Chapter
Thirteen
Chris Cline, September 2016
“As I’m sure you understand Mr.
Cline, issues such as this must be investigated to the best of our institution’s
ability.” Chris nodded silently, staring down at his hands, one bandaged and
obscured, the other naked and free. “Although we find competitive spirit
admirable, if the fire is not correctly stoked, more than one teammate can get
burned.”
He
looked up to face the man, sitting in a red and silver pull over. He fought to
keep his scowl hidden behind a passive and mournful demeanor. Articulate sport
metaphors were the last things Chris wanted to discuss at the moment. He had
one question he needed answered. But, despite his urgency, he was afraid to
hear the verdict. So he waited, aggravated, yet patient, hoping the man sitting
in front of him would, eventually, get to the point.
“We
would like you to tell us, in your own words, exactly what happened last Friday
night.”
Chris
took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking himself back
to Coatesville High school. “There was about three minutes left in the game,”
he recounted slowly, “and we were down four … I had just thrown an interception
…” He could see the tipped pass flying through the air. He could hear the jeers
echoing in the back of his mind. Feel the agony of his mistake …
Chris
slammed his helmet furiously against the North bench before turning back to
face the field. The Coatesville fans were jumping up and down in the bleachers,
creating a harsh reverberating clang on the metal with each bounce. There was now
just 3:25 remaining in the game and, if Coatesville could pick up a couple
first downs, the game would be over. Chris stood by the bench, too anxious to
sit, he watched Coach Groff and linebacker Jacob Naughton discuss the specifics
of the team’s defensive strategy. The tactics it would take to ensure Cline and
West Chester North had one more chance to erase the four point deficit. As both
teams repositioned themselves on their respective sides, North’s quarterback
began nervously pacing the sideline.
On
first down, Coatesville turned and gave the ball to their running back Kevin
Shank, who broke a pair of tackles before being brought down at the eighteen
yard line. It amounted to a nine yard gain. Chris swore angrily under his
breath as the ball was marked. Precious seconds continued to tick away on the
scoreboard as the crowd noise intensified. On second down, Shank finished what
he started, barreling over North’s Reese Wallace and picking up a critical
first down.
After
the play, Shank and Naughton began talking heatedly. Slowly, they walked
forward, getting in each other’s faces, until a Coatesville lineman stepped in,
pushing Naughton back as Shank continued to taunt. The referees stepped in
next, blowing their whistles and trying to maintain order. Eventually, they
forced the players to return to their sides. Meanwhile, the clock continued to tick.
Frustrated
and restless, Chris interjected a fierce kick into his pacing routine, knocking
a few precariously positioned shoulder pads from their perch. His friend and
teammate, Ernie Tyrell, was sitting on the end of the bench, his head in hands.
A few other teammates were staring blankly into space, a combination of shock
and disappointment etched on their faces. The West Chester North cheerleading
squad continued to shower their team with spirit, perhaps unaware of the
direness of its struggle.
Upon
earning a new set of downs, Coatesville rushed the ball again. Shank made a
hard cut to the outside and juked past the first layer of the North defensive front.
Sensing a big play, the crowd rose as one, watching their star running back turn
the corner and head up field. Only Naughton had any chance at stopping him from
breaking the second level. If he didn’t, Shank would have a clear line to the
end zone.
With
a herculean effort, Naughton shed his block and dove wildly at the ball
carrier. His initial dive missed, falling behind the speedy tailback, but, with
an extra lunge, he extended his right arm and tripped up Shank. Losing his
balance, the Coatesville running back stumbled and collapsed out of bounds. The
clock, mercifully, was stopped.
Jacob
popped up from the ground with a bit of swagger, recommencing his jawing with
the Coatesville players. Again Shank did not back down, this time approaching
more aggressively than before, sticking his helmet up against Naughton’s so the
two players were practically kissing. A pair of referees approached, blowing
their whistles frantically but neither player seemed interested in listening.
“Come
on Jacob, we don’t need a penalty here,” Chris muttered to himself. “Just walk
away.”
As
if in response to his urging, Naughton turned his back on the Coatesville running
back and made his way back towards the middle of the field.
“Yeah
that’s right, walk away,” Shank taunted menacingly, trotting cockily backwards,
“Walk away like a little p-” But he never had the opportunity to finish his insult.
Unable to resist any longer, West Chester North’s linebacker charged forward
and threw himself forward into a bruising tackle. Shank responded
instinctively, throwing his fist into Naughton’s body, trying to fight back. A
small brawl was breaking out as players from both sides attempted to come to
the aid of their fallen teammates.
“STAY
BACK!” Chris yelled as a few West Chester North players made to evacuate the
sidelines. “Anybody in that brawl could get ejected!” He looked up at the clock
which had remained stopped just under two minutes. “The game’s not over!”
