1
“Twelve is taken. Make the team and then you can worry about a number. But you aren’t going to get twelve.”
Alex Myers was standing in front of the equipment cage in the locker room at Chester Heights High School. School didn’t open for another week, but football season began on the last Friday in August, so tryouts and practice started early. Alex had two days to show the coaches that a freshman should be practicing with the varsity.
The school had more than two thousand students, so it also had a junior varsity team. But the JV team played only four games and didn’t start practice until mid-September. Alex wanted no part of that. Plus, he knew he was good enough to play for the varsity. In fact, his plan was to start for the varsity.
His plan, however, was not going well.
As instructed, he had reported to the equipment cage at nine o’clock to be issued a jersey, uniform pants, pads, and a helmet. All of these were on loan for the two days of tryouts. Players were told to bring their own cleats. There were about a dozen kids in line in front of the cage when Alex arrived. Most of the other kids knew one another, so they were talking while they waited. No one seemed to even notice he was there, except for the tall, gangly African American kid standing right behind him.
“You look like you’re new too,” he said, putting his hand out. “I’m Jonas Ellington.”
“Alex Myers,” Alex said, grateful that he wasn’t actually invisible. “Yeah, I am new. Where are you from?”
“New York. My dad got a job down here in January. My mom, sisters, and I moved at the start of the summer. What about you?”
“Boston. I just got here last week with my mom and sister. . . . My parents are getting a divorce. My mom has family in Philly, so she decided she wanted to be close to them. I’d rather be back in Boston, close to my friends. But I didn’t get a vote.”
Jonas shook his head. “Dude, I’m sorry about that. I have friends whose parents have split and I know it’s rough. Do you know anybody down here?”
“You,” Alex said, and they both laughed. “And my cousins, but they’re six and four.”
“Well, you got me,” Jonas said. “What position you play?”
“Quarterback,” Alex said. “I can play DB too, but at a school this big I doubt too many guys play both ways.”
Jonas made a face. “You might want to think about honing those DB skills. The starting quarterback is the coach’s son. Unless he gets hurt, no one is taking a snap but him.”
Hearing this bit of news, Alex felt something turn in his stomach. He decided to change the subject--at least for the moment.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re a wideout.” Jonas was about six two and probably didn’t weight much more than 150 or 160. If he played anyplace else, he was likely to get broken in half.
“You got it,” Jonas said. “I can play corner too if they want because I’m fast. But I’m thinking you’ll be throwing to me a lot the next couple days.”
“Works for me,” Alex said as they reached the front of the line. That was when he made the mistake of asking for number 12. He was handed a jersey with 23 on it and started to turn back to point out that wasn’t a quarterback’s number. But when he saw the glare on the old equipment man’s face, he thought better of it.
“In case you’re wondering,” Jonas said as he accepted his gear from the man in the cage, “the guy who wears twelve is--”
Alex put his hand up. “You don’t even have to tell me,” he said. “The starting quarterback.”

A few minutes later, Alex found out the quarterback’s name--or at least his last name: Gordon. When the fifty or so kids who had shown up for the tryouts jogged from the locker room to the practice field, they were greeted by a half dozen coaches, one of whom was clearly in charge.
“Everyone take a knee,” the coach-in-charge said.
Alex put his helmet on the ground in front of him and leaned one hand on it, noticing that everyone else did the same. Jonas was right next to him.
“I’m Coach Gordon,” the coach-in-charge said. “I’ve been the varsity coach here at Chester Heights for fourteen years. And this is Coach Merton.” He turned to an older, shorter man whose face seemed stuck in a permanent scowl. “Coach Merton is our junior varsity coach. A few of you will make the varsity, but most of you will end up playing for Coach Merton.
“We have forty-one varsity players returning from last season. They will all be here starting Thursday. This is your chance to show us that you deserve to play with the big boys this season.
“After we watch you play and drill the next two days, we’ll post two lists in the locker room on Wednesday. The first list will be those who make varsity. My guess is we’re talking no more than five of you. We played in the state semifinals last season and we have fourteen starters back from that team--so we already have a rock-solid group.
“The second list will be players guaranteed a spot on the JV. If you are on that list, you’ll report for the first JV practice on September. . . .” He paused and turned to the scowling coach. “Remind me what day it is, Coach Merton?”
“September fourteenth. The first JV game is September twenty-fourth.”
“Right,” Coach Gordon said. “If you are not on the second list and you want to take another crack at making the JV, Coach Merton will have another tryout once school starts.
“Everyone with me?”
They all sort of nodded, which apparently wasn’t good enough.
“First lesson of Chester Heights football, boys,” the coach said. “When I ask a question, there are two answers: Yes sir or No sir. If the answer is No sir, you stand up and tell me why the answer is no--or if you don’t understand something, ask me to explain it. That goes for every coach on this field too. Everyone understand?”
This time they all shouted back. “Yes sir!”
Alex glanced at Jonas, who shook his head just a tiny bit and was clearly thinking the same thing: were these tryouts for the football team or the Marines?

