Isaiah Moorhouse walked out toward the bus. The thought of the conversation with his father that morning dominated his thoughts. The usual speech about how he had to play his heart out. How he had to play better than Tracy Knight. He’d heard the same old speech from his dad every game day for the past four years. The fact that his dad and Knight’s dad had played ball together in college at
He couldn’t ever say, “Good game, son.” Isaiah had heard the speech one time too many. He’d walked around with a chip on his shoulder all day. He had even blown up at his girlfriend, Lauren Parsons. He felt pretty horrible about that, she hadn’t deserved any of that.
Things didn’t get any better when Isaiah got on the bus. He tried to sit up front with the rest of the starters, but Knight pulled rank.
“This seat is reserved for receivers who can catch the ball,” Knight scoffed. He wobbled as the bus lurched into motion.
Isaiah swung his gear onto the seat in front of Knight. “I do catch the ball.”
“Practice don’t mean shit Moorhouse,” Knight reached over, snatched Isaiah’s pads and threw them into the aisle. “Sit in the back with the Jayvees.”
Isaiah hesitated, then scooped up his pads and strode all the way to the back of the bus. He threw someone’s pads into the aisle in front of him and sat down. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids hard. He sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of the team, especially now that they were on their way to the game with no escape from the taunting if someone saw him.
Isaiah pressed his face to the glass stared out one of the rear bus windows at the cars racing past on the freeway. It was about
“Twenty minutes until we get there,” he breathed. The head coach insisted that the bus ride to the game be completely silent. Helps the team focus, he said, or some other bullshit like that. Isaiah didn’t really buy into all of Coach Warner’s “motivational techniques.” Humiliating a player, or busting them down with up downs after practice, anything to move credit for the wins off the player’s shoulders and onto Coach’s. He flipped his CD player over, it was the only sound he’d hear the whole ride. Isaiah shifted again and skipped to the next song, DMX, to distract himself and concentrate on the game. Well, he was freed from every thought but one.
“Knight’s a bastard,” Isaiah said, glancing up at the front. “I should be up there with them.” He stared at the intricate pattern of cornrows on the back of Tracy Knight’s head.
Isaiah ran a hand through his nappy afro and scraped his fingernails across his scalp, like he was trying to rake his brain.
The bus jerked to a stop and Isaiah looked up toward the front of the bus and stuffed his CD player into his bag. Coach Warner stood up, tucking his paunch into his belt. “Alright, everybody into the locker room!”
Twenty minutes later, Isaiah streaked out on a post pattern. He burned the corner with fancy footwork and turned to find the ball. The wobbly spiral hit him right in the numbers—and bounced down onto the turf. Isaiah cursed. A Third down and a dropped pass—time to punt. He jogged back to the huddle,. As he took his spot, Knight piped up. “That’s one, chicken-shit.”
It was going to be a long night.
The time ticked steadily toward half. Less than a minute to go, and Isaiah had two more dropped passes, one of them a tip that the Wolves had returned for their only score of the game.
“Goddammit Moorhouse, if you drop the ball you can at least not tip it to the other fucking team!” Knight said when the offense took the field after the kickoff. Easy for Knight to criticize, he had three touchdowns. The play came in with Rowe: 232 counter boot at eight. Finally, Isaiah had a chance to redeem himself. Coach Warner apparently thought that the running backs deserved a break after such a good performance.
Isaiah jogged out to the line. He kept his eyes on the ball, and sprinted off the line when it snapped. Isaiah weaved his route expertly and found himself wide open downfield, looking up though the blinding white lights, searching for the spinning football in the dark sky. He glanced over his shoulder, looking for the ball. All he had to do was catch the ball and then . . . Touchdown! He blinked a bead of sweat off his eyelash, finally saw Jared Rowe’s prefect spiral and swore because he hadn’t run hard enough to catch it. He kicked hard the last five yards, and dove, hands out, stretching—but the ball smacked off his fingers while he hit the turf hard, raising a small cloud of rubber dust. Isaiah spit the rubber out of his mouth. He didn’t want to get up. He knew he would get chewed out for missing his fourth catch that night. He sighed, choking back a sob and pushing himself to his knees before climbing to his feet. His dad was watching and he just blew it—again! He knew Tracy Knight was waiting to lay into him. He slowly tucked his red and white number 1 jersey back into his shiny white pants. He didn’t feel like a number one.
