can—”
“Seth,” Troy said, “I thought we hate reporters.”
Seth looked up from his plan. “No. Peele’s not our favorite person, but you can’t hate a whole group of people. That’s ignorant. There are good reporters just like there are good…I don’t know, lawyers, doctors, agents, football players, prison guards. There’s good and bad in any group of people. They’re not all bad. My guy’s even going to FedEx me some game film.”
“Oh,” Troy said, letting the revelation sink in beforepointing to the diagram of Rusty Howell against the Tampa Two. “So you’ve got the whole plan done already?”
“Ready for you to look at,” Seth said, grinning. “I’m smart enough to know I’m not that smart. You think I’m not going to get my football genius to look this over before I say it’s done?”
Troy felt his cheeks grow warm.
“And, you probably want to get some input from a lineman on all this stuff,” Nathan said, stepping in and planting a thick finger in the middle of the diagram and smearing it with banana grease. “Come on. Sheesh. That’s where you win these championship things, right at the line of scrimmage.”
Seth laughed, nodded his head, and said, “A lot of people might agree with that.”
“Hey, a lot of people might agree that the difference between winning and losing is a good kicking game,” Tate said, snapping her fingers at them repeatedly.
“How about a good coach?” Troy said. “Nothing’s more important than that.”
They all nodded and then listened as Seth explained how he figured his plan could beat Valdosta’s defense.
“And we haven’t even talked about our defense,” Seth said, turning to the last few pages of his notebook. “Because I think it’s going to be simple. Troy, did you tell these guys?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“ TELL US WHAT ?” NATHAN said, pulling a bag of chips from the cupboard and digging in. “Sheesh, I’m the last to know everything.”
“You know how Troy can predict what the other teams’ offenses are going to do against the Falcons’ defense? Seeing the patterns and all that?” Seth said. “So I figure, why can’t we do that against Valdosta?”
“Who you gonna signal stuff in to?” Tate asked.
“Well, my mind-reading powers are on the fritz, so that’s out,” Nathan said, crunching on some chips.
“We don’t need signals,” Seth said. “Troy’s going to be out there.”
Nathan hooted at the idea, sending a spray of crumbs across the table.
“On defense?” Tate asked, brushing flecks of potatochips off her shirt. “He’s the quarterback. I thought you gotta protect the quarterback.”
“There’s no sense in protecting me. This is the state championship,” Troy said, “maybe the only one we’ll ever play in. It’s on TV. Everyone will be watching. Half of Atlanta will be there under the lights at Georgia Tech’s stadium. This is huge.”
“And honestly,” Seth said, wagging his head toward Nathan, “no offense to any of you guys, but if we can’t do better on defense than we did against Dunwoody, we aren’t going to be champs. We’ll be chumps.”
Troy explained how Seth had given him a crash course on playing defensive back, and then together they all listened as Seth leafed through his notebook, explaining his plan against Valdosta’s offense. After a time, Troy’s mom came in and swapped her paint things for the pots and pans she needed to whip up a meal of chicken rigatoni that they could all eat before heading off to practice.
After an early dinner, Seth drove Nathan and Tate to their homes so they could quickly change into practice gear. As they drove toward the school, the setting sun blinded them, the shadows grew long, and an autumn chill crept into the air.
When they pulled into the parking lot beside the practice field and Troy saw the silver car, he quickly rolled down the window, thinking he might be sick.
Seth cranked the wheel around, backed into a spot,and
“Seth,” Troy said, “I thought we hate reporters.”
Seth looked up from his plan. “No. Peele’s not our favorite person, but you can’t hate a whole group of people. That’s ignorant. There are good reporters just like there are good…I don’t know, lawyers, doctors, agents, football players, prison guards. There’s good and bad in any group of people. They’re not all bad. My guy’s even going to FedEx me some game film.”
“Oh,” Troy said, letting the revelation sink in beforepointing to the diagram of Rusty Howell against the Tampa Two. “So you’ve got the whole plan done already?”
“Ready for you to look at,” Seth said, grinning. “I’m smart enough to know I’m not that smart. You think I’m not going to get my football genius to look this over before I say it’s done?”
Troy felt his cheeks grow warm.
“And, you probably want to get some input from a lineman on all this stuff,” Nathan said, stepping in and planting a thick finger in the middle of the diagram and smearing it with banana grease. “Come on. Sheesh. That’s where you win these championship things, right at the line of scrimmage.”
Seth laughed, nodded his head, and said, “A lot of people might agree with that.”
“Hey, a lot of people might agree that the difference between winning and losing is a good kicking game,” Tate said, snapping her fingers at them repeatedly.
“How about a good coach?” Troy said. “Nothing’s more important than that.”
They all nodded and then listened as Seth explained how he figured his plan could beat Valdosta’s defense.
“And we haven’t even talked about our defense,” Seth said, turning to the last few pages of his notebook. “Because I think it’s going to be simple. Troy, did you tell these guys?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“ TELL US WHAT ?” NATHAN said, pulling a bag of chips from the cupboard and digging in. “Sheesh, I’m the last to know everything.”
“You know how Troy can predict what the other teams’ offenses are going to do against the Falcons’ defense? Seeing the patterns and all that?” Seth said. “So I figure, why can’t we do that against Valdosta?”
“Who you gonna signal stuff in to?” Tate asked.
“Well, my mind-reading powers are on the fritz, so that’s out,” Nathan said, crunching on some chips.
“We don’t need signals,” Seth said. “Troy’s going to be out there.”
Nathan hooted at the idea, sending a spray of crumbs across the table.
“On defense?” Tate asked, brushing flecks of potatochips off her shirt. “He’s the quarterback. I thought you gotta protect the quarterback.”
“There’s no sense in protecting me. This is the state championship,” Troy said, “maybe the only one we’ll ever play in. It’s on TV. Everyone will be watching. Half of Atlanta will be there under the lights at Georgia Tech’s stadium. This is huge.”
“And honestly,” Seth said, wagging his head toward Nathan, “no offense to any of you guys, but if we can’t do better on defense than we did against Dunwoody, we aren’t going to be champs. We’ll be chumps.”
Troy explained how Seth had given him a crash course on playing defensive back, and then together they all listened as Seth leafed through his notebook, explaining his plan against Valdosta’s offense. After a time, Troy’s mom came in and swapped her paint things for the pots and pans she needed to whip up a meal of chicken rigatoni that they could all eat before heading off to practice.
After an early dinner, Seth drove Nathan and Tate to their homes so they could quickly change into practice gear. As they drove toward the school, the setting sun blinded them, the shadows grew long, and an autumn chill crept into the air.
When they pulled into the parking lot beside the practice field and Troy saw the silver car, he quickly rolled down the window, thinking he might be sick.
Seth cranked the wheel around, backed into a spot,and
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