Goal-Line Stand by Todd Hafer Read Free Book Online Page A

charging in from the kitchen. If he asks what happened , Cody thought, I’ll tell him exactly what happened. I’ll say, “I got mad and chucked a dime into the wall. So what?”
    But his dad never showed up.
    After several minutes of stalking back and forth across the length of the garage, Cody went to the door that connected the garage to the kitchen and quietly slipped inside. He made his way to the living room, taking slow, deliberate steps.
    Dad’s Wall Street Journal lay across his lap. CNN was showing baseball highlights, but his dad would never know that the Yankees beat the Red Sox in extra innings. His head was tilted back to the ceiling, and he was snoring loudly. He sounded like one of the tractors on the Porter farm.
    Man, Cody thought, he must be tired if he could sleep through that racket.
    Monday’s practice was easy. Several Raiders were nursing injuries, so Coach Smith focused on drills andformations, with a few “live” extra-point and field-goal attempts thrown in at the end.
    Tuesday brought another scrimmage. Cody prepared for a long afternoon of spectating. He roamed the sideline, the desire for contact—for football—eating at him like a physical hunger. The frustration was so great that he thought he might bite through his rubber mouth guard, which he had taken to chewing to ease the stress.
    He glared at Coach Smith. He’s never gonna give me another chance, Cody fumed. We’re supposed to forgive each other seventy times seven. I’d be happy for just once from him. But it’s not gonna happen. Maybe I’ll go out for cross-country next fall instead of football.
    He stopped thinking for a moment to watch Coach Smith, who had grabbed Terrance Dylan by the face mask, screaming at him, “If you don’t learn the difference between a flag pattern and a post pattern, you’re done playing wide receiver!”
    Cody shook his head. Dylan was brand new to Grant this year. And he was a great player. He didn’t deserve the treatment he was getting. Cody thought of one of his favorite Old Testament words— smite .
    Smite Smith, he thought, smiling to himself. That’s what Dylan ought to do. I’d smite Smith if I were Dylan right now—especially if I had his biceps.
    The sound of Coach Smith’s voice unsnapped Cody from his thoughts.
    “Martin!” he spat. “Get over here!”
    Cody felt his heart accelerate as he obeyed.
    “Martin,” Coach Smith said, without looking at him, “I’m gonna give you another chance to be a monster. But I mean just one more chance. You play tentatively out there, like your head’s in the clouds—or somewhere else—and I’ll bench you for the rest of the season. That is, if you don’t get your head handed to you first. Football is a violent game, played by violent athletes, not philosophers and dreamers. Understand?”
    Cody nodded as he saw his coach turn to him. “Good. Now, get in there for Betts. He’s missed three straight tackles. At least I know you’ll try to put a hit on somebody, not grope around like an old man looking for his glasses!”
    Wow, Cody thought as he sprinted to the defensive huddle, the way you’ve been treating me, Coach, that’s almost a compliment!
    “Welcome back to the defense!” Pork Chop said, smiling, as Cody joined the huddle. “Let’s show Coach Smith somethin’!”
    Cody nodded. He thought of the damage he had done to the garage wall—the sense of power and relief it brought him. He couldn’t smite Smith, but he vowed that someone was going to get rocked. As BartEvans called out his snap count, Cody’s muscles tingled, as if electrically charged. Brett Evans went in motion, eventually coming set in the left slot between Paul Getman, the tight end, and Dylan, the other wide receiver.
    “Slot left!” Cody barked, sliding into position in front of Brett. On the snap, Brett rocketed forward. Cody backpedaled, maintaining a two-yard cushion between himself and the lanky receiver. Ten yards into his pattern, Brett