Sure enough, soon as he reached the huddle, Knight shoved his oddly colored blue eyes into Isaiah’s grill and rapped the back on his helmet. “Way to go, chicken-shit, you can’t even catch it when you open!” Knight sneered and spread his palms. “That’s number four!” Knight grinned, perfect white teeth in a light brown face. He grabbed the collar off his number 33 jersey and flipped it toward Isaiah’s face, tipping his helmet down so Isaiah could get a good look at his pride stickers, a gesture of seniority, and Isaiah knew it. Although he was five or six inches shorter than Isaiah, he more than made up for it in weight. But that didn’t slow Knight, who also ran track, and had won the hundred meter dash the year before. Isaiah, finishing in fifth place, was stuck playing second fiddle to Knight in track too.
Isaiah fiddled with his gloves and took his spot in the huddle right next to Knight. “You ain’t got nothing to say to me, dog,” he muttered, choking back another sob and blinking his eyes against the tears. He didn’t hold a candle to the tailbacks in importance to the offense, as the Pirates were a running team. He also couldn’t hold a candle to them, at least not to Knight, in ego either.
“What you mean I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, Moorhouse? You musta busted your head on that play, son!” Knight latched onto Isaiah’s facemask and yanked him down the five-inch difference in their heights, and his eyes burned into Isaiah’s. “You drop another third down pass and we’ll be doin’ a three-legged hop to the hospital at half time to get my foot out your black ass!”
Isaiah had had enough. “Get off me, fool!” he said. He pushed Knight backwards into Lance Thompson.
Thompson turned and grabbed Knight by the pads. Knight spat at Isaiah and broke Thompson’s grip easily. Thompson reached up to wipe a blond bang out of his green eyes. He looked Isaiah in the eye; Isaiah slumped but held his gaze. Knight straightened and stared Thompson right back. “You two gonna run your holes all night or play ball?” Thompson asked, and a few of the big linemen in front of them growled and grunted.
Isaiah bit his lip and looked down. He couldn’t cry now. His dad probably saw it all. He snapped his head up when he heard Rowe’s voice barking orders, and caught the last half of the play call. “—Alright, twins right, Hail Mary on two. Twins righ—”
“Fuck that!” Knight spat with a glance in Isaiah’s direction. “Fourth down, Rowe, and I know just what to throw at those pussies over there—the 144 reverse, they won’t know what the hell hit ‘em.”
Rowe bobbed his head. “Alright, your call, Tracy, you’d better bust this for at least ten yards, I don’t give a shit if there’s only ten seconds left until half, if you can’t take it all the way you’d better get out of bounds Trace. If I change the play and it gets blown up it’s my ass!”
“I got you,” Knight said.
Isaiah let a soft smile show on his face at Knight’s arrogance, then he focused on the play.
“Block your asses off, guys,” Rowe said as he leaned over the linemen. “Wing Formation, 144 reverse on set . . .”
Isaiah stuffed his mouthpiece in and split out to the weak side of the line, sizing up his blocking assignment, the outside backer. Number 55, the linebacker wasn’t even looking at him, focused instead on Thompson, lined up in the halfback position. Isaiah was glad it was a run and he couldn’t mess the play up, well, not unless he didn’t block. He checked to make sure he was on the line, and then glanced at the bald man in the leather jacket standing just beyond the fence. He also looked to the stands behind the man, where a blond girl in a black number 1 jersey clapped and cheered. He smiled and glanced back down at the man before focusing again. At least his dad could see him block like a star.
“Set!” Rowe barked as the center snapped the ball.
Isaiah ran toward number 55, and hit him at full speed, catching him off balance and knocking him down. He snapped his head around and saw Knight cutting hard to the outside off tackle to get around the unblocked defensive end. He was going to get trapped between the corner and the end. Isaiah could have sprung him for a big run if he just blocked that dude, but it might serve Knight well to get stuffed. Isaiah ran at the defensive end full speed. The end never saw what hit him as Isaiah caught him in the side of the helmet and sent him rolling along the turf. Isaiah rolled up with a whoop and watched Knight launch into the much smaller cornerback full speed. No contest, at least forty pounds in his favor, Knight bowled the defender over without losing a step.
Isaiah raised his hands to signal touchdown, watching Knight showcase his speed in a nearly uncontested footrace into the red turf. Knight stopped in the end zone, turned around and pointed the ball at Isaiah, pumping his fist before tossing it to the official. Isaiah spared a quick glance at his father, who nodded. Isaiah sprinted off into the end zone to smack Knight’s hand as the siren blew two long sustained notes.