A few minutes later, after they had been led through a series of stretching exercises by a strength coach whose name Alex didn’t hear, they were told to report to their position coaches.
“You may think you’re a two-way player, but chances are you won’t be--and definitely not for the next two days,” Coach Gordon said. “Decide what you think your best position is and report to that coach as I introduce him.”
When he introduced Coach Hillier, he said that quarterbacks and wide receivers should report to him under the south goalpost. Alex was relieved when Coach Hillier started walking.
“Did you have any clue which way was south?” Jonas said softly as they and about a dozen others followed Hillier.
Alex grinned. It was good to not be the only new kid. “I figured it was the way the coach was walking,” he answered, and they both laughed quietly.
Once they were all assembled, Coach Hillier, who looked to be the youngest coach on the field, surprised Alex by not telling them all to take a knee. When he spoke, his voice was much less of a bark than that of either Coach Gordon or the strength coach.
“Okay, fellas, let’s start by getting to know each other a little bit. I’m Tom Hillier, and in real life I teach English literature and I also help out with the weekly student newspaper. I probably won’t be able to memorize all your names in the next couple days, but I’ll give it a shot. So let’s go around the circle here and each of you can tell us your name and what position you intend to play.”
There were fifteen of them in all: ten who said they were receivers, four who said they were quarterbacks, and one who introduced himself by saying, “I’m Tellus Jefferson and I’m a pretty good quarterback. But I know I’m not taking playing time from Matthew Gordon Junior, so I’ll catch passes from him if that will get me on the field.”
It was the first time Alex heard the star quarterback’s name. Matthew Gordon. Senior was the coach. Junior was the quarterback. And Alex was the new kid in town, with exactly one friend.

The good news was that his one friend could clearly play.
Coach Hillier had each quarterback throw eleven passes apiece--one to each receiver, since Tellus Jefferson opted to catch rather than throw. First he had the receivers run simple down-and-in routes of no more than ten yards. Then there were out patterns to the sidelines--comeback routes where they ran straight downfield for about fifteen yards, stopped, and then came back toward the quarterback.
These throws were easy for Alex. Coach Hillier had told the four QBs to not put everything they had on their passes--he wanted them to get their arms loose before they threw anything with real zip. For a few minutes, Alex forgot about the snarling equipment man and the drill-sergeant coach and lost himself in the pleasure of throwing the football.
He could still remember the first time he’d talked his father into playing catch with him with a baseball. He was six. His dad had stood a few yards away and said, “Okay, son, show me what you’ve got.”
Alex had unleashed a hard peg that his dad caught, but he staggered backward a little as it hit his glove. Alex could still see the surprised look on his face. His dad moved back and Alex whipped the ball to him again. By the time they found a comfortable spot, Alex’s dad was at least twice as far away as he had been starting out. He could still hear his father telling his mom, “Linda, I think we may have an athlete on our hands. Your son’s got a gun on him.”
He could also still see his mother putting her hands on her hips and saying, “A gun? I thought you were playing catch.”
“An arm, Linda, an arm. Alex has an amazing arm.”
Those were happier days, before his dad stopped coming home for dinner every night because he didn’t want to fight traffic from downtown Boston to Billerica during rush hour. It was also before his parents started arguing about how much his dad was working and how little time he seemed to have for his family.
Not focusing on what he was doing, Alex put a little more on his next throw than he needed to and he could see the receiver shaking his hands in pain after he had dropped the ball.
“Easy, Alex,” Coach Hillier said softly. “No need to show off just yet.”
Throwing had always been easy for Alex, whether it was a baseball, a football, or even a basketball. Now, with Coach Hillier feeding him one ball after another, he felt completely comfortable and he knew, even not putting that much into it, that he was throwing the ball harder and more accurately than the other three quarterback hopefuls.
He could also tell that Jonas was the best of the receivers. His cuts were sharper, his long legs covered the ground easily, and the ball seemed to disappear into his hands when he caught it. When one of the other quarterbacks threw a ball high and wide on a stop-and-go pattern, Jonas simply reached above his head with his left hand, gathered the ball into his body, and made a virtually impossible catch look easy.
“Nice catch, Jonas!” Coach Hillier shouted.
The coach was catching on to the names quickly. At least, Alex hoped, the ones that mattered.
After they had gone through several rounds, Coach Hillier said, “Okay, QBs, I only want you to make three throws the next round--except for you, Winston.” He turned to the smallest of the four quarterbacks, who’d struggled to make the simplest throws. “You just take the last two, okay? Since we’ve only got eleven receivers.” Winston nodded. No doubt he knew already that he would be lucky to make the JV list.
Coach Hillier told the receivers he wanted them to run straight fly patterns--running straight down the field as fast as they could. “When you get to the 35, check to see if the ball is in the air,” he said. “QBs, your target is between the 40 and the 45.”
Each receiver lined up on the goal line. Luke Mattson made the first three throws for the quarterbacks. All three of his passes wobbled in the air, and the receivers had to slow up to wait for them to come down at about the 38. Jake Bilney was next. He did better. His throws were accurate, but he had to kind of hoist them in the air to get them near the 45.
Alex stepped up. He noticed that Coach Hillier had Jonas ninth in line, meaning he would be Alex’s third and last receiver. Alex took the toss that Coach Hillier was making to start each play--sort of a standing snap--then dropped back a couple steps and easily targeted the 45-yard line, the ball dropping gently into the receiver’s hands. Coach Hillier looked at him and just said, “Nice,” in a voice so soft Alex was pretty sure he was the only one who could hear it.
It was the second compliment he’d given--the first being to Jonas for the one-handed catch.
Alex’s second throw was a copy of the first, except that the receiver dropped the ball.
“Good throw,” Coach Hillier said, as if to let him know that he had known the ball was where it was supposed to be.
Alex smiled as Jonas lined up to go out for his third throw.
“Okay if we send him a little deeper?” Alex said.
Coach Hillier smiled. “Sure.” He turned to Jonas. “Don’t look back until you get to the 45.” Turning back to Alex, he said, “That far enough for you, ace?”
Alex didn’t know if the ace reference was sarcastic or not, so he just nodded.
Jonas sprinted downfield as Alex took his three-step drop. When Jonas crossed the 40, Alex stepped up and released the ball. It left his hand in a tight spiral just as Jonas began to look over his shoulder for it. He ran under it and gathered it in as if the ball had been dangling at midfield, waiting for him.