If Rock and Roll Were a Machine by Terry Davis Page A

Jackson for six. But that was still two short of a first. So it was fourth down and the Explorers were on their own twenty-eight with a minute left. No sense punting.
    Christman got the ball on the first hut, flipped it out to Jackson, who had stayed behind the line of scrimmage, then blindsided the linebacker who was bearing down on Mike as though he were a double cheeseburger after the game. Jackson, who can throw the ball from Spokane to the Canadian border, pumped his arm in Kelly-Mac’s direction, stopping the rest of the charging Rat linemen. This gave him enough time to wind up and fling one to Shepard, who was streaking down the sideline like the famous French high-speed train.
    The two Rat safeties had been camped at midfield, so they were right with Shepard when the ball spiraled overtheir twenty. Shepard went up and the Rats went up. But Shepard went higher. He went so high, in fact, that the gold number 88 on his green jersey was visible above both Rogers players.
    This was the point at which someone might have asked Scotty: Does your kid play basketball? But nobody did.
    Shepard grabbed the ball with one hand but wasn’t able to pull it in before the three of them landed out of bounds around the ten. Shepard was the first to his feet, and he was holding the ball high.
    The referee signaled that the play was no good, that Shepard had caught it out.
    Coach Christman exhibited signs of demonic possession. He ran onto the field waving both arms and kicking his legs high in the manner of a Nazi goose step. His clipboard flew into the air higher than Jackson’s pass. Heslin grabbed him before he could get to the referee.
    Steve, Mr. Jackson, Jimmie the Zim, Rita, and the host of Thompson fans in the seats behind screamed threats, excoriations, and vile expletives. Nobody but Bert heard Scotty say, “I think he was out.”
    When order was finally restored the ball went to the Rats back at the Explorer twenty-eight. For spite they tried to score, but two passes went incomplete and the gun sounded before they could get off another snap.
    There was a great exhalation of coffee- and popcorn-breath out of the Thompson section and then everybody began packing up. Generally spirits were high. People weretalking about the potential of this new offensive lineup.
    Camille walked up to the concrete wall where the seats began. His hair was matted down and a mixture of field chalk and sod was stuck above one eye. Scotty walked down to meet him. Bert saw this and he saw the Hmongster a few feet away sighting in with the school’s Pentax.
    â€œI didn’t get control till I was out,” Camille said.
    â€œThat’s what it looked like to me,” Scotty said. “Great catch, anyway. Great game.’
    Camille beamed. He spotted Zimster up in the crowd and yelled. “Jim! You want to meet us back at school and go cruise for a dog?”
    Zimster gave him a thumbs-up.
    Bert watched Scotty watch Camille walk down the sideline and then up the asphalt walkway toward the bus.
    *  *  *
    The mood back at school was such that if Bert hadn’t been to the game, he would have thought they’d won. Everybody—guys, girls, the few parents waiting to have a word with their sons before the boys went off into the postgame night where they had a lot better chance of getting hurt in their cars than on the football field—everybody was full of smiles, good cheer, and high hopes for the next game, which would be the last. Band kids, a subspecies defying the usual human classifications, were singing “Twist and Shout” and dancing like the parade crowd in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off . Some parents carped about Coach Christman not moving Jackson to receiverearlier in the year, but they carped good-naturedly.
    It was a beautiful night. A little cool, a little moist. Just right for wearing your hooded sweatshirt under your coat. The players coming out of the locker room didn’t