run a down-and-in. Before he broke the huddle, Bart leaned toward Cody. “Go short, Martin,” he said, “just about five yards before you make your cut. My arm’s gettin’ sore.”
“Sure, Bart,” Cody said, “no problem.”
Cody took his place at wideout, standing parallel with the line of scrimmage, his hands ready at his sides. He made sure his shoulders were square, giving Slaven no hint of where the pattern was going.
As Bart called out the snap count, Cody fought back a smile. Slaven was giving him way too much cushion, a good seven yards. He would be wide open when he cut to the middle of the field.
He was off on the snap count. He sprinted forward, then cut sharply toward the middle. He knew he had Slaven beaten as he saw Bart cock his arm. The words “big gain” flashed in his mind as he prepared to receive the pass.
Cody knew Bart Evans had a strong arm, but he had no idea he could fire a ball so fast that it felt like it would imbed itself in his stomach. Through the pain and shock of a pass thrown twice as hard as needed, Cody tried to grab the ball as it rebounded off his midsection, but it dribbled off his fingertips and dropped to the turf.
Cody wanted to fall to the ground too, but he braced his hands on his knees and fought for air. He felt tears stinging his eyes.
Bart waited for Cody to trot to the huddle and then unloaded on him: “Nice catch, butter-fingers! Man, Martin, that pass hit you right between the four and the one. What more do you want?”
There are about a hundred comebacks I’d like to throw in your face right now, Bart, he thought, but there are also about a hundred proverbs about holding your tongue.
So Cody said nothing. And he didn’t receive another pass until Goddard came in to get a few reps with the first team.
Brett showed up to watch Friday’s practice. When the team took a Gatorade break before working on kickoffs and kickoff returns, Cody seized the opportunity to apologize, again, to the injured receiver.
He saw Brett cross his arms as he approached. “Hey, Brett,” he said, trying to sound cheerful and nonchalant, “it’s good to see you. You feelin’ okay?”
Brett rolled his eyes and then turned his back.
Cody stopped short, as if he’d run into a wall. He groped for something else to say, but came up with nothing that he could say to the back of Brett Evans’ head.
Chapter 4
Fight or Forgive?
O n Sunday morning, Blake pulled into the Martin driveway promptly at 10:30 to take Cody to church. Cody heard the beep of Blake’s horn. He pushed himself away from the kitchen table, downed his half glass of orange juice in two gulps, and snatched his second Pop-Tart before heading for the door.
He was hoping Blake would ask him about the game so he could tell the tale of his first-ever middle-school touchdown pass reception. Sure it had been in a losing effort, and from the hand of Goddard, the backup QB, not Bart, the starter. But it was a sweet twelve-yardhook-and-go that made the difference between a 20-3 drubbing and a more respectable 20-10 defeat.
But the youth pastor had something else on his mind. Cody had barely buckled his seatbelt before the questioning began.
“Code,” Blake said, “I want to follow up on something you said in my office a while back. I was reading through my notes last night, and it hit me.”
Cody wrinkled his nose. “Good morning to you, too, B. And, may I ask, what hit you?”
Blake smiled anxiously. “Sorry to just dive right in, but we have a lot to talk about on the way to church. Anyway, you told me a while ago that you were feeling that something was incomplete—something was undone where your mom’s concerned.”
Cody stared at the half-eaten Pop-Tart in his hand. Suddenly his appetite had deserted him.
“Yeah, something is definitely not right. I mean, I’m finally playing ball like I should and that helps. You know, at the first football practice, Coach Smith told us to write down a goal for
“Sure, Bart,” Cody said, “no problem.”
Cody took his place at wideout, standing parallel with the line of scrimmage, his hands ready at his sides. He made sure his shoulders were square, giving Slaven no hint of where the pattern was going.
As Bart called out the snap count, Cody fought back a smile. Slaven was giving him way too much cushion, a good seven yards. He would be wide open when he cut to the middle of the field.
He was off on the snap count. He sprinted forward, then cut sharply toward the middle. He knew he had Slaven beaten as he saw Bart cock his arm. The words “big gain” flashed in his mind as he prepared to receive the pass.
Cody knew Bart Evans had a strong arm, but he had no idea he could fire a ball so fast that it felt like it would imbed itself in his stomach. Through the pain and shock of a pass thrown twice as hard as needed, Cody tried to grab the ball as it rebounded off his midsection, but it dribbled off his fingertips and dropped to the turf.
Cody wanted to fall to the ground too, but he braced his hands on his knees and fought for air. He felt tears stinging his eyes.
Bart waited for Cody to trot to the huddle and then unloaded on him: “Nice catch, butter-fingers! Man, Martin, that pass hit you right between the four and the one. What more do you want?”
There are about a hundred comebacks I’d like to throw in your face right now, Bart, he thought, but there are also about a hundred proverbs about holding your tongue.
So Cody said nothing. And he didn’t receive another pass until Goddard came in to get a few reps with the first team.
Brett showed up to watch Friday’s practice. When the team took a Gatorade break before working on kickoffs and kickoff returns, Cody seized the opportunity to apologize, again, to the injured receiver.
He saw Brett cross his arms as he approached. “Hey, Brett,” he said, trying to sound cheerful and nonchalant, “it’s good to see you. You feelin’ okay?”
Brett rolled his eyes and then turned his back.
Cody stopped short, as if he’d run into a wall. He groped for something else to say, but came up with nothing that he could say to the back of Brett Evans’ head.
Chapter 4
Fight or Forgive?
O n Sunday morning, Blake pulled into the Martin driveway promptly at 10:30 to take Cody to church. Cody heard the beep of Blake’s horn. He pushed himself away from the kitchen table, downed his half glass of orange juice in two gulps, and snatched his second Pop-Tart before heading for the door.
He was hoping Blake would ask him about the game so he could tell the tale of his first-ever middle-school touchdown pass reception. Sure it had been in a losing effort, and from the hand of Goddard, the backup QB, not Bart, the starter. But it was a sweet twelve-yardhook-and-go that made the difference between a 20-3 drubbing and a more respectable 20-10 defeat.
But the youth pastor had something else on his mind. Cody had barely buckled his seatbelt before the questioning began.
“Code,” Blake said, “I want to follow up on something you said in my office a while back. I was reading through my notes last night, and it hit me.”
Cody wrinkled his nose. “Good morning to you, too, B. And, may I ask, what hit you?”
Blake smiled anxiously. “Sorry to just dive right in, but we have a lot to talk about on the way to church. Anyway, you told me a while ago that you were feeling that something was incomplete—something was undone where your mom’s concerned.”
Cody stared at the half-eaten Pop-Tart in his hand. Suddenly his appetite had deserted him.
“Yeah, something is definitely not right. I mean, I’m finally playing ball like I should and that helps. You know, at the first football practice, Coach Smith told us to write down a goal for
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