Top Prospect Page 6

  “That’s how beautiful the Pacific Ocean is,” Dad said. “Look, that’s LA. I can almost see my house.”

  I loved it. But it was kind of sad too, knowing Dad shared all of those places for real with a teenage stepson and not me.

  We were starving afterward and had an early dinner at a Mexican villa. I stuffed myself full of tacos and burritos until I practically belched refried beans. Then we left the park and checked into our hotel room. Dad sat down by the flat-screen to watch Carter’s game, which was already halfway through the first quarter, while I took a quick shower. A few minutes later, I stepped out of the bathroom, still towel-drying my hair. Coach G.’s face filled the screen as he jawed from the Gators’ sideline with a referee.

  “What’s he like?” asked Dad.

  “Who, Coach?”

  I thought about it as the damp towel worked my brain.

  “He’s like a football Zeus,” I answered, sitting down on the edge of one of the two beds in the small room. “He snaps his fingers and things happen. Lightning bolts, earthquakes—”

  “Scholarships,” said Dad, completing the list.

  “Yeah, those too.”

  Then I asked if Carter had been in the game yet.

  “One of the senior tight ends turned an ankle,” Dad said. “Carter’s been in a few plays already.”

  “Really? You should have called me out of the shower,” I said. “Did he get his first catch?”

  “Not yet,” he answered.

  Five minutes after that, Carter did make his first catch as a Gator. Even watching on TV, I saw the pass pattern developing. As the quarterback released the football, I could almost feel it leaving my own hand on a straight line to Carter. And I felt the same way watching the replay. Dad and me exchanged high fives. But that was just the start of us celebrating. Before the game was over, Carter made three more receptions, one of them for a twenty-six-yard touchdown that put the Gators ahead for good in the fourth quarter. When Carter scored, our screams were so loud we could have drowned out that whole Country Bear Jamboree back at the Magic Kingdom. Me and Dad jumped up and down in each other’s arms, while, in that Arkansas end zone, Carter and Alex did exactly the same thing.

  Carter’s Take

  Almost two hours after our win, I was still walking on air. My first catch and touchdown. Alex had to steer me through the crowd in our hotel lobby. The place was mobbed with our fans, and I felt like I could finally hold my head up high and get the respect I deserved.

  “So where are we headed?” I asked Alex.

  “Now that you’re a superstar, at least for one game, there’s somebody here who wants to meet you,” he answered, while I waved to a group of Gator fans who’d actually recognized me.

  “Yeah, who?”

  “My extended family, the filthy rich one. You’ll know the dude as soon as you see him, from his car commercials. Mr. Walter Henry.”

  “You mean the guy at Gainesville Motors? The one dressed like Indiana Jones, whose car tosses him a bull whip and pulls him out of a snake pit?”

  “That’s him,” Alex said, as we took a sharp turn into the hotel’s restaurant, and then walked right past a sign that read: PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. “He’s a Gainesville alum. Flew something like twenty people here as his guests to see the game.”

  Alex headed straight for a private room in the back. As soon as we walked in, Walter Henry, who sat at the head of several long tables pushed together, stood up to greet us. He was probably in his late thirties, built like an athlete himself, with wide shoulders.

  Walter Henry shook Alex’s hand first. Then he reached out for mine and said, “Carter, what a pleasure to finally meet you. The two of you—great game, and a satisfying night for Gator fans.”

  Henry turned to his guests and said, “Everyone, this is Alex Moore. You’ll see him play in the NFL soon, I’m sure. And this is Carter Gardner, who caught that big touchdown for us tonight. They’re two of the reasons we’re celebrating.”

  One of his guests asked me, “Isn’t your kid brother the one with the scholarship?”

  I nodded my head, feeling the weight of those words.

  “I hope he can play as well as you did tonight,” said a second guest.

  “Yeah, me too,” I said, beginning to smile.

  “Please, join us for something to eat,” said Walter Henry, snapping his fingers for a waiter. “Menus. Two more chairs.”