“So
you’re telling me, you were trying to stop the fight from escalating?” the man
said skeptically. He considered Chris’s left hand for a moment. “How
admirable.”
“My
only concern,” Chris said with a twinge of anger, “was winning the game. If
that meant keeping my guys under control then so be it.” The man sat back in
his chair, eyebrows raised but silent. Chris took it as a cue to continue with his
report. “After that, the referees felt they had to do something to get control
of the game. They ejected Jacob and decided that Shank would also have to leave
the game for insti-”
“They
ejected the Coatesville running back? That hardly seems fair.”
Chris
tried to mask his frustration. “Yes,” he said slowly and deliberately, working
to keep his emotions in check, “they ejected him for instigating the fight.” He
paused and looked down at his hand. “There were many Coatesville supporters
angry about the decision as well.” Chris finished coldly.
As
the referees ushered the ejected players off in separate directions towards their
opposing locker rooms, the crowd’s screams and boos filled the air. A few fans
even threw water bottles, crushed soda bottles or other pieces of trash onto
the field. However, even in their frustration, Coatesville remained a first down
away from sealing the game. West Chester North had already had their backs
against the wall and now, to add insult to injury, they were without the
captain of the defense.
“Staltz!”
Coach Groff was frantically pacing the sidelines looking for his replacement. On
command, a timid looking sophomore stepped forward from the North bench.
“Staltz, you’re going in for Naughton! Let’s make a play out there.” Frazzled,
Staltz ran out onto the field, only to realize he had forgotten his helmet. He
turned back to the sidelines, face red, and hysterically started combing the area
for his head gear. “Come on Staltz, they’re-Cline? CLINE!”
But
Chris was unperturbed. He sprinted out to the middle of the defense, just as
Coatesville snapped the ball and started their play. The Raiders new running
back took the handoff and plunged through a hole in the middle, but the North
defense was able to corral him after just a short gain.
On
the sidelines, Coach Groff was shouting furiously at his quarterback, trying to
get him off the field. “Staltz, let’s go.” Coach Groff said, looking to his
left, expecting his sophomore linebacker to be at his hip. However, upon
Chris’s re-entry, Staltz had quickly returned to his position on the bench,
looking thoroughly relieved. “Staltz! …. McIntyre! … Somebody step up!”
Chris
looked at the sidelines and gave a casual shrug in the direction of his coach,
before returning his attention to the field. He took a quick look up at the
clock, watching the seconds tick away. Coatesville’s next offensive play would
come with about a minute to go. Even if
we manage to force a punt, we are going to have almost no time left. And
horrible field position. Looking across the line of scrimmage, Chris
focused his attention on Coatesville’s substitute running back. He was a
bigger, stockier build than Shank and yet he looked quite a bit less mature,
maybe only a sophomore. Junior at best. His eyes darted from side to side
nervously as he stood crouched in the backfield waiting for the next play to
begin.
With
the play clock approaching zero, Coatesville snapped the ball and again turned
to hand the ball off to their running back. He started towards the outside
before making a sharp cut back through the hole opened by his offensive line.
North’s Reese Wallace had positioned himself perfectly in the gap, ready to make
the tackle. The two collided, each moving at full force. The running back
continued to drive his feet, inching forward, refusing to go down, but Wallace
was slowing his progress enough to allow his teammates to join him on the
takedown.
Chris
managed to free himself from his blocker and approached quickly from the ball
carriers right side. Diving onto the pile, he punched hard at the ball, which
the Coatesville player had neglected to protect as he focused his intensity on
breaking through Wallace’s tackle. It popped free and bounced back behind him.
The few players who realized the ball was loose launched into a scrum, each
fighting desperately to recover the fumble.
A
hush fell over the previously fanatical Coatesville crowd. The only sound that
pierced the night was the referee’s whistle, blowing to signal an end to the play.
Picking bodies off the pile, the officials tried to determine who had come away
with the football. Chris wrestled himself free from the chaos, pushing himself
to his feet, never taking his eyes off the pile. Come on. Come on. We need this.
“So
you forced the fumble?”
“I-yeah.
Like I said, I punched it loose, Petrov dived on the ball and-”
“But
the official stat sheet credits the forced fumble to Reese Wallace.” He
produced a sheet of paper from his bag and handed it to Chris. He glanced at it
quickly, noticing that Wallace did indeed get credited with the fumble. That’s weird.
“Well,
whatever,” he said brushing off his confusion, “Wallace stripped the ball, Petrov dived on it and so we-”
“So
you lied? You admit that it wasn’t you who forced the fumble?”
“I
admit,” Chris replied, in a voice of forced calmness, “that I don’t care who
gets credit, all I care about is that
we got the ball back with a chance to win the game.” He took a deep breath and
waited to see if he would need to field any other questions before continuing.
