Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Chris Cline, September 2016

“As I’m sure you understand Mr. Cline, issues such as this must be investigated to the best of our institution’s ability.” Chris nodded silently. He stared down at his hands, one bandaged and obscured, the other naked and free. “Although we find competitive spirit admirable, if the fire is not correctly stoked, more than one teammate can get burned.”

He looked up to face the man, sitting in a red and silver pull over. He fought to keep his scowl hidden behind a passive and mournful demeanor. Articulate sport metaphors were the last things Chris wanted to discuss at the moment. He had one question he needed answered. But, despite his urgency, he was afraid to hear the verdict. So he waited, aggravated, yet patient, hoping the man sitting in front of him would, eventually, get to the point.

“We would like you to tell us, in your own words, exactly what happened last Friday night.”

Chris took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking himself back to Coatesville High school. “There were about three minutes left in the game,” he recounted slowly, “and we were down four. I had just thrown an interception …” He could see the tipped pass flying through the air. He could hear the jeers echoing in the back of his mind. Feel the agony of his mistake …

Chris slammed his helmet furiously against the North bench before turning back to face the field. The Coatesville fans were jumping up and down in the bleachers, creating a harsh reverberating clang on the metal with each bounce. There was now just 3:25 remaining in the game and, if Coatesville could pick up a couple first downs, the game would be over. Chris stood by the bench, too anxious to sit, he watched Coach Groff and linebacker Jacob Naughton discuss the specifics of the team’s defensive strategy. The tactics it would take to ensure Cline and West Chester North had one more chance to erase the four point deficit. As both teams repositioned themselves on their respective sides, North’s quarterback began nervously pacing the sideline.

On first down, Coatesville turned and gave the ball to their running back Kevin Shank, who broke a pair of tackles before being brought down at the eighteen yard line. It amounted to a nine yard gain. Chris swore angrily under his breath as the ball was marked. Precious seconds continued to tick away on the scoreboard as the crowd noise intensified. On second down, Shank finished what he started, barreling over North’s Reese Wallace and picking up a critical first down.

After the play, Shank and Naughton began talking heatedly. Slowly, they walked forward, getting in each other’s faces, until a Coatesville lineman stepped in, pushing Naughton back as Shank continued to taunt. The referees stepped in next, blowing their whistles and trying to maintain order. Eventually, they forced the players to return to their sides. Meanwhile, the clock continued to tick.

Frustrated and increasingly restless, Chris interjected a fierce kick into his pacing routine, knocking a few precariously positioned shoulder pads from their perch. His friend and teammate, Ernie Tyrell, was sitting on the end of the bench, his head in hands. A few other teammates were staring blankly into space, a combination of shock and disappointment etched on their faces. The West Chester North cheerleading squad continued to shower their team with spirit, perhaps unaware of the direness of its struggle.

Upon earning a new set of downs, Coatesville rushed the ball again. Shank made a hard cut to the outside and juked past the first layer of the North defensive front. Sensing a big play, the crowd rose as one, watching their star running back turn the corner and head up field. Only Naughton had any chance at stopping him from breaking the second level. If he didn’t, Shank would have a clear line to the end zone.

With a herculean effort, Naughton shed his block and dove wildly at the ball carrier. His initial dive missed, falling behind the speedy tailback, but, with an extra lunge, he extended his right arm and tripped up Shank. Losing his balance, the Coatesville running back stumbled and collapsed out of bounds. The clock, mercifully, was stopped.

Jacob popped up from the ground with a bit of swagger, recommencing his jawing with the Coatesville players. Again Shank did not back down, this time approaching more aggressively than before, sticking his helmet up against Naughton’s so the two players were practically kissing. A pair of referees approached, blowing their whistles frantically but neither player seemed interested in listening.

“Come on Jacob, we don’t need a penalty here,” Chris muttered to himself. “Just walk away.”

As if in response to his urging, Naughton turned his back on the Coatesville running back and made his way back towards the middle of the field.

“Yeah that’s right, walk away,” Shank taunted menacingly, trotting cockily backwards, “Walk away like a little p-” But he never had the opportunity to finish his insult. Unable to resist any longer, West Chester North’s linebacker charged forward and threw himself into a bruising tackle. Shank responded instinctively, throwing his fist into Naughton’s body, trying to fight back. A small brawl was breaking out as players from both sides attempted to come to the aid of their struggling teammate.

“STAY BACK!” Chris yelled as a few West Chester North players made to evacuate the sidelines. “Anybody in that brawl could get ejected!” He looked up at the clock which had remained stopped just under two minutes. “The game’s not over!”

