. The championship trophy. Saying that made me smile. Champions.

In the center of all the confusion and celebration stood Coach Reeves. He'd hugged each player as we came into the dressing room. He'd been in tears. Big tears. He hadn't been trying to hide them. I think he was still crying, but those tears had been lost in the tons of soda that had been sprayed all over him, soaking him from head to toe.

I sat off to the side, my back against the wall, drinking it all in. This was like a dream. Not just today, not just winning the championship, but the whole season. Me, Michael the Moose, making the senior team, then becoming a starter and then becoming more than a starter—becoming a star. I had to smile. I wouldn't say it to anybody else, but I had been one of the most important people on the team. I was the Moose. I'd led the team in sacks. And when I tossed down a quarterback, the stands would erupt, everyone making moose noises and yelling out “The Moose is on the loose, the Moose is on the loose.”

I still cradled the football in my arm. I'd held onto it on the field and I hadn't let it out of my hands after the game. I knew that eventually I'd have to let go of it, but not yet.

“Could I have your attention!”

It was Coach. He was standing on a chair, waving his arms above his head. Slowly the noise and activity faded until all eyes were on him and the room was silent.

“This is all unbelievable,” Coach Reeves said. “Unbelievable, but in another way, totally believable. How could we not win with this amazing group of individuals?”

Everybody cheered and clapped until he raised his hands. The noise died away.

“First things first. I need to award a ball. Where is the ball?”

I stood up and held it out.

“Toss it here, Michael,” he said.

Coach was pretty well the only person besides my mother who called me Michael. I pitched him the ball.

“What I should do is cut this ball up into thirty-two pieces because everybody was the player of the game.”

Part of me agreed, but another part felt disappointed. I thought that maybe he was going to give the ball to me. I had made the sack and recovered the ball. I'd saved the game, but that was okay. Whatever Coach said was okay. If he wanted to give the ball to somebody else, if he wanted me to eat the ball, I would have done it. It was only fair considering all that he'd done for us, what he'd done for me.

“But I'm not going to cut this ball up,” Coach Reeves said. “It's too special. I am going to give it away. I'm going to give it away to the player who most represented what made this team so special, who brought us all the way to the championship game and then won that game. Before the game I met with my co-captains, and we all agreed that that honor should go to one player.” He paused. It felt like everyone in the room was holding his breath. “Michael, could you please come forward.”

My heart leaped into my throat. Had I heard him wrong?

“Way to go, Moose!” somebody yelled. Everybody started to cheer.

I jumped to my feet and stumbled forward. My teammates patted me on the back and cheered and continued to scream out my name.

Coach gave me a big hug. “Congratulations, Michael. You deserve this,” he whispered in my ear. He handed me the ball.

“I really don't need to explain this decision to anybody in this room, but I am going to anyway. In my twenty-seven years of coaching, this is the first time that the most valuable player on the team wasn't a graduating senior. Michael, you are a player who improved with every game, who played with heart, who never quit and never let anybody else quit. You are why this team is a champion!”