  “No, we can’t stay but a minute,” said Alex. “Coach has a team curfew for us. We’re flying out early tomorrow morning. I just wanted to pay my respects and introduce you to Carter.”

  “Enough said,” Walter Henry replied, walking us toward the door. “You know, I’m from Alachua as well, Carter. Just like you and Alex. Born and raised.”

  “Really? Where?” I asked.

  “I grew up on Fifty-Third Terrace,” he answered. “Went to Beauchamp High too. Played football for a while, before I turned to running track. Liked fast things—that’s how I became interested in cars. Then a business degree from Gainesville made me a success. That’s why I like to give back, donate my time and resources to the university, especially the football program. My customers are Gator-crazy. Most of the people around this table represent my larger accounts. Say, Carter, what kind of car do you drive?”

  Alex was almost snickering as he said, “Go on. Tell him, Mr. Hitch-a-Ride.”

  “I don’t have any wheels right now, sir,” I answered, embarrassed. “It’s a money situation with my family.”

  “First of all, call me Walter,” he said. “Lots of young people are financially challenged. I get it. You’re busy being a football player and a student. Sometime soon, why don’t you come down to my dealership? Maybe I’ll have a model there that you can afford?”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks, Walter.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, reaching into the front pocket of his trousers. “We boys from Alachua have to stick together, help support one another. And, Carter, when you come to see me, if your brother Travis is free, bring him along.”

  “All right,” I said, as Walter shook my hand good-bye.

  Right away, something felt different. But I didn’t want to make any kind of scene.

  “Carter knows. Everybody wants to meet the kid,” Alex said.

  “Hey, he could be our future,” Walter said as we left. “Go Gators.”

  I waited until we were outside the restaurant before I looked into the palm of my hand.

  “Alex, there’s four one-hundred-dollar bills here,” I whispered as if we’d just robbed a bank.

  “Then you must have outplayed me tonight. I only got three,” he replied.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “I can’t be your conscience,” answered Alex. “I’m just showing you the ropes, how the game gets played. You read the papers. You know about the investigations. Maybe a third of our team has hookups like this. Some better, some not. It’s on you now. Nothing’s stopping you from turning around and giving Walter back his cash. But if isn’t you, he’ll bless somebody else with it. So make up your mind.”

  Chapter 10

  My Pop Warner team ended the season undefeated. That put us into the regional playoffs, with a home game against the top team from Tallahassee. We played in a driving rainstorm, making it almost impossible to pass. I had a receiver wide open on a curl route, coming back to me. So I set my feet in the slop to throw. An instant after I released the ball, a huge gust of wind came up. The football flew fifteen feet over my receiver’s head, spinning end over end like a kite without a tail in a hurricane. Even when the wind wasn’t gusting, the rain kept the ball so slick I could barely control it.

  We fumbled the ball away three times. My stomach began to ache. I hadn’t lost a single game since getting the scholarship from Coach G. That was something I desperately wanted to hold on to.

  I barked at the running back, who’d had two of those fumbles. “Get a grip—on the ball and yourself! T
his is the playoffs! It’s win or go home!”

  Despite all the turnovers, we were trailing only 10 to 6 entering the final two minutes of the fourth quarter. With the ball in my hands, I decided if I couldn’t pass, I’d use my legs. So I dropped back and then scrambled outside the pocket with the ball. I saw a lane and sprinted along the edge of the sideline. Rain dripped down my face mask and into my eyes. It was like running blind on a greased railing. The opposing D finally forced me out of bounds at the Tallahassee eight-yard line. That gave us a first down with 1:07 left on the clock, with the other team out of timeouts.

  Inside our huddle, Damon, covered in mud from head to toe, said, “If we take two or three plays to punch this ball in, they won’t have any time for a comeback.”

  “That’s the plan,” I said, before calling my own uniform number. “Twelve blast, quarterback keeper.”

  I clapped my hands together, breaking the huddle. Then I approached the line and stood over Damon as he got ready to snap me the ball.