At the beginning of the second half Isaiah and Knight burst onto the field side by side. They jumped and whooped, taking the center position as the team pressed into a big circle, screaming and butting heads.
The wall at the center of the press opened up and Rowe stepped through, carrying his helmet. He ran a hand through his straight black hair, then pulled the helmet over his head. He held up his fist. “Alright boys, the score is thirty-five, seven!” he announced. The team exploded. “But we’ve only played twenty-four minutes of football, boys! We kicked their ass the first half, and if we’re not careful they might come back!”
“Hell no!” came a voice from the back.
“That’s right! We’re gonna show these fools that the first half was a warm-up!” Rowe shoved his fist into the air. “Bring it in! We’re gonna make them wish they quit playin’ football at the first half. This may be their stadium, but it’s the Pirates’ house tonight!”
The team crushed in on the center spot, sweeping Isaiah in so he was face to face with Rowe, who winked and cried, “Pirates!” Isaiah and the rest of the team yelled, “Pirates!” so loud that Isaiah wouldn’t have known his voice was among those cheering if it weren’t for his raw throat. He pressed along with the team to the visitor’s sideline. When he reached the water cooler, a heavy weight slammed onto his back, nearly dropping him.
“Way to block back on that last play,” Knight said, dropping off Isaiah’s back and slapping him on the rear. He stuck out his hand, looking Isaiah in the eye when he clasped it. “I know I wouldn’t have busted that shit back there if it wasn’t for you. I appreciate it, dog. We cool?”
Isaiah hesitated, then slapped Knight’s butt and grinned. “Yeah, we cool.”
“That’s good, now we actin’ like teammates,” Knight smiled, breaking the handshake and stuffing his helmet on. The ref’s whistle sounded, and Knight offered a cursory wave to Isaiah, then turned and ran out to take his spot on the kick return team.
Behind the fence Isaiah could see his father standing in the exact same spot, but with a look on his face Isaiah couldn’t exactly read. He’s not disappointed, Isaiah thought, and then it hit him. He hadn’t seen that look in a very long time. “He’s proud,” Isaiah said, hardly daring to believe. His dad’s expression darkened when he noticed Isaiah staring at him. He pointed back out to the field, his lips moving. Isaiah caught the message and whipped his head around in time to catch the kickoff.
The Wolves’ kicker launched the ball into the air, a deep kick that threatened to go into the end zone. Knight caught it leaning backward on one foot to avoid the touchback and sprinted up into the wedge. Isaiah lost sight of him for a second, and thought he had been tackled. Then Knight burst out of a press of defenders at the thirty-yard line, dragging one from his right leg as he rumbled forward.
“Fight ‘em off, Knight!” Isaiah cheered, cupping his hands in front of his face like a bullhorn. Knight slipped the defender and took a beeline down the sideline at the forty. He fought for yardage before being shoved out of bounds right in front of where Isaiah stood. The Wolves’ thirty-eight yard line.
“Lets go, O!” Isaiah cried as he bounced out to the sideline. “Thirty-eight yards! We a hop, skip, and a jump away from six points!”
The offense congregated seven yards back from the ball. Knight staggered up, breathing heavily, amidst smacks and words of congratulations. Knight exhaled and spoke up. “Rowe, I can’t run this play, man, I’m tired as hell.”
“That’s alright, Trace, you and your four touchdowns get a rest this down,” Rowe said, clapping Knight on the pads and stepping in front of the huddle. “We’re passing this play—coach wants a one-play strike to the end zone!”
Isaiah’s head popped up. Rowe had the fire in his eyes. “Let’s do it,” he said, his own gaze matching Rowe’s. He tightened the last snap on his chinstrap. “I’m ready.”
“Trace, all you gotta do is block on this play,” Rowe said. He motioned for the linemen to duck their heads and leaned forward. “Flexbone, slot right, 221 bootleg on three! Flexbone, slot right, 221 bootleg, on three! Ready? Break!”
Isaiah took his spot, split out wide to the right side of the formation. He looked across the line at the defender, who backed off another two yards. You’d best respect my speed, mused Isaiah. He tightened the straps on his gloves, listening carefully to Rowe’s cadence.
“Down . . . set . . . hut! Hut! Hut!”
