Matt felt anger boiling inside him, anger at the injustice of it all. He clenched his jaw to bottle it in, breathed through his nostrils. He prided himself on being good with math, yet he was the one who had not added correctly: 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 4.
1. He was male and presumed heterosexual.
+
1. He had missed Wednesday’s practice, which had to be because of a girl (see above).
+
1. Ruth was at the game with a poster linking her to him, ergo she was his mystery girlfriend.
+
1. Ruth’s poster. The only person who could “let” Mustang run was Coach.
=
4. Matt was the hidden puppeteer pulling the strings, getting his girlfriend to pressure Coach to give him gametime. Because, hey, everyone knew that girlfriends always did what their boyfriends wanted.
What Matt wanted to do was protest his innocence. He knew that doing so now would only dig the hole deeper. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Coach walked away without another word.
Soon the whistle blew, and the second half began. Within minutes Saints scored again. MCU’s defense was a shambles.
Matt shouted encouragement to the Sparrows. It was all he could do. He worried whether Coach would ever forgive him for Ruth’s poster.
It was Roger who called Matt’s attention to a new development at the bleachers.
Matt looked—and listened. Someone, a woman, stood in front of the bleachers, facing the crowd, leading them in a call and response chant. Simon Sparrow stood beside the woman, motioning for the crowd to chant louder. Matt couldn’t discern the words at first, but he recognized the woman leading the chant.
It was Debbie!
Coach stomped over to the bench. “Idabel! Get your butt out there and replace Caleb! And try to block the ball, dammit!”
Matt leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders scrunched, hoping to be invisible, hoping he was not hearing the word “Mustang” being shouted by the crowd. But he was.
It went like this:
Debbie: “Who do we want?”
Crowd:“MUSTANG!”
Debbie: “When do we want him?”
Crowd:“NOW!”
Coach cocked his head towards the bleachers, listening to the chant. His face turned red with anger. “MUSTANG!” he yelled.
“Yes sir?” Matt avoided eye contact.
“You got your mother in on the act too?” Coach asked incredulously. He did not wait for an answer because, obviously 4 + 1 = 5. “I’m letting your ass run for now. You’d better score. But be advised: for this stunt you’re cleaning the locker room for a month. Fishing pubic hairs out of the drains. Scrubbing the toilets. Mopping up splashed piss. Washing the towels. Now, get out there and replace Scott.”
Matt ran onto the field, troubled by Coach’s words. Not the locker room cleaning part, although that would be disgusting. What bothered him was Coach’s assumption that Debbie was his mom when in fact his mom was too ashamed of him to drive thirty minutes to watch him play.
Matt did not blame Debbie for her enthusiasm and support. She had stepped up to fill an absent mom’s shoes.
Seeing Matt on the field, Debbie joined the spectators in a loud cheer.