After a moment of silence, he decided he was allowed to carry on.
“Once
Petrov recovered the ball, we had fifty-three sections left to cover the
remaining twenty-eight yards to the end zone. Our offense came back onto the
field with a little extra spark. Everybody was fired up. Then, I checked in
with Coach on the sidelines to get the play call …”
Chris
jogged into the huddle from the sidelines, filling in the empty space on the
perimeter. He looked around at the excited faces of his teammates. Then, with
his best attempt at confidence, he told them, “We’re running the North Texas
Stretch on three. On second down, just in case we have to get up to the line
quickly, coach said run the Liberty Pitch. Ready … br-”
“Running
plays?!” Ernie exclaimed, “There’s only fifty-three seconds left in the game!”
A few others murmured their agreement, including the team’s running back, Pete
Washington.
“We’ve
got plenty of time … I-I trust Coach,” Chris lied, looking at the play clock
exasperated, “Now come on, we’re going to get a delay of game.” He rushed his
team up to the line and called quickly for the snap. The frazzled offensive
line was dreadfully out of position as the play began and the Coatesville
defense quickly penetrated the line, crushing Chris before he could even get
the handoff to Washington. Not only was it a negative play, but the clock also
would continue to run. To make matters even worse, the Coatesville crowd came
roaring back to life.
“Let’s
go! Next play!” Chris shouted over the fervor, pushing the Coatesville defender
off him so that he could return back to the line of scrimmage. Frantically, the
team got into position for the pitch, trying to get another play off quickly,
before too many precious seconds disappeared. Chris chanced a look at the
scoreboard. Twenty-six … twenty-five …
twenty-four …
He
took the snap from under center and turned to make the pitch to Washington. He
extended it briefly, but then, hesitated and pulled it back to his body.
Instead of completing the handoff, he spun instinctively in the opposite
direction, running away from the incoming defenders and streaking towards the
far sideline. Chris sprinted as hard as he could, looking up field for
tacklers. Matthew Clayton had reacted first to his misdirection and the
Coatesville linebacker was charging towards him, ready to make a tackle.
Extending his stride to its full length, Chris barely managed to angle himself
out of bounds, just before Clayton could get to him.
Ok, he thought to himself as he
relaxed, Now how much time is le-.
But as Chris turned to look at the clock, Clayton came flying toward him,
laying a viscous late hit on the unprepared quarterback. The West Chester crowd
screamed in anger. A few members of the Coatesville student section applauded their
linebacker. Some North players came
running forward to retaliate, but Chris shouted at them to get back.
“Leave
him! We can’t lose any more players!”
“Might
as well give up, suck-eye,” Clayton said as he backed away to his sideline.
“They’ll be giving your scholarship to me after this game’s over.”
Petrov
and Mintz pulled Chris to his feet as the referees circled to discuss the
proper punishment for Clayton. The West Chester quarterback touched his back
gingerly as he walked back toward the middle of the field to join his
teammates. Finally, he got his chance to look at the clock. Seven-seconds.
Enough for perhaps just one more play.
To
the outrage of the West Chester sideline, the referees ruled that, although
Clayton’s hit warranted a fifteen-yard penalty, it was not enough to earn an
ejection from the game. The Coatesville linebacker strutted gleefully back into
position as Coach Groff argued furiously with the nearest official. Meanwhile,
the yards were stepped off and the ball was marked, placing the North offense
within ten yards of the end zone. Then, the play clock was started.
Chris
looked to the sideline for instruction, but his coach was still intensely
engaged with the ref on the sideline, nearly fifteen yards behind the new line
of scrimmage.
“Coach!”
he yelled, “COACH!” But there was no response. The opposing noise from both
sidelines was too loud for his voice to carry in the night air. He considered
running down to fetch instruction, but another glance at the play clock told
him there was not enough time. He would have to call the play himself.
Returning
confidently to the huddle, Chris instructed his teammates on his decision. The
team nodded their understanding before breaking formation to position
themselves. With a single calming breath, Chris took the snap from under center
and stepped backwards into the backfield. Here, he handed the ball off to
Washington who sprinted towards the left side of the field. Meanwhile, Chris
leaked out to the right. The Coatesville defense followed Washington aggressively,
pursuing him hungrily from all sides. But then Washington made a second hand
off, this time to Ernie Tyrell, who had come into the backfield to take the
reverse. As Ernie changed direction back to the right, the defense was slow to
react. A few tacklers lost their balance and fell down. He charged around the
outside, following his blocking and barreling towards the end zone.
Once
again, Matthew Clayton was the first to react to the unexpected ball carrier.
He turned and raced forward, his eyes glued on Tyrell. Clayton approached
rapidly, eating up the turf, but as he moved within striking distance, Chris
rushed forward to deliver a perfect block. The impact took Clayton off his
feet, sending him sprawling to the ground and opening up the final lane that
Ernie needed to break free for the touchdown.