“So you’re telling me, you were trying to stop the fight from escalating?” the man said skeptically. He considered Chris’s left hand for a moment. “How admirable.”

“My only concern,” Chris said with a twinge of anger, “was winning the game. If that meant keeping my guys under control then so be it.” The man sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised but silent. Chris took it as a cue to continue with his report. “After that, the referees felt they had to do something to get control of the game. They ejected Jacob and decided that Shank would also have to leave the game for insti-”

“They ejected the Coatesville running back? That hardly seems fair.”

Chris tried to mask his frustration. “Yes,” he said slowly and deliberately, working to keep his emotions in check, “they ejected him for instigating the fight.” He paused and looked down at his hand again. “There were many Coatesville supporters angry about the decision as well.” Chris finished coldly.

As the referees ushered the ejected players off in separate directions towards their opposing locker rooms, the crowd’s screams and boos filled the air. A few fans threw water bottles, crushed soda cans or other pieces of trash onto the field. However, even in their furious state, Coatesville remained a first down away from sealing the game. West Chester North already had their backs against the wall and now, to add insult to injury, they were without the captain of the defense.

“Staltz!” Coach Groff was frantically pacing the sidelines looking for his replacement. On command, a timid looking sophomore stepped forward from the North bench. “Staltz, you’re going in for Naughton! Let’s make a play out there.” Frazzled, Staltz ran out onto the field, only to realize he had forgotten his helmet. He turned back to the sidelines, face red, and hysterically started combing the area for his head gear. “Come on Staltz, they’re about to-Cline? CLINE!”

But Chris was unperturbed. He sprinted out to the middle of the defense, just as Coatesville snapped the ball and started their play. The Raiders new running back took the handoff and plunged through a hole in the middle, but the North defense was able to corral him after just a short gain.

On the sidelines, Coach Groff was shouting heatedly at his quarterback, trying to get him off the field. “Staltz, let’s go.” Coach Groff said, looking to his left, expecting his sophomore linebacker to be at his hip. However, upon Chris’s entry, Staltz had quickly returned to his position on the bench, looking thoroughly relieved. “Staltz! …. McIntyre! … Somebody step up!”

Chris looked at the sidelines and gave a casual shrug in the direction of his coach, before returning his attention to the field. He took a quick look up at the clock, watching the seconds tick away. Coatesville’s next offensive play would come with about a minute to go. Even if we manage to force a punt, we are going to have almost no time left. And horrible field position. Looking across the line of scrimmage, Chris focused his attention on Coatesville’s substitute running back. He was a bigger, stockier build than Shank and yet he looked quite a bit less mature. Maybe only a sophomore. Junior at best. His eyes darted from side to side nervously as he stood crouched in the backfield waiting for the next play to begin.

With the play clock approaching zero, Coatesville snapped the ball and again turned to hand the ball off to their running back. He started towards the outside before making a sharp cut back through the hole opened by his offensive line. North’s Reese Wallace had positioned himself perfectly in the gap, ready to make the tackle. The two collided, each moving at full force. The running back continued to drive his feet, inching forward, refusing to go down, but Wallace was slowing his progress enough to allow his teammates to join him on the takedown.

Chris managed to free himself from his blocker and approached quickly from the ball carriers right side. Diving onto the pile, he punched hard at the ball, which the Coatesville player had neglected to protect as he focused his intensity on breaking through Wallace’s tackle. It popped free and bounced back behind him. The few players who realized the ball was loose launched into a scrum, each fighting desperately to recover the fumble.

A hush fell over the previously fanatical Coatesville crowd. The only sound that pierced the night was the referee’s whistle, blowing to signal an end to the play. Picking bodies off the pile, the officials tried to determine who had come away with the football. Chris wrestled himself free from the chaos, pushing himself to his feet, never taking his eyes off the pile. Come on. Come on. We need this.

“So you forced the fumble?”

“I-yeah. Like I said, I punched it loose, Petrov dived on the ball and-”

“But the official stat sheet credits the forced fumble to Reese Wallace.” He produced a sheet of paper from his bag and handed it to Chris. He glanced at it quickly, noticing that Wallace did indeed get credited with the fumble. That’s weird.

“Well, whatever,” he said brushing off his confusion, “Wallace stripped the ball, Petrov dived on it and so we-”

“So you lied? You admit that it wasn’t you who forced the fumble?”

“I admit,” Chris replied, in a voice of forced calmness, “that I don’t care who gets credit, all I care about is that we got the ball back with a chance to win the game.” He took a deep breath and waited to see if he would need to field any other questions before continuing. After a moment of silence, he decided he was allowed to carry on.