  “Blue thirty-two! Blue thirty-two!” I shouted, trying to make the defense think I’d pitch the ball to the Alachua running back wearing that number. “Hut!”

  I’m not sure what happened next. Maybe Damon got nervous and snapped the ball too soon, or maybe I pulled my hands away before I got a good grip. But the ball squirted loose. I dove to the ground, desperate to recover it. Only, it bounced off somebody’s foot, disappearing beneath a pile of players. A kid from Tallahassee came out of the pile holding the ball high, like a mud-covered trophy. Then they ran out the clock on us.

  After the game, Damon took all the blame himself.

  “I’m a moron! A fat idiot!” he said, almost in tears as he pounded his helmet against our bench. “I was too quick on the snap! I threw away our whole season!”

  I thought hard about taking some of the heat. But there were two reporters hanging around, waiting to talk to me. I knew those reporters wouldn’t mention Damon. He was just another kid on the football field. I was the one they were there to write about. And I didn’t want to chance Coach G. reading anything negative about me.

  “It happens. Just another mistake in a sloppy game,” I told Damon, trying to console him. “We’ll do better when we play for Beauchamp next year.”

  “That doesn’t change how I let this team down,” he said, hanging his head.

  I heard some other players popping off, saying things like, “Ground Round really killed us” and “Maybe his mind was on his next hamburger.”

  So I had to figure Damon heard them too. I didn’t see Damon pick his head up for a while after that. Deep down, I felt awful about not stepping up to at least share in the blame.

  @TravisG_Gator Lost today. Rain killed our passing game. Props to ALL my teammates! Great season! Next stop BHS!

  A few days later, Mom took Carter car shopping, and my brother asked me to tag along. We went down to Gainesville Motors. Alex came with us too. He was tight with the owner of the place, Walter Henry, who I’d seen in a bunch of my favorite TV commercials, playing everybody from Honest Abe Lincoln to Luke Skywalker in Car Wars. Turns outs Walter grew up playing football in Alachua, and he couldn’t wait for me to throw him some passes in the lot out back.

  “I’m sure we’ll find a car for Carter today. I’ve got plenty of good deals for Gators and their families,” said Walter, who caught almost every ball I threw his way. “But I’m also hoping I can interest Carter and Travis in doing some part-time work for me, like Alex does sometimes.”

  “I’m interested,” I said, thinking about finally having some money of my own. “What would I do, wash cars?”

  “No, nothing like that. Not for you, Travis,” Walter answered, tucking the ball beneath his arm and bringing us all into a huddle. “You could help sell cars.”

  “An eighth-grade car salesman?” Mom asked.

  “Not exactly a salesman,” said Walter. “I picture Travis greeting potential buyers. Just being himself. Being that kid who was offered a football scholarship because he’s got big talent. The same talent we’re known for here at Gainesville Motors.”

  “I’ll have to give it some real thought,” Mom said. “Travis has had a lot to handle this year. This may interfere with his studies.”

  “Of course, you’re the final word,” Walter told Mom. “Maybe we could try it out a few Saturdays.”

  “Please, Mom. My football season’s already over, so I’ve got more free time,” I said. “And it’d mean less money you’d have to give me for stuff.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. “It might be all right to try.”

  I exchanged a high five with Walter, just to hold him to his part of the deal.

  Carter didn’t seem to care one way or another about me or him working there. His only interest was getting himself a car. And he did, after Walter’s top salesman gave Mom a special price on a two-year-old silver Malibu. Carter even chipped in. I’d never known my brother to be quiet about money, but I guess he had some secret savings to use.

  * * *

  I thought the Gators had a great regular season, finishing with a record of ten wins and two losses. But Coach G. was unholy mad with the team for losing a game late in the season, costing them any chance to play for the National Championship.

  “I promise you this,” Coach G. steamed after that loss. “You’re all going to watch that title game together, to see what you threw away. I don’t care how painful it is. Then, when you see what you’ve lost as a team, you might want it bad enough next year.”

