The Underdogs by Mike Lupica Page A

us play in the league without a coach, even if we get to eleven.”
    He sat back down then, picked up the slice that Will had just dropped into the box and said, “You gonna finish this?”
    â€œOkay, so let’s talk about coaches,” Will said.
    They sat there and began to go through the list of possibilities. “What about Mr. York?” Chris said. Mr. York had coached them last year. Maybe they could talk him into moving up and coaching them, if somebody else could coach the elevens.
    Will said, “You didn’t hear? He moved to Castle Rock and took a job in the bottle factory, some kind of night manager.”
    â€œNever mind,” Chris said.
    Jeremiah said, “What about Mr. Pags? He played in college, right?”
    Mr. Pagliarulo was their phys ed teacher at Forbes Middle. But he was also their math teacher and everyone knew his idea of teaching phys ed was handing his kids a few basket- or soccer balls, taking his whistle and sitting on the bleachers grading homework.
    Then they talked about their dads.
    Will said his couldn’t do it, no way, not holding down his post office job and going to night school. Will had always thought his dad would make a great coach but knew he wouldn’t want to do it, would rather do just about anything than get back on a football field. That’s why Will wasn’t even going to ask, knowing how bad his dad would feel when he said no.
    Tim’s dad was also ruled out instantly. The guys knew he was constantly traveling back and forth between Forbes and Pittsburgh, where he’d landed temp work as a computer technician, hoping it would eventually lead to a full-time job. Will didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Mr. LeBlanc got his wish and had to move.
    Chris’s dad was an interstate truck driver and was usually gone for half the week and sometimes more. Jeremiah’s parents had divorced after the sneaker factory closed and his dad had left town not long after that, taking an assembly-line job in Detroit for one of the car companies.
    â€œMaybe if some of the dads took turns coaching,” Chris said.
    In that moment Will felt like he was a D lineman with a big hand up, swatting a pass out of the air.
    â€œWe’re desperate,” he said to Chris. “But not that desperate. At least not yet. Coaching by committee? It would feel like they were babysitting us.”
    â€œWhy don’t you coach?” Tim said to Will. “Seriously, dude. You know more about football than any five kids I know. Or any of us know. And more than most adults.”
    â€œThis isn’t a book,” Will said.
    Wishing it were.
    Thinking about the happy endings you got in the sports books he loved. Sitting there in his bedroom and thinking about the happy ending he thought he had—or at least the beginning of one—when he’d opened Mr. DeMartini’s letter.
    They heard the front door close, Will’s dad giving them a shout-out from the bottom of the stairs. Then Will could hear the slow walk up the stairs he had heard so many times before, almost being able to time when his dad would finally get to the top.
    Joe Tyler poked his head in, saw the scatter of pizza boxes and empty Gatorade bottles. “I assume,” he said, surveying the mess with one raised eyebrow, “that you gentlemen are going to clean up when you’re done.”
    â€œOn it, Mr. T.,” Tim said.
    â€œI actually meant the other guys, Timmy. Tragically I gave up on your cleanup abilities long ago.”
    Tim put his head down, trying to look sad. “A family of haters,” he said.
    Will’s dad said, “Any progress?”
    He knew what the summit was about, knew the spot they were all in; Will had been giving his dad the play-by-play all week long.
    â€œNope,” Will said. “Not unless you count knocking off two large pies and still not coming up with one more player, or one