Kid Owner by Tim Green Page A

to the open receiver. The really smart quarterbacks run the West Coast Offense, or the spread, whatever you call it, lots of passing, chipping away at the defense. You don’t have to have a cannon for an arm to win games. I thought of John Torres and the way he held the ball against the blitz in yesterday’s game. Even an arm as big and strong as his can’t help you if you don’t get rid of the ball quick.
    I knew I could make all the right decisions. I was already quick. If I could just explain all that, I knew I might be able to convince Coach Hubbard that we should adapt Ben Sauer Middle’s offense to some version of the Spread.
    I don’t know if it was luck or destiny or if Coach Hubbard was actually tuned into the possibilities, but he called a pass on the next play, too. I went to the line and read the defense. By the way they were lined up, I was sure it was a shallow zone with two safeties over the top on both sides. The play Coach Hubbard called wasn’t the best for this kind of coverage. I had no choice but to run it, though.
    I barked the cadence, took the snap, and dropped back. My two primary receivers ran crossing routes, but both were covered, as I expected. I checked them just in case one got wideopen, but when they didn’t I hit my check down pass to Griffin Engle, right away. He grabbed it and shot right up through the middle of the field for a twenty-yard gain. It was an easy pass, and the right decision.
    Next play was a run. I made the handoff smooth and clean and Griffin gained seven. The following play Coach Hubbard called another pass. I dropped back and when the blitz freed up the middle, I darted outside the pocket. Instead of panicking like the newbie quarterback I was, I directed Griffin to the sideline, pointing my finger. The cornerback let him go and rocketed my way, thinking he’d have a free hit. Just before the defender reached me, I dumped the ball up and over his head. Griffin snatched it and went up the sideline and into the end zone.
    My teammates cheered. Griffin tossed me the ball with a wink. Jackson slapped my back and nearly knocked me over.
    I didn’t stop after my first series either. I made the right decisions on every play, and even though my passes were nothing to write home about, I continued to move the offense up and down the field by completing short throws to the open receivers, making clean handoffs on the running plays, and encouraging my teammates like I was already the star quarterback I’d always dreamed I’d be.
    I thought things couldn’t have gotten any better for me. But, at the end of practice, just as we completed our last wind sprint—which I finished first, by the way—a big black Escalade limousine pulled into the school parking lot beside the field, its chrome grill glinting in the sun.
    Coach Hubbard held his whistle halfway to his mouth,ready to call us all in together, but everyone froze and stared at the big black SUV.
    And when the rear door opened and we saw who had arrived, no one could believe it.

27
    Jackson leaned into me, nearly knocking me over. “Dude, that’s John Torres.”
    Flashing a full smile of bright white teeth was John Torres, the Cowboys’ star quarterback, built like a lion. Torres wore a Cowboys sweat suit and carried a football. He was headed our way with an older man right behind him who was a thick, gray, and crusty old salt who looked like a real cowboy from the Wild West. I looked for Cody Cowan, wondering if the Cowboys’ head coach had come, too.
    When Torres reached an openmouthed Coach Hubbard, the star quarterback extended a hand. “What do we got here? A football team?”
    â€œYes . . . we . . .” Coach Hubbard sputtered. “I’m Coach Hubbard.”
    â€œNice to meet you.” Torres smiled and clasped CoachHubbard’s shoulder. “Looks like you got a heck of a team here, Coach. And I’m looking for your man,