“Once Petrov recovered the ball, we had fifty-three sections left to cover the remaining twenty-eight yards to the end zone. Our offense came back onto the field with a little extra spark. Everybody was fired up. Then, I checked in with Coach on the sidelines to get the play call …”

Chris jogged into the huddle from the sidelines, filling in the empty space on the perimeter. He looked around at the excited faces of his teammates. Then, with his best attempt at confidence, he told them, “We’re running the North Texas Stretch on three. On second down, just in case we have to get up to the line quickly, coach said run the Liberty Pitch. Ready … br-”

“Running plays?!” Ernie exclaimed, “There’s only fifty-three seconds left in the game!” A few others murmured their agreement, including the team’s running back, Pete Washington.

“We’ve got plenty of time. I … I trust Coach,” Chris lied, looking at the play clock exasperatedly, “Now come on, we’re going to get a delay of game.” He rushed his team up to the line and called quickly for the snap. The frazzled offensive line was dreadfully out of position as the play began and the Coatesville defense quickly penetrated the line, crushing Chris before he could even get the handoff to Washington. Not only was it a negative play, but the clock also would continue to run. To make matters even worse, the Coatesville crowd came roaring back to life.

“Let’s go! Next play!” Chris shouted over the fervor, pushing the Coatesville defender off him so that he could return back to the line of scrimmage. Frantically, the team got into position for the pitch, trying to get another play off quickly, before too many precious seconds disappeared. Chris chanced a look at the scoreboard. Twenty-six … twenty-five … twenty-four …

He took the snap from under center and turned to make the pitch to Washington. He extended it briefly, but then, hesitated and pulled it back to his body. Instead of completing the handoff, he spun instinctively in the opposite direction, running away from the incoming defenders and streaking towards the far sideline. Chris sprinted as hard as he could, looking up field for tacklers. Matthew Clayton had reacted first to his misdirection and the Coatesville linebacker was charging towards him, ready to make a tackle. Extending his stride to its full length, Chris barely managed to angle himself out of bounds, just before Clayton could get to him.

Ok, he thought to himself as he relaxed, Now how much time is le-. But as Chris turned to look at the clock, Clayton came flying toward him, laying a viscous late hit on the unprepared quarterback. The West Chester crowd screamed in anger. A few members of the Coatesville student section applauded their linebacker.  Some North players came running forward to retaliate, but Chris shouted at them to get back.

“Leave him! We can’t lose any more players!”

“Might as well give up, suck-eye,” Clayton said as he backed away to his sideline. “They’ll be giving your scholarship to me after this game’s over.”

Petrov and Mintz pulled Chris to his feet as the referees circled to discuss the proper punishment for Clayton. The West Chester quarterback touched his back gingerly as he walked back toward the middle of the field to join his teammates. Finally, he got his chance to look at the clock. Seven-seconds. Enough for perhaps just one more play.

To the outrage of the West Chester sideline, the referees ruled that, although Clayton’s hit warranted a fifteen-yard penalty, but it was not enough to earn an ejection from the game. The Coatesville linebacker strutted gleefully back into position as Coach Groff argued furiously with the nearest official. Meanwhile, the yards were stepped off and the ball was marked, placing the North offense within ten yards of the end zone. Then, the play clock was started.

Chris looked to the sideline for instruction, but his coach was still intensely engaged with the ref on the sideline, nearly fifteen yards behind the new line of scrimmage.

“Coach!” he yelled, “COACH!” But there was no response. The opposing noise from both sidelines was too loud for his voice to carry in the night air. He considered running down to fetch instruction, but another glance at the play clock told him there was not enough time. He would have to call the play himself.

Returning confidently to the huddle, Chris instructed his teammates on his decision. The team nodded their understanding before breaking formation to position themselves. With a single calming breath, Chris took the snap from under center and stepped backwards into the backfield. Here, he handed the ball off to Washington who sprinted towards the left side of the field. Meanwhile, Chris leaked out to the right. The Coatesville defense followed Washington aggressively, pursuing him hungrily from all sides. But then Washington made a second hand off, this time to Ernie Tyrell, who had come into the backfield to take the reverse. As Ernie changed direction back to the right, the defense was slow to react. A few tacklers lost their balance and fell down. He charged around the outside, following his blocking and barreling towards the end zone.

Once again, Matthew Clayton was the first to react to the unexpected ball carrier. He turned and raced forward, his eyes glued on Tyrell. Clayton approached rapidly, eating up the turf, but as he moved within striking distance, Chris rushed forward to deliver a perfect block. The impact took Clayton off his feet, sending him sprawling to the ground and opening up the final lane that Ernie needed to break free for the touchdown.

