A Young Man’s Game

The football field at Roddenberry Park sat idle throughout each week, reserved for league games, as the Generals practiced on an adjacent baseball field. In games they wore red and white uniforms, but for practice the players had to scrounge up whatever jerseys they could find; anything that fit over a set of shoulder pads would do. Their helmets were all red, with a gold five-star logo affixed to each side.

What had once been a proud and prosperous program was now on the verge of cancellation. Since longtime coach Red Sherman retired three years before, fewer and fewer Nobleton boys expressed interest in playing for the Generals and their merry-go-round of inexperienced, often incompetent coaches. Sherman's teams were well-disciplined and carried a winning tradition, but the old coach knew just how to teach his young charges to play hard and have fun at the same time. There was something to be said about having played for Red Sherman's Generals. They once had a following in Nobleton to rival the Black Lords'.

But those days were gone. In only three years, the aura of success and tradition had vanished. Now, the Generals were just another youth sports outfit, short on funds, equipment and public enthusiasm.

None of this was on young John Buckley's mind as he ripped off his chinstrap in frustration and gazed up at his coach. Having run the same play four times in succession, he didn't understand what he'd done wrong this time.

“This is a short pass play,” the coach explained to the diminutive, light-haired twelve-year-old with more than a flicker of annoyance. A tall, heavy-set man with a weathered countenance that rarely showed any warmth or humor, Martin Flint had never played football himself, and until this year had been only peripherally involved with youth sports, serving on the league’s organizational committee. He had reluctantly volunteered to coach the Generals this year, along with his business associate Philip Steele, so the committee wouldn't cancel the program. “You're supposed to hit the tight end,” he said, “don't throw deep on this play.”

“But coach,” the boy protested, “Bobby was wide open!”

“I don't care where he was!” The sound seemed to erupt from the man's considerable girth as he glared down at John through his narrow, deep-set eyes and furrowed brow. “And you,” he continued, turning to his errant pass-receiver, “that's not where you were supposed to be, was it?” The player bowed his head sheepishly.

John looked away without a word as the coach turned away and took off his cap. “Allright,” the man said, “sit this one out,” scratching his head in exasperation and gesturing toward the side of the field.

The boy stepped back and his place was taken by teammate Bill Price, who seemed more willing to follow instructions and was rewarded for his obedience by taking most of the snaps in practice. Most of the boys had learned by now that with Coach Marty there was nothing to be gained by initiative -- he was a man used to doing things his way, and he would tolerate nothing less. He had made no secret of his own personal sacrifice which had salvaged the program, nor of his non-desire to spend his free time with a group of weak, inexperienced so-called athletes. Twenty-six boys had signed up in July, but by now, only eighteen remained. The last two had left the team following their season-opening 32-0 loss.

John and the six other Generals players who weren't presently involved with the offense stood together behind the play as Flint and his assistant supervised. The dejected quarterback felt a tap on his shoulder pad, turned around and saw the wearied face of his teammate and friend, Jeff Wilmer, a running back who had also found himself languishing on the sideline for failing to follow instructions. Twenty minutes before he'd mistakenly run the wrong way, and in all that time Flint hadn't thought to summon him back.

“Hey, Jeff,” said John.

“What’s up,” replied Jeff. No amount of small talk could help either of these boys make sense of their situation. There was no longer any point in discussing it. “How’s Ted doing?”

John rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, as though addressing a sensitive subject. “He still doesn’t know if he's starting. I guess he’ll tell us if he does.”

“You mean if he's starting, he'll tell you.”

“Yeah, right,” John said nervously. “If he's not, he probably won't talk to anybody for a week.”

“I saw the game Saturday, he's pretty good. They should give him a chance.”

John turned and looked at the field. Flint stood scolding another player, a lineman, who promptly headed toward the idle group. “Well, you know Cliff Jones is the quarterback,” said John. “It’s his third year on varsity, and he’s a senior, so he’s going to play.”

“He didn’t look so good against Lincoln,” Jeff commented.

“Yeah, but that’s just one game. Ted's pretty good too, but you know how he is. Never talks to anybody. The team doesn’t really know him. Nobody does. I don't think the coach likes him.” A few minutes later, as Flint blew his whistle to send his team on a lap around the field, John, who had yet to be afforded another opportunity to run the offense, wondered if perhaps the same was true of himself.