Isaiah ran out ten yards, then stopped, and cut back hard, hands up to catch the pass that wasn’t there. Turning just long enough to see Rowe’s pump fake, he cut back downfield and sprinted down the sideline past the faked-out defensive back. Isaiah turned back to find the ball already on its way, a wobbly spiral that he had to adjust his route to catch. The ball hit his hands just like before, but this time Isaiah cradled it softly, tucking it under his arm. He ran outside, toward the corner of the end zone. The safety came in hard. Isaiah leapt toward the pylon in the corner of the end zone, the ball outstretched. The safety slammed into him like a wrecking ball, a devastating blow that sent him flying toward the sideline. Out of bounds, Isaiah managed to wedge the ball inside the pylon, knocking it over. He rolled to a stop, ball still in his hand, and a throbbing pain in his side.
He propped himself up on his elbow, glancing back. The referee raised both arms on either side of his head. Touchdown! Isaiah fell back to the turf, dropped the ball and brought a hand up to wipe the tears from his eyes. So what if he dropped four balls, his first catch of the game was a touchdown! He leapt to his feet and raised his hand, his index finger pointing skyward. He ran back to the sideline. Knight bounded up to him, embracing him in a crunch of plastic.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! That’s number one, baby!” he said. “You just getting started tonight—this is your half, cuz!”
Isaiah caught Knight’s open palm in a high five. “You damn right!” he said. “Second half is my time!” His eyes found his father’s again, and this time Nestor Moorhouse was clapping. He called out again, and this time Isaiah heard.
“Nice catch, son!”
Twenty-three minutes later, fourth quarter, the Pirates had increased their lead fifty-six to ten. The game was pretty much over over, but Isaiah wanted to make one last statement. He cut confidently toward the sideline on a short pattern. The ball streaked toward his outstretched hands, and caught it with a soft thud, tucking it and shaking off a weak tackle by the defender. He dashed forward ten yards before a flying tackler knocked him out of bounds.
He grabbed the hand in front of his face to climb to his feet. His helper was Knight, still fired up. “Nice catch, homie! What’s that, six in a row?” Knight said with a grin.
Isaiah tossed the ball to the referee and joined the team. Rowe winked at Isaiah before he announced the play: “Wing right, 228 boot at nine on two. Isaiah, watch for the ball on the post-corner!”
Isaiah jogged out to the left side of the formation, sizing up the small corner lined up five yards in front of him. He looked down his nose at the defender, who wasn’t even six feet tall. I own this guy, he thought, grinning. When Rowe called out the second “hut,” Isaiah snapped forward, sprinted ten yards, then cut a forty-five degree angle inside. The defender shadowed him without losing a step. On his fifth step inside, Isaiah planted his knee and cut hard at the same angle back outside. The ball was in the air as he turned around, hands up, and thudded into his gloves with a smack. He put a quick juke on the corner and turned up the sideline toward the end zone. He scanned inside and saw the safety headed toward him at an angle sure to stop him short of a score. He also saw another shadow moving parallel to the safety, one that the single-minded defender didn’t notice.
He cut back inside, sprinting full speed for the red turf. The safety mirrored his move, turning back inside—and ran headlong into Knight, who had come across the field on a post route. The safety went down hard, and Isaiah cut up again inside Knight, high-stepping into the red as time expired.
Isaiah jumped up and slammed the ball over the top of the goal post like a basketball. The officials didn’t even bother to flag the offense, they just signaled the end of the game.
Isaiah ran back toward midfield to join the press of his teammates as they sang the West High fight song all the way back to their bus. Even though he wouldn’t get a chance to wash the stink off until the team got back home, he stopped at the gate for a quick kiss from Lauren when she ran up to him.
“Good job, baby,” she said. She jumped up and wrapped him in a tight embrace. “I’ll be waiting later tonight.” She dropped down out of the hug, her lips brushing against his cheek.
Isaiah returned her kiss and walked toward the bus. He tried to step inside when a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder pads, yanking him down from the steps. He looked around into his father’s face.
“Hey dad,” he said with a weak wave.
His father’s hand descended on his shoulder with a crunch. “Nice work today, son,” he said.
Isaiah’s cheeks grew hot. He dropped his gaze and said, “It was alright.”
His dad raised his chin to look into his eyes, smiling. “Three touchdowns is more than alright, son.”
Isaiah shook his head sheepishly. “Knight had four. I thought you wanted me to do better than him,” he said, and shrugged.
His father pulled him into an embrace. “You played your heart out, son. You did your old man proud.” His father released him. “I’ll see you at home.”
Tears pricking at his eyes for the last time that night, Isaiah climbed the steps to the bus. He took a seat behind Knight in the front, exchanging high fives with his teammates. He looked out the window, catching a glimpse of his father weaving his way though the crowd.
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