Head hunter, p.1
Head Hunter, page 1
Praise for other Sports Stories by Eric Howling
“For middle school male sports enthusiasts, Howling’s novel will quickly grasp and hold their attention.”
— CM Magazine
For Alison, Willy, and Mikal
Head Hunter
Eric Howling
James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers
Toronto
1
Slamming Doors
Colt Taylor’s stomach growled.
Playing middle linebacker for the Woodside High Warriors junior football team took a lot of energy. He always had a gigantic appetite after practice. Now he was ready to wolf down his dinner.
“What’s on the menu, Mom? Italian? Mexican? Chinese?”
“Something closer to home. We’re having good old mac ’n’ cheese,” she said, placing a huge, steaming plate in front of him.
“That sounds a lot better than lunch,” he joked.
“What? You didn’t enjoy that special treat I put in your bag?”
“Just because you work in the deli at Sobeys doesn’t mean you have to sneak in some new mystery meat.”
“I thought you might like liverwurst.”
Colt winced. “I don’t think anything starting with ‘liver’ could be good. And after taking one bite, I was right. It was gross.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stick with ham or roast beef.” Colt’s mother laughed.
“When’s Coach getting home?” Colt asked. His father was a gym teacher at Woodside. He was also the Warriors’ football coach.
“He called from school a few minutes ago to say he’d be late. He sounded like he was in one of his moods.”
“Some days I wonder why he gave up playing pro ball and became a high school coach. He doesn’t always seem to like it.”
His mom’s face turned serious. “That’s something you better ask him.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Was he losing his temper at practice again?”
“Yeah, he was chewing out the players. Telling everyone they were no good. Me included.”
“That’s not the way your father used to coach,” she said, shaking her head.
“That’s not the way he used to do a lot of things.”
Colt and his dad used to throw the football around in the backyard and go to Edmonton Eskimos’ games, eating hot dogs and cheering at the top of their lungs. On the way home they’d stop for milkshakes, then watch a movie and eat popcorn that same night. They were all things that didn’t cost a lot of money. But they didn’t have to. They were fun because they did them together.
Dinnertime used to be different, too. There was nothing Colt liked more than listening to his dad give the play-by-play of the last Warriors game. Colt would eat it up. Those were the years before he was on the team. Back when the Warriors lost more than they won. Sometimes the defeats would frustrate his dad because he was so used to winning when he’d played pro. He used to understand that the team was trying its best, though. He’d always laugh off a bad play or a loss.
But something had changed this season. He didn’t care much about being Dad. He just cared about being Coach. And Coach wasn’t laughing.
The door from the garage closed. Coach walked into the kitchen and sat down. He flashed a rare smile. “Something smells good.”
“I thought you’d like it,” said Colt’s mom.
“So, what’s on tap for tonight?” Coach asked, looking around the table.
“I’ve got a good book I’m reading.”
“And I’m going over to Andrea’s house,” Colt said. “I already did my homework at school so I’d have time.”
“So, I’m left all alone?” Coach said, narrowing his eyes. “Typical.”
“How about some tasty apple crumble to finish up, Colt?”
“Not tonight, Mom. Thanks,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table.
“Well, then, you’re excused.”
“Not so fast,” Coach said, thumping the table with his big hands. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To Andrea’s house.”
“On a school night?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Colt said, his voice starting to rise.
“Shouldn’t you be doing homework?”
“I just told you, I finished it all. Weren’t you even listening?”
Coach pursed his lips in frustration. “Then do some more,” he said gruffly. “Your report card isn’t perfect yet.”
Colt’s mom gave a weak smile. “He’s getting good grades, Sam. He can’t do homework all the time. He needs a break. And Andrea is such a nice girl.”
Coach sat back and crossed his thick arms. “I don’t know about her. She’s taking the ‘Andrea Wong, news reporter’ thing way too seriously. She asks too many questions. Really gets under my skin. I’m not sure she’s right for Colt. I don’t think he should see her anymore.”
Colt exploded out of his chair. “You can’t tell me who to see. I’m fifteen. I can do what I want!”
He stomped down the hall to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He lay on the bed. His heart pounded. His fists were clenched. He stared at the walls of the small room trying to calm down.
Posters of his favourite linebackers looked back at him. J. C. Sherritt from the Eskimos. Jerod Mayo from the New England Patriots. Clay Matthews from the Green Bay Packers. And one more. An all-star linebacker wearing a famous black uniform from an earlier time. Number fifty-five from the Pittsburgh Steelers. A menacing shot of him flying through the air about to tackle a quarterback head-first. The poster was even autographed by the player — Sam “The Slam” Taylor. Colt was sick of fifty-five staring down at him. He leaped from his bed and ripped down the life-size picture of his father.
Colt was tired of always being told what to do. He knew he had to take orders from Coach on the field. That’s the way football was. But at home, too? He wished he could shut his father up. Block out his voice. But even now he could hear him down the hall. The kitchen was so close he couldn’t escape listening to more of his parent’s conversation.