Chris
looked up at the scoreboard for what felt like the hundredth time in the last
two minutes. Time had expired on the game clock. Then, as his stomach leaped
with joy, the score flipped to put the Away team ahead for the final time. But
his moment of ecstasy was short lived.
In
a rage brought on by the last-second touchdown, Coatesville’s Matthew Clayton
stormed back towards the end zone and ruthlessly tackled Ernie as he stood
celebrating his game-winning score. Chris reacted unconsciously, rushing
forward to try and help his friend. The pair were in a tangled wrestling match
when he arrived, desperately working to pull them apart. Coaches from both
teams were now struggling to hold back players from storming in and escalating
the brawl.
Within
the chaos, Chris managed to help Ernie roll free from Clayton’s grasp. Still
upset, Clayton lashed out aggressively, swinging his fist in the direction of
the North wide receiver. Ernie managed to dodge it, and then shifted his
weight, preparing for retaliation. But Chris got there first. Rage had bubbled
up inside him as Clayton had mercilessly attacked his friend and he could not
keep back his overflowing fury from spilling out. He punched hard at the
Coatesville linebacker’s side, expecting to meet the fleshy skin just below the
rib cage, but instead collided full force with the end of a shoulder pad. There
was a crack and a blinding wave of pain.
“And … that’s how I broke it.” Chris
finished lamely. With his story finally on the table, he knew there was nothing
left for him to do but sit and wait for a decision. He felt powerless sitting
in his chair, unable to bolster his position. They sat in silence for what
seemed like an eternity. Great, now that
I’m actually done, he decides to shut up.
Finally, the man in the red and gray
jacket elected to break the silence. “Well Mr. Cline, you have certainly put us
in a bind. Considering this hand injury will sideline you for the remainder of
the season, our only-”
“Remainder of the season?” Chris cut
in. The words tumbled from his mouth before he could control them. “The doctor
said six to eight weeks and the state playoffs-”
“Six to eight weeks until you can
get your cast removed, but there are a number of other factors in play here. It
will take time to round back into playing shape. You could have a set-back.
Your team could be eliminated before you return-”
“That won’t happen,” Again Chris
could not resist interjecting. “I’ll be ready. And my guys will get me there.
They’ve never let me down.”
The man smiled sadly, “That’s very
admirable, but if we are being at all reasonable-” Chris opened his mouth to
speak, but before he could the third man in the room spoke for the first time
since his introduction.
“If neither of you objects, I think
I can help clear things up.” He spoke with a somewhat lazy tone, but the
respect he commanded was palpable. He had the room’s full attention. “Chris, I
like your competitiveness. Your fire. Your loyalty. Our athletic director is
right to be concerned about dangerous behavior, but I don’t think that’s the case
here.” Chris’s heart was now beating through shirt. “We will continue to hold
your scholarship at Ohio State-assuming you have a plan to keep yourself in
shape until the state playoffs?” He added, looking to Chris for a response.
“Yes, I-well, I …” his mind raced
for ideas. Then a dark image of a man in a car shot to the forefront of his
mind. “I’ll be joining the cross county-er-country team here while I recover.”
He felt a trickle of sweat run from under his arms down to his waist. “In
addition to the-the lifting and film sessions.”
“Excellent,” the second man said,
getting to his feet. “Then I think we’ve got everything settled, Gene.” He
extended his hand to Chris who also rose from his chair. The man called Gene
also moved from his chair. “We will be back in the area for the state
championships at Hershey.” He flashed Chris a toothy smile. “I hope to see you
there.”
“I’ll be there, Coach Meyer.” He
gripped tight to the coach’s hand, his heart rate finally beginning to return
to its normal cadence.
“Perfect. I look forward to seeing
you on November 1st.”
Chris Cline, November 1st
2016
“Temperatures
in the low forties today, with little to no chance of rain in the forecast …
Really going to be a classic fall day, Sheena.”
“Thank
you Tom. Coming up next, this cat got himself stuck in the wrong tree. Why our
town’s political leaders are suing this proud feline … after this commercial
break.”
“Turn that crap off Chris, I’m
trying to sleep!” The boy in the bed next to him rearranged his pillow over the
back of his head, trying to block out the sound of the television.
“Sorry,” Chris mumbled
absentmindedly. He pointed the remote at the TV and it blinked into darkness.
He laid his head back on his pillow. Leaning to his right, he grabbed his phone
from the nightstand. No texts. No missed calls. He slowly cycled through his
cellular phonebook, holding it above his head as he laid flat on his back in
silent thought.
The sound of his roommate snoring
jolted him briefly from his concentration. He forced himself to roll over onto
his side and once again close his eyes. Hoping sleep would finally come.
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