  Being second-best wasn’t anywhere in Coach G.’s mind-set. And I wanted to think that way too. The Gators had almost six weeks off before going down to Miami to play Maryland in the Orange Bowl on New Year’s Day.

  With my season finished, I started some unofficial training on Sunday mornings at the football complex with Carter, Alex, and Coach Harkey. I’d take the city bus down to the complex. Afterward, Carter would drive me home. I was glad to have that ride. Because the way Coach Harkey would push us through those workouts, I’d be too sore to walk to the bus stop, even with the slack he’d cut me.

  “You’re still maturing. I expect everybody else here to push it past the limits of exhaustion,” Harkey told me on the first day of workouts as I tightened the laces on my sneakers. “When you feel like you’re about to puke, back off. No matter what your mind tells you about wanting to compete, your body might not be ready.”

  That sign with the raised letters read BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TEARS. It didn’t mention anything about puking. I figured Harkey had to be joking. But he wasn’t.

  For exercise one, we jumped up onto a wooden box from a standing start, then back down to the floor. Over and over, with a timer set for two minutes. The height of the box was adjustable. I had mine set at almost two feet, the same as Carter. I started out nice and easy, finding a good rhythm. After a while, though, leaving the floor got harder, and my thighs began to burn.

  When the timer finally buzzed, I stopped, resting my hands on my knees and taking deep breaths.

  “Travis, that first buzzer means there’s thirty seconds left,” said Carter, who was still jumping. “You’re supposed to really push now.”

  But I could only get off one more jump.

  Alex had his box set six inches higher than ours, and he made it look easy. At the next buzzer, I tried to jump up onto his box and nearly fell flat on my face.

  After a half-minute rest, Harkey had us doing military-style pull-ups.

  “Head up, back straight!” he hollered. I struggled on the bar, with my arms beginning to burn as much as my thighs.

  When that was done, we sprinted forty yards at full speed across an indoor turf mat.

  “Jog, don’t walk!” Harkey yelled, as I headed back to the starting line.

  Next came squats at a weight station.

  “You’re going to get bigger! Stronger! Faster!” Harkey snapped at everyone. “Remember, it may be your body on the line, but it’s my reputation!”

  W
e did that full circuit of exercises three straight times. I didn’t puke, but I came close. So I decided never to eat breakfast again before one of Harkey’s workouts.

  Carter’s Take

  I was driving Travis home after the second of Coach Harkey’s Sunday workouts. Alex came along for the ride. We were more than halfway there when Alex said, “Take a left turn and then a right up at the next traffic light. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Those directions took us to South Main.

  “Park in the space out front. Ignore the signs. They don’t give tickets on Sundays around here,” Alex said as we pulled up to the sub shop his mama managed.

  “Are we eating?” asked Travis. “Because I didn’t bring any money.”

  “This is my place, my treat,” said Alex.

  A little bell rang as Alex opened the shop’s front door.

  “Look out, Mama. I brought two hungry boys with me who never tasted subs as good as yours before,” Alex said.

  The shop was long and narrow, with six or seven empty tables running from one end of it to the other.

  “My baby!” she called out. “Come here and give me some sugar!”

  Alex’s mama was short and a little older than I’d imagined, with a streak of gray running through her brown, curly hair. Her son nearly vaulted the counter to give her a big kiss on the cheek.

  “Are these some of your football brothers?” she asked, looking us over.

  “These two are practically fam,” Alex answered. “This is my roommate, Carter, and his bro, Travis.”

  “Oh, well, one of you is famous in this store,” she said, pointing up at the big menu on the wall over the counter.

  I scanned the menu, reading off the selections until my mind stopped cold.

  “Carter, look! There’s a sub named after me—a Travis G. Gator!” Travis shouted excitedly. “It’s got pepperoni, provolone cheese, spicy mustard, and dill pickle slices.”

  “It’s one of our best sellers,” Alex’s mama said as she put on a pair of clear plastic gloves.