questioning my decision?”
“Yeah, we are,” Eli said. He was tired of being threatened by Coach. “Darnell is twice the quarterback I am.”
“And Jamal can outcatch me any time,” Malik said. “They should be starting on offence, not us.”
Coach’s head bulged. Veins popped out of his neck. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Anybody else have something to say? Anybody else want to tell me how to run the team? My team?”
Jamal stepped forward. “That’s just it, Coach. It’s not your team—it’s our team.”
“Oh, is it?” Coach Fort asked. “Is it your twenty thousand dollars?”
“No,” Jamal said, shaking his head.
“Is the equipment yours?”
“No.”
“How about the uniforms?”
“I guess not.”
“I didn’t think so.” Coach Fort pointed his thumb back at himself. “Without me, you wouldn’t have a team. You wouldn’t have a reason for going to this crappy school. And you wouldn’t have a future. The only place you’d be going is off to join a gang. Or back to jail. So you’ll do what I tell you to do. What have you got to say to that?”
Jamal stood nose to nose with Coach Fort. He glared right back at him. He wasn’t afraid of his power any longer. “I’d say we don’t want you to be Coach anymore.”
“Weren’t you listening to me?” asked Coach Fort, cupping his ear with his hand. “I own you. Now get out on that field right now before I kick you off the team.”
Jamal gave a thin smile and nodded. “Okay, Coach, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
The Rexdale Rams were already on the field. Their red-and-black uniforms were spread across the turf as the team warmed up. Jamal led the Saints blue-and-gold onto the gridiron to join them.
He scanned the field, searching for something as he ran. His secret weapon. He moved past the stands, where Coach Kemp sat watching the game like he always did. Jamal didn’t see it. He smiled at the Saints cheerleaders dancing on the sideline. He didn’t spot it there either. Finally, he approached the Southside bench and saw what he was looking for—the TV crew from The Sports Channel . The reporter and cameraman were setting up right beside the Saints bench.
Perfect. He smiled to himself. It was go time.
The referee blew his whistle for the players to line up for the opening kickoff.
“Kick it deep!” Coach Fort shouted from the sideline in front of the Saints bench.
Jamal nodded at the twelve members of the kickoff team. Rico, Carlos, Malik and the other nine players ran onto the field. They lined up in the same order Jamal had assigned in the locker room.
“Hey, Coach,” the reporter said, pointing across the field. “What’s with the letters on the uniforms?”
“What are you talking about?” Coach Fort asked. He blocked out the sun with his hand and stared at the players.
“Looks like your team has a message,” the reporter said. He turned to his cameraman. “Make sure we get a closeup of what it spells.”
“It doesn’t spell anything,” Coach Fort said, looking at the players still packed tightly together. “It’s just a bunch of letters.”
“Spread out!” Jamal cried.
On his command the twelve players broke into three words—the three words that Jamal hoped Coach Fort would never forget.
SACK THE COACH
“What the hell’s going on?” Coach Fort yelled, throwing up his hands.
“Just a wild guess,” the reporter said, “but I think your players want you fired. Looks like Coach Roland isn’t a saint after all.”
“Jamal!” Coach Fort screamed. “Are you behind this?”
“I warned you, Coach.”
“Without me, the Saints would be nothing!” Coach Fort spat out the words.
“You’ve got it backward, Coach. Without the Saints, you’d be nothing.”
“Turn off the camera!” Coach shouted at the reporter. He raced over and tried to cover the camera lens with his hand.
The cameraman dodged the coach and kept the camera rolling. The reporter launched into a series of
“Yeah, we are,” Eli said. He was tired of being threatened by Coach. “Darnell is twice the quarterback I am.”
“And Jamal can outcatch me any time,” Malik said. “They should be starting on offence, not us.”
Coach’s head bulged. Veins popped out of his neck. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Anybody else have something to say? Anybody else want to tell me how to run the team? My team?”
Jamal stepped forward. “That’s just it, Coach. It’s not your team—it’s our team.”
“Oh, is it?” Coach Fort asked. “Is it your twenty thousand dollars?”
“No,” Jamal said, shaking his head.
“Is the equipment yours?”
“No.”
“How about the uniforms?”
“I guess not.”
“I didn’t think so.” Coach Fort pointed his thumb back at himself. “Without me, you wouldn’t have a team. You wouldn’t have a reason for going to this crappy school. And you wouldn’t have a future. The only place you’d be going is off to join a gang. Or back to jail. So you’ll do what I tell you to do. What have you got to say to that?”
Jamal stood nose to nose with Coach Fort. He glared right back at him. He wasn’t afraid of his power any longer. “I’d say we don’t want you to be Coach anymore.”
“Weren’t you listening to me?” asked Coach Fort, cupping his ear with his hand. “I own you. Now get out on that field right now before I kick you off the team.”
Jamal gave a thin smile and nodded. “Okay, Coach, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
The Rexdale Rams were already on the field. Their red-and-black uniforms were spread across the turf as the team warmed up. Jamal led the Saints blue-and-gold onto the gridiron to join them.
He scanned the field, searching for something as he ran. His secret weapon. He moved past the stands, where Coach Kemp sat watching the game like he always did. Jamal didn’t see it. He smiled at the Saints cheerleaders dancing on the sideline. He didn’t spot it there either. Finally, he approached the Southside bench and saw what he was looking for—the TV crew from The Sports Channel . The reporter and cameraman were setting up right beside the Saints bench.
Perfect. He smiled to himself. It was go time.
The referee blew his whistle for the players to line up for the opening kickoff.
“Kick it deep!” Coach Fort shouted from the sideline in front of the Saints bench.
Jamal nodded at the twelve members of the kickoff team. Rico, Carlos, Malik and the other nine players ran onto the field. They lined up in the same order Jamal had assigned in the locker room.
“Hey, Coach,” the reporter said, pointing across the field. “What’s with the letters on the uniforms?”
“What are you talking about?” Coach Fort asked. He blocked out the sun with his hand and stared at the players.
“Looks like your team has a message,” the reporter said. He turned to his cameraman. “Make sure we get a closeup of what it spells.”
“It doesn’t spell anything,” Coach Fort said, looking at the players still packed tightly together. “It’s just a bunch of letters.”
“Spread out!” Jamal cried.
On his command the twelve players broke into three words—the three words that Jamal hoped Coach Fort would never forget.
SACK THE COACH
“What the hell’s going on?” Coach Fort yelled, throwing up his hands.
“Just a wild guess,” the reporter said, “but I think your players want you fired. Looks like Coach Roland isn’t a saint after all.”
“Jamal!” Coach Fort screamed. “Are you behind this?”
“I warned you, Coach.”
“Without me, the Saints would be nothing!” Coach Fort spat out the words.
“You’ve got it backward, Coach. Without the Saints, you’d be nothing.”
“Turn off the camera!” Coach shouted at the reporter. He raced over and tried to cover the camera lens with his hand.
The cameraman dodged the coach and kept the camera rolling. The reporter launched into a series of
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