Chris looked up at the scoreboard for what felt like the hundredth time in the last two minutes. Time had expired on the game clock. Then, as his stomach leaped with joy, the score flipped to put the Away team ahead for the final time. But his moment of ecstasy was short lived.

In a rage brought on by the last-second touchdown, Coatesville’s Matthew Clayton stormed back towards the end zone and ruthlessly tackled Ernie as he stood celebrating his game-winning score. Chris reacted reflexively, rushing forward to try and help his friend. The pair were in a tangled wrestling match when he arrived, desperately working to pull them apart. Coaches from both teams were now struggling to hold back players from storming in and escalating the brawl.

Within the chaos, Chris managed to help Ernie roll free from Clayton’s grasp. Still upset, Clayton lashed out aggressively, swinging his fist in the direction of the North wide receiver. Ernie managed to dodge it, and then shifted his weight, preparing for retaliation. But Chris got there first. Rage had bubbled up inside him as Clayton had mercilessly attacked his friend and he could not keep back his overflowing fury from spilling out. He punched hard at the Coatesville linebacker’s side, expecting to meet the fleshy skin just below the rib cage, but instead collided full force with the end of a shoulder pad. There was a crack and a blinding wave of pain.

“And … that’s how I broke it.” Chris finished lamely. With his story finally on the table, he knew there was nothing left for him to do but sit and wait for a decision. He felt powerless sitting in his chair, unable to bolster his position. They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Great, now that I’m actually done, he decides to shut up.

Finally, the man in the red and gray jacket elected to break the silence. “Well Mr. Cline, you have certainly put us in a bind. Considering this hand injury will sideline you for the remainder of the season, our only-”

“Remainder of the season?” Chris cut in. The words tumbled from his mouth before he could control them. “The doctor said six to eight weeks and the state playoffs-”

“Six to eight weeks until you can get your cast removed, but there are a number of other factors in play here. It will take time to round back into playing shape. You could have a set-back. Your team could be eliminated before you return-”

“That won’t happen,” Again Chris could not resist interjecting. “I’ll be ready. And my guys will get me there. They’ve never let me down.”

The man smiled sadly, “That’s very admirable, but if we are being at all reasonable-” Chris opened his mouth to speak, but before he could the third man in the room spoke for the first time since his introduction.

“If neither of you objects, I think I can help clear things up.” He spoke with a somewhat lazy tone, but the respect he commanded was palpable. He immediately had the room’s full attention. “Chris, I like your competitiveness. Your fire. Your loyalty. Our athletic director is right to be concerned about dangerous behavior, but I don’t think that’s the case here.” Chris’s heart was now beating through his shirt. “We will continue to hold your scholarship at Ohio State-assuming you have a plan to keep yourself in shape until the state playoffs?” He added, looking to Chris for a response.

“Yes, I-well, I …” His mind raced for ideas. Then a dark image of a man in a car shot to the forefront of his mind. “I’ll be joining the cross county-er-country team here while I recover.” He felt a trickle of sweat run from under his arms down to his waist. “In addition to the-the lifting and film sessions.”

“Excellent,” the second man said, getting to his feet. “Then I think we’ve got everything settled, Gene.” He extended his hand to Chris who also rose from his chair. The man called Gene also moved from his chair. “We will be back in the area for the state championships at Hershey.” He flashed Chris a toothy smile. “I hope to see you there.”

“I’ll be there, Coach Meyer.” He gripped tight to the coach’s hand, his heart rate finally beginning to return to its normal cadence.

“Perfect. I look forward to seeing you on November 1^st.”

Chris Cline, November 1^st 2016

“Temperatures in the low forties right now, with little to no chance of rain in the forecast … Really going to be a classic fall day, Sheena.”

“Thank you Tom. Coming up next, this cat got himself stuck in the wrong tree. Why our town’s political leaders are suing this proud feline … after this commercial break.”

“Turn that crap off Chris, I’m trying to sleep!” The boy in the bed next to him rearranged his pillow over the back of his head, trying to block out the sound of the television.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbled absentmindedly. He pointed the remote at the TV and it blinked into darkness. He laid his head back on his pillow. Leaning to his right, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand. No texts. No missed calls. He slowly cycled through his cellular phonebook, holding it above his head as he laid flat on his back in silent thought.

The sound of his roommate’s snoring jolted him briefly from his concentration. He forced himself to roll over onto his side and once again close his eyes. Hoping sleep would finally come.

GO TO CHAPTER THIRTEEN