“You’ve got to control your temper, Sam. Let Colt go to Andrea’s.”
“He’s not going anywhere. And that’s final.”
Colt knew his mom was on his side, but even she gave up. There was no point arguing when his father was in such a bad mood.
“Why don’t we relax and watch TV for a while?” she suggested.
“One of those sappy doctor shows you like? Forget it. They give me a headache. Which reminds me, where did you hide that bottle of Tylenol? I keep forgetting where you’ve put it.”
“In the bathroom cabinet where it always is.”
“I’m going to take a couple.”
“You’ve been taking a lot lately,” Colt’s mom said. “Your headaches seem to be getting worse and worse.”
“I can handle it,” Coach grumbled.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to make you a doctor’s appointment?”
“No, it’s a pain I can deal with. Just like my son.”
2
Storm Warning
The Warriors were in a battle.
The Highland Hurricanes had already stormed down the field for two touchdowns. They flooded like a tidal wave into Warrior territory, leaving a path of first-down destruction in their wake. Now they were threatening to strike again.
The Hurricanes’ quarterback was tall, strong, and had a passing arm like a gun. He had masterminded every play of the drive. The Warriors had no answer for the rampaging runs and pinpoint passes. Travis Valiant, number twelve in the red uniform, had to be stopped. And Colt knew it.
Colt wasn’t just the Warriors’ middle linebacker. He was also the captain and heart of the defence. He was the player Coach Taylor depended on to bring every running play to a grinding halt. He was the stopper. Some of his teammates might have been bigger, but none were stronger. Colt raised his hand and called for a defensive huddle.
“Let’s bring it in!”
The rest of the Warriors gathered around him. The players were black and blue — and not just because those were their team’s colours. Legs were battered. Arms were bruised. Blood trickled from their bandaged fingers. The Hurricanes had pounded them right from the opening kickoff. Now there was under a minute left in the first half. The ball was on the Warriors’ twenty-yard line. The Hurricanes wanted to thunder across the goal line again.
Billy “Bulldog” Baker and Greg “Gunner” Nelson dragged their tired bodies back to the huddle. As the other two members of the Warriors’ linebacker squad, they formed a formidable defence.
Bulldog had been Colt’s best friend since elementary school. He was short and stocky with black hair and brown eyes the same colour as his skin. Every time he made a tackle he snarled. That was how he’d gotten his nickname. Gunner was the new kid at Woodside. He was an army brat whose family moved to a new military base every year or two. He was tall and had ripped muscles from the hours he spent pumping iron in the weight room. He had a blond brush cut and steely blue eyes that never showed fear.
“This is where it ends,” Colt barked. “Right here. Right now. They don’t get one more yard!”
The Warriors clapped their hands and trudged to the line of scrimmage. Colt dug his cleats into the shredded turf. His legs fl
The tall Hurricane pivot shouted out his signals. “Blue . . . twenty-five . . . hut . . . hut!” He grabbed the snap and dropped back a few steps.
Bulldog and Gunner bolted across the line to sack him before he could pass. But Colt sensed something was wrong. He realized Travis wasn’t going to throw.
The Hurricane quarterback pump-faked a pass and handed the ball off to his waiting halfback. Colt had read the play perfectly. Now he had to bring down the ball carrier.
Colt closed in on his prey. But like a cheetah in full flight, the red-shirted speedster raced past him. Now Colt was the hunter. He chased down the halfback and lunged for his legs. Colt had him in his grasp, but the ball carrier was too strong. The Hurricanes’ player broke free and dashed ten more yards before Sanjay and Jamal could stop him. The two Warrior safeties had dashed up from their positions in the end zone to make the tackle.
The referee blew his whistle and pointed down field. “First down!”
Colt slowly got to his feet. He was angry with himself. He shouldn’t have missed the tackle. Giving up the first down was bad. But not as bad as what he knew was about to happen next.
“Timeout!” Coach shouted.
Colt trotted across the field to the Warriors’ bench where Coach stood waiting. He was built like a refrigerator. The blue Warriors’ windbreaker barely fit over his square shoulders. His face was tense. His jaw clenched. Fiery eyes bulged from his head like he was ready to explode. “That was the worst tackle you’ve made all year!” he spat.
“Sorry, Coach.”
“You’re supposed to be the captain.”
“I know, Coach.”
“The guy who stops the other team. Not the guy who lets them rush for a first down.”
“It won’t happen again, Coach.”
“You got that right. And I’ll tell you why.” Coach pointed a meaty finger right in Colt’s facemask. “On the next play you’re going to hit that quarterback at the knees. Take him right out.”
Did he hear Coach right? Did he really say to hit him dirty?
“We’re going to win this game just like we’ve won the first four games of the season. And we’re going to win the league championship, too. Nothing’s going to stop us from going all the way. You hear me?”
Colt bit his lip. He wanted to say something. To disagree with Coach’s orders. He knew if he smashed his big shoulder pads into the quarterback’s knees it could injure the Hurricanes’ player. That wasn’t in Colt’s playbook. He played tough and he played fair. But he knew better than to disobey his father. Especially when he was in a rage like he was now.
