1
R ocky Fletcher entered the middle-school locker room with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The twelve-year-old wide receiver greeted a few of his teammates and then headed to an empty row to get into his uniform.
He unzipped the main compartment of his bag and took out his protective gear. First came the shining gold helmet with its image of a hissing, coiled snake on each side — the logo of the Park City Pythons, Rocky’s team. Rocky loved that logo. The snake made him think about squeezing the ball tight after making a catch and slithering past the defense into the end zone.
He polished the helmet with his sleeve before putting it on the bench. He reached back into the bag and pulled out his other gear. There were pads to protect his stomach and hips, shoulders and arms, thighs, knees, and shins. His cleats and mouth guard came out next, followed by his team jersey — #83 — and pants. Finally, he pulled out a handheld music player with attached earbuds.
Putting the player aside, Rocky quickly suited up in his pads, pants, jersey, and cleats. A glance at the clock told him there were five minutes to spare — plenty of time to listen to his favorite new song.
He grabbed his music player, put the buds in his ears, and sat on the bench. He thumbed his way around the dial to a playlist he’d named Pre-Game Pump. Then he scrolled down to the song he wanted to hear, tapped a button to start the music, and closed his eyes.
A staccato drumbeat filled his ears. It was slow at first but then picked up speed. Rocky tapped his toes along with the rhythm. When a bass guitar joined the drums, his heart seemed to pulse in time with the thrumming tones. Suddenly, an electric guitar wailed out a single, ear-splitting chord. Even though he’d known it was coming, that note sent a rush of adrenaline through Rocky’s veins. Heart racing, he drummed his fingers against his thigh pads.
Wait for it, wait for it,
he thought.
And
. . .
and
. . .
NOW!
As that last word flashed across his brain, the lead singer belted out the first phrases of the song — and Rocky just couldn’t sit any longer. He leaped to his feet, punched the air, and bobbed his head to the beat. He would have sung along, but experience had taught him that people who sang to music only they could hear looked foolish. So he settled for mouthing the words and performing a mean air guitar solo.
Suddenly, an arm circled his neck and pulled him into a choke hold. Startled, Rocky broke free and spun around. The arm belonged to his best friend and teammate, Bobby Richards. Standing behind Bobby were five other Pythons. All were clapping and laughing.
Beet red with embarrassment, Rocky hit pause and took out the earbuds.
“Encore! Encore!” Bobby cried then.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” Rocky muttered. “Don’t you guys have something better to do — like get ready for the game?”
Still laughing, everyone except Bobby left to put on the rest of their gear.
“Yo, Rock Star,” Bobby said, a wide grin splitting his face. “What were you listening to?”
“That new song from the Phantasms,” Rocky replied. “It totally psyches me up, especially the ending. In fact, I want to hear that part before the game.” He started to put the buds back in his ears.
Bobby stopped him. “I haven’t heard that song yet! Lemme listen, okay?” He made a grab for the player.
Rocky blocked him with his body. “Not a chance!”
“Why not?”
“I bought this player with money I earned mowing lawns this summer. I’ve only had it a week and I’m not about to loan it out, okay?” Rocky knew he sounded selfish, but he didn’t care. He’d worked hard for his player; what if he let Bobby use it and Bobby broke it?
“Fine.” Bobby turned away with a grumpy look. But as Rocky started to put the buds in his ears, Bobby whirled back and lunged for the player.
“Bobby! Cut it out! Come on, get back!”
As the two boys tussled for control, Jeff Abbot, the
R ocky Fletcher entered the middle-school locker room with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The twelve-year-old wide receiver greeted a few of his teammates and then headed to an empty row to get into his uniform.
He unzipped the main compartment of his bag and took out his protective gear. First came the shining gold helmet with its image of a hissing, coiled snake on each side — the logo of the Park City Pythons, Rocky’s team. Rocky loved that logo. The snake made him think about squeezing the ball tight after making a catch and slithering past the defense into the end zone.
He polished the helmet with his sleeve before putting it on the bench. He reached back into the bag and pulled out his other gear. There were pads to protect his stomach and hips, shoulders and arms, thighs, knees, and shins. His cleats and mouth guard came out next, followed by his team jersey — #83 — and pants. Finally, he pulled out a handheld music player with attached earbuds.
Putting the player aside, Rocky quickly suited up in his pads, pants, jersey, and cleats. A glance at the clock told him there were five minutes to spare — plenty of time to listen to his favorite new song.
He grabbed his music player, put the buds in his ears, and sat on the bench. He thumbed his way around the dial to a playlist he’d named Pre-Game Pump. Then he scrolled down to the song he wanted to hear, tapped a button to start the music, and closed his eyes.
A staccato drumbeat filled his ears. It was slow at first but then picked up speed. Rocky tapped his toes along with the rhythm. When a bass guitar joined the drums, his heart seemed to pulse in time with the thrumming tones. Suddenly, an electric guitar wailed out a single, ear-splitting chord. Even though he’d known it was coming, that note sent a rush of adrenaline through Rocky’s veins. Heart racing, he drummed his fingers against his thigh pads.
Wait for it, wait for it,
he thought.
And
. . .
and
. . .
NOW!
As that last word flashed across his brain, the lead singer belted out the first phrases of the song — and Rocky just couldn’t sit any longer. He leaped to his feet, punched the air, and bobbed his head to the beat. He would have sung along, but experience had taught him that people who sang to music only they could hear looked foolish. So he settled for mouthing the words and performing a mean air guitar solo.
Suddenly, an arm circled his neck and pulled him into a choke hold. Startled, Rocky broke free and spun around. The arm belonged to his best friend and teammate, Bobby Richards. Standing behind Bobby were five other Pythons. All were clapping and laughing.
Beet red with embarrassment, Rocky hit pause and took out the earbuds.
“Encore! Encore!” Bobby cried then.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” Rocky muttered. “Don’t you guys have something better to do — like get ready for the game?”
Still laughing, everyone except Bobby left to put on the rest of their gear.
“Yo, Rock Star,” Bobby said, a wide grin splitting his face. “What were you listening to?”
“That new song from the Phantasms,” Rocky replied. “It totally psyches me up, especially the ending. In fact, I want to hear that part before the game.” He started to put the buds back in his ears.
Bobby stopped him. “I haven’t heard that song yet! Lemme listen, okay?” He made a grab for the player.
Rocky blocked him with his body. “Not a chance!”
“Why not?”
“I bought this player with money I earned mowing lawns this summer. I’ve only had it a week and I’m not about to loan it out, okay?” Rocky knew he sounded selfish, but he didn’t care. He’d worked hard for his player; what if he let Bobby use it and Bobby broke it?
“Fine.” Bobby turned away with a grumpy look. But as Rocky started to put the buds in his ears, Bobby whirled back and lunged for the player.
“Bobby! Cut it out! Come on, get back!”
As the two boys tussled for control, Jeff Abbot, the
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