Lopez begins calling out jersey numbers. “Eleven, eighty-six, eighty-three, nineteen, eighty-one, eighty-two, fifteen, eighty-five, and…” He pauses for dramatic effect before saying, “Eighty-eight.”
There are cheers at that last number, and the kid gets helmet slaps and high-fives from most of the guys. A few grumbles sound off as well, but even the players who got cut stop to congratulate eighty-eight.
All the players are still wearing helmets, so I have no idea who he is, but he seems to be well-liked. He and Tyrell were definitely the fastest in the sprints, and neither missed any balls thrown today. Lopez and I were duly impressed.
“Okay, Coach Lopez is going to assign you a position, and we’re going to run a diamond sweep pass.” Then I add sternly, “You should be familiar with that if you studied the playbook.” Helmets bob in the affirmative.
An hour later, I’m feeling a lot more hopeful. Tyrell and the mystery player were the standouts in every single play we ran. Long routes, short routes, they excelled at everything.
“Hey, Lopez. Who is eighty-eight?”
He consults his clipboard, running his finger down the sheet of kids who signed up, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, Ashton, one of the team managers, runs up, his face red with exertion.
“Coach Cooper,” he wheezes, “Coach Jones needs you at the practice field. One of the freshmen hurt his leg.”
“Thanks, Ashton,” I tell the young man. “I’ll head over. Go get the trainer and tell him to meet me there.”
Thirty minutes later, the trainer has determined it’s only a sprain, but I called the boy’s mother anyway before heading back to my future varsity players. As I approach, I see that Coach Lopez has brought some defenders in to play against the receivers. Number eighty-eight is running a long post route, being defended by Rafferty, the best and fastest cornerback we have. As a junior last year, he led the team in interceptions, and from the angle, it looks like he’s going to pick off this ball.
Then, to my shock, the receiver zips past Rafferty, snags the ball mid-stride, and beats him to the end zone. I make my way toward my offensive coordinator as they run the same play again. This time Thompson overthrows number eighty-eight, but he leaps into the air and snags the ball with one hand before bringing it securely to his chest.
Good god! The athleticism of this kid is phenomenal, I think as I break into a jog and find Coach Lopez with a joyful smile on his face.
“Goddamn, did you see that, Coop? That had to be at least a twenty-eight inch vertical.”
“I saw. What did you say that kid’s name was again?”
“McNamara,” he replies before calling for another receiver to run the same play.
“McNamara, McNamara,” I muse, running the name through my internal database. “That really smart guy? I didn’t think he played sports.”
Lopez shakes his head. “No, you’re thinking about Xander. He graduated last year. This one is named Jordan.” He shrugs. “I don’t know who he is. Lainey handled the signups this year while we were at the state track meet in Austin.”
I smile at the mention of my wife, Lainey. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Eighty-eight!” I call, gesturing to the student to come to the sideline. He jogs with an athletic ease that has me wanting to rub my hands in glee. Our season is certainly looking up. I hand him a cup of Gatorade and tell him to take a knee.
“Good job out there, McNamara. Did you just move here?” I ask.
“No, sir. I’ve gone to school at Pine Tree Falls all my life,” the kid says, pulling off his helmet.
Wait…
Hold the damn phone…herhelmet?
“Jordie?” I ask, recognizing the junior from around school.
She nods, her long, blonde ponytail now bobbing down her back. “Yes, sir.” She takes a sip of her sports drink and looks up at me expectantly.
Lopez and I share a long, dumbfounded look before I kneel down in front of her.
“Your form said Jordan.”
“Yes, sir. That’s my given name, but I’ve always gone by Jordie.”
“Okay, makes sense. What are you doing here?”
“Trying out for the football team, Coach Coop,” she replies easily.
