Crackback by John Coy Page B

corner.”
    â€œYeah.” I run to my spot. It’s a cool day with no wind, perfect to smash somebody.
    â€œTen plays. Straight up,” Norlander squeaks. “After that, you can mix in a few blitzes.”
    Fox brings the offense to the line. “Down, set.” He’s sounding more confident. “Hit.” He hands off to Monson on a dive. Sam, who’s playing middle linebacker, grabs him and I plow my aggression into the pile.
    â€œThree yards. Too much,” Sam says in the huddle. “Let’s see if we can shut these guys down. Ready?”
    â€œBreak,” everybody hollers.
    â€œDown, set, hit, hit.” The defense flies to the ball on a sweep. Bunkers, the wideout, moves the other way.
    â€œReverse.” I race to the line. Sam’s pushed Bunkers so deep that by the time we pile on him, Coach Norlander is blowing his whistle.
    â€œTwelve-yard loss.” Sam is clapping. “Good call, Man.”
    This is what I’ve missed. Being with the guys, smashing the running back, stopping the offense from gaining a yard.
    â€œTen plays, the offense has nine yards. Throw in the twelve-yard loss and we’re plus three,” Sam says in the huddle. “Four-three, cover two. Now we can blitz. Miles, come off the edge.”
    Fox looks over the line and I move off the receiver and act casual. Sam jumps back and forth like he’s blitzing, so Fox concentrates on him. “Down, set, hit.” Fox tries a hard count to flush us out, but I stay back. “Hit.”
    I burst forward. Nobody picks me up. I’m in Fox’s face before he sets to throw.
    â€œDon’t hit the quarterback.” Norlander’s waving his hands over his head like he’s drowning. “Monson, you’ve got to pick up the blitz.”
    Sam’s even more excited. “Beautiful, Man, beautiful. The timing, the angle, the color.” Sam makes it sound like a painting.
    â€œWatt?” I say, and he starts laughing.
    â€œHuddle up,” Sam calls. “Four-three, cover one. Play this straight. They’re looking for a blitz. Watch the screen or the draw.”
    Sam’s got good football smarts. Why isn’t he starting? He’s thinking about what the offense will do. He’s making adjustments. Maybe that’s his problem. Maybe he’s thinking too much. Maybe Stahl doesn’t consider him a reactor.
    â€œDown, set, hit.” Monson takes the draw, but nobody’s fooled. Sam and the linemen shut it down for no gain.
    â€œOne more play,” Norlander yells. “Everybody go all out.”
    â€œNorlander’s setting us up.” Sam’s thinking out loud in the huddle. “Watch the reverse. Watch the bomb. Play it straight. Five-three, cover three. Ready?”
    â€œBreak.” We’ve been flying around hammering everything. I love this game. I’m not quitting. I’m not giving Stahl that satisfaction.
    Over by the soccer field, someone with dark hair and a purple fleece is leaning against the fence. Looks like Lucia, but she wouldn’t be out here.
    â€œDown, set, hit.” Brooksy races off the line, pauses on a hitch, and takes off for the post. I’m on him like a shadow. I’ve seen this play before. I look back and Monson’s sprinting to the sideline.
    â€œMiddle, middle,” I yell to the safety and race toward Monson. Fox spins to throw. I leap for the ball, pick it off, and race the other way.
    â€œPick,” Sam shouts. “Block somebody.” He smashes into Tyson and they sprawl on the grass.
    I run hard up the sideline behind other blocks. One guy to beat. Fox. I fake inside and he pauses. I break back outside and shove a stiff arm into his neck. He reaches for me but can’t hold on.
    I run all the way to first defense so Stahl sees. He ducks down pretending he’s diagramming a play. I hold the ball over my head while Sam and the guys go nuts.
    â€œSecond