Goal-Line Stand by Todd Hafer Read Free Book Online

maybe it’ll be just you playing for them. Me, I’ll probably be the water boy or something. That’s about what I am now. When I think about what I hoped this season would be—and how it really is—I just want to put my fist through a wall!”
    A sly smile crept across Pork Chop’s face. “You’re mad, huh? Sometimes I play my best when I’m mad.”
    Cody walked home from school. Pork Chop’s brother, Doug, had offered him a ride, but he declined, saying, “I might as well get some exercise today.”
    He saw his Dad through the front window, rooted to his recliner and parked in front of the TV as usual. Cody didn’t feel like talking to him about the game—or anything—so he quietly raised the garage door and slipped inside. He sat on the weight-lifting bench that occupied one side of the two-car garage. The garage smelled of gasoline and stale grass clippings. He flopped onto his back, staring at the rough-hewn beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. He closed his eyes and remembered the last time he had spent any quality time in the garage.
    It was late summer, two weeks after his mother’s funeral. He had sat on the concrete floor, pluckingchunks of mud, and brittle, yellowed, year-old grass from between the rubber cleats of his football shoes. They had felt loose during the seventh grade season, even with two pairs of thick socks, so he hoped they would fit his eighth grade feet perfectly. He had heard his dad complaining on the phone about the cost of the funeral. He didn’t want to add new football cleats to the equation.
    Cody sighed. He remembered holding one of the shoes up to his face. The smell reminded him of the hay on Pork Chop’s farm. That, in turn, brought images of games of H-O-R-S-E in the Porter family driveway, sprint races down the long dirt road that led to their farm, and he and Chop spotting Doug as he bench-pressed extraordinary amounts of weight in the basement-turned-workout room.
    Cody swung his legs off the bench and rose wearily to his feet. He wagged his head sadly. That day seemed so long ago. And so much had changed. Even with the burden of his mother’s death weighing down his soul, he had felt hope that day as he thought of the upcoming football season.
    He had reason to be hopeful then. He was hurting, but football was the sport that let you wear armor. There was a pad or support for almost every body part. And the helmet, that was the best of all. It let you crashinto ball carriers or take head slaps from opposing blockers without getting your brains scrambled.
    Putting on a football uniform was like a superhero changing into his costume and assuming a new identity. It transformed you—made you bigger and more powerful than you were in civilian clothes. Once in the crimson and white colors of Grant Middle School, he was no longer Cody Martin, skinny kid with a Santa Claus-size bag of insecurities and fears. He was Cody Martin, Monster Back.
    Most importantly, during the hours of drills, scrimmages, and games—especially the games—he could often shake himself free from the pain of his mother’s death.
    He thought about what Chop had said on the bus, “I play best when I’m mad.” That made sense. Maybe that’s where he had gone wrong. He’d lost the fire. He thought about what Coach Smith had called him.
    “Little kid,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “I’ll show you little kid.” He picked up a ten-pound weight-lifting plate from the floor, cupped it in his right hand like a discus. Then, with a war cry that he was sure his dad would hear, even over the bluster of CNN, he hurled the weight into the garage drywall. The plate clunked to the floor, and Cody smiled as he saw the deep gouge it made in the wall. He felt the adrenaline coursing through his body.
    “I wish it were game time right now,” he said, “because I am through being hurt. It’s time to make someone else hurt!”
    He stood in the center of the garage, waiting for his dad to come