Freshman football lasted for one year only at Drake, then the sophomores had to join the Junior Varsity team. Coach Conner was happy to see the speedy young freak at tryouts a few weeks before school actually started, but Marty could tell he was disappointed that he hadn’t gotten much bigger. In contrast, many of the other players had filled out substantially. Marty was still the fastest player on the field, but looked like a boy among men. He was cagey, though, and often used his quickness to avoid the type of contact that would turn out badly for him.
He wound up making the team as a special-teams player, and backup halfback on offense. Mike also made the team, but Boobers was cut. The competition was getting fierce, as the jocks were now more athletic, and generally more disdainful of the “bleacher creatures.” They wore their reputations like the numbers on their jerseys. Marty ignored their sneers and insults, and Rob made sure nobody got on his case too much. All the jocks were afraid of Rob, whom they considered to be a psychopath. With the deference usually shown to the alpha male of the baboon troupe, they kept their distance and avoided making eye contact.
Marty got his first real chance in the second game of the year, when the starting halfback was injured. His team was behind, with a first and goal at the two yard line. Coach called his number on a trap, and Marty headed for a small gap between the tackle and guard. Smack! A huge linebacker from the other team filled the hole, and the lithe little halfback bounced off him like a dog trying to go through a glass patio door. Coach called the same play again, probably thinking the other team would never suspect that. Smack! The same linebacker stopped him for no gain, and Marty could see he was now enjoying the carnage. While he lay on the grass, all the opposing linemen were drooling and leering down at him, as if he was a plate of ribs at a barbecue.
Marty couldn’t figure out what Coach Conner was smoking, because he called the same play a third time in a row! While adjusting his pads and chinstrap on the way out of the huddle, Marty thought about bouncing it outside, where his speed and shiftiness would be an advantage. Coach was a stickler for “running the play right,” and he’d probably be benched if he did that… unless it worked! The other team’s players were all crowding the gaps and licking their chops expectantly, as if they’d been told in advance that Drake’s coach would be stupid enough to call the same play three times in a row. Marty decided to play it “by the book,” and darted into that gap again. Smack! This time he lost a yard. It seemed as if his teammates weren’t blocking with very much conviction, or were in on some weird conspiracy to get Marty kicked off the team. The only one he knew as a friend was Terry, and he was the right tackle… on the other side.
It was fourth down, and Marty was relieved because Coach would call for a field goal and tie the score. He turned to yield to the kicking team, but their fearless leader was waving the offense back into the huddle! He wanted to go for the lead! Fred came running in with the play, and grimaced at Marty with rueful sympathy. “Thirty-one left trap,” he whispered, and all the guys in the huddle groaned. Thanks for the support, fellas, Marty grumbled inwardly. Coach was actually calling the same play four times in a row, as if he had some maniacal determination that it had to work!
It didn’t work.
The final play lost another yard, and Marty’s team lost the game. He ran into the same hole he was told to run into three times before, and was ravaged by the same huge linebackers, who brought all their friends to share the snack. The little halfback that couldn’t was buried painfully beneath four sides of beef, and limped back to the sidelines, hating Coach Conner. Why didn’t he call a sweep, where Marty could use his speed? It seemed as though he was trying to expose his weakness for all to see. The cheerleaders pouted at him with sympathy, as if he were the sick boy who was going to die of leukemia. Marty couldn’t wait for baseball season.
The next game, on the opening kickoff, he was sprinting down to cover his lane, when the ball carrier came directly at him! Marty deftly dodged the blockers, and had a perfect shot at the legs of the runner, and the next thing he knew, he was seeing stars whirling around his head just like Daffy Duck. Apparently, his helmet had gotten in the way of the ball carrier’s legs as he was dashing by, and this caused a minor nuisance, but did not impede his forward momentum. Marty picked himself up off the turf, staggered around in confusion, and had an immediate, astonishing sensation that he didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was doing. Why am I out here on the grass, he wondered. It’s such lovely grass… Oh, everybody’s leaving the field… Maybe I should go, too? He wound up following the wrong team off the field, and they mocked him soundly. They jeeringly turned him around, and pushed him over to the other side. He lurched across the wide, green field all alone, and somehow found his own team’s bench, but was leaking oil badly. He could hear snickers from the bleachers behind him, while the colorful parade in front of him was a blur of confetti.
“What happened?” Coach Conner came close to his third-string halfback’s face, the picture of concern, but Marty didn’t know who he was. Coach had seen that look on many a face before, and shouted over his shoulder, “Barney, get some water and towels!” He turned back and added, “You’ll be okay, Marty. Just sit here for a while, okay?”
Marty… my name is Marty…. That’s a start, anyway. The game went on, and the boy called Marty sat there looking down at the grass, concentrating with all his willpower to put the jigsaw puzzle of his brain back together – after all the pieces had been knocked off the coffee table. A friendly guy came over and sat next to him with a concerned expression. It turned out later he was named Mike, and knew where he lived, and even said he’d drive him home. Once Marty saw the Stanger, he started to remember. By the time they got back to their little cabin in the woods, he knew it was called the Rusty Bucket Ranch. He also knew his career as a football phenom had come to an ignominious end.