“Whatever you say, Coach.”
“That’s more like it,” he said, pushing Colt onto the field.
Colt ran back to the huddle and took Bulldog and Gunner aside. “Coach wants us to take out the quarterback. Hit him at the knees.”
“What?” Bulldog said, his jaw dropping. “I’ll hit him hard, but I’m not hitting him dirty.”
Gunner’s mouth widened into a sly grin. “I’ve got no problem with it. I’ll cut him down.”
Colt didn’t know what to do. Did he agree with Bulldog or Gunner? He didn’t want to hurt another player, but Coach had given his orders. If he didn’t follow them he’d pay the price. He’d be benched at the game. And who knew what would happen at home?
The clock was ticking. Colt didn’t have time to think. The next play was starting.
The Hurricane quarterback grabbed the pigskin and scrambled a few steps back into the pocket. It was a pass play! Colt, Bulldog, and Gunner blasted across the line. The quarterback froze like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. He didn’t know which way to turn. Colt and Bulldog were coming at him from the left. Gunner was barrelling in from the right. Two seconds later there was a thunderous crash. Colt and Bulldog smashed him high, while Gunner submarined him low at the knees. The ball popped loose as Travis Valiant crumpled to the ground.
Gunner pounced on the pigskin. It was Warriors’ ball! He sprang up from the turf and high-fived Bulldog. He was pumped after grabbing the fumble. He reached out to Colt for a fist-bump. But Colt wasn’t proud of the hit and walked right by him.
The Hurricane quarterback lay twisted on the grass. He was holding his knee and groaning in pain. Colt watched two linemen act as crutches and help him limp off.
The Warriors’ defence whooped as they charged off the field. They had recovered the fumble and stopped the Hurricanes’ drive. They waited to be mobbed on the sidelines.
“Colt . . . Bulldog . . . Gunner . . . get over here!” Coach shouted. “What was that stunt?”
After seeing the injured quarterback, Colt thought Coach might feel bad about ordering the hit.
“What do you mean, Coach?” Gunner asked, still grinning. “We got his knees just like you said.”
Coach narrowed his eyes. “No Gunner, only you got his knees. These other two sissies didn’t follow orders and hit him high, right in the numbers.”
“But . . .” Colt began.
“But nothing,” Coach said, cutting him off. “If that happens again both you and Bulldog will be benched.”
Colt wondered why Coach was being so rough on them this season. He’d yell after an interception, finger-point after a missed tackle, and kick the ground after losing a fumble. He’d even blow up if a player didn’t have his jersey tucked in. Colt didn’t know if Coach was mad at the whole team or just him.
Coach stood thick as a bull and glared at Colt. “I expected more from you. You’re letting me down. You’re letting the team down. Maybe you shouldn’t be captain.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Colt said, glaring right back at his father. “But that’s your call, Coach.”
3
Nothing to Report
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Gunner shouted.
The outside linebacker was still stoked about his knee-crunching hit on the Hurricanes’ quarterback — a hit that launched the Warriors to a thrilling 28-21 comeback win.
In the second half Keegan, the Warriors’ quarterback, had led the team to three touchdowns. He had thrown for two scores and handed off the ball to their running back for a final touchdown late in the fourth quarter. That had sealed the deal.
Colt was relieved the Warriors had pulled out the victory. He didn’t know exactly how Coach would have reacted if they had lost. But he knew it would have been ugly. And he was sure that somehow he would have been blamed. The team was still undefeated just like Coach wanted. Now it was time to get the party started in the locker room.
Celebrations were breaking out faster than a bad case of zits before a big date. Bulldog and Gunner were high-fiving by their lockers. The Warriors’ four-man defensive line was lip-synching to a rap tune blasting from someone’s iPod. Sanjay and Jamal were ribbing Keegan about him acting in the school play. The quarterback wasn’t just the leading man on the Warriors’ offence. He was also the leading man in the class play, Romeo and Juliet.
Helmets and shoulder pads were being taken off. Hoodies and jeans were being put on. A few of the players grabbed showers while others wore sweat and dirt from the game like a badge of honour. Guys were laughing and joking everywhere. It was a great party. Except for one thing — there wasn’t a girl in sight. But Colt could hear a female voice.
The reporter from the Woodside Weekly school newspaper was at the door. Colt sat nearby and watched her trying to get in. The only thing blocking her was Coach’s hulking frame. “There are no women allowed in the men’s locker room, Andrea,” he said. “You know the rule.”
“Well, it’s a stupid rule!” Andrea shot back. “How do you expect me to write a story about the game if I can’t interview the players?” Her brown eyes flashed as she poked her head around Coach, trying to see in.
Coach held up the palms of his big hands. “That’s the way it was when I played pro and that’s the way it is now.”
“What century was that?” Andrea demanded, tossing back her long black hair. “Women reporters have been allowed in men’s dressing rooms after games for years.”
