Kid Owner by Tim Green Page B

Ryan Zinna.”
    All eyes were on me. I felt my face warming and raised my hand like I was asking a question. All my complaints about Torres’s performance against the Bears melted to nothing.
    â€œRyan Zinna!” Torres grinned even bigger and half turned to the man beside him, who wore a three-piece suit and brown ostrich-skin boots. “You know Bert Hamhock, our general manager?”
    Torres looked back at Coach Hubbard. “Can we take my man here with us? You’re done with practice, right, Coach? Is it all good?”
    â€œUh, sure, Mr. Torres.” Coach Hubbard puffed himself up. “It’s all good. Thank you for coming by. Uh . . . would you maybe have a word for the team? We’re 1–0 right now, so . . .”
    â€œ1–0? Wow, wish we were 1–0.” Torres looked around and his face turned serious. “I do have a word, Coach.”
    Torres rose up to his full six-foot-six height and stared hard all around the team. “Seek the truth, fellas. Seek the truth.”
    He turned to me. “Come on, Ryan. We heard from Mr. Dietrich that you were coming to the stadium, so we thought we’d just come out to see you first. We got some ideas for you. Coach, good luck with your season.”
    John Torres put his hand on my shoulder as we walked toward the bleachers on the other side of the football field. I must have floated over there, because I sure didn’t feel my feet touching anything. We sat down and John Torres kept his hand on my shoulder pad. I couldn’t help looking over at Bryan Markham, whose face was a blend of confusion and hatred.
    â€œYou okay?” Torres asked me.
    â€œI . . . yes. Sorry.”
    Bert Hamhock forced a smile and sat down on the other side of me, speaking in his West Texas drawl. “We wanted to welcome you, Ryan, before things get too crazy, and we thought the best way to do it was just ride right on out here after practice. . . . The Cowboys practice, that is . . . and we caught you, so, good.”
    I looked back and forth between them, kind of waiting. “Okay. Thanks.”
    â€œRight.” Bert Hamhock slapped his knees. “Hey, no sense just sitting here like fans in the stands, you two oughta toss the ball around. What position are you, Ryan? Wideout?”
    â€œActually, quarterback.”
    â€œQuarterback! Hear that, John? Couple of Qs chucking it around. How’d you like that, Ryan? Pigs in a mud puddle.” Hamhock glowed.
    You bet I liked it. “Sure.”
    â€œHere, you stay right there.” John Torres hopped up and jogged about ten yards down along the bleachers before he stopped and turned and raised the ball to throw it.
    I held up my hands and when he lobbed it to me, I caught it!
    He held up his hands and I threw it back.
    â€œMove your hand back on the ball a bit.” Torres tossed it back.
    I did what he said and the ball didn’t wobble as much.
    â€œThat’s it. See?” He tossed it back and I dropped it, but I didn’t care. I was playing catch with John Torres and I glanced over at my team, which had broken apart and was heading intothe locker room with all necks twisted and all eyes on me.
    Hamhock nodded as we kept the toss going. “This is great. See, we want you to feel welcome as hot apple pie on the sideboard, and like you can talk to me and John—me on the management side and John on the players’ side—about anything you have questions about. We want to work with you. We know the season is starting out a little rough, but, you know, you have to stay the course with the master plan.”
    I wanted to ask what the master plan was, but felt stupid for not already knowing. Even though I nodded like I understood and caught the next pass, inside I was boiling at my mom for keeping me in the dark. Again, I could see no reason why I shouldn’t have been in the thick of things, meeting the players, calling the shots. Lawyers . . . they